The party told you to reject the evidence of your eyes and ears. It was their final, most essential command.” – George Orwell

After Saturday’s demoralising, utterly predictable defeat, we needed something from the club—a sign, a message, anything. Just a flicker to show Carol has a grip on the chaos: the madness on the pitch, the desperation in the stands, a plan, a way forward. And then Monday arrives, and up pops Matt Hancock, our CEO, soothing us with corporate balm: everything’s fine. Dunna worry about the league table, dunna worry about the wreckage. Just believe. Believe like saints trudging down the road to nowhere. Bottom of the table? Three wins from sixteen? Stop mithering. Darren’s got it all under control. No predictions, no promises, no roadmap – just faith. Take a leap with us, he says. All’s good in the hood, he says. Let’s sip tea while the house burns down, he says.

It’s becoming an act of self-harm.

Let’s go back to Saturday and that performance. It was horrific to witness. A train crash in slow motion. Plymouth Argyle, crawling out of the mire and shoving us headfirst into it. How do you lose to a team that bad? Their first away win in, what, 37 years? Okay, exaggeration – but still. They were dreadful, yet they found a way to win. Like we knew they would. And our manager? Locked in his own loop: same formation, same mistakes. Players out of position. Centre-backs as wing-backs. Wingers as wing-backs. Goalkeepers as wing-backs. Players who should be playing just behind Devante Cole as wing-backs. Wing-backs everywhere, like a surrealist painting gone wrong. It’s insanity. Pure insanity.

These players – heads gone, spirits crushed, staring into the abyss. You see it when we concede: the soul slipping out, drifting down the highway to nowhere. The white flag. Moore isn’t fixing that. No way, no how. And wherefore art thou, George Byers? No one – no one – can seriously think we’re better without him.

Our set-up on the pitch. Surely a back four would make sense? Surely a 4-2-3-1 formation would make sense? Everyone can see it – everyone except Darren Moore. It would suit the players we have, allow them to play in their natural positions, let them off the leash. We can’t keep doing the same thing over and over again expecting different outcomes.

It has to come to an end. A new manager is needed. Urgently. I don’t know who that is, but I do know it can’t be Steve Evans. Not him. Seen his name being kicked around socials. I don’t care about his track record. He is fucking hideous and so is his football. I would never want to see us play like one of his teams. I would take relegation over Vale becoming a Steve Evans team. Seriously. Surely we want someone young, dynamic, a bit of charisma, takes a risk or two? Surely? Someone with a plan A, a plan B, and a plan C. Does this manager exist? God knows. But not him. Not Evans. If Stoke City was a bloke it would be him. He’ll never be in the picture, Carol wouldn’t have him, and I’m good with that.

Next up: Lincoln on Saturday. The Imps. Indifferent form, maybe, but third in the table and licking their lips at the thought of us rolling into town. The sacrificial lambs. Then Bradford, Luton, Peterborough, Huddersfield, and Bradford again before 2026 dawns. By then, the whole thing will have collapsed. Rome is burning, and Carol and Matt are sat with their violins.