BBC Radio Five Live's 606 presenter Adrian Chiles charts the thrilling finale to West Brom's successful promotion quest.

I had a fantastic dream last night.

It started in February, when we were 10 points behind Wolverhampton Wanderers.

We lose away against Preston on a Tuesday night, having missed our customary penalty. And Jason Roberts breaks his foot for the third time this season. So that's it for this year - play-offs at best.

But then suddenly we start winning and Wolves start losing and drawing. But we don't dare to believe.

Until Easter Monday when Wolves lose at home to Man City and we win at Coventry. Level on points. Friday, Millwall play Wolves.

Abusing my position as radio presenter, I offer, on air, Mark McGhee, the Millwall manager, a case of his favourite wine if he beats his old club. 1-0 to Millwall. The best �211 (incl VAT & delivery) I've ever spent.

Then, it's simple: seven points from three games and we're up.

Starting with Rotherham at home. Draw the flaming game. Linesman fails to spot ball miles over the line.

Bad omen: on these decisions promotions rest, everyone says. Up to Bradford, have to win. Off-air in London at 1046 BST. Arrive Valley Parade 1453. By 1647 all hope is gone.

Done everything but score, then Bob Taylor wins a penalty. The bloke next to me bursts into tears.

He cries through the five-minute wait for the penalty to be taken; the scoring of the penalty; the remainder of the game, and all then all the celebrations. He's probably sobbing now.

If Wolves lose the following day at home to Wimbledon we're up. Wolves win, so we're not up.

Seven long days to the last game of the season. I can't sleep, I can't eat, I can't talk about anything else. Marbles gone. Sit on toilet, wonder why it feels funny, realise I haven't put the seat down.

That kind of thing. Saturday night get uncontrollably drunk. Wake up with terrible headache.

Today will be the worst or best day of my footballing life. Arrive at Hawthorns simply terrified. Buy a plastic trumpet.

Blow it to relieve tension. Match starts. All we need to do is win. Wolves go ahead against Sheffield Wednesday after about one nanosecond.

Then Darren Moore scores for us. Bedlam. Wednesday equalise. Bedlam. Wednesday go ahead. Bedlam. We score. Bedlam. We win. It's over. We're there.

I burst into tears and kiss the old woman who sits in front of me (who I've never spoken to before) full on the lips. I never believed this would happen.

Back to London. Give my little girl the trumpet. Bless my wife's patience. Go to bed. Sleep properly for the first time in months.

And then, at 0400, I wake up. And it was all a dream. Switch light on. And there's the trumpet. It's all true.