Our revolt. Our freedom. Our passion.

Port Vale is our drug, our beautiful madness, the ache in our bones and the fire in our chests – it is oatcakes at dawn and the rattle of the 7:58 Stoke-on-Trent to London Euston, it is the clink of the turnstile, the smell of beer and pies, the cracked pavements of Burslem with eyes wide and hearts thumping like drums in the night, it is the old boy in the club shop who’s seen it all and still believes, it is the chant that starts with one voice and swells like a hymn, it is the muddy car park, the last-minute winner, the floodlights slicing through fog, the long walk back to the car with your heart full and your voice gone.

We don’t want the cure, never wanted it, not once — we want the roar and the silence and the sacred suffering of the terraces, because in this delirium we are alive, we are together, we are Vale.