I stayed to the bitter end. I always do. It’s the Final Act that fascinates me – the moments after the whistle, when the curtain drops on a dismal performance and everyone has to live with what’s just happened. That forced, half‑arsed trudge around the pitch from the players, heads down, mechanically applauding the fans. The anger and vitriol that rightly comes back at them. The frustration. The gruesome theatre of it all. Words cannot describe how bad that performance was yesterday. A shitshow that will live in the memory for far too long.

I don’t applaud or boo after games like yesterday. I just stand there, a passive observer, waiting for some profound truth about the nature of human suffering to reveal itself. It never does. A bloke to my left is doing the ‘wanker gesture’ at the players – silently, relentlessly, for three solid minutes. He could have cracked one out in that time. A bloke to my right shouts random players’ names, each one punctuated with “get out of our club!”. People are angry, and they have every right to be. Fans want clarity, reason, meaning. The players offer nothing but indifference before disappearing down the tunnel.

It’s beyond a shambles now. You think it can’t get any worse, and then it does. Horrific. Our 150th anniversary season, our anniversary game, and the Paddock was emptying on 59 minutes when the third goal went in. I’m struggling to make any sense of what I witnessed. It’s not just the lack of ability – you can forgive that  – it’s the lack of effort, the meek surrender, the way they fold. It’s like they’ve got no self‑respect. There isn’t an ounce of fight in that squad.

Let’s start with the midfield three, because that’s the root of this crime scene. Ojo has given up again. He’s a quality player – I’ve wanted him starting – but he’s just not interested. I feel sorry for Croasdale; he gives everything, but he’s hopelessly out of his depth. He’s like a dog when you pretend to throw a ball: running around, looking up, looking down, looking side to side, complete bewilderment.

And then we come to Jordan Shipley. An utter, unforgivable disgrace of a footballer. Free‑kicks hoisted behind for goal‑kicks, shithousing out of tackles, the whole attitude of a man who had other plans for Saturday afternoon but got dragged into playing football instead. There’s no coming back from that performance. Terminate his contract now.

Defensively? It looks like Jordan Gabriel loses his man for the first and third goals. Shipley is responsible for the second. Could Gauci have done better with the second? Maybe. Probably. We were all over the shop.

Attacking‑wise, Ethon Archer showed a few tricks out on the left, but like George Hall on the right, nothing came of it. He must be wondering what he’s got himself into. Devante Cole was isolated again, starved of anything resembling service. Along with Byers, he’s the only thing in the squad that looks remotely League One quality. He must be regretting coming here.

And Jon Brady? It’s too early to judge the manager. The ship had already hit the iceberg; we were already sinking. This is about who he lets into the lifeboat and who he leaves to drown. I’d suggest most of the squad can disappear with the ship.