The mechanics of the Carabao Cup draw, like the workings of the universe, are not for mortal minds to comprehend. Balls were drawn from a jar with all the solemnity of a village fête tombola. And lo! The first name summoned from the abyss: Port Vale! The Valiants of Burslem! A team so radiant in spirit that even the angels—Sproson and Lemmy among them—surely paused their celestial jam session to nod in approval.

And who should fate, in its infinite jest, send to Vale Park? Arsenal! The aristocrats of North London! The perennial bridesmaids of English football! The gods, if they are not merely bored children with dice, were surely smiling upon us.

Consider this: Arsenal have not bested us in a competitive match since the last millennium—January 1998. That’s 27 years of cosmic balance, of karmic justice, of divine comedy. And let us not forget: the Gunners are the eternal bottlers, the soufflés of the Premier League—rising beautifully, only to collapse under the weight of expectation.

We have slain giants before. Spurs and Everton bear the scars of our cup crusades. We are not merely a team; we are a parable. Our ship sails not on water, but on belief. The stars align not by chance, but by narrative necessity. This is not faith. This is certainty. This is destiny dressed in black and white.

It is, quite obviously, our time.

When will this monumental battle occur? We wait to find out…