Saturday, we’ll be back on the road, up the M6 and through the grey drizzle, Bolton away, it’s one of those games, right?  We’re riding out there with nowt but a prayer, expecting the hit, expecting the loss, but who knows? Maybe—just maybe—we’ll come back with three points stuffed in our back pockets. Smash and grab. Hit-and-run. We’ve done it before. Maybe it’s wishful thinking, maybe it’s a grasp too far, but something’s got to break. Something’s got to start moving because we can’t keep whispering this nonsense about being too good to go down. We are not too pretty to die.

Fourteen gigs in and just three wins to show for it. That’s the stark reality we can’t keep hiding from. Around us, some of the other stragglers—Reading, Peterborough, Blackpool—they’ve pulled the old sack-the-boss lever, hoping for a spark, a miracle, a new dawn. At least one of these clubs (if not all three) will pull away from the relegation wreckage. And us? Those last two league gigs — Wigan away, Stockport at home — absolute horror shows. Blood on the tracks. And all after we’d started to believe we were clawing our way out of the pit. The FA Cup? We beat some part-time amateurs from Essex. Let’s not get carried away.

It doesn’t take a prophet to see the cracks. We leak goals like a broken pipe, defending like we’ve lost the manual. Up front, other than the ice-cold Devante Cole, we’re a whisper, a ghost, no punch, no sting. Two months till January, two months till we can roll the dice again, and maybe we send some of these loanees back to their mama clubs—can we even do that? Or do we just leave them out there in the cold, hoping Derby and Wrexham take pity and call them home? Mo and Dajaune— let’s just get them gone. Aussie Joe? He’s got to stay. He’s the anchor in this storm.

So, let’s lay it bare. Let’s strip the carcass and pick through the bones. Autopsy time. Blood, guts, entrails on the table.

Joe Gauci – Aussie Joe. The real deal. Came in on-loan from Villa when we finally admitted Marosi wasn’t the messiah. Joe’s cool, calm, a cat with nine lives between the sticks, a shot-stopper supreme. Downside? His kicking — feet like wild jazz hands in a thunderstorm, no telling where that ball’s gonna fly. But hey, the good outweighs the bad. Problem is Villa might yank him back in January. It happens. Think Oli, think Alfie – our hearts shattered into a million tiny pieces by the cruelty of it all – then what? Ben Amos? He was fine last season in League 2, but this inner last season. Marko is a bad trip. We need to keep Villa sweet. Joe’s key to our chances of survival.

Connor Hall, Ben Heneghan, Jesse Debrah – Throw them in the same sack, shake it up, hear the bones rattle. We knew it back in May — League Two muscle, nothing but meat and gristle. Nothing’s flipped, nothing’s grooved. Jesse? Ok, he’s a little more polished than he was last season, but still clumsy, still jittery, still lamb for the lions. Connor and Ben? Old-school, nothing but heads and boots. League One wants more — wants finesse, wants vision, wants everything that these three cannot afford. Watching Heneghan turn? Like watching a freighter spin in a bathtub, slow-motion doom. Back in the summer, who thought that two out of these three would always be present in our starting eleven, every damn gig? But here we are — calamity alley, every game a car crash in slow jazz. January’s coming, and we need new blood, a fresh beat, a backline that can dance.

Cameron Humphreys – A cool, summer breeze in the chaos. Calm, collected, ball at his feet like a poet with a pen. This is the new gospel for centre-backs—no more hoof-and-hope, no more kicking dreams into the clouds. Cam’s been steady, a lighthouse in the fog, until Stockport rolled in and turned the lights out. Rabbit in the glare, frozen in the neon hum. A mere blip? Let’s hope so.

Wing-backs – So many names spinning, so many bodies broken. Mitch Clark—out again, warrior spirit wrapped in fragile bones. He fights, he bleeds, he breaks. Jaheim Headley—last season’s comet, now a falling star, confidence shattered like glass on concrete. Liam Gordon? Treatment room. Jordan Gabriel? Treatment room. Kyle John— injured/not injured, the cycle never ends. Marvin Johnson—October vintage, smooth, seasoned, a man who’s danced on bigger stages. Short-term deal, long-term dreams. We need him here until May. Please. And Jack Shorrock? Sent out to Chester, short-term loan, ultimately maybe heading in the same direction as James Plant.

Midfield – The pieces are all there, scattered like jazz notes on a midnight street. Darren Moore just needs to find the tune. George Byers, Rhys Walters, Funso Ojo, Ryan Croasdale —pick any two for the rhythm section, let George Hall riff up behind the front two, fast and fluid, eyes wide with vision. Ben Garrity? Bench him. The music’s not flowing for Ben this season. Jordan Shipley? Lost in the mist, wandering down blind alleys, always looking for a door that doesn’t exist. Rico Richards? Back in League 2 with Walsall. The world has not been set alight.

Mo Faal – Every time I think there’s a player in there, he drifts further into the void. We’ve all seen enough. Well worth a punt back in the summer, I guess – some you win, some you lose. Send him back to Wrexham. Watching him stumble around against Maldon & Tiptree was the last straw — feet built from raw chaos, soul out of sync with the universe. He belongs somewhere, everybody does, but that somewhere ain’t Vale Park.

Dajaune Brown – Runs like the wind, burns out like a cheap firework. Will he ever score? I’d bet anything he won’t. No killer instinct, no spark in the box. Send him back to Derby before the dream eats itself.

Ruari Paton – Two goals against Maldon & Tiptree in the FA Cup, both well taken, looked alive, but League One? That’s a different planet entirely. I want him to prove me wrong, want him to light the night, but right now it’s smoke and mirrors. Give him five, six games up front with Devante. He’s earned it, I’ve no argument with that. Maybe Ruari will roar. The truth needs to be revealed.

Jayden Stockley – We’ve barely seen him, injury keeping him locked in the dark. The glimpses? Not great. Never quick, never slick, and now even less. But still—still—he’s the man you want when the crosses rain down, last 15 minutes, desperation dripping from the stands. He’s still got something to offer.

Devante Cole – A blade in the alley. Cuts through defences like broken glass through skin. If salvation’s coming this season, it’s wearing his boots. Bet everything you’ve got on Devante. Everything.

Ronan Curtis – What do we do with Ronan? He’s a player from another time, an orthodox winger in a world that doesn’t dig wingers anymore. He’s drifted through the formation—striker, wing-back—like a beat on the wrong side of the rhythm. Never quite hitting the groove. Last season he had that midnight habit, late goals, clutch kicks when the lights were dim and the crowd was howling for salvation. But now? He’s just a warm body on the bench, a ghost in the machine. Break glass in case of emergency.

Ben Waine – Wow! Who was scouting Ben Waine and thinking to themselves, “Yeah, League one, he’ll tear that place apart!”? Wild! Ben’s pure non-league, the train that doesn’t ever leave the station. No jazz, no swing, just flat-line football. January’s approaching, and he’s gonna be out on loan, riding the rails to nowhere in the National league.

And for our trip to the Toughsheet? I’m having: Aussie Joe in goal. Debrah, Humphreys, Hall across the back. Kyle John on the right, Marvin on the left. Byers and Funso holding the midfield, George Hall in front of them. Devante and Ruari up front.

 So here we are—teetering on the edge, valiant hearts, staring into the abyss with January looming like a lifeline or a trapdoor. By the end of November things should be clearer, one way or the other. This will all begin to make sense.