And so the desperate, unending nightmare that everyone of a green and yellow hue is locked in goes on?. and on ??.. and on.
Just a glimmer that we may emerge from this hideous predicament would be something. Instead, once more, we lifelessly and listlessly played out 90-odd minutes of drivel whilst the opposition, the Baggies on this particular occasion, took pity, lowered their game slightly and toyed with us like a fat ginger tom patting a pitiful dying song bird.
Stan has all but abandoned hope, he certainly abandoned any intention of taking on the A14 to see the inevitable unfold this Saturday a few weeks back. To those 1,000-odd who did, Stan salutes you.
Even listening to the radio was tough. Head in the hands, 'Please don't do this to me…' tough. With regular terrace updates from Dusty 'Our man at the scene of the carnage…' Miller, Stan could almost smell the foul stench of defeat from his kitchen.
The teams were announced. 'Mmm…', interesting thought Stan, 'Smith and Martin to start?. We'll still lose' and never to be disappointed on that score we did.
It seems that however many times this pack is shuffled a losing hand will be dealt, and that can point to only one thing, that we are not even close to getting out of this mess.
However much nonsense is spewed forth about there being enough talent in this wretched squad to be top half, Stan looks at the results, scratches his stubbly chin, and begs to differ.
We aren't stupid; as Dusty reported, the loudest chant of the afternoon from the away end at The Hawthorns was a rousing rendition of 'We're sh*t and we know we are?' Black humour from the Black Country maybe, but these are indeed black days.
Grant managed to assemble a side that contains more Pups than an Irish puppy farm, and this is indisputably his side, indeed, being managed by his old No2.
Whilst there are numerous mitigating circumstances, Grant cobbled together the worst Norwich team in living memory. A pathetic, weak and spineless team, that Dion-less at least, presents us absolutely no hope.
Stan did quickly cast his eye over the odds on the new manager before starting to write but was dismayed to note the lack of a certain H Houdini.
Did any of the potential 'governors' watch this garbage today? Or last week's? Or the week's before? Because if they have, and still want the job, we should check with the editor of the News of the World that they don't have some deep and dark S&M secret lurking, ready to be 'unearthed' the moment 'wholesome' Delia places a Mumsy arm around them!
Let's face it you'd have to be devient to take over this utter mess.
Formations? What about them? Doesn't matter, we lose anyway.
Centre-half pairing? Rubbish. Has been for 3 years.
Midfield? Outclassed. Ditto.
Pride? Don't make Stan laugh.
Not really much to build on for whoever may hop into the hottest of hot seats is there?
As Delia, Michael et al ponder, and pause over the next appointment the sheer weight of the decision must be almost crushing. Get this wrong and not only will they effectively write their own suicide notes but they will sound the death knell on the club's recent proud history.
Three games have passed, 9 points have fallen since CV's started dropping on the doormat at Carra Rud yet still nothing. Silence, total silence.
Should this be the long game being played out, and a sparkling Jewell be unveiled in the next ten days people may forget? aim low and pull the covers off the wrong man, as happened last year, and there will be plenty of mad dogs barking.
Stan feels that the last words should go to Dusty, he made the trip, he spent the cash and endured the A14.
'So Dusty, how was the mood? Any light moments?' probed Stan. 'No,' came the response, 'but there were lots of 'You're not fit to wear the shirts..!' from the assembled, who collectively seemed to have given up hope.
'The support had the resigned air of fans who had been repeatedly pummelled into submission a long time ago and no longer trusted their board to do the right thing.'
Can't argue with that really.