HORNET HEAVEN

Watford FC’s decision to stop producing match programmes has prompted Olly Wicken to write a new Hornet Heaven short story.

Chapter 1

On July the 30^th 2025, Henry Grover — the man who founded Watford Rovers in 1881 — entered the Hornet Heaven programme office. He found himself confronted by a thirteen-year-old whose eyes were hot with tears.

‘It’s an outrage and a disgrace, Mr Grover, sir,’ Derek Garston complained. ‘They’re banning dead Watford fans from home games, sir.’

‘I beg your pardon, young urchin?’ Henry replied. ‘Who’s banning us?’

‘The club, sir,’ the young programme assistant wailed. ‘They’ve stopped producing programmes, sir. And we need programmes to get us through the ancient turnstiles in Hornet Heaven, sir. It’s a stadium ban, sir! For all future games at Vicarage Road, sir! Forever, sir!’

Henry turned to Bill Mainwood, the 92-year-old Head of Programmes. ‘This sounds scandalous, Bill, old thing. Is it true?’ he asked. ‘There’ll never be another Watford match programme?’

But Bill didn’t answer. He was sitting at his desk, motionless, staring ahead of him. 

Derek grabbed Henry’s sleeve and shrieked: ‘Mr Mainwood’s catatonic with shock, sir! You’ve got to do something, Mr Grover, sir!’ 

Then the boy burst into tears.

‘Good Lord,’ Henry exclaimed, as he assessed the scene. As a Victorian gentleman who believed in upper lips remaining stiff at all times, he couldn’t be seen to condone blubbing. And although, over the years, he’d seen Watford fans react to devastating losses in many different ways, it seemed a bit much, frankly, for Bill to have lapsed into an unresponsive stupor. 

But it pointed to the scale of the problem, Henry felt. Missing out on all future home matches would be catastrophic for residents of the Watford Football Club afterlife. At stake was nothing less than their eternal happiness.

Henry straightened his tailcoat and said with conviction: ‘Right. This won’t do. Action is required. And, as Father Of The Club, I shall make sure it’s taken immediately.’

Chapter 2

Henry went to the Troy Deeney Atrium to seek the wise counsel of his friend Johnny Allgood — the Victorian soccer superstar who, in 1903, had become Watford’s first-ever manager. 

Henry explained: ‘As it stands, Johnny old poodle, Watford fans in Hornet Heaven will never see another home game — which, in my opinion, could, at the moment, be seen as a mercy, given the fare served up last season, but which, in the long run, would be something of a crimp on the blissfulness of the afterlife of the club I founded. What do you think we should do, old mammal?’

Johnny seemed a lot calmer than Bill Mainwood or Derek Garston. He said: ‘Ach, I’m sure there’ll be something we can use instead of programmes, Henry. In the past, when the need has arisen, we’ve used team sheets to get us through the ancient turnstiles. Are the club going to issue those?’

‘Yes, I gather they are, Johnny, old muffin.’

‘Well, that would be a straightforward solution,’ Johnny said with satisfaction. ‘Good. Panic over.’

Henry, though, wasn’t satisfied. He was a man with a dangerously low boredom threshold.

‘But plain old team sheets are so dull, Johnny,’ he sighed. Then he had an idea. 

Unfortunately, though, it was a Henry Grover kind of idea. ‘Aha,’ he said. ‘How about this. I’m told the club will also be printing Junior Hornets Matchday Activity Sheets for each home match. Do you think we should use those instead? They might keep us entertained at games this season if the football’s as supremely boring as it was under Tom Cleverley.’

Johnny said: ‘Ach, to be honest, Henry, I’m not sure it would be a good look for the Father Of The Club to be sitting at a game doing some colouring in.’

Henry frowned. ‘Ah. Yes. Quite. I can’t have people doubting the intellectual capacities of Hornet Heaven’s esteemed leader. Although, maybe if people saw me doing the Word Search, Johnny… That’s a pretty rigorous mental challenge, don’t you find, old kitten?’

Johnny said: ‘I suggest we stick to team sheets, Henry’.

But Henry still wasn’t satisfied. ‘Hmmm,’ he mused out loud. ‘I feel I should be championing a better solution than team sheets, Johnny, old llama. Something more progressive. Cleverer. I think it’s always essential that a father of a club comes across as a bit of a brainbox.’

Johnny said: ‘Ach, Henry, clever solutions aren’t—’

But Henry was already turning towards the exit and announcing: ‘Right, Johnny, old thing. I’m off to see Roy From IT — our resident technological boffin — to see what sort of impressively whizzy scheme he can drum up for me.’ 

Chapter 3

That evening — a few hours after a productive meeting between Henry and Roy From IT — the Troy Deeney Atrium was buzzing with deceased Watford fans. 

Usually, on the day of a new Watford match, the fans in Hornet Heaven would be waiting excitedly for the traditional call announcing that they could go off to the game: Derek Garston would shout out ‘Programme’s in! Programme’s in!’

But today, when it was time for the home pre-season friendly with Deportivo La Coruna, they heard Derek shout: ‘QR Code’s in! QR Code’s in!’

Henry surveyed the crowd, hoping to hear murmurs of admiration — if not outright applause. He was proud of Hornet Heaven’s new state-of-the-art system for accessing new Watford games. The new method of entry wouldn’t involve team sheets as Johnny Allgood had suggested. From now on, for each game, Roy From IT would generate a matrix barcode to be scanned at the ancient turnstiles.

But Henry heard no murmurs; no applause. Instead there was silence — broken only by the inconsolable sobbing of Derek Garston and a partially recovered Bill Mainwood. It echoed around the atrium. 

Henry shook his head disapprovingly. He’d overseen a solution to a major problem. He’d ensured that Hornet Heaven residents could watch Watford’s home games for the rest of time. He muttered to himself: ‘What in heaven’s name is wrong with these ingrates?’

Chapter 4

Derek Garston had first started looking after the programmes in Hornet Heaven when the club moved to Vicarage Road in 1922. Eighty years later, in 2002, he’d been joined by Bill Mainwood — the former proprietor of the much-loved Bill Mainwood Programme Hut.

Now they made their way out of the Troy Deeney Atrium — back towards their office — weeping helplessly. Today they had had to cope with news of the demise of one of the things they had most loved in their many decades of supporting Watford: the club’s match programme. There would never be another.

They had tried hard to be brave about it. They fully recognised that programme-less Watford games were the new reality down on earth — and that Hornet Heaven now needed to focus on developing a system of entry for future home matches. And they were sure Henry’s new system would work just fine. QR Codes would be much more efficient than the alternative of using team sheets — which would have left Bill and Derek needing to spend hours uncrumpling sheets of paper after each match, for future re-use. They could see the merits of the new technology.

But QR Codes for new games weren’t what Bill and Derek were crying about. 

What was making the pair sob was was that Henry and Roy From IT had brought in QR Codes for every old Watford game too.

Today — suddenly and shockingly — all the old programmes in Hornet Heaven had been removed and replaced.

Chapter 5

Back at their desks in the programme office, Bill and Derek were still sobbing when Henry Grover returned to see them.

Henry said breezily: ‘There, there, Bill, old thing. Dry your tears, Derek, young urchin. We can’t stand in the way of progress.’ 

But Bill and Derek couldn’t stop crying for their loss — the loss of every programme in Watford’s history.

‘Honestly, Bill, old thing,’ Henry said with a chuckle, trying to lift the mood in the room. ‘I’ve never seen you this sad. Not even when you discovered that Watford are wearing red shorts again this season!’ 

Henry’s levity didn’t halt Bill and Derek’s tears.

Henry became irritated. He said: ‘Look, do stop blubbing, chaps… What if I… Ah, yes… How about this, Bill, old stick? Would it soften the blow if I allowed you to rebuild your hut? As Father of The Club, I could give you permission. We could call it the “Bill Mainwood QR Code Hut”.’

Bill sobbed even harder.

‘Oh well, suit yourself,’ Henry sighed. ‘But I’m afraid, Bill, old dinosaur, that you’re just going to have to face the fact that there are no programmes anymore — none at all — and you and your assistant have lost your jobs. The brutal truth, old dodo, is that these QR Code thingummyjiggeries are the way forward. There’s no going back. Ever.’

Before he left, Henry glanced around and pondered whether Bill and Derek’s office could now be used for something else. Suddenly, he had the idea that this would make an excellent space for something much less tedious than repairing programmes. He envisaged a permanent display of the Watford items about which he, the Father Of The Club, felt most passionate — match-worn shirts.

As he imagined the sublime beauty of the finest designs in Watford’s history on show in a small room where the air would be tinged with an ancient musky sweat, a sharp thrill pulsed through Henry’s body.

A little awkwardly, he cleared his throat, muttered a stilted goodbye to Bill and Derek, and waddled off to think about his idea some more.

Chapter 6

After Henry had gone, Bill and Derek finally found words.

‘I loved programmes, sir,’ Derek said in grief. ‘I can’t believe they’ve been taken away from us, sir.’ 

‘Me too, my boy,’ Bill replied, sounding destitute. ‘I wanted to spend time with what turned out to be the final one — at home to Sheffield Wednesday, back in May — to hold it, to feel it, to say goodbye to it — but Roy From IT didn’t give us the chance. He just got rid of the lot. Every programme ever.’

‘I’m missing them already, sir. I was so fond of them, sir. Down on earth, sir, before I got ill and died, sir, I sometimes used to create my own programmes, sir — with pencils and crayons, sir.’

‘Yes, I think a lot of children did, my boy. I remember doing it myself — immediately after the First World War. I was so excited that football was back — and then we went and finished runners-up in the Southern League that season. I drew pictures of players, wrote match reports from the previous game, and compiled statistics.’

‘And I loved buying the real programmes, sir. It was part of my matchday ritual, sir. When I got home, sir, I would read every single word, sir. Memorise every word and number, sir. It all meant so much to me, sir.’

‘Me too, my boy. And, over time, as my collection grew, the programmes became even more meaningful. They represented my history as a supporter. It sounds odd to say, but programmes have always been both ‘official’ and personal at the same time.’

‘That’s so true, sir. Spending time looking back through old copies was all about nostalgia, sir. Historic programmes conjured up the romance of the past, sir — in a way that looking back at digital media simply never will, sir.’

‘Indeed, my boy. That’s why so many Watford fans over the years have kept their programmes — whether that’s neatly filed in binders or just slung into cardboard boxes. No one is ever happy when the time comes for a clear-out and they need to find an alternative home for their programmes. They don’t want to let go of their memories.’

Derek became a little tearful again. He said:

‘And now our memories have been taken away from us, sir — by Roy From IT, sir. His “digital offering”, as he calls it, sir, is devoid of all the personal meaning that programmes held for us, sir. The modern world is soulless, sir. Soulless!’

Suddenly, they heard the door of the programme office opening. 

They turned and saw a man enter. 

It was a former Watford player who — as he’d proved many times in the past — knew how to turn around an apparently hopeless situation.

Chapter 7

‘Right! Stop sitting there moping! Mainwood, Garston, get on your feet!’

The man entering the office was Freddie Sargent — a former Watford captain, and the club’s outstanding player of the nineteenth century. He was short and stocky, with a thick moustache, and was renowned for fearlessly charging opposition goalkeepers to take them out of the game when a cross was coming in.

Freddie announced: ‘I’ve just been to see Henry, and he doesn’t understand the impact of what he’s done. So I’m organising a protest.’ 

Freddie Sargent had a long history of protesting against modernisation. Down on earth, in the mid-1890s, when Watford were still amateur, he successfully blocked the proposed professionalisation of the club. Back then, he was a frequent writer of fiercely-argued letters to the Watford Observer. But these days, in Hornet Heaven, he tended to go further than mere correspondence.

‘We’re forming an angry mob,’ he said. ‘I’ve raided the groundsman’s shed, and pitchforks are at the ready. Are you with us?

Bill and Derek glanced at each other across their desks — desks at which, until today, they had spent countless happy hours, lovingly restoring well-thumbed old programmes. 

The thought occurred to Bill that he had no idea what they were meant to do at their desks from now on. Perhaps they were supposed to check that these new QR Codes didn’t contain data errors that would take people to a 1964 away defeat to Workington when they wanted to go to the 1984 FA Cup Final. There’d be no romance in a job like that, he thought to himself.

Bill got up. Derek did the same. They followed Freddie out of the office.

Chapter 8

In the Troy Deeney Atrium, Bill was surprised by the number of people who had gathered to demonstrate their opposition to the demise of match programmes. There were hundreds of Watford fans.

‘Golly,’ Bill said to Freddie, ‘I suppose my attachment to Watford programmes has always felt so personal that I simply didn’t realise just how many other people feel the same way.’

Freddie replied: ‘I don’t think the club realise the strength of feeling either. It was a terrible decision to stop producing programmes.’

Bill felt some comfort that the great Freddie Sargent felt the same way as him. He asked: ‘So have programmes meant a lot to you too, Freddie?’

Freddie grunted. For him, the matter was more of a moral issue. ‘It feels wrong that there isn’t going to be a match programme anymore,’ he said. ‘It was always the official organ of Watford Football Club. You could trust what was written.’

‘That’s true,’ Bill said. ‘Any statement made in the programme had gravity. It was there on the record forever.’ 

‘I agree, Mr Mainwood sir,’ Derek chipped in. ‘When the club posts on its digital channels, it’s to influence the moment, sir, rather than to make a statement for enduring scrutiny, sir. It means they can claim on social media that Burnley made a bid of ten million pounds for Mamadou Doumbia (which, by the way, sir, Burnley say they didn’t, sir) as part of a communications strategy to hype a player’s value, sir.’

‘The boy’s right,’ Freddie said. ‘There needs to be an official programme so that fans can read statements of accountable fact about actual things the club are doing. I don’t want my perception manipulated as part of some PR game.’

Freddie beckoned to someone over Bill and Derek’s shoulders. Then he continued: ‘We are where we are — in terms of what’s happened down on earth. Up here, though — well, that’s a different matter. Henry’s decision to destroy every old Watford programme is a whole new dimension of disaster. The man’s brainless. A total idiot.’

Bill and Derek watched as the former club captain instructed Watford’s former groundsman Les Simmons to walk through the crowd handing out pitchforks.

Freddie shouted: ‘Right — come on, everyone! Time to descend on the IT department!’

Chapter 9

Henry Grover was walking along Yellow Brick Road (or Occupation Road, as he still preferred to think of it) when he saw an army of Watford fans marching down the slope. 

He smiled to himself, confident that the fans had gathered in support of a bold and forward-looking decision by a Father Of The Club whose brain clearly had “XXXL” on the label. 

This wasn’t an arrogant confidence (he told himself, arrogantly) because he was a man who understood the ordinary fan (he told himself, mistakenly). The ordinary Watford fan wasn’t particularly interested in programmes — and thousands of old ones had been unnecessarily cluttering up Hornet Heaven for decades. (Old programmes, not old fans, he clarified to himself — though, actually, now he thought about it, one could say that certain people, like his grandfather Albert, had been making the place look untidy for far too long.) No one ever bothered to read programmes. They took up far too much space. It had been time for a clear-out.

But, as the army of fans started to pass Henry, he saw that several of them were brandishing pitchforks and flaming torches. He gasped.

His first instinct was to run. Then he decided it wouldn’t be seemly for the Father Of The Club to be witnessed legging it. He needed to retain his poise.

So, when he spotted Bill Mainwood, he went and sidled up to his old friend.

Chapter 10

‘Bill, old nubbin,’ Henry said smoothly, trying to keep the fear out of his voice as they moved down the slope within the phalanx of fans. ‘What’s this all about? It’s not my blood they’re after, is it?’

‘Oh, hello Henry,’ Bill said. ‘Feeling guilty about what’s happened, are you?’

‘Me? Goodness, no!’ Henry said, dismissing the idea with a light chuckle that sounded rather more pompous than he was hoping. ‘No, no, no. It’s just that, as the Father of The Club — as this afterlife’s much-esteemed spiritual leader — I might be wrongly targeted for allowing whatever it is that people are all fired up about.’

Bill looked at Henry quizzically. ‘But, from what you said to me earlier, Henry, the change that everyone here is protesting against is something you’re in favour of. You told me that using QR Codes instead of programmes is the way forward.’

‘What? No I didn’t.’

‘Yes, you did.’

Henry felt uncomfortable with the way Bill was using the truth against him. He said: ‘Well, if I did, I can’t have meant it, Bill, old thing — not now that these people with torches and pitchforks have turned out to be upset by the idea.’

‘But you definitely said—’

‘I’m very much with everyone here, Bill. The handle end of these pitchforks looks very much the right end to be.’

Henry wondered how he could start to defuse this frightening rebellion. He said, as breezily as he could muster: ‘Tell me, Bill, old mammal, who’s currently leading the protest?’

Bill replied that it was Freddie Sargent.

‘Well, it should be me,’ Henry said with authority. ‘I should be visible in the vanguard. Any Father of The Club worth his salt must be seen as a driving force for good.’

He excused himself and moved ahead of Bill, calling out: ‘I’ll see you later, Bill, old thing — I’ve got a day to save.’

Chapter 11

‘Thank you, Freddie, old chap,’ Henry said as he arrived next to Freddie Sargent at the front of the army. ‘I’ll take over from here.’

Freddie’s eyes flashed at Henry in anger. ‘No you won’t, Grover. You’re the enemy. Roy From IT told me you gave him your executive approval to get rid of all the programmes in Hornet Heaven.’

Henry chuckled: ‘But that’s because I’m the Father of The Club, Freddie, my dear old thing. We can’t have just anybody giving executive approval. He quite properly recognised my authority and sought my blessing.’

Freddie frowned. ‘Wait. What are you saying? You were so flattered by being asked for executive approval that you didn’t stop to think about what you were actually approving?’

Henry chuckled again. ‘Of course I didn’t! Nobody bothers to think these days!’

‘That’s definitely true at Watford Football Club — judging by the decision to stop producing programmes,’ Freddie muttered.

‘It’s the modern way of business, Freddie, old soupbowl,’ Henry continued. ‘What do they say? “Action before thought. Move fast and break things. Fail fast, fail often.”’ 

‘Well, this failed bloody fast.’

Henry put a reassuring hand on Freddie’s shoulder. ‘Look — don’t worry, old chap. I can just as easily give my executive un-approval.’

‘But that’s no good — it’s too late!’ Freddie protested. ‘All the old programmes are gone!’ 

Was it too late? Henry didn’t know. He strode ahead of Freddie — down the slope towards the back of the Rookery Stand where the IT department was located. He had no idea if he could fix the situation, but he wasn’t going to admit it.

He called out behind him: ‘Halt your mob, Freddie — while I go and have a word with Roy From IT.’

Chapter 12

A few minutes later, in the IT department, Henry’s conversation with Roy had become quite heated.

‘Don’t point your finger at me, Roy From IT. You’re the one responsible for this. You need to admit that you’ve made a bit of a boo-boo,’ Henry said in reference to a cataclysmically terrible decision that would ruin the afterlives of generations of Watford fans.

Roy argued back: ‘It would never have happened if the club down on earth hadn’t made the decision to stop printing programmes.’

‘I see,’ Henry sniffed dismissively. ‘You’re blaming someone else. Just the like club tried to blame the fans down on earth for not buying enough programmes.’

‘Look, none of this is my fault,’ Roy insisted. ‘People need to accept the demise of the match programme as an inevitable casualty of the modern media environment.’

Henry felt exhausted by everything that was happening. He’d been trying to make the best of a bad situation — of the club’s making — when he’d approved Roy’s idea of a QR Code system to replace all programmes, past and future. And now, it seemed, the residents of Hornet Heaven wanted to bury a pitchfork somewhere deep within his personage.

He sighed heavily, and sounded like a broken man when he said: ‘Oh dear. I don’t know what to do. You’re meant to be the brainy one, Roy, old thing. I’m meant to be an old-timer who doesn’t really understand the modern world and just wants everything to be the way it was.’ 

Roy nodded. He asked kindly: ‘Does that mean you want the old programmes to be available again?’ 

‘Well, their absence seems to be what’s upsetting everyone in Hornet Heaven,’ Henry said. He added hopefully: ‘I don’t suppose there’s any way you could bring them back, is there?

Roy turned away and tapped a few keys on a keyboard. 

Then he turned back to Henry and said: ‘Right. Are you sure this is what you want, Henry? If I click this button, it’ll send all the old programmes to print again.’

Henry was startled. ‘What? Really? It’s as easy as that to print out programmes? 

‘Yep,’ Roy said. 

Henry grinned and exclaimed: ‘Thank goodness!’

Then he frowned, as a thought crossed his mind.

‘In that case,’ he said, ‘why can’t the club down on earth just click a button and put their “digital offering” on paper for those who want it?’ 

Roy shrugged. 

Henry shook his head. ‘Goodness me,’ he said ruefully. ‘Sometimes I just don’t understand Watford Football Club.’

Roy asked: ‘So do you want me to send to print, or not, Henry?’

Henry was feeling a wave of relief that the situation could be so simply rectified. He said: ‘Of course I do, Roy! I simply wasn’t thinking when I agreed that you could get rid of all the old programmes! Seeing the way that Bill and Derek — and Freddie and everyone else — have reacted tells me that programmes aren’t just functional items for gleaning information, or getting through turnstiles. They’re special in their own right. Publish, Roy! Publish and be damned!’

Roy clicked the print button. 

The crisis surrounding the old programmes was over.

Chapter 13

The next day, Bill and Derek were in their office, quietly enjoying their morning — now that the new QR Code system had been abandoned.

Earlier, Derek had spent time happily checking a pile of team sheets from the Deportivo friendly last night before putting them on the programme shelves in the Troy Deeney Atrium so that people could use them to get to the game. And now, with pencils and crayons, he was creating his own match programme for the next home game — against Norwich in the Carabao Cup. 

Bill, meanwhile, was sitting at his desk gazing at the Sheffield Wednesday programme from May — the last Watford programme ever. It was sad, he thought, that there would never be another. But having been deprived of all the old ones — only temporarily, mercifully — he was now appreciating more than ever the riches of the past. He fancied sitting down and going through them all again — every Watford programme from the beginning — when he could find the time.

It was this scene that Henry Grover found when he quietly entered the office. When Bill and Derek didn’t look up, the Father Of The Club watched them for a while. It did his heart good to see how content they were. He was regretting how he’d upset everyone yesterday with his misjudgement over the old programmes.

After leaving the IT department the previous evening, he’d managed to smooth things over with Freddie and the angry mob. (If he had a superpower, it would be glad-handing, he reckoned.) As a result, pitchforks were once again for horticultural use only. 

Now, Henry felt, it was time to apologise to his close friends Bill and Derek.

He said: ‘So, um… Listen, chaps — old things — I’m sorry about yesterday.’

Bill and Derek looked up. 

Henry continued: ‘I must admit I’m not the sharpest stud on the football boot. I think that’s why I never realised how many supporters are emotionally attached to programmes. I was as blind to it as Watford Football Club in the land of the living. I’m sorry for the hurt I caused everyone — especially you two.’

‘No problem, Henry,’ Bill said gently. ‘We forgive you.’

‘Yes, Mr Grover, sir. We do, sir,’ Derek.

‘Thank you,’ Henry said. ‘I shan’t lean into blaming for the club for making the original bad decision that led to my approving an even worse one in Hornet Heaven, but I will observe this… Even if only five hundred Watford fans down on earth were actually buying programmes, that was five hundred Watford fans who were getting pleasure. Which is what we all want from supporting Watford.’

‘Good point, Henry,’ Bill said. ‘Especially when — quite often, it feels — five hundred is more than the number of people getting pleasure from the football itself.’ 

‘What’s more, Mr Grover, sir,’ Derek added, ‘I find it galling, sir, that the club is clearly prioritising its communications budget money on producing social media content that people won’t remember two minutes later, sir. Programmes are for life, sir. And beyond, in our case.’ 

Bill said: ‘There’s no doubt about it, Henry. The club should bring the match programme back.’

Henry nodded in agreement. ‘Meanwhile,’ he said, ‘until the the club sees sense, team sheets will have to suffice for getting us through the Hornet Heaven ancient turnstiles. Good day, gentlemen. I repeat my humble apology.’ 

And, with that, Henry left the programme office. He no longer had any desire to turn the place into a musky museum of match-worn shirts. He had a new understanding of, and respect for, what the Watford match programme meant to the club’s supporters. 

He’d made a fool of himself over the last two days in Hornet Heaven, and he worried that, down on earth, the club he founded was guilty of the same thing. Surely (he thought to himself as he closed the door behind him) the answer was for the club to do the same as Roy From IT had done to the system in Hornet Heaven in fixing the situation. 

Watford Football Club, to coin a phrase, needed re-programming.

THE END 

‘PROGRAMMING ERROR’ was written by Olly Wicken. 

For more information on the Hornet Heaven stories, please visit HornetHeaven.com

Thank you for reading.