Well, you can hardly blame the Vardys if there is a change of heart and they come shuffling into St Andrew’s just before kick-off.
Like late arrivals in the public gallery amid clattering chairs and a hasty rearrangement of the seating plan and audible gasps from onlookers shocked by their temerity.
You never know, it might be one final chance to savour a morsel of revenge, a small victory in response to that courtroom rinsing by the Rooneys.
This time it might be Wayne squirming in suffocating confines. Pacing his technical zone with the look of King Midas in reverse.