It was all over in twenty-four minutes of glorious chaos, four goals in a nine minute spell from Vale enough to deprive the nation of a Sunday afternoon giant-killing.

It began with a dream and a stumble. Five minutes in and we were behind, the sort of goal that makes you want to bury your soul deep in the abyss. The sort of goal that only we can concede. Connor Hall, caught in a trance, gifts the ball away like a man handing over his last cigarette. Their No.9, unmarked and unbothered, ghosts into the box and there it is. The moment Maldon & Tiptree had been dreaming of. Jesse and Cam, statues in the mist, watching the moment pass like a train they meant to catch. Something has to happen in the January window. We cannot carry on giving away goals like this.

Vale woke up. In nine minutes of beautiful, brutal clarity, we tore through Maldon & Tiptree like a storm through a seaside town. Four goals, each one a hammer blow. Ruari Paton, all fire and finesse, bagged a brace with the kind of composure we’ve begged for in League One. Will we ever see that kind of finishing when it really, really matters? God knows. Probably not. But for now, let’s just drink it in.

George Hall, all limbs and vision, dancing down the right like a jazz solo—improvised, electric, alive. Devante, sharp as a broken bottle, added his own verse to the chaos. The scoreboard blinked 4-1 before the half-hour mark, and the game was already a memory in the making. We added another in the second-half – Devante again – we celebrated a sixth right at the death, before the Ref decided he couldn’t allow it. Maybe he has beef with Jesse? The universe remains mystified.

What else can we say? How about Rhys Walters? Rhys showed us control and measure in  midfield, quick feet, good presence, he just needs to cut loose now and again, try that defence splitting pass, make the game his. I always want to see that little bit more from him. Funso looked sharp when he came on, a better bet than both Garrity and Croasdale in my eyes, many would disagree, but I would have him in my preferred midfield three.

And Big Mo? Had the full ninety and proved once again that he just isn’t good enough. His feet turn to rubble whenever the ball comes near him, a hapless figure baffled by the whole scene. Let’s just put a stop to this nonsense. Dajaune Brown? Ran around as he always does without offering any threat whatsoever. Ben Waine? Spared from embarrassing himself.

Anyway, job done. We roll into the 2nd round. Ninety minutes away from something potentially spectacular. Let’s dream.