|The teams came out with the Saints fans making a good fist of drowning out 'The Post Horn Gallop' with 'When The Saints Go Marching In'. It was a pleasant April evening, but Jamie Vardy felt the need to wear gloves. If he was from a tropical paradise, it might have made sense, but he’s from Sheffield; maybe he wanted to wind me up, but like most Saints fans, he’s had me wound up for years before this match; maybe he just didn’t want to leave any fingerprints as he picked our defence’s pockets.

Both teams lined up 4 3 3. The Saints seemed of the pace from the off, a reaction to the defeat at Cardiff and the resulting outpouring of justified pessimism from fans and media (and probably a two-day ear-bashing from their other halves pointing out that spaffing the promotion bonus on a villa in Spain for the middle two weeks of May wasn’t looking like a smart move any more, or maybe Russell Martin had asked them to keep it tight and save their energy for bigger games to come. Leicester hemmed the Saints into their own half with some tight marking, but the pressing wasn’t intense, and they seemed to be content to let Southampton pass the ball around aimlessly with any attempt at attacking play stifled with a foul. It was a strange standoff, with Leicester appearing unwilling to go for the jugular. It felt like being in bed with way too many duvets on – oppressive and constricting, but with no sense of imminent danger.

Alex McCarthy’s distribution from the back made it clear why Russel Marting feels that his best position is in the stands with a cuppa and a digestive. I’m not sure what Adam Armstong had been up to prior to the match, as McCarthy failed to pick him out despite Arma often being in more space than a Cosmonaut on a solo mission. The rest of the team wasn’t much better; rather than the zipping passes that we have seen them deliver this season, Saint’s passing was poor in quality, with an attacking intent on a par with a YouTube compilation of Ray Wilkins’ most pointless sideways balls.

The first 20 minutes saw only two notable attacks. First, Abdul Fatawu was fed by Dewsbury-Hall; the right winger skipped around Kyle Walker-Peters as he cut into the box before shooting straight into McCarthy’s midriff. The second was a curling shot from Leicester’s left by Wilfred Ndidi, which left the Saints fans momentarily breathless as it curled past McCarthy and then narrowly wide of the post.

In the 25th minute, James Bree played a ball into Che Adams, Faes challenged, and both players fell to the floor. The Saints fans and their team were mystified that the referee decided that this was the time to play the advantage, and what’s more, he indicated that the guilty party was Adams. While the team in red stood and stared, Harry Winks played to the whistle, passed to Dewsbury-Hall, who in turn picked out the run of Fatawu. Fatawu had stolen a yard on Walker-Peters in the box and shot low from the left of the penalty spot into the right-hand corner of McCarthy’s goal. The Ghanaian ran towards the side of the pitch and flipped a scruffy somersault, just about landing on his feet. Don’t expect to see him in this summer’s Olympic gymnastics. (To be fair, if I could do a somersault like that, I would be walking through town doing them anywhere I thought I could impress or annoy someone). Maybe VAR would have given it offside, but it was too close for the linesman to call.

A few minutes later, the acrobatics looked to have caught up with Fatawu as he slumped on the pitch. To my right, a guy in his twenties said, “I hope he’s done himself a mischief.” A turn of phrase that I thought died with my nan back in the 90’s. Unfortunately, after extensive prodding and manipulation from the physios, the diagnosis appeared to be a minor indiscretion, and Fatawu was back on the pitch.

Southampton’s response to Leicester’s sharper, crisper play and deserved lead was to carry on playing as though we would be happy with a nil-nil. We were still looking jaded, occasionally Ché looked like he needed to impress Steve Clark to book his plane ticket to Germany, but then he remembered that he only had to look better than Lyndon Dykes. Online, the BBC reported that “I've seen more forward passes in a game of rugby league than I have from Southampton so far.” Despite some arm waving from Russel Martin, nothing much changed in the rest of the half other than Will Smallbone coming on for Joe Rothwell. Presumably, the early substitution was driven by an injury to Rothwell, but given how anonymous Rothwell had been, maybe it was tactical. Smallbone put in a curious performance; repeatedly, when he got near the ball, he looked sharp and exciting with a bit of threat about him, but each time, like an indoor firework, the excitement quickly fizzled out.

After the break, Southampton started to play with a bit more attacking intent. Brookes was bumped off the ball in the box, but it was not enough to entice the ref to point to the spot. The improvement was good to see, but it was not enough for the manager. With timing that Ralph Hasenhüttl would have been proud of, a couple of seconds past the hour mark, Manning came on for Bree and Edozie for Brookes. To accommodate the changes, Walker-Peters and Adam Armstrong switched from the left to the right of the pitch. Edozie looked bright but didn’t have what was needed to lift the whole team.

The changes had an immediate effect, unfortunately at the wrong end of the pitch. Leicester poked the ball about on the edge of our box in a manner that was almost as unthreatening as one of Ralf’s attacking plans, before Stephy Mavididi decided to make use of the space that Walker-Peters was giving him. Wilfred Ndidi was the only player on the pitch who anticipated Mavididi’s cross, and he raced into the box, leapt above Manning and powered a header goal-bound. McCarthy pulled one of those shapes that only goalkeepers and guys shot by alien ray guns in 1950s sci-fi movies make – arms and legs flapping into an uncoordinated big area. The contortions were to no avail as the ball bounced between his legs and into the back of the net.

Enzo Maresca decided to make a change of his own and brought on Choudhury to replace Pereira. Presumably, Maresca didn’t think that Choudhury was going to be needed to clear the ball off Leicester’s unthreatened goal line in this game. Maybe he was responding to Edozie’s fresh legs, or maybe he wanted to re-establish the Foxes' dominance on the big hair front. Presumably, Choudhury’s opening dark arts gambit to Edozie was along the lines of “This is how you out haircut the barnet of Wout Faes.”

Leicester’s if anyone looks dangerous foul them approach finally caught up with them when Janik Vest-and-pants’ tackle on Che Adam’s earned him the only yellow card of the match. I’m not sure if the booking was specifically for that challenge or just because Richard Madley had run out of fingers and toes to count the Foxes repeated fouls.

It didn’t take long for Choudhury to show some attacking intent as in the 75th minute, he played the ball out to Fatawu. The winger headed inwards towards the corner of the penalty box. Saints got four players around Fatawu, but none of them looked to make a challenge. Fatawu realized he had nowhere to go but had plenty of time and space. He looked up and smacked the ball. Bam! Pick that out of the net McCarthy. The Leicester fans erupted as the ball hit the far top corner; they weren’t going to throw this match away. The Saints fans muttered something along the lines of “Feck! Good goal though.” 3–0 Leicester.

People say that history repeats itself. Usually, it takes longer than 4 minutes, though. Choudhury picked up the ball in the middle of the pitch again. He looked out wide and saw Fatawu standing where he had been a few minutes before. This time, when the winger headed inwards towards the corner of the penalty box, his path to goal was blocked. As before, the pressure on the man with the ball was non-existent. Fatawu used the time to look up and slot a through ball towards the corner of the six-yard box. We all know that our nemesis can detect a through ball in the box like a shark can pick up blood in seawater; he set off along the top of the six-yard box like a great white with a surfer in its sight and crisply finished inside the near post. There is nothing certain in life except death, taxes and Jamie Bloody Vardy scoring against Saints.

Having been passive all game, you would have thought it was time for Southampton to take stock and work on composure for a bit. However, it appears that this team thought that 10 minutes was enough time to fashion a 5 – 4 away win (yeah, it’s a mystery to me, too), and we pushed up the field. Edozie’s low cross was cut out by Vestergaard, his first-time ball reaching Dewsbury-Hall. Leicester were full of enthusiasm and confidence now. Dewsbury-Hall raced at the Southampton defence with players ahead of him. Our two centre-backs were out-numbered with Vardy on the Leicester left, Mavadidi through the middle and Fatawu on the right. Dewsbury-Hall played the ball to Vardy on the edge of our box; Vardy slotted the ball over to Fatawu, who popped it past the wrong-footed McCarthy into the net. Spanked. That was great running and great passing and the sort of goal that is bread and butter for every kid (and middle-aged bloke) who plays FIFA on the Xbox.

Leicester brought on Praet and Daka for Ndidi and Vardy. Russ probably thought we had enough praets on the pitch already but still brought on Stephens and Fraser for Adams and Aribo. Thankfully, Maresca replaced Fatawu with McAteer. The game limped into 5 minutes of injury time. Other than Harwood-Bellis clattering Praet not much more happened. The referee decided that 4 minutes of treatment only warranted 30 seconds of added time and blew to put the Saints out of their misery.

Man of the Match: Abdul Fatawu three goals and an assist are impressive even against a team that is bent over and begging to be ripped a new one.