So how has it been for you, then, the start to this brave new season? Depending on your own personal optimism/pessimism quotient you might have been expecting us to romp away with the title, to compete effectively in mid-table, or to struggle yet again amongst the dead men. And depending on which games you focus, you might have seen some evidence to convince you, whichever camp you fall into, that you are probably right.

Against Chester we were fluid and skilful, creating chance after chance against an admittedly woeful outfit, Eyre satisfied us, and the Magnificent Mann was a flying machine, bombing forward, handle bar moustache fluttering in the breeze, like Biggles on crack.

In the two games against Roth, and against Lincoln, and away at Torquay, we were competent and effective, and did enough to suggest that we will not be an easy touch for anyone.

Exeter, Cheltenham and Brighton were horrid. The first two were poor efforts against poor sides. For those who didn’t make the trip, don’t be fooled by Exeter, exalted league position or no, they are, as you youngsters say, total pants.

I could look silly for saying that at the end of the campaign if they somehow went up, but as Alan Hansen memorably never said, in this game you win nothing with players who are completely shite. And when Big Bob Dewhurst, bless him, is your inspiration and your major source of goals, you will eventually struggle.

Brighton was truly dreadful, an alarming return to the supine efforts of the Hateley days, showing, in England cricket terms, the fight of Graham Hick, the flair of Mike Atherton, the imagination of Alec Stewart and the cool headed rationality of Chris Lewis. Yes, our deficiencies stood out like Andy Caddick’s ears. And all of the time, whatever the opposition, in the background the unmistakable sound of yet another striker toppling gently to the turf under an ill-judged Lee Bracey challenge……

So a mixed start. But as ever with Hull City AFC you feel the real story may not be happening on the pitch. A lot of money seems to be available to us, and this board of directors seems to me to have enjoyed some remarkable luck, which has enabled them, commendably, to back the manager in a way that would surely turn his two predecessors an emerald shade of envy. The game at Villa. The sale of the mighty Oakes. The record season ticket sales. And now the Sky televised two header with the Scallies, or ‘Eat up your Liver’ as I am informed it was to be promoted by the Hull Daily Mail.

All have filled the Tiger coffers. And therefore, inevitably, we are so short of readies that we have to cadge off the PFA until the Sky cash comes through from the Scouse encounter. Maybe the Daily Mail should have termed the Frank Worthington cup clash ‘Pool your resources.’

I have some sympathy with our directors. I’m hopeless at managing money myself. But I’ve always assumed that is why I do not find myself running a business with a turnover of tens of thousands of pounds every week, as I would make a total balls of it, doing the equivalent of trying to remember which safe place this time I’ve hidden my cheque book and fishing down the back of the sofa for a few coins.

Which is a wee bit what this looks like. And of course it’s doubly awkward when you have as a ‘football consultant’ a man in Stephen Hinchliffe who has, if we are to believe the Department of Trade and Industry, been sufficiently unlucky with his running of companies in the past for him to have to be kept away from any new ones for the next seven years.

Now I’m not for a moment suggesting anything underhand from Mr Hinchcliffe, who I’m sure is a nice fellow and as honest as that lovely head of blonde hair of his is natural. But you could see how more suspicious types than me could start to feel a bit, well, anxious about all of this. Couldn’t you?

And then there’s Lloyd. Oh dear, there’s always Lloyd. The stupid, preening, overweening, wooden racquet-wielding arrogant, self-obsessed, repressed non-consulting, insulting tosser of a man has not gone away. He owns our ground. We’re told at one point that he will not let us repair it, as we have have forgotten to pay him anything on it.

Signing Craig Faulconbridge on loan but not paying for the ground is a bit like buying a new microwave with the money that should go to pay the mortgage. It is a bit stupid. For this reason we are told we have to put up with a capacity of under 9000. But that appears to be sorted now. Have you noticed how our capacity is going up like Linford Christie’s nandrolone levels?

We put in a couple of barriers in the well, and suddenly it goes from 8,600 to 10,300 to over 13,000 for the ‘Pool game. Perhaps we borrowed all of these people from the PFA, and are hoping to pay them back after the Liverpool game with the fans we attract then.

But Lloyd wants a superstadium, so long as the council pays for it with the Kingston Communications Share Issue windfall. In this he has a lot in common with Hull City Council, who want a superstadium so long as Lloyd pays for it with his I Sold My Business And My Name to Whitbread Because I Am A Complete Tit windfall.

Those who have slightly less in common with this view are the fans of Hull City AFC, Hull KR and Hull Sharks, most of whom will happily share a stadium with their rivals on the day that the holes in their bottoms heal up. I can’t believe that a Superstadium will ever happen, not least because Lloyd is so spectacularly inept at whatever he attempts, has a fuse shorter than a cheap firework, and has a startling ability to piss off anyone who has any contact with him at all.

Lloyd watchers will have enjoyed the dead hand of the Master this summer as he first criticised the Sharks players for lack of effort and then halved the contractual money of many of them. This latter move was very effective, as it prompted the players to threaten strike action, so that Lloyd backed down completely.

Don’t feel that the move wasn’t effective though, as it has prompted a number of the Sharks better players to instruct their agents to try and get them free of their contracts now that the season as ended as they have no desire to play for a club that reneges on it’s promises and is willing to shag around with their livelihoods. Presumably it will become harder in consequence for that club to attract new players to replace those who go. Nice work, David!

I’ve also enjoyed his threatening (threatening?) to resign as Britain’s Davis Cup tennis captain if we lose the Relegation playoff against the South Africans. Altogether now, “Oohh ahh, Wayne Ferreiraaaahhhh”. And Lloyd has criticised Tim Henman’s consultation of a psychiatrist to improve his mental state, seeing no value in improving your tennis by listening to someone who’d never played the game in his life.

Absolutely. It’s as ridiculous as a former tennis player telling a football coach that his team isn’t good enough or fit enough……..The dream solution would be if he stamps his foot once too often and high tails it out of the lives of Hull sport for good, but I’m not sure we’re that lucky.

But if Buchanan and Hinchliffe have kept us away from the one that Chris Evert never fancied, then we should be grateful for that. And if under their stewardship Warren Joyce is able to develop his side, harness the diverse talents of Mann, Eyre, Alcide, Whittle, Brown, Harper and Harris, remind Brabin why he was such a success in the first place and that there is no time in this man’s army for resting on laurels, continue the development of Greaves and Edwards, gently introduce some of the more promising juniors such as Adam Bolder, Michael Blythe and Danny Brown into the first team fold, and persuade Lee Bracey not to leap at opposition forwards with a blood-curdling cry of ‘Banzai!’ we may yet have a team to challenge for the playoffs. And if we do that, none of us, I suspect, will be that concerned how we are being run.

Mark Gretton

I can’t wait to get out of this division. You can’t wait to get out of this division. Hell, there can’t be a resident of this pungent filthy recess known as the Nationwide League Division Three who doesn’t spend a day without the thought of a Steve McQueen style escape crossing their severely numbed mind.

The well-known and oft publicised reason for this eternal hope is the quality of football, the third division is easily the most technically inept batch of mules and giraffes cunningly disguised as ’sportsmen’, and the fact that Leo Fortune-West earns good money here proves how miserable this league is. Not even Morrissey would put himself through some of the shite on offer here.It says a lot about Hull City that we’ve propped up most of this division for two long, lonely years. In spite of the recent years misery (so depressing it would drive Thomas Hardy to suicide) , this season will be a different story. We are no longer Hateley’s halfwits or Dolan’s dildos and luminaries such as Bob Dewhurst and Kevin Gage are long gone as the new and improved Tigers strive to take this piss poor division by the scruff of its neck.

However, the first round KO we anticipated has not occurred, but a win on points is surely on the cards. There is no doubt. Nevertheless, something has to contradict our new found optimism doesn’t it? And we all know what it is. Those shadowy figures seen at every match, henpecked, misguided souls with every intention of sabotaging our season, yet the club and FA sit back, powerless and weak, allowing these individuals free reign. Obviously, I’m talking about referees here, and Third Division referees in particular.

When Mr. Armitage-Shanks of Weston Super-Mare safely locks his Volvo and proceeds to Boothferry Park for the all important promotion decider sporting a Hitler-esque ‘tache (the matchday programme listing his hobbies as collecting lace and sniffing ambidextrous hunchbacks) is his mind on football at all? I firmly doubt it. He is employed as a school teacher full-time, with a sideline controlling sporting events important to people world-wide. Yet his mind is on this part time venture just once a week, in between coaching impressionable young men the appliance of Pythagoras.

If I were to be employed in a job in which I knew nothing of, or was just plain shit at I would surely be sacked. Crap managers (none spring immediately to mind) get the sack, crap referees, well they are simply dumped on Division Three.

Diabolical officials keep on coming, as David Laws and Brian Coddington have proved. They keep their part time jobs while clubs lose points, as last season’s Carlisle/Scarborough shenanigans have highlighted. Had it not have been for these strange hobby pursuing chaps City would be at least mid-table as I write this. Should Greavesie have walked at Exeter? No, we lost late on. Cheltenham scored the only goal of our clash with the Robins at Whaddon Road from a non-existent penalty and while the penalty awarded against Bracey at home to Macclesfield was warranted, he should not have received marching orders leaving young Matt ‘the Cat’ Baker to deputise.

Almost every game this season has been the victim of a ruinous referee, the worst display of officiating thus far came in the Chester home win. The most inconsistent, inept and confusing decisions, brought to a head when Greaves, on the right flank adjacent to the linesman tried to control a long ball to no avail, as it bounced out of play. Right in front of the ref and his apprentice, Greaves touched the ball five times (at least) before the ball went out of play, Chester throw right? No, actually the decision went our way, Hngh??? Okay, I didn’t fuss, but this added to all the constant flag waving and whistle tooting, highlighted the problem of refereeing. Nothing is done to solve this problem, indeed it is only made worse. Sepp Blatter’s schemes of officiating are scarring our beautiful game (remember the proposal for kick-ins to replace throw-ins?) and taking away a decent flaming game of footy. The backpass rule aside, FIFA has just made one blunder after another.

As for the androids themselves, we have more difficulties. I look upon refs with the same regard I have for Margaret Thatcher, but with so many ex-footballers earning a living outside of the game, is it not possible to offer an incentive for players to stay involved in the game as opposed to the maladjusted specimens we have to live with? After all, there are only so many ‘Football in the community’ vacancies and it must be as rewarding as being a licensee. Refs are amateurs in a professional world, this is the equivalent of signing Deano from Ferriby but allowing him to continue training at Church Road. It’s not on is it?

They work at school (or whatever) all week before taking charge of a match for which the two teams have spent all week preparing for. When this preparation is ruined by an outsider, it is nothing short of vile. If I ran on the pitch and made a great saving tackle I would be subject to the full wrath of the law, yet a referees interference can change the course of a game beyond recognition and they’ll get paid for the trouble.

What is the solution? Perhaps it’s the much vaunted idea of introducing pro refs, who train with their local clubs. With all the money in football, this should be possible. iI also believe that one individual should not wield full control of a contest like is the situation at present. How about the introduction of Video evidence and another official in the press box as three men can only see so much.Pro-refs (preferably ex-players) between the ages of 35 and 55 could be eligible to referee games, after which they become a fifth official, armed with knowledge and experience of playing the game, manning a video (which is used only in goalline and sending off incidents in order to maintain the speed of the game).

I think these ideas should be experimented with at least, in an attempt to save our game from card happy turf nazis. Besides the thought of Billy Whitehurst refereeing a game at Wembley is more entertaining than a slap headed jockstrap sniffer from Harrow.

Danny Lodge

“It starts in the very depths of your soul as a small, seed of burning energy, the hairs on the back of your neck and on your arms responding to the signals, and standing to attention. A split second later, it expands and grows and begins the journey through your body, energising and tingling every nerve and muscle as it passes by. Your face starts to twitch, your mouth goes dry, your eyes begin to glisten. It continues to grow and grow, filling every corner of your conscious self, testing and probing each part of your body. And then, just as each sinew reaches breaking point, each nerve ending is burning out, it explodes into the air in a cacophony of noise, laughter and elation. A pure release of emotion and excitement, like never before. It can’t get any better than this, can it?”

I assure you it can’t. It’s a moment that This is it, this is a goal, and not just any goal but a goal to end all goals, a goal that contains a special ingredient, a goal that only a minority will understand. A Hull City goal. Being a keen follower of football, I get excited about other goals too.

Watching Fulham take on Aston Villa in the fifth round of the cup can certainly raise the pulse, as lowly Fulham slam another one past the pretenders to the throne. Equally when England get into the ring with the world’s élite, I can jump around the room with the best of them, as Michael Owen glides around the centre half and covers himself in glory.

But for all of the importance of these goals, nothing can compare to seeing the black and amber clad warriors do their own little war dance, as they worship the god of the onion bag.

I also have to confess that feelings don’t necessarily start in the depths of the stomach, but often about ten yards from the edge of the opposition penalty area.

Obviously, this measurement is not critical, as it all depends on the action at the time: is the ball travelling towards the goal, is the City player in space, are they about to be tackled, is there a chance to cross the ball into the area.

Many things can act as the catalyst. Equally there are things that suppress such feelings: loss of ball control, a crunching tackle by the opposition, a poorly directed cross that sails pathetically behind the goal line.

It is true also that the trigger point can be as many as sixty or seventy yards away from the opposition goal. Such as when a City defender wins the ball from an opposing forward with a well timed tackle, and then immediately releases a City forward or midfielder, to run at the opposition with the ball. This can also be a trigger point, but obviously in this case, the energy delays moving from the stomach until something much more promising decides to happen. There are also the occasions when, just before the release point, the whole thing collapses in on itself. Then, all I end up with is a strangled gurgle as the keeper makes another brilliant save, or more often than not, a City player decides this is the day he doesn’t want to score and manages to miss the goal from point blank range.

But what a makes a City goal special? Many would argue that it is their rarity value, rather like antiques or rare stamps and coins. There are so few of them, that each one attracts a special value. It has also been suggested that when City are glaring through the trapdoor to the Conference, each goal has an extra special quality, as each one is a step closer to survival. I can agree with this, but in some ways the end result of the goal is relief rather than pure joy, and in my eyes, joy is the winner. My belief is that a City goal is extra special because it’s personal, and deep down, it really means something.

Every goal is another building block to success, every goal is another golden memory to be recalled at a later date. But more importantly, and the power of this should not be underestimated, every goal is another opportunity to stuff it up the nose of the clever dick at work, at school, or down the pub, who insists that City will never win because they’re crap (despite the fact that he or she has never set foot inside Boothferry Park). I also have to qualify this somewhat, by insisting that goal is only special if it goes someway to suggest that a win or a draw is possible. It’s almost impossible to grasp any crumb of comfort from a goal at the end of game when City are already five nil down, even if it is screamer.

It’s an odd thing really, when you think about it, that a small leather bag of air travelling a few yards, can release such feelings of energy and excitement. Yet it’s almost involuntary, I couldn’t sit there like a Trappist monk, if I tried. When it goes in, I just able to clone them and sell them in a bottle, and then they may be available on prescription, I’m sure that will give Viagra a run for it’s money. Until then, I’ll pay my money, take my place and wait for … the goal.

Kevin Sargeson