Bill Shankly famously said "some people think football is a matter of life and death. I assure you, it's much more serious than that". He was not far off the mark. For some, football is but a game: for others it is the mirror of life. We soldier on, working hard to pay ‘the man’, too tired to unwind fully of an evening before repeating the process again and again. Despite our comparative privilege, our lot can feel like a failure, running to stand still, that is, until Saturday comes.

The weekend for many is an escape. The tribe to which we vow allegiance, a club with the option of life membership only, are going forth to do battle. Many will be lost, but those victories, against the odds, are what we strive for in our daily lives, as do those unfashionable teams many of us align ourselves with so fervently.

May 18 sees the FA Cup final come around again. To a Manchester City fan it will, in reality, mean little. It will be another notch in the bedpost as the best resourced army, those with the newest boots and most potent weaponry, will be expected, again, to steamroller irksome upstarts such as Watford.

To a Hornets fan however, victory would mean the world. It would put paid to 'poor little Watford' taunts, of playing above their station, and the blue riband competitors, used to spending their way to success, could - footballing gods willing - end up with a bloody nose.

Lifelong Watford fan Abby Stevens puts it thus: "It is unlikely we will win but we hold out hope. We’ve never won a major trophy and it may be the last chance for my grandfather, aged 90, to finally have that day he has always dreamed of."

It is a cliché, but we Brits love an underdog. Nostalgia programmes often replay Radford’s goal, Wrexham putting the gunners on their Arsenal and the Wimbledon crazy gang upsetting the odds against the might of the Liverpool machine. The heroes involved, those who took their moment, are forever revered, spending the rest of their days doing ‘corporates’ for fans eager to lap up the inside track of that day that resonated with them.

The FA cup is the grand old lady of football. Now in its 148th year, it remains the working Joe’s competition. The unpredictability that ‘on their day’ there may be a chance, no matter how slim, not only of having world superstars on your muddy pitch in back of yonder, but of causing an upset that flies in the face of the form book. It retains its magical community bonding powers in towns and hamlets across the country as it gives the little guy an even playing field on which to live their Roy of the Rovers moment.

It is the ‘lesser’ teams who give the grand old lady the respect she deserves by putting out their first teams. To them it is all, it is history, it is the freedom of the town should you manage to, just once, take down the big boys’ pants and give them a public spanking.

For Watford to take City down would be a boon: City have an annual wage bill of 264 million on a £473 million turnover, Watford’s is £57 million on £124 million. City's average wage bill per player is £115,520 per week whilst Watford’s is ‘only’ £34,138.

Yet Watford are no footballing ‘dogs’. They have grafted their way up from the lower echelons of the football pyramid and now find themselves sitting pretty as Premier League mainstays. They have little in the way of honours and the trophy cabinet is looking undeniably bare. They have won second, third and fourth division championships and finished as runners up in the 1984 cup final. For Deulofeu and co to take the impetus of that amazing semi-fina; comeback against Wolves into the final, get under City players' skins, and walk off with footballing immortality would be the stuff of legend.

No matter what challenges are faced, be it Brexit, unemployment, crime or personal tragedy, there is little that can unite a community like a good FA cup run. Worries can be forgotten and exasperation played out through singing heartily as you will the little guys to stick it to them.

I am not a Hornets fan but I will be hollering with gusto for them to disrupt the clean sweep, to overcome the tiki-taka robotic monotony so often lauded as the ideal, and to outgraft the big spenders who put trophies above people. Troy Deeney will be riling up the opposition and maybe, just maybe, they will sneak a goal off someone's backside and then manage to defend their six-yard box for the next 89 minutes as the neutrals jump on board and join the yellow army for one final battle.

So, come on Watford! do it for the little guys, for the invisibles, for those who stood on the terraces watching a drab 1977 0-0 draw against Darlington in Division 4, and do it for Abby’s grandad.

As for me: sadly, I will be watching from a distance as yours truly is ticketless. It would be terrific to be there to witness the apple cart being upset and a hero Hornet immortalising themselves for ever and a day, so if you’ve a spare, give me a shout... purely for journalistic purposes, of course...