London. That beautiful bastard of a city. Still my favourite place on earth to lose myself for a weekend. It never shuts up, never sits still, never gives you a moment’s peace – and that’s exactly why I love it. It’s a living, snarling thing, a city that breathes hot air down your neck and dares you to keep up. Perfect for a couple of days away from the grind, perfect for stepping off the hamster wheel and into the chaos.

Pimlico. Where we stayed. The frayed hem of West London’s tailored suit. The scruffy cousin. Kensington and Knightsbridge swan around like old money royalty while Pimlico stands there with its hands in its pockets, shrugging, honest enough to admit it’s skint – but still buys you a pint regardless. I knew this place in the mid‑nineties when I briefly lived in London, the pubs were proper drinking dens – spit on the floor, sawdust soaking up the sins, blokes who took pride in their alcoholism. Craftsmen of self-destruction. Those places have been bulldozed by craft beer taps and a clientele who pretend that mummy and daddy aren’t rich, but if you know where to look you can still find the old voices and the romance. They still exist.

And I’ll say it again because it’s true: I feel safer traipsing around London at 2am than I do walking through Tunstall in broad daylight. That’s not bravado. That’s just the state of things. Don’t believe the hype.

Then came yesterday. Stamford Bridge. FA Cup quarter-final. Six thousand Valiants packed into the away end like a travelling army of the damned, singing like we were trying to wake the dead. We were magnificent. We were the only thing in that stadium with a heartbeat. For ninety minutes we carried the whole club on our backs, and I couldn’t feel any more proud to be part of that. I’m still feeling the emotions of it all now. It was electric in the Shed End, an experience to cherish.

I wasn’t going to talk about the players. I really wasn’t. But after a night’s sleep the words won’t stay down.

A seven-nil humiliation without a single punch thrown. I didn’t expect anything better. You’d think the occasion might have sparked something. You’d think the cameras, the world watching, the absurdity of Vale in a quarter-final might have stirred some animal instinct. But no. Not with this lot. They walked out like they were clocking in for a shift they’d already mentally quit. I was sat in the lower tier right behind the goal, Gauchi was shitting himself from the moment he came out for his warm up, like a condemned man preparing to face the firing squad. He looked completely overwhelmed. Like he knew what was coming.

There’s no shame in losing to a better team. There is shame in losing without a fight. The bare minimum yesterday should’ve been six yellows, one red, and at least a couple of Chelsea players wondering if they’d ever walk straight again. Bare minimum. To allow a bunch of over-paid prima-donnas to have their way with you in that fashion is just embarrassing.

If you can’t do it for the badge, or the fans who spend most of their wages following Vale, at least do it for yourselves. Show a bit of pride and self-respect. A lot of these players will be hawking themselves around new clubs come summer – yesterday was their chance to show they had something about them, to put themselves in the shop window. They didn’t. Most of them have already checked out. You can see it in their eyes. We deserve so much better than that.

And that’s the 2025/26 season pretty much wrapped up. Just waiting for the official relegation announcement, like waiting for a doctor to confirm the diagnosis you already know in your bones.

The season has been a catastrophe. A slow, grinding collapse. But at least we had yesterday. At least it reminded us that the fans are the spine, the lungs, the blood. Bigger than the players. Always have been. Always will be.

League Two again. The long road. An all too familiar road. And we’ll still walk it, because that’s what we do.