The capitulation of Lincoln was Bradfordian in its breadth, Macclesfiedlian in its depth. It was yet another freak, unexplainable incident in an otherwise professional and earnest season. We’re the first football club whose playing style is best described as having a dry sense of humour.

We’ve had slapstick seasons, we’ve had dramatic seasons, we’ve had seasons that have been a glorious cinematic experience. I cannot remember a season where the disparity between our glorious best and nonsensical worst to be so great.

If we were to throw this season up in the air and let the fixtures fall to the ground in a random order, these results might look more coherent, but as it stands we seem to careering from one extreme to another.

In fact, the current form is probably just a readjustment from the overachievements of the season so far. Like we’ve hit an air pocket causing us to drop like a stone. We will, no doubt, eventually start to climb again and by May we’ll have found our natural level. In the meantime the swooping and diving makes us all a bit queasy.

Personally, I think that it’s likely we’ll eventually find ourselves just above mid-table. The way we defend, the way we scrape by, the way we entertain. They say you know you’re a good side when you play badly and win. More accurately you know you’re a good side when you play boringly and still win. We don’t seem to have boring in our DNA.

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