Bolton 0 - Saints 1

Saints began the long climb away from Base Camp at the foot of the table, while Bolton may find themselves caught in a long, painful slither downwards like that Japanese nutter who tried to ski down Mount Everest.

One swallow doesn't make a summer, of course, but Saints did themselves a power of good by clocking their first Premiership win of the season, not for the least reason that one or two knives were probably being sharpened for manager Stuart Gray.

Managers take stick when things go wrong, and there were one or two mumblings when Gray tweaked things at Tottenham and Christian Zeige was left with the freedom of N17 to open the scoring.

So it's only right that managers should get the praise when they get things right, and Gray read the tea-cups perfectly.

Having snared Bolton in a trap for 70 minutes, and found their patience and resolve wanting, Gray showed the timing of Bob Hope to throw Marian Pahars into the fray.

He sensed that Bolton's central defensive pairing of Mike Whitlow and Gudni Bergsson - with a combined age of 69! - might not enjoy having to contend with Pahars' scampering pace in the last 20 minutes.

It had the desired effect as the pair dropped off to buy their raging legs some insurance but only succeeded in giving Pahars room to work.

The little Latvian has under-performed of late, but Gray has also played a clever little mind game with him, by the simple expedient of planting Scott McDonald on his shoulder.

Suddenly, he found a monkey on his back and responded in the way managers dream.

From the way he sprinted off the bench like Maurice Green and chased down Bo Hansen, his body language showed that he was up for it.

And if he wasn't carrying a pin Pahars burst Bolton's bubble with a razor-sharp strike 23 minutes from time.

Wayne Bridge had worn his Mr Defensive Responsibility hat well, until the natural attacker in him took over and he thrust at the Bolton defence.

It opened up like a can of tuna and as he slipped the ball inside Pahars showed the striking instinct that made him feared, cushioning the ball with one touch of his right foot before taking the left-foot shot with his second early before Jussi Jaaskelainen could adjust his feet.

It was a poacher's goal, a burglar's goal, not that it was a crime Saints won.

With all the confidence of a table-topping side, Bolton roared off like a scalded cat and Saints took time to adjust to a Bolton formation that is designed to stretch the opposition out like an unwilling elastic band.

With Michael Ricketts a lone forager, Bo Hansen and Henrick Pedersen hugging the touchlines, and Paul Warhurst providing the anchor, the plot is to get Per Frandsen and Kevin Nolan into the holes.

During that early onslaught, Frandsen struck the foot of Paul Jones left-hand post, and the Saints keeper launched himself to parry a free-kick from the Dane.

But slowly, the steam began to leak from the Bolton engine, ideas dried up like a chalk stream in summer as Lundekvam and Richards handcuffed Ricketts, and the confidence began to leak.

There was more than an air of inevitability to the outcome. Saints drained the life-blood of confidence out of Bolton and fed on it themselves.

Saints had a scare when Hansen struck the post from 20 yards, but once Pahars had nosed them in front, there was never any doubt.

Tahar El-Khalej's inclusion had released Rory Delap into his natural habitat of midfield, only for an injury to the Moroccan to force him back, where he locked down the right flank.

Sam Allardyce isn't the sort of bloke who would easily have the wool pulled over his peepers and he was under no illusions.

Bolton might have been top and Saints bottom going into the game, but he saw it as an early season six-pointer in the pointer in the final shake-up.

He's already looking down from the top of the pile and trying to pick a route down.

Saints are now looking upwards.