Some friends are spending Christmas in Australia and have got their Irish friend to house sit for them and look after their dogs. Patrick arrived last week when we were there, within two minutes of his arrival he was in possession of two drinks – a beer and an Irish Whisky he’d bought in Duty Free on the way over.

Patrick is frighteningly good company, he had a successful, but stressful career in finance which allowed him to retire early. Time, space and place are elastic to him, you can’t go for a Sunday lunchtime pint and be absolutely certain you won’t end up watching a Kanye West death metal tribute act in Helsinki by the end of the night.

The lifestyle has taken its toll, he’s of an indeterminate age, he may be in his late fifties or ten years younger, he shakes and chunters to himself sometimes. We expect the dogs to come over of their own accord to be fed in the next few days.

Our friends’ youngest daughter appeared wearing sliders, an Oodie and pyjamas and announced she was going to the park to meet some friends (obviously, it was nearly 9pm), Patrick got to his feet and gave her a uncomfortable hug. Her, due to general teenage awkwardness and not fully knowing fully who the mysterious traveller is, him not entirely sure how to engage with someone who was neither a child nor an adult.

“I’ve got something for you” he said, to appreciative cooing from all. Patrick has always been a generous present giver, regularly outspending the girls’ parents at Christmas. He unzipped his case and pulled out a small box. 

The daughter’s eyes widened. “Thanks!” she said before darting off upstairs to hide the bounty.

There was an awkward silence as everyone tried to form their words. Thanks, was a good start, but how do you really react when a middle-aged man gives a teenager a vape for Christmas in front of her parents?

Sensing the misstep, Patrick filled the space “Ah, she’s sixteen” he said.

“She’s thirteen.” Said everyone else in unison.

It gave a glimpse into Patrick’s more chaotic sober life, injected with a Whisky, he’s generous and fun, but at other times he’s listless and passive, seemingly detached from what’s happening around him.

Ruben Rodrigues’ return to the starting line-up on Saturday was the shot of Whisky we needed after Tuesday’s pedestrian draw against Reading on Tuesday. We’re almost set up like a trojan horse, moving forward as a unit with Rodrigues sitting inside ready to pounce. Where Josh McEachran is happy to knit things together in the awkward pocket between Marcus McGuane and Cameron Brannagan and Mark Harris, Rodrigues has the dynamite to turn possession into goals.

It wasn’t just Rodrigues’ performance that stood out yesterday. Overall, it was a looser, more human performance than against Reading with Brannagan given freedom to execute his Robinson-esque ‘big diags’ out to the flanks for Murphy and Mills, which injected a sense of urgency into our play. The increased purpose started to happen in the second half against Reading, hopefully it’s showing the influence of Des Buckingham and his preferred direction of travel. There were even shots from outside the box; Brannagan rattled the bar before McGuane swung his boot to score a blistering third.

Let’s be clear, Burton were the Washington Generals in all this, the hapless stooges who are beaten night after night by the ball-spinning basketball entertainers the Harlem Globetrotters. They were an irrelevance and offered nothing, even when the teams came out, one of their players raised his hands to clap their fans only to stop when he couldn’t be sure exactly where they were. 

But, that freedom, after the stifling expectation of the Reading game, was just what we needed as we head into the crucible of the Christmas schedule. There was even one of the great goalmouth scrambles which was so good, we need to take a moment to take it in.

It started innocently enough, Cameron Brannagan’s corner floated across the box to be met by Ciaron Brown arriving like a hawk late and unmarked. His header cannoned off Max Crocombe’s shins into a six yard box with fourteen players in it. Mark Harris was joined by Brown, Moore and Stevens; a defensive death squad on a mission into enemy territory to carry out a brutal revenge killing.

Brown’s momentum followed the ball’s trajectory and with all the anger of a man who can’t find the mince pies in a Tesco Extra, he connected with a full-blooded drive. The ball was stopped on the line, possibly with an arm, the appeals were half-hearted, everyone was just keen to see what would happen next.

Finn Stevens arrived like a second wave attack in a 1970’s kung fu movie; all fury, a sunrise bandana and a machete in each hand. He brought the ball under control, getting a shot away that was blocked. The ball ran loose, Stevens jumped to his feet swinging a foot at the ball, Crocombe parried, and it fell to Stevens for a third time. He improvised a sideways bicycle kick as the Burton defence descended on him, desperately trying to protect their keep. Stevens found himself with the ball at his feet again. Elliott Moore, now the only person in the stadium with any grounding in reality, pleaded with Stevens to lay it back. By this point Brannagan, Murphy, Mills and Rodrigues were mustered on the edge of the box watching agog. Our defence were engaged in a collective madness, a frenzied attack like a pack of hyenas trying to take down a lame hippo. Stevens slid one last shot, which was parried by Crocombe again and the ball was cleared by Burton’s back-nine back into the normal realm. It was like Cabaret Voltaire in 1916, an avant garde performance so enthralling, grotesque and disturbing, those in attendance will spend the rest of their lives trying to work out what it all meant.

The thrilling lunacy of it all, Liam Manning’s head would have exploded trying to analyse it; wires and diodes hanging out while smoke billowed from the hole in his neck. Sometimes all you need is a shot of whisky and a dab of humanity for everything to truly feel alive.