Saturday 30 August, 2025.

Madejski Stadium, Reading.

Dark clouds gather above us like prophets of doom. We cannot ignore this weather — this creeping malaise.

August dies in the rearview mirror. Six games gone, no wins, just the bitter taste of four defeats and two draws. 23rd in the table. Two goals. Two flickers of light in a long tunnel of grey. The transfer window slams shut at 19:00, 1 September — no more deals, no more dreams.

We stare into the void of our attack. Six strikers, six shadows. Will they even scrape together 15 goals? Doubt hangs heavy. This is the look of a team sleepwalking into the abyss — relegation calling like a siren in the fog. We have been here before, we know exactly how it plays.

Yesterday, the struggle was naked. Mo Faal, Ronan Curtis, Ben Waine, Dajaune Brown — paraded before the masses at Reading. Brown, the new loanee, danced with promise when he leapt onto the stage but froze when the spotlight hit. Faal, borrowed from that Hollywood North Wales club, staggered like the town drunk chasing ghosts. Waine? Lost in the labyrinth. He may never find his way out. Curtis? Busy, yes — but busy like a man rearranging deck chairs on a sinking ship.

And the absentees? Ruari Paton, a whisper in the wind—no impact, no spark, just a contract stretching to 2027 like a bad dream. Jayden Stockley, the one true striker, grounded by injury again. He’s the old-school warrior we need — head like a hammer, legs unfortunately like anchors — but he’s missing, and the others are pale imitations.

The match? A single moment cut through the haze — Paddy Lane, edge of the box, top corner, like a bullet through silk. Headley dreaming, Byers blinking. That was it. That was the knife.

If we must clutch at hope — and we must, lest we drown — then Rhys Walters and Funso Ojo gave us something. Command in the chaos. Chances came. Chances went.

Now, the clock ticks. 24 hours to define the season. The storm is coming. Are we ready?