Here we go. The Vertu Trophy. What even is it? A shimmering illusion, a corporate-branded fever dream, a midweek distraction dressed up as destiny. On the one hand, it’s a tinpot sideshow, a glorified training session with a sponsor’s name slapped on like cheap cologne. On the other, it’s Wembley — May sunshine, flags waving, dreams stitched into the fabric of a final. That’s the rub. That’s the madness. That’s the dilemma.

But I blame it. I blame it for the fall. The tumble. Our relegation the season before last. Bristol Street Motors Trophy, Vertu Trophy, whatever name it wore when it came knocking with its false promises and its cursed fixtures. James Wilson — that crazy dream from Biddulph – the only striker we had who understood the delicate art of scoring goals, hobbling off against Newcastle’s under-21s like a sacrificial lamb. Why was he even out there? Why risk the crown jewel in a game that meant nothing and cost everything?

Crosby. Andy Crosby. That decision should’ve been his last. Should’ve been the moment the curtain dropped and the lights went out. But no — instead we got Uche, the panic buy, the emergency signing, the big man with the heavy touch. And Loft, Ryan Loft, lumbering like a man chasing ghosts in fog. They took turns leading the line like two clowns juggling bricks. It was tragic. It was comedy. It was Port Vale in freefall.

Tonight it’s Accrington Stanley. Away. Cold terraces and floodlights flickering like dying stars. We won’t be there, but we’ll be watching — eyes on the box, ales in hand, hoping for something resembling redemption. Or at least entertainment. Or at least not another injury to someone who matters.

This trophy. It’s a curse wrapped in a dream. It’s the road to nowhere that might just lead to Wembley. And we keep walking it. Because we’re Vale. Because we’re mad. Because we believe.