Safety sits eleven points above us – and it’s a huge, jagged mountain to climb. And Jon Brady? He’s the man with his boots on, head down, ready to scale it. Ready to lead the way. Twentieth place in League One might sound small, but right now, for us, it’s the Holy Grail in a world where survival is the only gospel.

Last night in Bolton, we saw something different: Vale as an organised team, managing play, shaping patterns, understanding what each other was doing. Just two games in, and Brady’s impact is already visible. Something is happening. It felt almost alien after the dismal footballing void Moore dragged us into – football that was confused, overwhelmed by doubt and indecision, football that was insecure and vulnerable, never quite sure what it was doing or why it was doing it. Football on a wing and a prayer. Literally. And ok, I know Vertu Trophy games are not much more than pedestrian, glorified training sessions – far, far away from the reality of League One with its pace and urgency – but something is definitely growing. We will need more than this to survive, of course. Yes, we could play some good football between now and the end of the season, give an air of respectability to our relegation, a nice pat-on-the-back, well done, close but no cigar, etc, etc, but why settle for that? Why not show some real ambition? Find something extra. That spark, that spice, the ingredient that stops the rot and starts the climb. That will to live. That drive to win by any means necessary.

I’ll manage my expectations for now. These are very early days. Keep my feet on the ground. Reign it in. Because it’s easy to dream – Brady conjuring up the goods, turning this team into a beast: snarling, spitting venom, a ferocious animal fighting for every scrap. No rules. No mercy. Anything for points. Anything. That’s what we need. That’s what we haven’t been. Survival is a dirty job. Uglier than sin. Under Moore? We were soft. No bite. No payback. Bolton, Huddersfield, Stockport – we rolled over, tails between our legs, bullied by the big boys. Nathan Lowe strutting round Vale Park after flattening Marvin Johnson – leaving him with a bleeding nose, laughing and sneering at us. And we just stood there. No retribution. No eye-for-an-eye. No tooth-for-a-tooth. Nothing. Paddy Madden on Kyle John? Same story. Cowardly. Pretending it didn’t happen. That’s not a team ready for a scrap. The meek will not inherit the earth. We know this.

From now till May, teams should dread us. Fear us. Hate us. Sparks in the tunnel before kick-off. Echoes after the whistle. Dark hearts. Dark arts. An aura of intimidation. We need to bring the storm to every game.

This is the Machiavellian metamorphosis: become cynical, ruthless, sly. Trample before we’re trampled. Learn the ropes, learn the chokeholds. Twist the game until it squeals. Survival isn’t a fairy tale – it’s a pissed-up fight in a piss-soaked alleyway. Queensberry rules? Nah, this is all about broken bottles and motorbike chains, not fists. We’ve been walking round like choirboys, it has to end.

Saturday: Mansfield. Brady’s first league game. Mansfield, sitting comfortable mid-table, three league wins on the trot, fresh from turning Sheffield United over in the FA Cup. They’ll come out flying, full of themselves. We’ve got to hit first. Ruffle feathers. Leave marks. Make sure they know all about us.

Become the beast.