Big Bird is grounded! Aussie Joe Gauci, our keeper, our feathered sentinel with hands like velvet and feet like jazz-hands in a thunderstorm, is off to wear the green and gold, repping his country against whoever dares. He won’t be between the sticks when we roll down south to Wimbledon on Saturday. And that’s a shame. A real shame.

Ben Amos? Unlikely. So it’s Marko Marosi, the rush-of-blood merchant, flapping like laundry in a Staffordshire gale. He’ll be our No.1. No great news. Not when you’ve seen Gauci glide through a box of chaos like a monk through incense. Marosi’s got clangers in his boots, gremlins in his gloves.

Wimbledon. April. We danced there. Promotion, champagne, the whole shebang. Now they’re sitting pretty in the play-offs, seven wins deep, probably licking their lips. Maybe they’ll want revenge. Maybe they’ll just want to play. Either way, they fancy it.

Aussie Joe, on loan from Villa, flew in like a comet and lit up the Burslem sky. Never fall in love with your loanees, they say. But I did. We all did. Best since Goodlad, and that’s going back to the sepia days. If Villa recall him in December, my head will fall off. And I won’t be the only one picking up the pieces.