It must have been within seconds of the fifth goal flying in when that unfathomable thought entered my mind.
The brilliant South Bank in full song, the players in brief remission and some glorious gallows humour to numb the last remaining dol of pain left.
‘I am having my season ticket again,’ I declared.
The cathartic change in emotion as we capitulated to our third consecutive Sky Sports thrashing is what our CEO might describe as the ‘Wolves DNA’ kicking in.
It is only ironic that Jez Moxey’s definition of Wolverhampton Wanderers’ gene pool is the very antithesis of every indefatigable Wolves fan stood singing in the Jack Harris.
Like the subsiding levels of bile in those South Bankers’ tummies, there are similarly few bland platitudes left to do justice to this entire debacle anymore.
There is barely any ink left in Tim Nash’s biro for a start, let alone pages in his shorthand book.
In this unprecedented season of sin, the notion of aspiration was replaced with pragmatism months ago.
We can barely stomach any resistance to our tragically preventable decline to the depths of despair, so we are left with our chromosomes, a good old sense of humour and eachother.
The days of berating our chief executive’s salary defying amateurism, our owner’s twisted rationale and our manager’s weak submission can wait for another day.
Until that day, we will continue to shuffle into Molineux in much the same manner we did back in November with the ever sobering thought that our team is a lost cause.
We will watch Stephen Ward make the same mistakes that Steve Coppell gleefully exploited with Jimmy Kebe four years ago, witness incompetent defending from set pieces and groan at a flagrant disregard of the very notion of ‘possession’ in between.
When quicker, more athletic players like Danny Wellbeck sidefoots home a third goal before half time, we will shrug our shoulders in much the same way as our error-prone goalkeeper did at the time.
And when Ronald Zubar assumes clown like proportions befitting of our comedy club to get sent off, we won’t even bother arguing that it would have made a difference.
Any in-depth analysis of a passage of play – let alone the game itself – is as pointless as a ‘Scouse Mafia’ banner in the grand scheme of things.
Wolves have become a laughable rudderless ship, complete with the leadership skills of Francesco Schettino.
But when our battered wreck is pulled from the depths of the Premier League in time for more familiar voyages back to N-Power, one look at those weathered, wonderful souls in the South Bank will be enough to satisfy a numpty’s DNA like mine.