Weeping abounds on the cobbled streets and across the treeless moors. As inevitable as pie, relegation has been confirmed. The final rusty nail of death was thrust into the red rose by former Lancastrian Steve Crook.

These cold depths of despair cannot be worthy of complaint because performances have been barely mediocre all summer.

One hero stands alone to be proud of his contribution, his hair greying, his limbs aching, but he could not do it all by himself.