Preston 1-3 Southampton

Nineteen unbeaten. Fourth place locked in. Playoff-ready. And if you weren’t grinning from ear to ear watching this lot dismantle Preston on a sunny afternoon at Deepdale, I genuinely worry about you.

Let’s be honest — final day dead rubbers can be absolutely dire affairs. Two teams going through the motions, minds already on the beach or the golf course. But this Saints side apparently didn’t get that memo. From the opening whistle, there was an intensity about us that suggested the gaffer had made it very clear: we don’t do meaningless games anymore.

Twelve minutes in and Taylor Harwood-Bellis — our centre-half, lest anyone forget — popped up to nod us in front. The man’s been an absolute colossus all season, but apparently defending isn’t enough; he wants goals on his CV too. Jordan Storey had already been booked by the tenth minute trying to deal with our movement, which tells you everything about the kind of pressure we were applying early doors. Preston were rattled, we were purring, and the 20,000 inside Deepdale knew exactly which way this one was heading.

The second half started like we’d come out of the dressing room having been told the half-time oranges were poisoned. Two minutes after the restart, Ross Stewart bundled one home to make it 2-0 and effectively kill the contest. That man lives for moments like that — not always pretty, never glamorous, but absolutely lethal when it matters. The kind of striker who’d score in a phone box and then apologize to the phone box.

Credit to Preston, they didn’t roll over. Lewis Dobbin pulled one back on the hour mark to give Deepdale a brief flicker of hope, and suddenly their ten corners to our five started to feel a bit more threatening. There was a nervy twenty-minute spell where the home side fancied it, and our keeper had to earn his wages with four saves across the afternoon. But here’s the thing about this team in 2026: we don’t wobble anymore. We bend, sure. But we absolutely do not break.

Cyle Larin slamming home in stoppage time was the cherry on top — the exclamation mark on a 46-game regular season that finishes with us sitting pretty in fourth. Nineteen games unbeaten heading into the playoffs. Nineteen. That’s not a run of form; that’s a statement of intent.

The gaffer said afterwards the squad is ready for the playoffs, and honestly? Watching this performance, I believe him. There’s a swagger about this group, a quiet confidence that doesn’t tip into arrogance. Finn Azaz picking up a yellow was about the only blemish — six fouls all match compared to Preston’s eleven tells you we controlled this game with the ball rather than through brute force.

So here we are. Fourth place, momentum like a freight train, and the playoffs ahead. Somewhere out there, our semi-final opponents are watching the highlights of this and thinking, “Do we really have to play them?” Yes, lads. Yes, you do. And good luck with that.