If this season of misery has been emphatic for one reason, then it’s for conjuring up indelible memories like a bout of acne.
Miserable memories, rearing their ugly heads as the club’s desperate attempts to conceal make the vision worse.
A Luton Town defeat, a ghost of Guedioura , two transfer window sabbaticals and the most hopeless own goal in recent history have all defied belief, not to mention today’s horror show and red card shame against relegation rivals Huddersfield.
But just when you thought the last drop of puss had been squeezed from this boundless spot ridden campaign, Wolverhampton Wanderers surpass themselves on the eve of today’s capitulation…
…Fans being told to go home as they queue for tickets at Molineux.
Of all the sights, of all the scenarios, even the most misanthropic supporter’s jaw dropped as a dishevelled team of ticket office workers pleaded sympathy when the computer said ‘no.’
No prognosis, no attempt to pacify and no bloody idea when we would be able to part with our cash.
So we were told to go home instead.
After this most rancid defeat of all, I really wish I had.
An early goal and an encouraging start suggested that the league’s worst away defence would be ripe for the picking.
Unfortunately, our limitless reserves of slop reduced the deadlock breaker as meaningless.
The sumptuous Scannell boasted more pace, flair and inclination than all of our failures put together to underline precisely what we have been missing.
Precisely what is not available in the transfer window or better than what we’ve already got, according to Jez Moxey.
After levelling matters before the break, he exposed Jamie O’Hara’s broken body for what it really is to tee up Beckford for the most sublime finish to make it 3-1.
This, after the substitute converted from close range when De Vries palmed away an initial shot to make it 2-1.
Cue an embarrassed O’Hara getting all petulant, treating the ignominy like a red faced five year-old whose ball had been confiscated.
Maybe it would have been different had Roger Johnson not dragged a shot wide with the goal at his mercy in our only other chance of note with the scores at 1-1.
His arm flailing histrionics for the remainder of the game suggested he wouldn’t have really cared either way.
Unknowingly, he cut the exact same figure as one of those flustered workers in the ticket office only hours before.
He was probably thinking the same thing too.
‘Go home, wait for things to sort themselves out and come back again if you’re bothered.’