If only our hopeless, fraudulent players could be replaced as regularly as the yardstick I use to measure this season of despair.
At the start of the campaign it would be the levels of nausea associated with that wretched violin track that accompanies our journey to the exits at full time.
You know the one. It’s the soundtrack beneath the ‘defeat’ button on the PA system, second only to the ‘drugs don’t work’ for soul destroying misery. I hate it.
By October the yardstick had shifted to my levels of repulsion towards David Dickinson’s Money Shop loan ad where a ‘seamless’ video wall once lived.
It keeps catching my eye as I look anywhere other than the football pitch for salvation and again, it defies my DNA.
But today, as I sit here contemplating yet another defeat with a shrieking violin in my ears, my yardstick has again been upgraded to cope with a new found low.
It arrives in the shape of my Bradford City supporting friend, who sat with me yesterday after I sat with him at Villa Park four days before.
One team, full of pride, passion and no little pace, reducing a grown man to tears and briefly rekindling all those emotions I’ve not felt for Wolves in years.
A law defying, humble team, more lovable than Charlotte Jackson in a swimming costume.
If there was a more deflated, dejected Villa fan than me at full time then I’d have been surprised, notwithstanding my delight for a good pal that has suffered more than most.
As we walked down Waterloo Road for the ‘return’ experience yesterday, I reminisced about the days when I could aspire for something special.
‘Ben, we’ve had 12 years of misery so it’s been a long time coming,’ he said at 2.55pm.
At 4.55pm, he’d changed his tune…
‘I feel genuinely sad for you. And I can’t see where you go from here,’ he consoled, as that blasted soundtrack violated my eardrums again.
A perennial League Two sufferer, supporting a once bankrupt-threatened club feeling genuinely concerned for a Wolves fan.
And the most sobering, upgraded yardstick to measure this season of unprecedented misery?
I genuinely feel envious of him.
*For a summary of the game: Zubar offered a refreshing alternative, set one up. Then Johnson cocked up. Then we were as crap as ever. Then Johnson cocked up again. Slow, ponderous shite.