Wednesday 24 September 2025, 08:30.

The morning began, as mornings ought, with a ceremony of nourishment both modest and magnificent. An omelette, golden and obedient, enfolded within its curving embrace a portion of smoked haddock – firm, fragrant ,and faintly defiant. It was not a breakfast to astonish, but one to affirm. The tea, poured with deliberation, completed the rite. Thus fortified, I stepped out into the world for my early constitutional.

Burslem Park lay bathed in a mellow September light, the sort that lends even the most modest shrub a certain dignity. I strolled its paths among the respectable folk of the district — retired clerks, widows in sensible shoes, and the occasional errant schoolboy — and found myself reflecting on the curious quietude of the scene. For tonight, the Mother Town shall host a spectacle of rare magnitude: Burslem Port Vale versus Woolwich Arsenal, in the third round of the League Cup.

It is a curious thing, I mused, how the prospect of an evening’s football can cast its shadow — or, perhaps, its glow — over the most ordinary of mornings. The park’s habitual denizens, though outwardly absorbed in their newspapers or the slow progress of their perambulators, betrayed a certain restlessness. Even the ducks upon the ornamental lake seemed to paddle with a heightened sense of purpose, as if aware that the eyes of the nation — or at least, of the Six Towns — would soon turn to this unassuming corner of Staffordshire.

Passing beneath the ancient oaks, I overheard snatches of conversation: speculation on the fitness of Mitch Clark, whispered reminiscences of past glories – those titanic battles with Spurs and Everton, and, inevitably, the handling of ticket allocation. There was, too, a faint but unmistakable air of expectancy, as though the very benches and bandstand awaited the evening’s tumult.

For now, however, Burslem basked in its morning tranquillity, the calm before the gathering storm. Tonight, the park would empty, the streets would fill, and the Mother Town — so often overlooked — would, for a few brief hours, become the centre of the footballing world.

There is, as yet, no sign of the impending tumult. No banners, no brass bands, no bellowing youths. Only the slow rhythm of the town’s morning rituals. But soon, the southern invaders shall ascend from Longport Station, their accents sharp, their manners questionable, their trousers suspiciously well-pressed. The artful dodger’s and the ne’er-do-wells. They shall pass Mr Walker’s establishment — purveyor of meats of commendable quality —  and enter the heart of Burslem, where the air is thick with history and the scent of kiln smoke, where the sound of a rumbling bass reverberates eternally from the Market Place.

And what absolute bedlam when these two cultures clash! Our lads – youths, brutes, and ruffians of the highest order – forged in the crucible of pot banks and pit shafts, schooled in the hard truths of existence, versed in the violence of the universe, meeting these metropolitan interlopers! It will be a reckoning of the ages. The very cobbles of Queen Street may tremble. My goodness! A commotion which may disturb all creatures living within a five-mile radius!

As for our prospects? Burslem Port Vale, that proud institution born of clay and coal, of fire and smoke, shall face a team whose fortunes rise and fall with the whims of London society. Woolwich Arsenal — a club of pedigree, yes, but also of fragility. Their collapse, when it comes, is often operatic, always spectacular. Will tonight prove all too much for these aristocrats from our capital?

It is oft remarked — by those who have ventured north with hope in their hearts — that a midweek fixture in the Potteries, particularly when accompanied by a biting wind and the sort of rain that insinuates itself into one’s very bones, can be a most disconcerting experience for the visiting party. Today, however, the skies appear to have mislaid their usual menace. There is no call for a winter coat, nor even a stout umbrella. The conditions, one must admit, are rather more congenial to our guests than we might prefer.

Let us pause, then, and consider these men in monochrome: Mitch Clark, Kyle John, Ruari Paton, Ryan Croasdale, Ben Garrity. They do not chase after glory as a child chases after a paper kite, heedless and giddy. No, their pursuit is more deliberate, more sombre. Glory, for them, is not a bauble to be seized, but a shape given to their suffering — a reason, perhaps, for the endless grind. They run not merely towards the prospect of victory, but into the very abyss, their eyes unblinking, their hearts steeled. There is iron in their souls, as there is in the bones of the Potteries.

For these men, as for all of us who dwell in this land of clay and smoke, life is a Sisyphean labour. The boulder is always at the bottom of the hill, and the hill is always steep. Yet we do not shrink from the task. We embrace it, as we embrace the rain, the wind, the long afternoons of disappointment and hope. We chase our dreams, yes, but we also endure our miseries, and in the enduring, we find a kind of dignity.

The boulder waits. We are ready to push.

Play up, Port Vale!