Something about all this doesn’t feel quite right. It’s April tomorrow and yet Coventry City aren’t continuing to stoke a slow but smokey self-immolation, forging an admirably mundane league position from a state of genuine promise.
Nor are they carefully prising up the trapdoor beaneath them that’s been neatly locked up for decades, in order to plunge down into its unfathomable depths and appear in a league where – according to FA Cup commentary at least – the entire stock of the world’s postmen ply their trade.
But here we are, squealing our Vaselined arses across a car bonnet, off the other side, and slap bang onto the hallowed turf of squeaky bum time.
I think we might have caught the town of Newport on a bad day. I’m sure the splendid local townspeople will tell you that when there isn’t an interminable sheeting drizzle slicing down from the greyest of all grey vistas, the oozing slops of the brown-muddled river, don’t look anything like a blended river of forgotten faeces. And with a splash of sunshine I’m sure the rusting hulks of washing machines and mountain bikes whose choking frames seem to clutch and clasp at a soggy, disappearing life are actually a trendy virtual reality pop-up selling sriracha mayo with fries and grapefruit IPA.