I thought the cold light of day might wash it clean, give me perspective, a little clarity. It didn’t. It’s still there, raw and ugly. That performance was a surrender, a folding of cardboard in the rain, limp and shapeless. Stockport are good, no doubt about that, but we shouldn’t be lying down like dogs in the street. It was humiliating. I’m embarrassed. Still embarrassed. And what do you expect when the captain and vice-captain jump ship? 90 minutes without any leadership whatsoever. No fire, no fight, no voice. Just players chasing shadows like drunks at closing time, staggering after something that isn’t there.

Retribution – noun – ‘Punishment inflicted on someone as vengeance for a wrong or criminal act’. Let’s talk Nathan Lowe. That incident. It’s a red card, no argument, no debate. I saw it— it happened right in front of me in the Paddock—deliberate, cynical, the liner sees it, I’m convinced that the ref sees it. But that’s not the wound that festers. Refs screw up, we live with it. What I can’t swallow is this: not one Vale player went after him. Nothing off the ball, not even a sly dig, a whisper of menace. Nothing. Lowe strutted through the second half with that smirk, like he owned the place, and we just let him. Five minutes before half-time it happened. We were already three down, dead and buried. No coming back. So why not finish with ten men? Why not burn the house down? The half-time talk should’ve been simple:

Who takes the red? Who ends Lowe’s evening (not his season— that would be over the top, maybe)? What shape do we take with ten men?

Instead, fairy tales and fever dreams: “How do we get back into the game?” No chance. We needed madness, beautiful madness. Stockport players begging for mercy, TV viewers clutching pearls, questions in Parliament, NATO intervention. Something primal, something that says: you don’t come to Vale Park and take the piss. But we gave them nothing. Just silence.

And the football? Did we carve ourselves glorious chances and then butcher them? Yes. Ryan Croasdale had two golden tickets in the first half and tore them both up. Wrong man, wrong place, wrong time. I won’t crucify Croasdale; he wasn’t the worst in our midfield. We’ll get to Garrity and Byers soon enough.

Defensive lapses costing us goals? Of course. Jesse Debrah played the clown last night. We were two-nil down, absolutely cannot concede another, and Jesse blew it. Big time. But again, not the worst. Cam Humphreys came back from injury masquerading as a Sunday League player. Horrific. He looked like Mr Confused last night.

Strikers? Starving. No service, and therefore no blame for Devante or Ruari.

So—Ben Garrity and George Byers. Captain and vice-captain. Cowards. Invisible men. We got battered in midfield while they hid in the long grass. Shameful. Totally unacceptable. Neither should start at Bolton. Funso and Walters in the middle, George Hall advanced. Rip it up and start again.

That’s enough. I’m ranting. Our first relegation performance of the season—let’s see how the players react. Maldon & Tiptree will be licking their chops. Sunday, they’ll come at us all guns blazing. We’ll need a spine.