I’m coming to the conclusion that no sensible view should be made about a season when you’re watching football without a coat on. When the temperatures are above 20 degrees, no game really makes any sense. But, there can be few games which made less sense than our defeat to Crystal Palace. 

I mean, who are Crystal Palace? The smallest big club in the country? The biggest small club? The most established top flight side you can imagine playing in the Championship? They’re in the Big Show, but they’re part of the chorus line at best.

I mean, in that analogy we’re amateur dramatics but, of course, they’re not going to be interested in the League Cup, that’s part of Premier League lore. It would be unprofessional to show even the slightest regard for it. Yes, it’s their best, albeit slim, hope of silverware, but when was football about that? No, the numbers simply don’t stack up, they’ve got to focus on staying in the Best League In The World. 

I don’t begrudge them that, we would be the same. But, it’s almost become a show of strength not to play your strongest team in a cup game. If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em. For us, it was more out of necessity than choice. Struggling for form and losing, on average, three players to injury per game, it’s not really in our interests to throw our threadbare resources at a competition with so little dignity it changes its name for any corporate shill.

But, did Palace realise just how weakened we were? Four teenagers with five league starts between them. 85% of the league games played by our starting eleven came from four players – Mousinho, Long, Bodin and Brannagan. Mousinho, starting only his fifth non-EFL Trophy game in two years, contributed 40% of them on his own. If it’d been in the EFL Trophy we’d have felt the selection was a bit lightweight. Ultimately, did anyone really want to win? 

Even the crowd was an odd mix; school holidays brought the kids, proximity to the Bank Holiday kept a few regulars away, the moderate attractiveness of the opponent and the availability of tickets brought a few curious neutrals, around us, there were even a few people using it as a date night. It made for a crowd more in keeping with the theatre than football.

Rather than a potential giantkilling, we seemed to treat it like a prestige friendly. At least Palace fans made a game racket, they’ve consciously made the effort not to be anaesthetised by their club’s need for conservative ambition, which can only be a good thing. At least they brought some welcome sparkle to proceedings, I like the uplighting strobe effect when they scored. Unless someone was on fire, of course. But, overall, there was very little tension and even less expectation.

The game burbled along like a babbling brook, Ed McGinty continued his eccentric introduction into English football, picking up his second first-half booking in his first two games – surely some kind of obscure record for a keeper – and then he fluffed a couple of kicks for good measure. In such clinical surroundings, I like him. 

John Mousinho held his own like a game grandad in a pub brawl containing the hulking Jean-Philippe Mateta. James Golding and Josh Johnston grabbed their opportunity, playing with a marauding fearlessness which we’ve missed this season. Gaitlin O’Donkor battled away doing a thankless task, while Ciaron Brown showed glimpses that he could be the season’s break-out star.

Palace were hardly hanging on, but our unexpected joie de vivre did seem to take them by surprise. Sure, they had their chances, but so did we. Tactically we looked comfortable, another small step towards finding some kind of form and rhythm. But overall, it felt like a series of training drills. 

Half-time gave an opportunity to take stock; getting to the break level is always the first ounce of dignity retained. Patrick Viera seemed to send his team out early, the universal sign of a manager who is not happy, that was encouraging for us.

The issue was always going to be time. You felt that Mousinho would withstand Mateta’s constant pummelling only for so long and the teenagers would run out of steam eventually, slowing them physically and clouding them mentally. It was less to do with Premier League class, more to do with Premier League pressure. 

The only hope might have been that we could get something to defend or perhaps be close enough to penalties to batten down the hatches and snatch something that way.

The hour mark came up and suddenly reality really began to tell. With five substitutes at his disposal, Patrick Viera was able to keep ladelling on the pressure, gradually replacing the Ferrari drivers with the custom Bentley drivers. Collectively our minds and bodies frayed. Tired challenges brought bookings, any attacking threat ebbed away. A door of opportunity briefly opened, Mousinho was isolated and found himself in a footrace with Edourd. Edourd is 24 and a French Under 21 international, unless McGinty was going to get himself sent off stopping him, there was only going to be one winner. 1-0, no complaints.   

Now it was about containment, the introduction of Taylor, Spaspov and Joseph, offered a tokenistic attempt to strike back. Mousinho gave way to Goodrham, the least like-for-like substitution in history.

A second was always likely, an equaliser much less so. Far from ramping up to a denouement, the game petered out, they made it 2-0, people headed for the exits. 

Josh Johnson talked after the game about getting minutes on the pitch; and it did feel at times like a data harvesting exercise. These were quality minutes, an excellent reflection on the relative health of the club; dedicated youngsters, committed veterans and regulars. But, it’s a little sad that this is what cup football has become, it would have been nice to have a little more blood and thunder. 

When we played Arsenal in 2002, afterwards someone behind me summarised the game as ‘they didn’t get any injuries, we weren’t embarrassed’ – it was much the same on Tuesday.