Well, it had to happen.
Last night's performance was down right abysmal and registered a new low in our beloved club's history.
The crowd knew it; you sensed that the players knew it; only Mr Roeder seemed oblivious to the fact that the end had come.
So what can Stan say a mere few minutes after the news has broken? Glenn Roeder is no longer the boss. The Saint Glenn is dead, long live the … whoever it is.
First, last night's game. It was woeful and inept.
Quite how the team had the temerity to wear the shirts of our 1959 heroes almost beggars belief.
They might have well just squatted down and taken a dump on the club badge – shameful.
As always, the team selection raised eyebrows. Having found a decent centre midfield pairing in Patty and Clingan, Roeder just could not resist juggling his diminishing pack.
Were injuries really to blame for all this, or was it the same as Worthy and Granty's last days, when tweaks and strains appeared to prevent our shot-shy players from making the team bus?
Who knows, but the players weren't up for it. The goal was a joke; Ozzi and John O had yet another stinker each; we never looked like equalising.
Lee Clark, it transpires, took the team spirit with him to Huddersfield, leaving a shell-shocked squad lacking confidence and, it seems, respect for the gaffer.
Not surprisingly, the punters got restless. A no-show from 10,000 supporters combined with a chorus of boos to enact a piece of popular democracy. The guillotine came down, viva le revolution.
Second, then, what can we say about Glenn Roeder?
Well, he did wonders last season. He took over a divided, lightweight and demotivated squad and injected a bit a steel into its core.
He attracted decent players, most obviously Ched Evans and Martin Taylor, and got Norwich playing passing football of decent quality. For that he deserves due praise. Roeder saved us from relegation last year, no doubt about it.
Unfortunately, things began to unravel just as quickly. Missing out on buying Taylor was clanger No1. Then came the tinkering, followed by the diabolical treatment of Huckerby.
This summer, scarce resources were spent on doing favours for Premiership big-wigs; where we needed experience and muscle we got potential and players who were – shall we say – lithe-of-touch.
As it was, we began the season without a dominant centre-forward and with a squad comprised in large part of loanees and long-term injury returnees.
With that same squad culled to the bare bones, there was no such thing as a fringe player – one ruptured knee or a twisted ankle and we were guaranteed to be struggling.
Of course, the fact that both Stefanovic and Kennedy suffered serious injury did not help Roeder's cause. Nevertheless, he left his own cupboard too bare to cope.
Rumours of training ground and dressing room spats abounded, the AGM was a disaster, and the loss of Lee Clark a real blow. Roeder's second season syndrome had arrived to do for him yet again.
Finally then, who will be the next Doctor Who, sorry Norwich City manager?
Early rumours abound. Of these, some have that City connection that always goes down well: Boothroyd (Hoofroyd?) and Malkey; Worthy and Flem; Bruce Rioch; Mark Robins. Rioch and Robins get Stan's juices flowing, though both would have to get past the fall-out with Delia-via-Hamilton in BR's case, and his Rotherham commitments in MR's.
Boothroyd seems very risky, as does Worthy. But Stan will stand behind either of them if selected.
Outside of NCFC, there's Cotterill doing the rounds. More outlandishly, Curbishley has yet to find a new home.
As for wild cards, the board liked 'Mad Dog' Allen, though his stock has surely continued to fall since last year's round of appointments.
We could always ask Lee Clark back – the man had something, no doubt about it.
We shall see, maybe even before the end of the week. Whoever it is, they'll need our full support. It may well be too late.
City look doomed on and off the pitch. And yet, you never know. Things are always darkest before the dawn.
Bring on Barnsley and let a new chapter unfold…