But surely after a dull defeat at Bradford, even the most optimistic of Shrimps would have to admit that those fading daydreams have now all but evaporated.

The reality is that we are sat in a prosaic mid-table position with nothing left to play for but bravado.

In a way, it was cruel that those dwindling dreams were reignited because it forced the team's flaws to the back of our minds; making us believe we have what it takes for promotion. But as the final whistle sounded in Bradford, it validated what has been a thoroughly frustrating aspect of our play all season.

Creativity. Even the word is beginning to get on my nerves. Bradford were clearly well schooled in how to cut off the only source of imagination that we have.

They began by doubling up on Garry Thompson, but even then he was having a little bit of ball time. Plan B was much more effective; make him leave the field looking like he had been in a ring with Mike Tyson.

As he ambled off the snowy pitch clutching his face, any ambitions of goal were agonisingly towed behind him. After that, the likelihood of a shot on target was as laughable as the concept of an item of luggage making it through the baggage handling system at Heathrow Airport.

Surprise came with a late flurry of action inside the Bradford half – Thommo wasn't the only one with a nosebleed!

Mortifyingly, we even managed a shot on target when Jamie Burns' tame effort gave Scott Loach in the City goal time to carefully plant seeds over any of Thompson's blood remaining in the goalmouth, before he comfortably collected the ball.

Kudos must go to Loach for clapping the impressive number of travelling Shrimps at the end; although I'm quite sure he had ample time to rehearse that during in the match as he was deprived of precious little else to do.

The same, however, cannot be said of Sammy McIlroy. Sammy's a passionate fellow; seeing his team lose clearly upsets him and he'd probably rather be straight in the dressing room giving the lads a final briefing than applauding supporters but, the thing is, we're equally as passionate.

In an age when booing a team off every time they lose is prevalent, I reckon Morecambe fans are refreshingly patient; sounding their appreciation win, lose or draw. When we do lose, recognition for unwavering support would, I think, be valued more than simple congratulations in victory.

Left angered and despondent, it meant debates on the way back mimicked muted conversations in a library: whispered and unwanted.