It’s official: Crystal Palace are in the FA Cup final.

We may have gone into the game as slight favourites but I thought the worst when my dad told me he’d already booked the day off work for the final, and I felt certain that he’d jinxed it and we didn’t stand a chance.

But we managed to get past Watford relatively trouble free, in a game where ultimately our players just wanted it more than theirs.

I thought we played well, even if it did take until being prompted at half time for me to realise that Bolasie had scored and we were winning.

Seats in the very top tier combined with a full day of drinking made it hard to work out what was going on at times, as I’d left my binoculars at home and had my beer goggles firmly in place.

I tried to stay modest in the week building up to the game, particularly when talking to my Watford-supporting friend to minimise any potential bullying in case they beat us, but once the full time whistle went I couldn’t help but milk it a little bit.

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The now customary pictures of Pardew were sent over, while a quick glance at my bank balance was the only thing that stopped me from booking a plane to fly a victory banner over his house and hiring a mariachi band to follow him around London playing ‘Glad All Over’ on repeat.

For as the old saying goes: victories over Watford at Wembley are like buses.

You wait for one for your entire existence and then before you know it, two come along within three years of each other. Or something along those lines.

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A day out to Wembley is always an exciting occasion and Sunday was no different, with the convenient opposition giving the bandwagon, armchair-prone section of our fanbase the chance to dust the cobwebs off their half and half Palace/Watford scarves and attend their first game in three years.

It’s been a few days since we found out we’d be facing Manchester United in the final next month and I think my phone has just about stopped buzzing from people asking me if I could sort them out a ticket.

I’m sure it’s just a coincidence and my phone just probably wasn’t working the day they wanted a ticket for the last round.

And the one before that.

And every single other round before that.

But who cares. WE’RE IN THE FA CUP FINAL!

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In the highly anticipated rematch of 1990, the BBC are going to have a field day with romantic montages showing the world Lee Martin’s winning goal in the replay, before they move on to salivating over Rooney and friends, writing us off from the very beginning.

None of that will matter because we can beat anyone on our day and if we can keep Martial quiet then we’re halfway there.

Putting up with the Man United love in will all be worth it when Wilfried Zaha pops up with a last minute winner and celebrates in style.

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I’m sure Adebayor is already teaching him the basics of the full length pitch run and knee slide, which he’ll complete by lighting an Eric Cantona effigy, before bringing out David Moyes’ daughter to dramatically confirm the rumours for all to see in the middle of the centre circle.

Obviously it’s never that easy with Palace, but if we manage to win the cup and get Louis Van Gaal sacked in the process, then as far as I’m concerned Pardew is untouchable and can take us on as many three-month winless streaks as he likes.

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