When people get to 115 in France they appear on Canal Plus explaining that a glass of claret and a cigarette for breakfast every morning is the secret of incredible longevity.

In England, they are simply appointed to football committees.

The absurd punishment meted out to Chesterfield by the venerable ancients of the disciplinary panel, waffling and bumbling over their Nice biscuits and tea, was guaranteed to raise the ire of 22 of the division's 24 clubs.

The two exceptions - an exceedingly odd couple - were Chesterfield, who having originally switched on cruise control and roared into "This is unfair! We shall appeal!" mode, suddenly realised that they had got away with murder, and Brighton, who with a quite magnificent display of Olympian detachment, claimed that they could beat anyone else on the field however much they cheated.

A claim, they are on course to proving by the time the figure 46 appears down the first column of the league table.

Meanwhile, the football league board - which includes Barry "Chuck 'em Out" Hearn - has referred the punishment back for reconsideration. As our Barry has a well recorded fondness for demanding that opponents are removed from the league for even minor transgressions, this is hardly surprising.

The trouble is, Chesterfield have never actually formally withdrawn their appeal. If the panel increases the punishment - which it surely will - the appeal will presumably be reactivated. Instead of reaching its denouement on some muddy killing field, this year's football season could well conclude on a pavement in the Strand.

The unusual thing about this right old drama is that it doesn't involve the Albion. We have proved how ineffably superior we are so let the others just get on with it.

That's a lovely prospect and let's all wallow in our hard-earned glory. Let's go to Shrewsbury with our flags and live for the moment and wait for the open top bus and enjoy the summer. We deserve that. But we can't forget the others, as I was reminded of first thing this morning.

It's Thursday. The sun is shining. We're promoted. I check the emails and see the date: April 26. Now that revives memories. As the Goldstone battle cry T-shirt said: "They think it's all over. It will be on 26 April 1997."

It was raining that day four years ago. Something died in me then and it has taken four years to shake off the undertakers. We might have got out of the dungeon but only now have I adjusted to the sunlight.

If we are civilised people we need to remember those still in the darkness. Torquay fans, or Halifax's. We don't know. It might be Lincoln's.

Others too - Hartlepool supporters perhaps - caught in a twilight caused by missing automatic promotion. And yet more, ordinary people from unfashionable places like Rochdale (so kind to us during our travails) or Scunthorpe who see the chance of a day out at the Millennium Stadium and a greater prize beyond simply disappearing.

The common denominator in all this angst may well lie behind the rusting iron of the Saltergate main stand. It really is terrible for Chesterfield's loyal fans - who could so easily go elsewhere and watch Premiership football - but the club must be chucked out of the league.

Nothing else will do.