Despite perfectly acceptable football substitutes being available, and enjoyed, the last 13 weeks have dragged for me. This is due entirely to the lack of Premiership football. There is no other competition quite like it—and I've missed it.

I've missed the butterflies watching the teams walk out of the tunnel, the noise, the songs, the roar of the crowd, the shouting at the ref, the banter with the opposition.

I've missed the joy at watching a spectacular play come together, fighting the urge to hide before every set-piece, the scarf-chewing moments where you just pray that it goes right. I've even missed the dismay of conceding a goal.

I've missed the talk of tactics, the armchair-managing, the half-time discussion of what needs to be done.

I've missed the "ooohs" the "aaaahs" and the oh-so-nearlys. The last-ditch defending, the goal line clearances, the saves, the spills, the fumbles, the misses, I've even missed the posts.

I've missed the goals; the volleys, the overheads, the headers, the tap-ins, the long-range shots, the 'keepers punt, the team efforts, and most especially the last-minute winners.

The weekly drama that unfolds in grounds around the country is entirely unpredictable. I'll give it a go though: Chelsea all the way.

Nobody can know anything for sure other than this: we're all mighty glad it's back.