I’m sure that most people retain more from their university education than I did, but these are the top three things I remember. First, dominant cultures are a class in themselves while minorities are a class for themselves. Second, straight lines aren’t natural. And, third; never have a cow as a pet.

While a damning inditement on the education system, you would be surprised how useful these three have been in understanding the world. 

If you’re dominant in a community – surrounded by people like you – you live in a world created to your design. It’s like painting your house green; if it’s the only colour you use, you won’t think about it much. If you add a yellow wall – a minority wall in a green house – that’s all anyone will talk about.

Secondly, nature doesn’t do straight lines. If you see a straight row of trees, they’ve been planted by people to cater to the human need for order and certainty. In truth, the world is inherently messy; if you expect straight lines, only two things are certain – you will spend your life trying to straighten out the messes and the mess will stress you out.

And finally, if you treat a cow like a pet, they become expectant and bolshy because they’re bad at noticing social cues. A pet cow will become a diva who contributes less and expects more; a behaviour you’ll see in some people.

The binding philosophy is that it’s very easy to become stuck in your own algorithm. I watched Louis Theroux’s documentary on the Manosphere. One of the influencers set up a fake date to humiliate one of his followers. When the follower arrived, the influencer and his acolytes beat him up while livestreaming the attack. The influencer claimed to regret the incident, worrying that he might be arrested. While still panting from the exertion of the fight, Theroux asks him how many people watched the stream; ‘about 4k’ he says instantly.

The idea of the manosphere is that men should exert their masculinity by taking control of their destiny; dominating women and becoming financially successful. They claim to be free, but they’re trapped inside the algorithms of social media. They feed it with increasingly extreme content, see if the algorithm likes it and then beg for money. It sounds awful; as someone once said to me, we all become stuck in a rut, just make sure it’s a rut you like.

It’s hard to imagine anyone not liking the gilded rut of a three-game winning run which lifted the spirits going into Saturday’s game against Charlton. 

At the start of the season, they were one of the ‘three worse than us’ we’d earmarked as relegation certainties. Like us last season, a good start has seen them out-perform expectations. They’d also been buoyed by wins against Birmingham and Middlesbrough but they were still in 18^th, sandwiched between Blackburn and Preston; two teams we’ve beaten recently. It was hard to know what to expect.

A lunchtime kick-off, barely 48 hours after the final whistle against Blackburn, was never going to offer much opportunity for recovery. We’re enslaved by the TV schedules but it’s hard to know what Sky were thinking putting on a lunchtime fixture between two sides who’d played on Wednesday, with Charlton doing a 400 mile round trip. 

Both sides’ attacking threat was blunted, we were without Miles Peart-Harris while they’d lost the human colouring book Lyndon Dykes. The sun shone and the game drifted on like a lazy brunch after a big night out. The two sides seemed to enter a non-competition pact. With points on the board from recent games, neither seemed too troubled to collect more.

The first half passed without incident and the second did little better. Just as we were slipping into a hypnotic state of acceptance, there was a jolt. The door of another algorithmic prison swung open.

675 days ago Harrison Burrows parried Cameron Brannagan’s driving free-kick with his elbow and we were awarded a penalty. Unknown to us at the time, it triggered a record breaking barren sequence which has taken on its own form, like Stockholm Syndrome, we’ve moved from frustration to acceptance, and then slowly, we seem to have fallen in love with our misfortune. 

Just before the hour, Sam Long arced in a cross which drifted harmlessly into the keeper’s hands. In the margins, Will Lankshear sprawled on the floor while Kayne Ramsay hopped off the field apparently injured. It was such an odd sight the appeals were muted; Lankshear only wins fouls if he’s being held at gunpoint and it’s been witnessed by at least six members of the clergy.

But, the referee was signalling for something. Offside? Couldn’t have been. A foul by Lankshear? Couldn’t have been. Had he spotted some dog mess in the six-yard box which he wanted people to avoid? Maybe.

What was this maniac pointing at? 

The spot, he was awarding a penalty. To us. The reaction was as febrile as it was pathetic; the stands as loud and animated as any goal. There would be people in the stands who have never seen us take a penalty. We were suddenly thrust into a different world.

The record may have been a damming indictment of our lack of attacking threat, but it was our damming indictment. I felt a sense mourning; the loss of our streak, our record, a fragment of social capital that meant something in the cosseted world we were trapping inside. It’s like the doleful feeling you get when you realise you’ve forgotten to do your Duolingo.

As Cameron Brannagan stepped up I couldn’t shake a small feeling of wanting him to miss, then we could say it was nearly two years since we scored a penalty. As it snuck in, the sequence evaporated, put on a shelf, consigned to history. In its place was a new record; for the first time in nearly 30 years, we were on the verge of four wins in a row at this level.

Matt Bloomfield activated his familiar closing routine; Placheta looked threatening when he came on but the focus was on Prelek, Spencer and Vaulks. We sank back, hoping to see out any remaining threats, as we had against Blackburn. 

Bodies were put on the line, blocks, commitment, none of it was lacking. But, it always carried a risk. As Nick Harris pointed out, on Wednesday, we’d survived a scare when Jamie Cumming missed a catch and Sam Long cleared off the line. We’d laughed it off at the time, but those moments are always hidden inside a containment strategy.

Another desperate cross; Brown lost his bearings, tussling with Lloyd Jones seemingly unaware that the ball was heading into Cumming’s hands. Jones crashed to the floor, taking the keeper with him. It looked like a foul on Cumming, but Jones had been thrown into it by Brown. The referee pointed to the spot; I bet he felt like the king of the world.

There was disbelief as Kelman snuck the ball beyond Cumming for the equaliser. It was devastating in the moment, but equally, there was a sense of acceptance. Neither side deserved to win and at least we were released from the algorithm of our winning streak. It was a reminder that we’re not destined or invincible, but that the fight is as real now as it was when we were six points adrift. It’s easy to get lost in our algorithms, but a point here or there is immaterial; as long as we’re within a win of safety, we have a chance.