The Premier League – Tuesday 30th December 2008

Five minutes remained and still the deadlock was unbroken. After two severe hammerings at the hands of Sunderland and Manchester City, the time had come to be pragmatic and play safe. So, off came the adventurous Nick Barmby and on was slung Bryan Hughes.

Two minutes later, Aston Villa managed to force an own goal from the Tigers and the need for pragmatism had died. Craig Fagan was quickly urged on to the park. City forced set-pieces and hammered up long balls. Crikey, even Boaz Myhill went forward for the final corner.

And then …

Urgh, it’s hard to not dwell on the apparent injustice of a ref giving a penalty and then, er, not giving it after all … but the point is that he was right, ultimately, not to give it. That he went about it in such a cack-handed, provocative, weak way is not really the issue, not for the sake of the result anyway. He will be carpeted by his bosses for choosing to give a decision he clearly wasn’t able to make, but he will point to his willingness to take on advice from his team – and officials always harp on about the quartet of men with cards and whistles being a team – before changing his mind. That the correct decision was actually a corner (and he gave a goalkick) seems to have bypassed all the thinkers and apologists, and should also be added to the list of charges. “Yes Mr Bennett, we know it wasn’t a penalty, but you didn’t seem to know what it really was, did you?”

City lined up with a remarkably changed and reinvigorated side after the classless bit of death-by-football dished up at Manchester City. Out went Geovanni, Marlon King, Dean Marney, George Boateng and, least surprisingly of all, Dean Windass. The first two can feel unluckiest, though the Brazilian certainly has been less influential lately and probably just needed a lie down while someone waved a fan in his general direction. In came Richard Garcia, Daniel Cousin, Peter Halmosi, Nick Barmby and, with Bernard Mendy back in the midfield role where he causes more damage to others and less to us, Sam Ricketts. Garcia played centrally, while Villa’s adoption of two non-fullbacks at fullback clearly was behind Phil Brown’s plan of having natural widemen, playing wide, doing widey type things. Plus the most exciting sight in City colours right now is Bernard Mendy dementedly going at a defender with nobody – supporters, team-mates, defender, and especially Mendy himself – having a clue what he is going to end up doing.

Essentially, the game could be regarded as controversial at the beginning, controversial at the end, and intricate and intriguing in between. That it wasn’t a classic is obvious, but it was engaging. Villa possess a lot of pace and a progressive midfield, so City simply cut out the supply line and used the extra man in midfield to squeeze out Villa’s time on the ball. You could almost hear claret and blue pips squeaking, to borrow a political soundbite from the bad(der) old days.

The controversy at the beginning involved Barmby, light as a feather, somehow managing – according to Mr Bennett – to floor Brad Friedel, a mighty, powerful Yank goalkeeper who could do to Barmby what Spitting Image would have David Owen doing to david Steel. But, of course, staring with evil intentions at a goalkeeper is as wrong as all wrongnesses in the game, and Friedel got the free kick when Barmby challenged him to Cousin’s high header with enough offputting endeavour to see the ball trundle into the net. A scandalous, wimpish but not unexpected decision.

At the other end, Ashley Young does Paul McShane with ease but Michael Turner completes his 1,458th headed clearance of 2008, then Gareth Barry volleys a right-footer over the bar. It’s not a thriller from the Villa, this. They’re compact and patient, but they don’t like teams establishing their strengths and trying to nullify them. City are succeeding. Villa are annoyed and start doing things all green-booted Premier League teams do when they’re annpoyed and cold and unworthy of their rabble-rouding opponents – they start falling over.

Young is the worst culprit, while Gabriel Agbonlahor, starved of serious service all evening, also embarks on a few repertory coronaries. That these players are supremely gifted young Englishmen makes it all the more disappointing. It’s not a foreign trait any more. Brummies and Londoners are doing it. Thank goodness Dean Windass has never dived in his long career. Our city’s clean and wholesome reputation is secure. Yes.

Halmosi aims a weak header at Friedel from Mendy’s swerving cross, just after Ian Ashbee seemed to be fouled - without protest – as he shaped to meet Cousin’s fine centre. The alicebanded Hungarian then stretches agonisingly not far enough after Mendy gleefully makes Luke Young look what he is - a good right back out of his depth on the left - and zips a low, unsaveable cross right the way through the six yard box and out again.

Cousin hovers underneath a startlingly accurate Ashbee cross, only for tabloid tagged “ex-pub player” Curtis Davies to get a brave head to it first and concede the corner. Villa have further half-chances through Barry and James Milner, but Boaz Myhill remains cold and inactive. Half time is level and goalless, but more than hopeful.

The rip-off of Crossbar Challenge at half time needs to be re-thought. Ten grand is up for grabs to anyone who can hit the bar with a ball from the halfway line. Trouble is, only people incapable of kicking the ball out of the centre circle were recruited. I think the money is going to stay safe if this remains club selection policy for the contest. Bring back that mime artist who used to frighten kids in the Well.

Back to the action, or inaction, if we’re honest. the second half is a taut affair. City are better, but Villa seem to be an impeccable exercise in patience, waiting for the chance and knowing exactly when it will come. Still, while people chew the back of the seat in front of them as the night gets colder and the clock ticks further, it’s the Tigers who still most likely to earn the first goal.

Garcia, mostly ineffective but certainly useful, heads a free one wide from Barmby’s corner. Halmosi gets on to his largely sentimental right foot and scuffs a shot which Davies still chooses to block, despite the lack of power or direction making it less than perilous to Villa’s net. Chances, not being taken. This is nerveracking. It’s also thrillingly dramatic, without being dramatically thrilling. It’s a game which, if a winner is to emerge, will be through either a stunning piece of outwitting, or an error. Hang on to your woolly hats – haven’t you noticed how cold it is?

Still City press. They fancy it and Villa are giving them ample submissive reason to fancy it. Turner begins and ends a fine, idiosyncratic passing sequence involving Barmby, Mendy and Cousin, but the central defenders’s shot is skied and sliced. Cousin is then withdrawn for King, whose immediate impact on Davies prompts the former tavern protagonist (that’s the Independent’s version of “ex pub player”) to give away a corner in the most panic-ridden manner ever. Turner heads Halmosi’s kick back across goal and Davies gets ahead of King to clear slightly more icily.

Ashbee, with a crushing and yet reassuring sense of inevitability, hawks a shot high, high over the bar after King had laid the chance off. Barmby chucks himself at a Ricketts centre and doesn’t connect as meatily as he would desire, but still a defender feels the need to concede another corner.

Five minutes on and Hughes is introduced. City have slogged and strived, but no goal appears to be forthcoming. Hughes’ introduction, greeted jeeringly by the visiting fans as they recalled his Birmingham City antecedence, is indication that City are ready to shut up shop and accept a point.

Then Ashley Young gets away from Ricketts, for the first and last time, gets a low early ball in which Kamil Zayatte, erratic but talented, swings a leg at with Agbonlahor finally sniffing the chance he’s never had. The swing does Agbonlahor’s job for him as the ball flies apologetically past Myhill and send the away fans utterly potty with relief as much as joy.

Despondent, City battle back but then the decision, indecision and non-decision of the refereeing team put paid to a final hope, in the 93rd minute, of an equaliser. Gutting. Annoying. Galling. But, somehow, enlightening also. If City play like this, especially at home, on enough occasions for the rest of the season then the slump which people now fear – a la Reading last season – won’t happen. And three defeats in a row, two of which were of the crummiest kind, won’t and should never tarnish the greatest year of our lives. (MR)

The Premier League – Friday 26th December 2008

Wigan: a freakish game when a team scored five goals from four shots on target.

Chelsea: a smooth and assured performance from one of Europe’s best teams

Man U: a spirited defeat against the European and now World Champions

Bolton: an unfortunate reverse largely down to goalkeeping heroics

Sunderland: a level game settled by a fluke deflection and Mike Riley

Thus did all of our previous Premier League defeats provide some solace. Some cite ill-fortune, which sounds churlish as we did have a reasonable splash of good luck in the early weeks of the season. But it also explained some of our previous losses. Comfort always came crumb-sized or greater.

No such consolation can be taken from our first ever trip to the City of Manchester Stadium. And if it sounds profoundly ungrateful to appear cross at a time when City lie seventh in the Premier League in our first attempt at this level, so be it. This was poor, very poor, and let us not shy away from getting our hands dirty discussing it.

Shorn of the services of both Andy Dawson (injury) and Sam Ricketts (Mike Riley), Phil Brown elected to restore Paul McShane to the side at left-back, meaning Mendy slotted in at right-back. Dean Windass made his first ever Premier League start for City, as we lined up on a chilly afternoon in Greater Manchester thus: Myhill; Mendy, Turner, Zayatte, McShane; Ashbee (c), Boateng, Marney; Geovanni, Windass, King.

For the home side, £32m signing Robinho was fit again as Mark Hughes’ struggling charges lined up with Shaun Wright-Phillips, Vincent Kompany and their star man at the Circle Stephen Ireland in the side.

The match started with City kicking towards the far end of the ground from which the sold-out away watched the game, but closer to us a worrying portent came about when Mendy and Myhill involved themselves in a fearful miscommunication that ended when the former French international wandering across the edge of his area with the ball when the City keeper ought to have been allowed to claim it. Troubling.

City responded quite well though, and a neat interplay between King and Windass seeing the former blat a well-struck shot at Joe Hart – he coolly pushed the shot for a corner. From another attack, Boateng saw a shot deflect wide for a corner, which like our previous set-piece by the flag came to nothing.

It was an open start to the game, with the two flanks coming in for particular attention as Bernard Mendy showed a lack of positional sense that was quite extraordinary for one with caps for the French national side, while McShane was clearly struggling on the left. With Robinho and Wright-Phillips sensing blood and City struggling to stem the tide, it did not bode well. And our increasingly sense of foreboding was eventually justified.

Robinho collected the ball in space on the City right; swept it across to Ireland in space on the left; he transferred it to Caicedo in space in the middle who had an easy tap in.

Space, see? City were offering it with excessive of festive spirit, and the home side were eagerly tucking in to it. The home side nearly doubled their lead when Robinho neatly cut inside and sent a shot flashing towards Myhill’s goal – he palmed it to safety. The Tigers nearly fashioned an equaliser decidedly against the run of play when Michael Turner almost fastened onto a corner from the left, but the ball was played to safety.

The respite was temporary. Mark Hughes’ men scored again when Ireland was given space on the right with Caicedo was also in space in the middle – the former passed to the latter, who scored a goal of truly depressing simplicity.

It was becoming a rout. City squandered possession in midfield, a particularly unwise move with Ireland on hand to collect it. He set Robinho free in space, who cut past Turner with uncommon ease and had a straightforward chance to shoot. He made no mistake, and with half an hour gone the game was over.

Caicedo fluffed a great chance for a first half hat-trick when, in space, he headed straight at Myhill. The visibly furious Phil Brown then dragged off the hopelessly outgunned George Boateng in favour of Nathan Doyle – he trotted over to the right-back position, allowing the horribly exposed Bernard Mendy to push forward.

It was 0-4 minutes later. Wright-Phillips advanced in space on the City left, who flicked it inside to Robinho (in space, if you can possibly credit it) who diverted it past Myhill.

This provoked the first murmurings of discord in the away end, though much of the commotion was of those heading off for much-needed alcoholic sustenance. The home side were still in total control, and even the occasional burst of activity from Mendy and Geovanni failed to offer any realistic hope of a comeback.

The half-time whistle was finally blown by referee Marriner, and with it came one of the most surreal sights ever seen even at a City match – no mean feat given the rollercoaster nature of the past fifteen years. Phil Brown, now incandescent with rage, stalked over to the away end, beckoned his players over, sat them all down and delivered a firm bollocking.

The players sat in stunned and meek silence while Brown delivered his deeply unamused verdict, before dismissing them from the pitch and down the tunnel to continue his tirade in private.

An astonishing episode. We’ll touch back on it later, but for now, the second half. It was a non-event, really. Craig Fagan made a welcome appearance for the final forty-five in place of Dean Windass. His thoroughly rotten first-half display suggests it may be the final time we see Deano in black and amber.

We also tweaked the formation, the familiar option of Geovanni moving to an orthodox left-wing position as we changed to 4-4-2. For the Mancs, Jo and Onuoha replaced Richards and Caicedo. It was a quiet half, City playing for pride and achieving it, sort of. Chances were few and far between as the home side also settled for what they had. Cousin trotted on for Geovanni, whose ovation came from all four sides of the ground.

Mendy and Zayatte picked up bookings for rash challenges before City at least ensured that our fantastic record of scoring in every single away game this season when a Cousin shot fell to Craig Fagan, who smartly tucked the ball away.

Sadly the defensive ineptitude was not over for the day: the home side swept straight up to the other end with Robinho, whose clever drag-back found Ireland – wait for it – in space, and he got the goal his fantastic performance deserved.

And that was that, for the home fans at least. With the match entering injury time at least 15-20,000 of a 45,000 crowd had already left, a startling show of ingratitude. Manchester City supporters and their media friends would have us believe that they are among the most loyal and marvellous in the country – a kind of Mancunian Newcastle United. The swathe of empty blue seats as their team completed a superb victory will forever stand as a contradiction of this claim.

At the actual end of the game, Phil Brown against stomped over to the City fans and rather showily applauded us. The players remained some distance away, showing their appreciation from what they gauged was a safe distance. An unnecessary precaution, really. We’ve seen worse, known worse, and however shocking a defeat and performance this was, all was being steadily forgiven and placed into context during the torpid second half.

But the first half…oh dear. This was comfortably City’s worst display of our first crack at the top-flight. Ashbee had a stinker in midfield, Boateng looked several yards off the pace, McShane was ruthlessly exposed in an alien position, Mendy cannot defend, Windass looked a spent force, Geovanni was subdued, Marney was characteristically tireless but submerged by blue, while Turner and Zayatte looked like strangers.

King emerges with credit for an uncomplainingly and unstinting shift up front despite the unending series of fouls committed against him – one wonders if Mr Marriner was trialling a new FIFA directive of “any offence outlined in Law XII will be considered acceptable play if committed against players named Marlon King”. When it got the stage at which the home side were simply hacking him safe in the knowledge that no foul would be given, it grew simply comical – a dash of dark humour on a dark day.

Myhill too looked secure, and could not be blamed for the failings of those charged with shielding him. Fagan looked nippy, and will hopefully start against Aston Villa on Tuesday.

For we have arrived at an interesting crossroads in this season. We still sit in the top half, but less securely than for many weeks. We remain clear of the chasing pack – not quite snapping at our heels yet, but our stumble has brought them into sight. Of course, the pack frequently turns upon itself and slows it own progress, but they are gaining.

Phil Brown’s actions at the interval may, to the uninitiated, appear desperate and unwise. That is not an assessment this observer shares. We made the Premier League and prospered here courtesy of an adventurous manager willing to do the unusual, prepared to take risks. Would we have won at Arsenal with 4-5-1? Do four successive away wins at this level come with playing it safe? They don’t. Phil Brown took a gamble, one entirely consistent with his philosophy, and he deserves it to succeed.

The players, whose efforts thus far have been magnificent, must now respond. Our high standards have fallen throughout the team. If we react with a good performance and a point against Aston Villa on Tuesday, we’ll know the team remains stoutly with him. There are those outside of East Yorkshire who are smugly forecasting a rapid descent down the table and relegation for the most refreshing entrant into English football’s top table for many years. Let us hope that we’ll use the break before Tuesday to clear our hands and, yet again, prove our doubters and detractors wrong. Over to you, City. (AD)

Myhill 7; Mendy 5.5; Turner 6; Zayatte 5.5; McShane 5; Ashbee 5; Marney 5.5; Boateng 5; Geovanni 6; King 8; Windass 5; Doyle 6; Fagan 7; Cousin 6

The Premier League – Saturday 13th December 2008

Ooooh, get us. Winners at the Emirates, probably the greatest ever losers at Old Trafford, and now giving England’s most successful club one of its biggest frights within its hallowed reddened walls.

How dare we? Upstarts, urchins, hobbledehoys of the Premier League. That’s us, isn’t it? We’re supposed to turn up at these heritage sites of football, look committed, allow the opposition to steamroller us and be grateful for it, maybe picking up a souvenir mug and a round of applause from head-patting locals on the way out.

Bollocks.

We are Hull City, colossus of the Premier League. The real deal. Not just better than the other two teams who were promoted with us (one of whom is going back down through naivety, the other through imbecilic brutality) but a lot of the establishment outfits too. As for the Big Four, the bloated, spoilt gluttons of this business, we are matching all of them on their own patches. It’s absolutely terrific. Football’s very fabric, its foundation, its modern tradition, is being rocked to the core by us, a club that once got really excited when we found the money to afford Ryan Williams.

Heh.

City turned up at Anfield to play for a typically throaty Tiger Nation humanhood, plus the odd Scouser and shitloads of football tourists from the Wirral, north Wales, Cumbria and the bits of West Yorkshire which happily let Halifax Town die an appalling death last year. Football tourism is the pits. If you’re Chinese or Chingfordian, you have no place supporting Liverpool. As with our jolly to Manchester United, your reporter was startled, saddened and then (predominantly) amused greatly by the total lack of community involvement at these places. Though Liverpool handle their history with dignity – the understated list of honours in the matchday programme, the tasteful Hillsborough memorial – they aren’t very good at looking after the present or the future. These alleged fans are quiet as lambs, the owners squabble, the manager is Megson-esque in his groundless bawling and pointing, and the team relies on one fantastic local to get them through the game.

Steven Gerrard gets stick on Amber Nectar, and deserves it. But on watching him close up, one realises more starkly than ever how much he is Liverpool FC. The other players – allowing for the sensational Fernando Torres’ absence through injury – cower in his presence, desperate to give him the ball, hoping to be honoured by receiving it from him. Two obvious conclusions – firstly, if Gerrard ever gets a cruciate ligament injury or suchlike, Liverpool will be in mid-table. Secondly, if teams can prevent Gerrard from being too damaging, they have more than adequate opportunities to outwit the rest.

Gerrard was influential but not all-compassing as City shackled him reasonably well. If he did get away, the task was to reduce his targets. Yes he can pop them in from 30 yards if given the chance, but not if his route to goal is blocked. Force him wide, force him backwards, allow him to maintain possession if it means he is going the wrong way. This was executed largely to perfection. he did score twice, but he was off the ball in his appraoch on both occasions and both goals were fouls anyway.

Phil Brown, in a smart furry leather overcoat, made one change. He dropped Dean Marney to give Bernard Mendy a role on the right of midfield. Mendy, a brilliant footballer of wit and eccentricity, ran the first half of the first half. Andrea Dossena, who has both an Italian passport and a girl’s name and therefore should spend a day being tortured by a French footballing headcase, had his upper body shattered to bits by the dancing wideman over and over again. Mendy’s selection was key to City’s success, and his re-selection was key to City’s ultimate sense of mild dejection.

Liverpool made the early chances but City were settled. Michael Turner could have rendered Torres a weeping Spanish sissy given the chance, we know that, but instead he was restricted to presenting Liverpool fans further chance to label Dirk Kuyt as an exercise in profligacy and weakness. Kamil Zayatte won everything, headed everything, tackled everything that was there and quite a lot which wasn’t. And our captain, Ian Ashbee, as if he had to point out who was the best captain on the field, was just stupendous. He covered all the blades and was masterful in the tackle, unflinching in his leadership and, gratifyingly, accurate in his passing. This was Ashbee’s best performance for City, among a plethora of mesmerising displays in the last 12 months from our captain. On the biggest stage, Ashbee again steps up. Let’s see how he fares in the UEFA Cup next year.

So, the game settles. And City should have had a penalty in the first five minutes when Sam Ricketts and Nick Barmby combine nicely down the left. Barmby, against his old club for the second week in a row, turns a low effort into the box and the sliding Javier Mascherano blocks for a corner – with his hand. It’s Anfield, it’s early in the game and it’s the opposition who want the penalty, so naturally Alan Wiley doesn’t give it. Turner heads the consolatory corner over the bar.

City revert to defensive heroism – a tack that would be reassuringly present throughout the match – as both Yossi Benayoun and Albert Riera (football needs more people called Albert) have vicious snapshots which black and amber bodies fling themselves in the way of. A corner is forced, and Riera laughably balloons a shot wide from Gerrard’s far post delivery. Moments after Boaz Myhill’s clearance, Zayatte is in the action, stealing the ball from Kuyt with exuberance and class, prompting wild applause from the Tiger Nation.

The wild applause quickly became wild capering and eye-rubbing incredulity as City took the lead. Mendy wins a free kick after relocating Dossena’s pelvic area, Geovanni aims it a little long, but when Marlon King collects and re-delivers, there’s the ginger mane of Paul McShane climbing highest and aiming a looper over Jose Reina and just beneath the bar. An unexpected scorer but it matters not. City are winning at Liverpool. Another adventure has begun.

Having won the free kick, Mendy becomes the main outlet for City’s next ten minutes. Geovanni even bows down to the mercurial, flighty Frenchman, looking to release him as often as possible. Mendy’s treatment of Dossena was a sight to behold. Think Eddie Gray and David Webb, 1970. Think Chris Waddle and Paolo Maldini, 1989. Only fate would stop Mendy from having a 90-minute impact on his full back in the manner of these other wideman and their victims. But for ten immense, addictive minutes, he was capable of destroying any defender on earth.

Away he went again in the 21st minute, and again Dossena was reminded of how much pain can emanate from one’s arse muscles when they have been twisted and manipulated in unnatural directions with high frequency. Mendy wasn’t done either – having turned Dossena to paste, he then cracked in a cross of ferocity and accuracy which prompted Jamie Carragher, that laudable virtue of rearguard strength, to place the ball into his own net. More capering.

McShane picked up a booking and then, crucially, picked up an injury. His withdrawal for Marney forced Brown to revert Mendy to the right back slot, and our most potent, devastating weapon was nullified. Mendy still managed a couple of spontaneous runs when room was allowed – he neded up on the left wing after one such mazy dribble – but the decision not to pick Nathan Doyle, the only fit back-up defender on the books, as a sub was soon regretted. City’s sparkle had been dulled and they got cocky.

Liverpool had already begun the comeback. Kuyt breaks, his cross is helped on its way by Turner being shoved out of the way, and Gerrard taps in the chance. Should have been a City free kick, but it’s Liverpool at home, and it’s in front of the Kop, and it’s Gerrard, so it must be a goal.

The reshuffle comes shortly afterwards and City are barely out of their box for the rest of an enthralling, exhausting first half. Kuyt stabs a cross-shot from Gerrard just wide, but then makes amends with a smart lay-off under pressure - with Turner illegally decked again – to give the talisman his second and level things up. It’s 2-2 before half time and City have relinquished a two-goal lead. You’d expect Liverpool to win it now, wouldn’t you?

Heh.

They did try. Before half time, Barmby blocked magnificently from Benayoun, Riera flashed one across Myhill’s goal and Xabi Alonso – a brilliant, no-frills footballer who is the real star here – curled a peach of a shot inches beyond Myhill’s post, with the custodian of City’s leather flagging. It was all a bit dismaying and the noise from the Tiger Nation died – until Brown turned our way and did his waving routine to get it back up again. A manager who wants to start the singing? Awesome. A man of real calibre, our gaffer. Can you imagine Terry Dolan or Stan Ternent doing that?

Half time was a relief. The second half was assault. City were punched, kicked and sliced apart – proverbially, although Liverpool did commit actual fouls later in their most frustrated moments – and the Tigers kept them out. Heroism isn’t a hefty enough word to define what Messrs Ashbee, Turner and Zayatte in particular, but everyone generally, attained in the second half, but it will do for now.

So, prepare yourself for a barrage of words to describe the barrage of chances, re-iterating once more that none of them went in.

Gerrard takes a corner, Sami Hyypia wins it aerially and finds the outside of the post. Riera fizzes a right-footer from 18 yards which Myhill’s clenched fists arrow away. Alonso curls one inches wide again from Riera’s pull back. Gerrard cascades into the box but Turner blocks his shot and Ashbee clears. Kuyt miskicks over the bar from six yards. Kuyt then runs into Ashbee, who leaves the area upright with both the ball and every bit of Kuyt’s breath. Zayatte hurls his forehead at Riera’s cross as Gerrard shapes to volley. Hyypia wins another Gerrard corner but goes wide. Gerrard finds the roof of the net from distance. Substitute Nabil El Zhar hits a vigorous drive which Myhill fumbles, clutches, fumbles and then finally punches properly, as both Kuyt and Gerrard sniffed rebounds.

Four minutes of added time were signalled and, amazingly, joyously, City spent most of it on the attack. But for disappointing deliveries by King, Marney and especially sub Peter Halmosi (on for George Boateng), the chance to win it in front of the Kop was presenting itself. No matter. City celebrated a fabulous point and banked another day of memories to relay to the grandchildren from a peacock chair in 2047.

The Tigers have scored more away goals than every other Premier League club except Chelsea, and only that 4-3 sphincter-clencher at Manchester United represents a defeat on our travels. And our next away game is after Christmas! Stone the crows.

Disappointed to be two up at Anfield and not win? Maybe. It’s time we spoiled ourselves with such thoughts. Our manager and players have made sure we deserve to. (MR)

The Premier League – Saturday 6th December 2008

Ten minutes remain, and the Circle is subdued and fretful, the mood as dismayed as it’s been at any time this season. Middlesbrough lead 1-0, their fans are in full voice, and we gloomily reconcile ourselves to a seventh game without victory ahead of a trip to the League leaders next season.

Six minutes later and we remain fretful, this time over our prospects of holding onto a lead that was sudden, unexpected and quite thrilling. Now, however, the Circle was awash with noise and fervour, the mood was once that familiar but never boring species of triumph which with most of this startling campaign will be forever associated.

At the start of this season, a discussion was held among my regular travellers as to our prospects of winning from behind even once in the Premier League. Majority view held that once was about conceivable, but far from probable. Surely sides at this level would simply close us out once ahead? We’ve done it three times in the “2008” part of the season already, a fact that grows no less arresting for being frequently related.

Testament, then, to the quite extraordinary spirit of the team and its inspirational leader. We all fancy ourselves as sagely observers of the side, yet I freely concede I saw no way back yesterday despite the precedents for it. Or against Man C. Or Portsmouth twice. I should know better. Falling behind seems only a minor irritant to this remarkable side of ours, and even being desperately short of time in a fixture seems of little importance. Middlesbrough will have left another sold-out KC Stadium wondering quite what happened to them – if it’s any consolation to their impressive visiting support, their bewilderment has been experienced by others, and is to some extent shared by us.

Keeping the dream alive at a chilly Circle this week were: Myhill; McShane, Turner, Zayatte, Ricketts; Ashbee (c), Marney, Boateng; Geovanni, King, Barmby. George Boateng was afforded a generous hand by the Middlesbrough supporters populating one half of the North Stand before the game, who were then treated to the sight of their own team trooping over for a huddle right in front of them; sadly referee Mr Tanner allowed his plans for kick-off to be delayed, when blowing the whistle and allowing the waiting City side to march through an empty Middlesbrough half would have been easily the more entertaining option.

We’d have needed it too, because the opening minutes were worryingly one-sided in favour of the visitors. A brace of menacing corners were delivered and only half-dealt with, the second requiring a number of steely challenges to be inserted to block thumping Middlesbrough shots before Mr Tanner spotted a foul and gave City a much-needed respite.

Middlesbrough remained on top however, and when Downing cut in from the left he appeared to have a lot of goal to aim for as Myhill has slightly got his angles wrong – however, the sometime England winger hit his low shot too close to the City keeper, whose handling was assured.

Despite their early territorial advantage, Middlesbrough failed to fashion many clear chances and City gradually settled into the game. It wasn’t the most technically accomplished of affairs, but with Messrs Brown and Southgate having instructed their sides to attack at every opportunity, it was an appealingly open game.

Midway through the half City should have taken the lead when a sumptuous ball by Nick Barmby released Geovanni on the right. He darted forward and advanced on Ross Turnbull’s goal, but instead of shooting from an acute but certainly presentable angle, he squared the ball to King, who was being well marshalled by David Wheater and he cleared the ball to safety. It was the start of a strange afternoon for Geovanni, who made a rare poor decision in this instance, and followed it up six minutes when a superb ball in by King picked him out unmarked and onside eight yards from goal – his diving header flew some twenty yards wide.

Despite this, City always look dangerous when our Brazilian hero is involved, and as City began to enjoy the better of the game he wriggled free twenty yards from goal, rushed forward and drew a clumsy foul on the edge of the area. The stadium throbbed with the expectant hum of excitement that can only come when a former Brazil international is about to take a direct free-kick on the edge of the area – sadly his shot deflected for a corner that was irritatingly wasted.

It was becoming the Geovanni show, and a genuine privilege it was to watch. When the adventure is over, when City are no longer in the top flight, when the wheel of fortune transports us back to football’s flip-side, memories of watching Geovanni at the height of his powers will keep us all warm. His next contribution was to somehow fashion a shot from a zippy ball that arrived waist height twenty yards from goal and with Wheater chivvying away (legally) behind him; Geo’s glancing first-time shot flew through the air and for a thrilling second it looked as though it may loop over Turnbull and in, but sadly it dropped back to earth enough for the Middlesbrough keeper to safely catch.

Middlesbrough were struggling a little as Boateng and Marney’s relentless midfield work closed them down in the centre of the field, and it looked like our reward for this vigorous improvement since the opening minutes would arrive when Ricketts (again) danced free of his marker on the City left and delivered a sharp low cross into the area. It passed by a few bodies but was met by Geovanni’s head – astonishingly, he directed this header even further wide.

Middlesbrough rallied as the half drew to a close when an Aliadiere cross from the right fell to down; he slashed at the ball and sliced into the side-netting, although Myhill appeared to have the effort covered. That was the final action of the first forty-five – an entertaining game that didn’t look destined to end goalless.

Or so it seemed as we enjoyed our half-time beverages; the beginning of the second half was rather quiet, as though both managers had been just a little concerned at the frequent advancement of their enemy and wished to tighten things up a bit.

In fact, it became a stolid game, typified by Ian Ashbee’s sixth caution of the season for a deliberate foul on Alves after the City skipper lost possession on the halfway line and had little option but to cynically chop down the Boro player.

The stadium had quietened considerably, and with an hour gone Phil Brown could tolerate the drift no longer, withdrawing Barmby and Marney for Mendy and Cousin – Mendy slotting in on the right to give us the width we’d lacked throughout the game on that flank, Geovanni moving back a little as King and Cousin spearheaded the City attack in a 4-3-1-2 formation.

Geovanni was involved another flowing moving from deep, drawing two Middlesbrough players in before releasing King on the right hand side of the area. His first touch wasn’t the most secure, and it made a tough chance even harder as he eventually swiped the ball high and wide.

With twelve minutes remaining and anyone who’d backed fewed three goals already spending their winnings, the match detonated. Justin Hoyte scampered away down the right with a troubling lack of City intervention; he got into a position close to the by-line and squared it to Tuncay, who neatly backheeled the ball into an open goal. The City players protested about the goal being offside, but Tuncay looked level with Hoyte and the ball was square, and the appeal looked more desperate than genuine.

Disappointment washed over us all – this wasn’t a game we’d deserved to lose, but a critical lapse (and a good Middlesbrough move) looked to have done for us. Not so. Ninety seconds later we were level.

A cross from the City left was only partially cleared and the ball fell to Mendy, eighteen yards from goal on the right of the area. He speedily shifted the ball to his right and created a shooting chance – his low effort flew past Turnbull and struck the post, hit the prone keeper and dribbled over the line despite an attempt to clear it. The linesman immediately flagged for the goal and Mendy raced off to the subs’ bench to celebrate – meanwhile, the City fans rejoiced in delight at such a speedy and decisive riposte.

How swiftly the mood can alter in a game of football! Suddenly our tails were up, songs were being sung, our players were swarming forward and Middlesbrough looked fearful, having had their lead snatched away so swiftly.

City smelled blood, and three minutes after equalising we led, in highly controversial circumstances. Geovanni fastened onto a long ball and was allowed to run through on goal despite appearing clearly offside. David Wheater made a significant error in appealing for a decision instead of attending to Geovanni, and this allowed the City forward to get in front of him and enter the area, where he was felled by a covering challenge by Wheater.

Mr Tanner took a moment to decide before pointing at the spot and immediately showing Wheater a red card as the stadium bellowed in frenzied delight. Now, we need to be fair here. Football’s a game of noise, passion, colour, and we all howled for the decision and cheered its award, but this needn’t prevent it being analysed in a sober fashion the day after the event. It was not a penalty. Geovanni did not dive, but a foul did not appear to be committed. And he was undoubtedly offside. Middlesbrough were harshly dealt with, and can consider themselves unfortunate. They’re unlikely to hear our contention that we’d been on the other end of a bad penalty decision seven days ago with a particularly sympathetic ear.

But we WERE as unlucky last week as we were fortunate this week, and it was down to Marlon King to capitalise upon this corrective stroke of luck. The Circle was beset by a terrified hush, the vital nature of the kick apparent to all. His penalty was eerily reminiscent of Fuller’s last week, a weak shot only just beat the keeper, but beat him it did, and the celebrations were long and lusty on both terrace and field.

The ten Middlesbrough players were visibly unhappy with their lot, but City have closed games out impressively this season, and Mr Tanner had one more nice surprise for us by issuing only three extra minutes – they were safely negotiated.

A huge, huge win. No-one was panicking about six winless games, but in a league as viciously competitive as this, that can only go on so long. Imagine it – Middlesbrough making it seven, the likelihood of an eighth at Anfield, then if a new manager at Sunderland energised them make it nine, a hard trip to Man C, then Villa at home…

Winless runs can only go so long. We played well throughout it, of course. Old Trafford remains a treasured memory from the earlier portion of it, while Man C and Portsmouth provided both entertainment and valuable points. But only now that laid it to rest does the realisation of how it was gnawing away become apparent.

Life looks a lot rosier today. It was still pretty good before, of course. But this lifts us back to fifth, and we can treat Anfield as a shot to nothing before targeting Sunderland as the chance to put serious distance between us and them, still safe in the knowledge that we’ll enter the New Year with a minimum of 26 points and only five more wins away from being able to prepare for Premier League football remaining in Hull in 2009/10. And all thanks to a team that simply does not know when it is unbeaten. (AD)

The Premier League – Saturday 29th November 2008

Human nature presupposes that it’s impossible to feel sympathy for anyone associated with Stoke City, from their lamentable manager to their knuckledragging fans, taking in a fair few cumbersome players in the process (although we’ll let Leon Cort off). But, well, even the hardest of hearts can’t help but offer beats of condolence if they put up with that shit every week.

Stoke City are a one tactic team. This has only just been noticed by Premier League ivory tower inhabitants who didn’t notice that long balls and longer throws were responsible for 99% of their success in the Championship last season. And while Rory Delap’s throws are effective and technically impressive (though Dave Challinor remains the man, and even the late Ian Hutchinson’s reputation as a chucker shouldn’t be remotely tarnished), they do little for the moniker of the ‘beautiful game’ – indeed,, Stoke’s hefty reliance on one bloke being able to hurl howitzers boxwards from anywhere beyond the halfway line will do more than any other single tactical decision to render the game as ugly as Pulis himself.

Hull City were, for the good of footballkind, obliged to make sure that the most hateful club in our sport did not profit from any such monstrous play. This indeed was an out-and-out policy for the team that took to the fogbound field at the Britannia Stadium, with Boaz Myhill once deliberately giving away a corner from a pressured backpass as Stoke’s centre forwards crowded him out. Concession of a throw was still possible, but percentages played their part and initial incredulity from the Tiger Nation was soon replaced by sage nodding of appreciation. Especially as Stoke, lacking the set-piece capability of Liam Lawrence, couldn’t deliver a corner to save their lives.

Myhill, apparently beating off overtures from Inter Milan and Fenerbahce with a sharp stick, lined up behind an unchanged defence, but at last Phil Brown’s teeth penetrated the bullet and he opted for a more fluid 4-4-2 system, with Nick Barmby – surprisingly, but not unwelcomely – flitting around the centre of the park while Daniel Cousin took a seat on the unpadded bench. Resplendent in the silver kit, it was otherwise as you were, with Bernard Mendy a gratifying returnee to the list of subs and Dean Windass again set to steal headlines from the bench, but hardly in the way he did at Portsmouth a week ago. For the record then – Myhill; McShane, Turner, Zayatte, Ricketts; Marney, Boateng, Ashbee, Barmby; Geovanni, King. Stoke had Cort back in defence, bless him. Wouldn’t have him back now though, would you?

Stoke. Awful city, awful football club, awful people, awful. It must pain purists and football snobs (hi there) that names such as Stanley Matthews, Gordon Banks, Geoff Hurst and George Eastham have all played for this lot. Two of these icons have roads named after them in the perennially gridlocked nu-highway system around the stadium, and Banks is the club president. I expect Leicester aren’t happy with that, unless he is president there too. Thank goodness England’s finest custodian won the World Cup, as being associated with those two clubs is not, in modern terms, the proudest thing any player can brag about.

However, Stoke are aware that they have a dreadful reputation and, like us and our fair city, give no more than one hoot about it. Their football defies even industrial as a description, especially when Delap possesses such a freakish and handy weapon with those chuckers, some of which have bamboozled Arsenal and put twists in Everton’s hardy knickers. The early stages of the game are as featureless as it’s possible to be, with the flowing fog proving a nuisance but never, mercifully, endangering the game. Imagine getting all the way to this pit, only to be told you have to leave again and come back on some gruesome Tuesday night. No thank you.

City have a go at creating, but largely they were stifled by the hosts’ endearing way of booting in the air anyone not wearing red and white who is within aromatic distance of the ball, and the referee – Mr Keith Stroud of Hampshire, for all you indignant letter-writers – did nothing to curtail this unsubtle ploy. He was by some distance our worst referee of the season but there’s only so much official blaming you can do when, essentially, the reason the game went awry was because Stoke controlled it and the Tigers largely let them.

The inability to play a game and do it fair bit into City’s rearguard, and Sam Ricketts and Kamil Zayatte were especially culpable. Ricketts gave the ball away worryingly often while Zayatte’s positioning and kamikaze idea of booting the ball into the air rather than clear of peril did little to settle fluttering City hearts. Ricketts’ first error on 15 minutes led to a quick counter attack on the right. Michael Turner gets a laudable foot to the initial ball in, but Salif Diao is in position to follow up. However, he is Salif Diao and so the ball ends up laughably wide. Funny, but a warning too.

City conceded their first throw-in for Delap’s attention soon afterwards, but dealt with it exceptionally, which would become a happy motif of an otherwise depressing afternoon. Myhill then committed his act of calculated madness as he let Stoke waste a corner rather than risk Delap arrowing one of his best in – lest we forget that in last season’s 1-1 draw at the Britannia, a Delap throw went in via one of Cort’s eyebrows.

It took until the half hour for City to make something semi-recordable. Geovanni gets hacked down for what seems roughly the 1,594th time and finally Mr Stroud notices. Dean Marney, energetic but peripheral on his 100th appearance for the Tigers, swings over an arching free kick and Barmby gets a head to it which touches a defender and lands wide. The corner was not of note and we resumed our mumbling apathy and longing for our armchairs.

Ricketts then makes another hash, losing his head on his own byline as Stoke press but Ricardo Fuller, who ultimately will be more likely to keep Stoke up more than Delap will, stabs the opportunity beyond the post. A mild let-off for City, a severe admonishment for Ricketts. The home side are in the ascendancy – literally and figuratively – and time after time Delap is given his opportunity, now with handily-placed red towels available via the frozen ballboys to allow him extra grip. On one occasion, Cort messes up a half chance and a bunch of utter cretins among the Tiger Nation sing “City reject” at him. This is Leon Cort, you gobshites. Dean Windass, on the pretence of warming up, delays the taking of one further throw and gets an unplayful bollocking from Mr Stroud. Unperturbed (and presumably believing that he won’t get booked when he’s not actually playing), he does it again and gets a yellow card. Another quirky disciplinary event in the career of Deanworth Windass, esquire of this parish, to go with those three reds in one fell swoop he got while at Aberdeen.

We laughed, while also suspecting that Phil Brown wouldn’t see the funny side as he had essentially lost a sub for the rest of the game. Could Windass be risked in a game such as this when he’s already on a caution? Almost certainly not. The giggles and discussions and consultation of mental record books over such an odd incident is quickly replaced by capering and screaming of intensity and joy, as City take the lead out of nowhere.

A free kick, just inside the Stoke half. Marney steeples it goalwards, a pair of headers directs the ball to Marlon King who, despite barely getting a touch in the first half as a whole, shakes off any rustiness and aims a cracking right-footer beyond Tomas Sorensen and into the corner. A magical, unexpected, vital goal, and there’s barely time for Stoke to restart before half time is called.

The concourses at the Britannia Stadium are buzzing now – another Premier League win looks on the cards, but to do it against a side of such joyless, spiritless vacuity would make the mood even brighter on a visibly-challenged day. The singing continues below stairs prior to a second half of hope that City can increase their lead and at the very least rule out a third consecutive Premier League draw, and a third consecutive 1-1 stalemate for us on this shabby ground. A ground which, incidentally, seems to be now devoid of its electronic scoreboard. Nicked? Or surreptitiously robbed of its plug by a grumbling Arsene Wenger. We may never care.

As you were, then. Delap whooshes in another humdinger which Cort meets firmly and familiarly but Myhill, alert and agile, gets down rapidly to make a very good save. Then we return to the lifeless, humdrum stuff until Zayatte incurs further wrath from the snarling entities that are Ian Ashbee and the Tiger Nation when he trips someone daftly on the right edge of the area, close to the byline. His overworked colleagues deal with the chipped delivery with aplomb. Zayatte’s train wreck resumes two minutes later when he gets in Paul McShane’s way (by the way, what a good game he had again – that lad’s tackling is as strong as anyone’s without actually relieving a player of his kneecaps) but Fuller slices the resultant ball away from what was essentially an open goal. Phew.

City briefly rally, with a lovely bit of work between Barmby and Geovanni around the edge of the Stoke box giving King possession with his back to goal. He glides it back smartly for Marney to shoot low to Sorensen’s right, but there isn’t quite the power to make the keeper do more than the basics to get to it.

Brown withdraws the impressive but not match-fit Barmby shortly afterwards, opting for the potent widework of Peter Halmosi, as untapped a talent as anyone in the City picture right now. But before the Hungarian can make his first headband adjustment, tragedy and injustice strikes at the other end.

Fuller goes through, Myhill and Turner meet him together and there is a cheating sound as Fuller’s frame smacks the turf via a piece of diving that Greg Louganis would have expected straight sixes for. The referee, inevitably, points at the spot. Fuller himself takes the kick, low to Myhill’s left. City’s custodian gets so close to adding a third penalty save at this ground to the two he kept out three seasons ago under Peter Taylor. Fingertips, even a bit of palm, got to the ball but agonisingly not quite enough, and it was 1-1.

Ten minutes to go, and City up it a gear. Geovanni wriggles away from the byline to make room for a left-footer which flies too high. A late corner, a rare beast for the Tigers, offers further hope but Marney harks back to the opening dozen of his previous 99 appearances by hitting the ball annoyingly, frustratingly, despairingly too long. The closing stages were farcical, as Stoke really piled on the extremities with this classless long ball game of theirs, and Delap continued to towel dry the ball to hurl further throws at the six yard box. The humour seen in mimicry of this throwing fetish from the City fans is heightened further when Ricketts, brilliantly, asks for a towel from the ball boy to wipe it lengthily prior to his own long throw. Stoke fans in the vicinity, with a dense lack of appreciation of the lad’s age, give the poor kid some stick. Then McShane does likewise at the other side, even choosing to dry his hair and wipe his armpits for good measure prior to putting the ball back into play.

Brown has used Cousin and Richard Garcia as late subs as City try a little harder to win it. Cousin gets one chance with a penetrating run down the inside right ginnel but as he cuts in and strikes, Cort gets in the way while King yells admonishment at his fellow centre forward from a handy position square. That proves to be the final action, if you can call it that, of the game, if you can call it that.

Three consecutive draws at least represents an unbeaten record and ultimately one bad refereeing decision as all that prevented City from returning to the winning rostrum. Sixth place in the Premier League seems to be glued to our badge, and that’s a sequence nobody would wish to bemoan. Stoke are dreadful, and one ‘accidental’ stamp by a Mascherano-type enforcer on the elbows of Delap will ruin Pulis’ entire coaching philosophy. It would be the sweetest occurrence in the world if Stoke visit the KC in May knowing that a defeat would send them, their festering city and their towels far away from the Premier League. We’d be happy to oblige, and football would thank us. (MR)

Myhill 7; McShane 8; Turner 7; Zayatte 6; Ricketts 6; Ashbee 6.5; Marney 6.5; Boateng 7; Barmby 7.5; Geovanni 7.5; King 7.5

The Premier League – Saturday 22nd November 2008

I hate it when City concede a goal. Really, really hate it. The horrible moment when you can see the ball’s gone in, the awful realisation that the referee isn’t going to concoct a reason to disallow it, the cheering and joy of the other lot, the silent dismay of those around you – it’s really, truly vile.

I don’t know why I get so upset about it: it clearly doesn’t bother the players. Six days after rescuing a point at home to Manchester City, the Tigers recovered to equalise twice at Portsmouth, and bag another point to add to our healthy tally.

Phil Brown stuck with the same XI that was held by the world’s richest club last week, with the only change to the squad being the return of Dean Windass in place of the injured Caleb Folan, the Tigers lining up: Myhill; McShane, Turner, Zayatte, Dawson; Boateng, Ashbee (c), Marney; Geovanni, King, Cousin.

For Portsmouth, their new manager Tony Adams were without Jermaine Defoe, injured in England’s stirring midweek victory over Germany. The home side’s other England representatives, David James and Peter Crouch, also played, with Glenn Johnson also in the side.

Ian Ashbee called the toss and switched the sides around, with City kicking towards to the end that housed the away support in the first half. And we were almost behind immediately when a superb cross from the right by Johnson was met by Papa Bouba Diop – his header flew past Myhill’s outstretched paw and struck the bar; from the far end it looked in, but the watching linesman was unmoved and play continued.

An almighty let-off, but the direction of play was worryingly one-sided, with Peter Crouch a gangly nuisance and Portsmouth zestful play on the wings causing real trouble to City’s labouring 4-3-3 formation. Utaka had the next chance for the home side, but he headed wastefully over.

A goal was coming though, and it duly arrived after twenty minutes when Younes Kaboul fastened onto a shot that’d deflected towards the goal-line, and when he whipped in a speedy cross Crouch rose above the City defence without apparently leaving the floor to thud a header past Myhill.

A blow, but a deserved lead by Portsmouth. And as we have touched upon, it mattered not a jot to the Tigers. Indeed, it galvanised the side, and an equaliser should have arrived almost immediately when Cousin slid a ball to King in plenty of space twenty yards from goal – he had space to steady himself and shoot, but he hesitated and allowed a covering defender to insert a steely block on the ball.

Back came Portsmouth, and Diop flayed an effort dismally wide from inside the goal area with a two-goal lead his for the taking – and while City had rallied somewhat since falling behind, one suspects a heftier deficit may have proven insurmountable.

Moments before the break, with the game scrappy but even, Geovanni nearly added another entry to his own domination of the goal of the season competition when he smote a venomous thirty-five yarder at David James’ goal – the England keeper barely had time to react to the shot when it crashed into the corner of the goal-frame and bounced to safety.

That was it for the first half, and while the home side were good value for the lead, we reflected that a point was ours for the taking as we poured down the suffocating exits for the stadium.

Ah, Fratton Park. Many had anticipated this fixture more than most. In Portsmouth, we fancy that we see a little of ourselves – a proud, independent city with watery heritage, one of places routinely overlooked by effete media sorts. And so the city itself proved; sadly, its football was a disappointment.

The fabled Portsmouth atmosphere was wholly lacking, save for an insipid outbreak of noise shortly after each goal. Indeed, the club had erected for the biggest pair of morons a special area to the left of us which appeared to be the “band stand”, where the tedious self-publicist with the idiotic hat and bell rattled his tuneless instrument. He was totally ignored by everyone, and did nothing more than brainlessly interrupt the quietude of the home stands; beside him was a halfwit with a drum. A drum. Fuck’s sake.

More black marks to Portsmouth’s handling of away fans, too. Standing is not a crime. No statistical evidence exists that it is unsafe.  Football is exciting, and people like to stand when they’re making a noise. Treating away fans like hooligans is an unacceptable way to treat people who’ve paid £35 for entry, who expect a little more than tossers on a fluorescent-jacketed power trip exerting their “authority” and engage in a public sulk about having recently failed their traffic warden exams.

On with the football, methinks. It was a quiet, level opening to the second, with City looking more composed in possession and Portsmouth’s earlier dominance having being neutralised by Phil Brown once again implementing his favoured tactic of pulling Geovanni to the wide-left position in order to broaden the midfield. The home side neutralised, the Tigers began to creept forward, and with the half ten minutes old we equalised.

It was a goal that’ll knaw away at Tony Adams, too. A corner was won on the City left, swung in by Marney, flicked on by Zayatte at the near post and steered home by Turner stealing in at the far post. Breathtakingly simple; total Tiger mayhem erupted in the away end.

City nearly took the lead a minute later when Marlon King teed up a shooting chance for Dean Marney twenty yards from goal – his show was low and well struck, but David James isn’t the England keeper without reason and his diving save was superbly executed. It was engaging stuff now, the match a more open affair than the stolid first forty-five, with City slightly on top.

So, naturally, we conceded. But in some style – this column likes to think it reasonably fair minded towards those not fortunate enough to support the Tigers, so we tip our cap in the direction of Glenn Johnson. It was he who put the home side back in the lead with a stunning goal, bringing the ball under immediate control after a corner was partially cleared, then immediately volleying the ball over the helpless Myhill into the top corner. With his weaker left foot. A real “fuck”/“wow” moment.

It left the remainder of the game tantalisingly poised – City charging forward in pursuit of a second leveller, Portsmouth looking slightly edgy in the lead, unsure whether to stick or twist. Phil Brown made a double substitution, bringing off the unusually ineffective King for Dean Windass (we should note that a brief, manly handshake was exchanged by the pair), and Peter Halmosi for Boateng.

It was a frantic end to the game, with Geovanni sending two presentable shooting chances awry after Deano’s physical presence unnerved the Portsmouth defence into coughing up two soft free-kicks; meanwhile, Utaka should have scored with a clear shooting chance after being left unmarked following a dashing Pompey raid, but he blazed well over.

With two minutes left, Stelios forced a corner on the City right, and took the kick himself – Turner sent a header skywards, James came but shouldn’t, and in stormed Dean Windass to head home, via a very considerate deflection from Noe Paramot. He wheeled away in delight – the City fans 120 yards away gave the flimsy roof on the away end a stern examination.

Referee Attwell added five minutes and both sides lustily tore into each seeking a winner, but these hot-headed attempts ended in scrappy failure, and the game ended 2-2.

A fair result – the home side will curse sloppy defending from set pieces and their inability to fashion a two-goal lead. City will cite loose play on the flanks and Geovanni’s uncommonly quiet afternoon, and both sides can be content with a good point from a keenly contested game.

Astonishingly, we’re still sixth, although with a teeming mass of sides now within touching distances. We’re five without a win now, which is a cause for minor concern. Next week takes us to resurgent Stoke and a 90-minute aerial bombardment before Middlesbrough visit the Circle. Should we end the second of the games without a win in seven, that’ll be a worry – but right now, we lie comfortably in the top half of the table, playing excellent, combative football and looking every inch a proper Premier League side. Life is still very, very good. (AD)

Myhill 7; McShane 8; Ricketts 6.5; Turner 7.5; Zayatte 7; Ashbee 6; Marney 7.5; Boateng 7; Geovanni 6.5; King 6.5; Cousin 7.5; Windass 7; Halmosi 6.5

The Premier League – Sunday 16th November 2008

We’re back. Not that we really went away, of course, and a slew of mitigating circumstances jostled for supremacy to explain away our recent trio of defeats. And while a 2-2 draw at home doesn’t represent the most stunning afternoon of the season, those assembled in support of City left with a warm glow of satisfaction. This was yet another good day to follow the Tigers.

Phil Brown had opted to retain faith with his preferred 4-3-3 formation, despite some voices counselling him in favour of a switch to 4-4-2. A single change of personnel was forced upon the City boss, with Andy Dawson’s absence through injury prompting a recall for Sam Ricketts. It meant that on a chilly East Yorkshire afternoon the Tigers lined up: Myhill; McShane, Turner, Zayatte, Ricketts; Marney, Ashbee (c), Boateng; Geovanni, Cousin, King.

Stelios made his first appearance in a City squad as a substitute, and he received warm applause from a sold-out Circle – so too had Geovanni, feted by all four sides of the ground. Manchester City fans reportedly regret his departure; he was to show them just what they’re missing.

Mark Hughes has been under pressure lately, with the difficulties of managing the World’s Richest Club apparently affecting him. Rumours swirl about the extent of his involvement with the signing of Robinho for £32,500,000 – however, he showed faith in the Brazilian international by naming him as the Mancs’ captain in the absence of suspended skipper Richard Dunne.

Also missing was Gelson Fernandes, sent off in their stormy home defeat to Spurs last week. Elana and Jo started on the bench; former Chelsea defender Tal Ben Haim slotted in at centre-half.

Attacking the South Stand, the visitors had the first effort on goal, but Robinho swished an effort well wide from outside the area. It was an open and attractive start to the game with both teams enthusiastically committing men forward when in possession. City’s first chance of the game came in the tenth minute when Marney teed up Ian Ashbee twenty yards from goal, however the Tigers’ captain looked unusually tentative when faced with onrushing adversaries and he badly mis-kicked his shot.

Much of City’s best work was coming through the industrious Geovanni, displaying a wondrous first touch and pleasing propensity for advancing forward as soon as he received the ball. A piercing run from within his own half drew the leaden-footed Tal Ben Haim into an ugly foul that we must reluctantly report was slightly exaggerated by Geo – however, there was little disputing the caution that Phil Dowd gave to the Israeli defender.

He was pivotal in the game’s first goal a few minutes later, when City’s forwards applied pressure to the Blues’ defenders, provoking a horrible backpass from Ben Haim which fell well short of Joe Hart, allowing Daniel Cousin to nip in and poke the ball into the goal. The City fans rejoiced feverishly – it was a goal from nothing, and it was not necessarily a deserved lead, for the game had been even to date, but it was a critical breakthrough.

Hart had been injured while vainly challenging Cousin, and he required several minutes of treatment. The City fans used the time to create a fearsome din, ignoring the silent Mancunian sorts gathered in one half of the north stand to engage in some inter-stand banter. The break in play seemed to benefit us, denying the away side of the chance to quickly retaliate.

Play was held up for about four minutes, and the first time the ball went to the Man C keeper he immediately crumpled to the turf, slung the ball into touch and signalled his inability to continue. Kasper Schmeichel replaced him.

McShane was shown a yellow card for a troublingly industrial challenge on Garrido, a somewhat reckless and needless foul. This was a rare outbreak of ugliness in an enthralling match, however – both sides’ commitment to playing eminently watchable football had, if anything, increased since the goal. Chances were few, but flashes of craft, skill and thunderous work-rate shone from both teams.

Half-time loomed, and as we began to look forward to the interval beverages being in celebration of a hard-fought lead, disaster struck. Twice. First, a harmless ball forward by Robinho saw Myhill scamper from his goal-line to collect it – however, Zayatte coolly intervened, only to inexplicably miscontrol the ball straight into the path of Stephen Ireland, who calmly slid the ball into the open goal. The visiting Mancs celebrated with a species of delighted disbelief akin to our own twenty-five minutes earlier.

This galvanised the visitors, on and off the field. Previously subdued, the away fans broke into loud and impressive song, while their expensive side suddenly began to look more like one that was assembled at great cost. City were holding on for the break, but failed when a darting raid down our left saw the ball swept inside for Ireland, who controlled the ball instantly and sent a brilliant curling shot past the helpless Myhill. 1-0 had become 1-2 with sickening suddenness, and we stumbled, punch-drunk, into the interval.

I concede, I doubted there was a way back for City. We’d played well, but a moment of madness and a moment of excellence seemed to have taken the game firmly beyond us. And when the visitors strode positively into the second half, the omens looked bad. However, despite Manchester created little with it, and the first effort of the half was a flamboyant overhead kick by Geovanni which zipped a yard over.

City were getting into the game more and more, and on the hour we levelled. It was, predictably, Geovanni who was the source of the Tigers’ equaliser. A free-kick some twenty yards from goal created the inevitable hum of excitement, and his kick was curled towards the right of Schmeichel’s goal, only to take a deflection and bobble beyond him in the middle. A moment of luck, arguably merited for the way we’d fought back, and with thirty minutes left, the game was there for either side to win.

King and Geovanni both had further efforts, while the comically inept Darius Vassell should have done better with a low shot that was blocked. On we went, chances appearing sparsely but the football no less absorbing for this.

With fifteen minutes remaining, Phil Brown made the first of his two changes, withdrawing the tiring and limping Cousin in favour of Nick Barmby, while Jo came on for Benjani for Mark Hughes’ men.

On 82 minutes came one of the game’s most farcical episodes when City were awarded a free-kick twenty yards from goal, perfectly situated for Geovanni. His run-up was of Malcolm Marshall proportions, and he blasted the ball goalwards into Shaun Wright-Phillips…who was cautioned by Mr Dowd for being all of four yards away. Geovanni then took an even longer run-up, starting somewhere near Cottingham Road and flayed the ball into Ireland…who was also cautioned for encroaching. The exasperated Hughes threw his arms in disgust, although Mr Dowd was entirely correct in his application of a fairly easy-to-follow law.

Geovanni decided against blootering his final effort, instead attempting to curl it over the wall; this time it took a deflection and spun out for a corner, which was easily dealt with. With Boateng looking exhausted and increasing out of the game, he was withdrawn in favour of Peter Halmosi as both sides hunted a winner. Marney was booked for a foul on Robinho before the Tigers nearly lost the game in injury time when the ever-excellent Ireland sent Vassell into space, however Myhill stood up superbly and parried his shot. A relief, and the final action of a compelling game that saw rich applause awarded to the team at full-time.

A great game, and a very useful point. Manchester City may lie well behind us in the table, but one can be certain than when the transfer window opens, Middle Eastern petro-dollars will be sprayed across the planet as they aim for European football. That gap will narrow – but even if it does not, this was a point gained. We take from it more than that, however. We remain sixth, now on 21 points, and absolutely secure in the knowledge that we belong at this level. What more could we really want for? (AD)

The Premier League – Saturday 8th November 2008

Reality bites, and perceptions of the impending winter months adjust themselves accordingly. For City are still sixth, but the giddy days of mid-October are now memories to cherish. Not that we are unduly alarmed by events against Bolton at the Circle – rather, it may serve as a useful reminder of the hardships of life at this level.

On a blustery afternoon at yet another sold-out Circle, Phil Brown kept faith with the 4-3-3 formation that’s seen City storm up the table of late, making only one change in personnel – that being the widely expected restoration of Ian Ashbee to the side at the expense of Bryan Hughes, as the Tigers lined up: Myhill; McShane, Turner, Zayatte, Dawson; Marney, Ashbee (c), Boateng; Geovanni, Cousin, King. It meant no place in the team or squad for former Bolton star Stelios.

For Fulham, record signing Johan Elmander returned to the side but Kevin Nolan was absent through suspension. This being the day before Remembrance Sunday, a minute’s silence was requested – the club’s astoundingly crass suggestion of a minute’s applause having being rightly reversed in the days before the match. Unfortunately the visiting Lancastrians found this requirement a little tricky, and it was curtailed early by referee Alan Wiley as a small number of Bolton fans began singing during it, with the inevitable response by City fans. A regrettable episode.

The Tigers were attacking the South Stand, but it was a quiet start to the game – the most notable incident being the visiting supporters’ repeated attempts to ingratiate themselves with Phil Brown. Quite what Gary Megson made of this one can only guess, although one imagines our manager found it quite flattering. Even given football’s capacity for surprises, it’s hard to imagine Mr Brown taking a backward step at this stage of his career, but we salute the optimism of our guests.

On the pitch, it was stolid fare. Geovanni sent a twenty-five yard shot harmlessly into the keeper’s hands before Marlon King nearly gave City the lead when he improvised a stunning flick to divert a Geovanni cross over Jussi Jaskelainen’s head, but the ball bounced almost apologetically off the frame of the goal and away to safety. Bolton were approaching the game with an approach typical of Gary Megson – organised, scrappy, irksomely effective, and it was a poor game to watch and a unhappy quietude settled among both sets of fans.

Ian Ashbee caused some concern among the visitor’s defence with a header from a Dawson corner, and the City left-back was cautioned moments later when he chopped down Gardner as Bolton attempted to break.

On we plodded, City growing a little exasperated at their inability to break through. The tireless Cousin came close with a header from a Boateng cross, but it failed to test the Bolton keeper, clad in retina-scarring fluorescent green attire.

Geovanni had another shooting chance from distance when City were awarded a free-kick, but the wall was unflinching and it deflected the ball to safety. As we approached the break, Boaz Myhill brought uncomfortable memories of his blunder that gifted Chelsea a goal recently, haring from his goal area to challenge Gardner for a ball he could never reach – the ball was shifted away from the frantic City keeper and squared, but with no Wanderer in sight the ball was cleared. And that was that – a grim, dour half of football.

Things got worse at the start of the second half. A rare Bolton raid saw them force a corner which was half-cleared, but fell to Matt Taylor, unmarked fifteen yards from goal. He swung it at with his left foot, and mis-hit the ball towards goal. Myhill was badly unsighted and reacted late, as the ball squirted past him at the near post. The Bolton players and fans celebrated as much in surprise as delight, while Myhill bitterly cursed the defence that had let him down. It was a deeply unlovely goal to concede, and while Myhill’s reactions may have appeared faulty, he was exposed and unsighted.

Phil Brown reacted by withdrawing the blameless Cousin in favour of glove-sporting Frenchman Bernard Mendy as the Tigers shifted to a 4-4-2 formation, Marney moving out to the left, Mendy lining up on the right and King partnering Geovanni up front.

The remainder of the game was conducted mostly in Bolton’s half, as the away side unsurprisingly shut up shop, and it become Hull City versus Jussi Jaaskelainen. Dawson was the first to test the Finn, though his free-kick presented a very modest challenge. Geovanni tried next with what was City’s third great chance to score from a direct fee-kick – the Brazilian curled a shot over the wall, but the Bolton keeper dived to his right and made a great one-handed save, and sadly no follow-up was on hand to force an equaliser.

Dawson was replaced by Ricketts midway through the half, the City left-back looked a little uncomfortable as he trudged from the field. Moments later, City had their best chance of the game when a Marney free-kick on the right saw Geovanni unmarked in the area. His header was downward, powerful and unfortunately directed straight at Jaaskelainen, and although the rebound fell to Michael Turner, the visitors somehow blatted the ball to safety.

Back came City, with Folan having replaced the tiring Boateng as the game neared its conclusion – Geovanni against tested the keeper, he again repelled the shot. King tried next, and his shot took a slight deflection that drew a magnificent one-handed save from Jaaskelainen – Geovanni raced in after the rebound, but somehow the Bolton keeper managed to regain his bearings and fisted the ball to safety. And although four minutes of normal time remained, and four more were added by Mr Wiley, we knew it was not to be our day.

So, on the face of it, a poor defeat. Few teams will lose at home to Bolton this season, and few will finish below them in the table. City have now lost three games in a row, although we remain in the top six with twenty points, the headiest days are behind us and we must now prepare for the winter slog.

City did some things well, however. Chances were created, even if they were spurned by a combination of sloppy finishing and world-class goalkeeping. This was not a game that we deserved to lose, but a moment’s lack of care at a corner and an unusual lack of sharpness meant that we did. An another day, we may have drawn, or even won. We didn’t, and we move onto next Sunday’s visit by Manchester’s other club still in good heart, but with a slightly more realistic view of life in the Premier League. (AD)

The Premier League – Saturday 1st November 2008

It’s deep into stoppage time at Old Trafford, City are laying siege to Manchester United’s penalty area, the red clad daytrippers from Norway, Sri Lanka and, err, Norwich are whistling for the games end, and Cristiano Ronaldo, FIFPro World Player Of The Year, is just booting the ball as far as he can to ease the pressure caused by the tenacious Tigers, fighting to restore parity.

Once again, Hull City are challenging your perceptions of reality, like LSD or a Salvador Dali work, or that CGI-laden film where a bullet threatens the proposed adoption of deprived children in Lesotho, North Korea and Brigg, only to deviate from its straight line and bend around Angelina Jolie‘s head. On this occasion, reality didn’t break as it did at Arsenal, but it bent and wobbled a fair bit before taking a more familiar shape. It was wondrous nonetheless.

The fixture list computer was fairly kind to the Tigers early in the season, but now it cruelly pitted us against both Champions League finalists within the space of four days. Runners up Chelsea efficiently brushed us aside on Wednesday and here we faced the winners of the Moscow shoot out, a Manchester United side that are simultaneously champions of England and of Europe.

This was our first visit to Old Trafford in 21 years, and a ground that was once quite aesthetically pleasing has had more reconstructive work than Simon Weston and now resembles a giant fax machine. Outside the stadium, people from all corners of the globe posed for photo opportunities, this being football’s equivalent of Disneyland, Nike swooshed jerseys are the mouse’s ears, prawn sandwiches the ice cream sundaes. You could tell the locals from the tourists, they had embittered, snarled faces as opposed to the wide eyed, toothy grinned expressions on those here for one time only.

The PA chap mangled our players’ names, heralding: Myhill: Dawson, Turner, Zayatte, McShane; Marney, Boateng (Captain for the day in Ian Ashbee’s suspension enforced absence), Deiberson Geovanni (his Sunday name), Hughes; King and Cousin (4-4-2).

When announcing the substitutes Aussie Richard Garcia’s name was given the Spanish treatment (Gar-thee-a, eth-eth-eth) and Caleb Folan’s given name was pronounced ‘Kal-Eb’ as if he’s Superman’s half-brother or summat. No place on the bench for Deano after his week of flirtation with Leeds.

United kicked off playing towards the Stretford End, the Tiger Nation were corralled into the south-east corner of the ground and given very little leg room, “Stand up if you’re Hull City” was sang to temporarily relieve cramp as much as get behind the lads. The silent majority in the home stands were soon given reason to stand too as the redshirts took an early lead. Gary Neville’s direct pass from near the half way line was studded backwards to Berbatov by Ronaldo, the Bulgarians drilled ball into the box was neatly controlled by Ronaldo who, watched by Dawson and Boateng, span and hit a low, left footed drive beyond Myhill and in via the upright. Just three minutes in and we’ve conceded, bah!

Geovanni went for power rather than placement from a free kick some 25 yards out but it was perpetually rising and went into the stands. City have looked fearless in the early stages of this season but as against Chelsea in midweek we looked a bit paralysed with respect for the opposition. Rooney evaded Zayatte’s marking to fire a shot narrowly over. On the ball we looked panicked, the usual fluidity was absent and no one was prepared to find space for a pass, Geovanni played a long ball into touch and when Boateng looked for McShane to advance, he too passed out of bounds when the fox-follicled Irishman remained steadfast in defence. City fans greeting passing moves with ‘ole’s didn’t get to do so for long, a whiff of fear preceded each misplaced pass to an opponent. Turner went into the referee’s notepad for a mistimed lunge that got Nani’s ankles rather than the ball.

After twenty minutes of us passing three times between ourselves and then sending the fourth to a United man, we pulled the game level. McShane lofted the ball towards Marlon King who had his shirt tugged by Vidic, giving City a free kick. Andy Dawson whipped in a ball, oblique to the goal line and Daniel Cousin rose in front of Evra to flick the ball across goal and beyond Van der Sar’s dive and in. 1-1, and the Tiger Nation revelled in the incredulity.

The parity didn’t last long though, from a City attack in which Dawson sprayed the ball to Marlon King into the box, his flicked header for Geovanni was intercepted by Vidic, who hit Rooney with a long pass to the centre circle. A lay off to Berbatov had City backtracking and while we covered him, Nani and Ronaldo, it left space for Micheal Carrick who received a pass and advanced to the edge of the box where he squirted a shot between McShane’s legs and across Myhill for 2-1.

Each City passing move led to a United counter attack now, Myhill blocked a Ronaldo howitzer and had to be alert to foil the Portuguese again after Rooney played him through. Manchester United are a sublimely talented side but think they shouldn’t have to fashion that many chances on goal themselves and demand penalties. A lot. Moaning gargoyle Gary Neville reckoned he should have had one when he couldn’t get to a no-look-flick from Ronaldo (a move that will probably make FIFA 2010) and Dawson just stood in between Neville and the ball while Myhill picked it up.

Wayne Rooney sprinted beyond Zayatte on to Berbatov’s deft headed pass and finished but a static Bo in our goal told him it wouldn’t count. Offside. City were a bit disjointed at this point, the gap between Geovanni, the advance midfielder, and the two forwards was a yawning chasm and George Boateng, though defending spiritedly, was a little too far back and that invited runs at our defence.

Bryan Hughes, anonymous thus far, attempted the tamest volley in football history, oddly striking a Vidic clearance with the outside of his foot rather than the top and the ball arced gently into Van der Sar’s hands.

Wayne Rooney screamed for a penalty after Dawson recovered from having the ball knocked past him to poke the ball behind for a corner. Rooney may well be a great player, but he’s also a petulant, brooding twat with a sense of entitlement, and it’s unlikely that his manager actively discourages that attitude. No matter that it wasn’t a penalty when City are defending corners as they are today, Nani crossed into the box, and though four Tigers jumped up (and they just did that, they didn’t defend the cross, they just jumped up) Cristiano Ronaldo was allowed to head towards goal, and though Proper Bo got a hand to it, his touch just punched the ball against the roof of the net. 3-1. Bah. And that was the half.

The hosts dropped the pace of the game a bit after the restart, with a two goal lead they had little need for urgency, they did have ample opportunities to increase that lead though. A long Gary Neville throw down the line caught our rearguard napping and Rooney ran on to it, turning to fire a low cross into the box, Turner cut out the cross but couldn’t stop Berbatov who yoinked the free ball and rifled a shot that scraped the far post. Berbatov squared for Ronaldo, on a hat trick, who wastefully shot wide right, albeit not by much. The gelled narcissist then ambled from the half way line to the edge of the box unmolested and his threaded through ball for Berbatov was intercepted and cleared by Turner. We were grateful for such profligacy.

Zayatte was caught flat footed by Anderson’s pass as he alone tried to play Ronaldo offside, but he managed to get back to deflect the shot wide for a corner. Bryan Hughes outmuscled Rio Ferdinand in our box, but boneheadedly conceded a corner with the ball at his feet, a corner that we defended abysmally. Rooney fired the set piece into the area and Vidic creeped in from the back unmarked and sidefooted in United’s fourth goal. For all of the hosts attacking talent, it was frustrating to see us undone by set pieces when we’ve defended them pretty well up till this game of the campaign. It’s as if fear of the opponents has eroded our ability to do the even the simple things well.

With Manchester United 4-1 up and regularly creating chances to score more, it seemed like the final 30 minutes would be an exercise in damage limitation for the Tigers. However going three down signalled the start of an unlikely comeback from City. The key was the removal of Bryan Hughes (who had failed to make any impression in this game, aside from cheaply giving away a corner from which we conceded) and the entrance of Bernard Mendy.

The Frenchman trotted on wearing a long sleeved compression jersey under a short sleeved City shirt, sporting some acrylic black gloves with HCAFC inside an amber band across the dorsum. Few people could pull this look off, but Mendy has that air of cult hero about him, the crazy Superman dive at Blackburn, the disco dancing after the Arsenal and Tottenham wins, the doesn’t-appear-to-know-entirely-what-he’s-doing-when-running-with-the-ball style, and it just worked. I <3 Bernard Mendy, and after his half an hour cameo at Old Trafford, so did the entire Tiger Nation.

United made a change too, Nani was replaced by Carlos Tevez, who, wearing a thick headband that gave him crazy hair and with a face and neck covered in scars, looked like one of the cast of Thriller. Someone should have told him Halloween was yesterday. Anyway, back to City suddenly becoming awesome…

The electronic billboards around the ground briefly showed an advert for the ball being used in the game, the Total 90 Omni Hi-Vis, which translates as ’a yellow version of the ball used so far this season‘. The animated ad finishes with the words ’More goals please’ and as soon as this ad was done Bernard Mendy took it upon himself to honour the request. George Boateng pinged a ball towards Mendy at the right corner of the 18 yard box and as Evra star jumped at it in an attempt to head it back to Edwin Van der Sar, Mendy nipped in and then chipped the ball over the advancing Dutch ‘keeper and it dropped beneath the post and over the line, although Vidic’s attempted clearance made it hard to tell that City had scored from the other end of the ground. When it finally sunk in that it had been given and it was 4-2, the Tiger Nation was exultant, we had hope. “We’re gonna win 5-4” we sang cheekily.

Michael Turner brought down Carrick on the edge of the area, there wasn’t much contact, Turner just ran across him. Nervy times for Turner though who was already on a yellow card, thankfully the ref figured a telling off was enough, we were also thankful when Anderson, Predator dreadlocks and all, fired the free kick over. Ryan Giggs replaced Michael Carrick.

Dean Marney won the ball in the centre circle and fed Geovanni who sped towards goal, and with redshirts backing off he was invited to have a go, he did, but this long range effort was pretty much straight at Van der Sar. Cousin was being snapped at by Wayne Rooney and went down cheaply after a few of the other digs weren’t deemed fouls and Rooney went ballistic, slamming the ball against the ground and gesturing wildly in protest at the free kick, illustrating the increasing frustration United were feeling as City harassed their way back into the game.

Bo Myhill made a superb save to deny Rooney at the other end before what looked like the entire City outfield ran Berbatov out of bounds with the ball. City were building up a head of steam though they were plagued by the same passing deficiencies that proved costly in the first half. Gorgeous George and Zayatte got into a right mess and set Berbatov racing at goal, he laid off to Rooney in the box and somehow, McShane and Myhill combined to quell the danger.

And then, Mendy struck again. Giggs crossed in to the box but the ball was firmly headed away by Boateng to Marney who sent Mendy, still inside our half, down the left touchline. Racing goalward he took on a back peddling Rio Ferdinand and putting the ball past the England defender, forced Rio into wrestling and tripping him to the ground. Penalty! Incroyable!

I’ve never thought cucumbers sufficiently chilled enough to be used as an analogy for coolness, so I won’t… Geovanni stepped up to take the spot kick, and as cool as a penguins knackers, fired it in. Van der Sar correctly guessed it was going to his right, buy Geo’s shot was so well placed he had no chance of stopping it. Bloody hell. Sacre Bleu, etc. It’s 4-3, and it’s all getting as mindbending as Dali’s floppy clocks. (I said clocks!)

Eight minutes left then, and it’s City, against all the odds, against all claims of sanity, looking the more likely to score. Pity Alex Ferguson’s chewing gum at this point. A clash of heads between Gary Neville and Peter Halmosi (who’d come on for Marlon King) led to a drop ball that was contested just a little too fiercely by that angry cock Wayne Rooney who saw yellow for his over enthusiasm, hacking at both Boateng and Dawson. It’s good to see drop balls contested in an age of health and safety conscious meffery which usually sees them dropped to one player with no one around, but booting anything that moves isn’t on and he could have been booked twice for each hack, let alone for the stream of invective aimed at Mike Dean, but the ref chose to ignore the dissent.

Giggs forced a great save from Myhill with a curling shot and Berbatov hit the rebound just wide. Oblivious, City pressed on for an equaliser and in the ensuing melees, United were content to just clear their lines, Ronaldo eschewing technical trickery for an old fashioned hoof downfield. Though momentum was on our side, time was against us, and our late effort began a little too late. United held on, they got the points, we got the pride.

There are a whole host of things you could legitimately criticise about City’s performance, we were sloppy when defending corners, our short passing game was dreadful and created more chances for them than it did us, we looked a bit in awe of them in the first half and they could have had 6 or 7 goals, but stuff all that. All that stuff is fodder for the dickheads who will criticise City just for not winning every game they play, who never seem content unless they’re tearing strips of our club. Screw them, let’s hope their arteries harden. Who, unless it’s with a huge slice of irony, expects us to get anything from Chelsea and Manchester United?

City have just taken it to the champions of England and Europe and scored three goals at Old Trafford, when they call it the Theatre of Dreams those dreams aren’t meant to be ours, they’re those of half of Ireland, the there-to-be-seen-and-eat-vol-au-vents crowd and embittered hoi-polloi Mancs. When even cock kick craving BBC hoon Mark Lawrenson concedes we’re good enough to stay up based on a defeat it’s not the time to moan, it’s a time to revel in our new found, hard earned nationwide respect.

And maybe us winning at Manchester United would have been too much a loss of reality to take, the floppy clock that breaks the camels back. That could lead to full on psychosis, so maybe changing perceptions is enough for now. Next year however…

Les Motherby

Ratings:- Myhill 7; McShane 7; Turner 7; Zayatte 6.5; Dawson 8; Marney 6.5; Hughes 5; Boateng 7; Cousin 7.5; King 6.5; Geovanni 7.5; Mendy 8; Halmosi 6.5

The Premier League – Saturday 25th October 2008

As seven-eighths of the Hawthorns emptied and scurried home underneath slate Midlands skies, we loitered a little. That’s happened a few times this season, the sense of wanting to stay just a while longer, to thoroughly savour the latest triumph. We’ve been declaring every trip as the best we’ve ever been on for a while now, but what sticks in the mind from our West Brom glorying was a thunderous, fevered enquiry: “are you watching Lawrenson?”

The target was, of course, Mark Lawrenson – a leader member of the smug punditocracy on BBC Television whose hopelessly wrong-headed pre-season comments about the Tigers are unlikely to forgotten quickly. He wasn’t alone, of course. We were the New Derby, fated to endure a horrific nine months in the Premier League before returning from whence we came, and good bloody riddance.

But no. And to be fair to Mr Lawrenson and his ilk, his expectations for the season have been spectacularly wrong, but few of us can claim to have been wholly accurate. For as I write, the clocks have just gone back, winter’s coming yet still not here, and the Tigers are level on points at the top of the Premier League.

It’s been done with four straight wins, which have seen the same XI selected by Phil Brown. It’s been arranged in a 4-3-3 formation, which some consider to be a 4-3-1-2 – the “1” being Geovanni, floating in the “free role” that people often like to mentally assign to any creative player. It’s not inaccurate in this instance, although it’s not entirely right either. Geovanni is playing as an orthodox forward, mainly hovering on the left, and slightly withdrawn, and with a looser brief than his striking companions, but it doesn’t quite strike me as an entirely free role.

He is terrifying defences though, and there’s becoming something reassuring and familiar seeing the Tigers line up: Myhill; Ricketts, TurnerforEngland, Zayatte, Dawson; Ashbee (c), Marney, Boateng; King, Cousin, Geovanni. Also unchanged were Phil Brown’s seven substitutes – no place again for Deano.

For West Brom, whose own excellent start to the season had been (unfairly?) eclipsed in public attention by ours but whose reputation for attractive flowing football has been deservedly highlighted, they switched to a 4-4-2 line-up, with Ishael Miller accompanying Roman Bednar in attack. They had the better of the opening exchanges, chivvying away on the flanks, although the first shot of a blustery afternoon came from Geovanni – he picked up the ball twenty yards from goal and immediately fired it at goal, however Scott Carson saved easily.

West Brom had the next effort on goal, when a dangerous-looking free-kick about 22 yards from goal clipped the City wall and looped up safely for Myhill to collect the ball. The foul had come from a bad challenge by Andy Dawson, who injured himself making the tackle, and he limped back into the fray looking decidedly uncomfortable.

His reintroduction was almost a costly one, for when Boaz Myhill batted away a shot from distance by Valero, Dawson was unable to challenge Morrison for the rebound – with the City keeper grounded we were extremely fortunate that this follow-up effort hit the crossbar, and with bodies flying in the Tigers eventually survived the resulting goalmouth scramble.

Phil Brown swiftly withdrew the lame Dawson, bringing on Sam Ricketts in his place at left-back. West Brom were still on top though, and it needed a world-class tackle by Kamil Zayatte to foil Miller when the big striker looked set for a clear run on goal.

City’s only foray up front during this difficult period came when King collected the ball from Marney and shot from twenty yards on the right-hand side of the area, but his effort bobbled well wide.

Gradually, the match was becoming more even, evidenced by another nice move being fashioned by City which resulted in a tame attempt from Geovanni being easily held by Carson, although a moment of alarm came when a corner saw Ryan Donk head straight at Myhill from close range, when directing the ball a foot either side would have seriously test the Tigers’ goalkeeper.

Zayatte was a major influence through the game, and he had a spell of telling involvement when Miller was cautioned for a bad tackle on him, and moments later he ought to have done better when meeting a corner with his head, but the ball bounced two yards wide.

Back came the home side, and Valero fed Miller on the right the latter struck a shot which was slightly mishit but which still required a superb save by Myhill to flick the ball wide.

Ricketts entered Mr Probert’s book for a high tackle on Miller which drew blood and saw the welcome arrival of a comedy bandage being applied after treatment had been administered. The match was drifting slightly as half-time arrived, although when Bednar stole in ahead of his marker from a corner on the West Brom right he was unlucky to see his shot fly a foot over – that Myhill would have been able to prevent the ball flying in had it gone a shade lower was doubtful.

And so we arrived half-time, pleased with a decent showing to date. West Brom is a pleasing place at which to watch football, and despite the tiresome presence of a drummer spoiling things, there’s usually a decent atmosphere. We have the right-hand half of a large individual stand behind one goal, separated from the home fans by a beefy line of stewards, and it’s an arrangement that works well.

Underneath the stand, those needing a fag are accommodated with a open-air pen in which meat of dubious origin is hawked at three quid a time – a “burger”, they optimistically called it. I have my doubts.

Still, if we were content at the break, we were to be transported to the oft-visited heights of delirium early in the second half. Turner charged down a shot from Miller, and City swept upfield with breathtaking pace. The ball eventually reached King on the left, he squirmed into space close the goal-line and pulled it back to Geovanni. His shot took a nasty deflection and it took a superb one-handed save by the wrong-footed Carson to palm it wide for a corner.

Not that we were finished yet – from this corner on the right, Marney swung the ball in, the presumably sore Miller bottled his header and Zayatte cracked a beautiful volley past Carson. And yet again, the City portion of an away ground screamed in mad delight, and the season lurched further into bewildering insanity.

Moments later, with the City fans crowing about elevated league positions, Ian Ashbee picked up a costly caution that will see him suspended in the very near future. West Brom were unnerved but still positive in the approach, and Donk came close with a header from a corner that Ricketts watched onto the post he was guarding, although a corner was erroneously awarded and comfortable dealt with.

Myhill had had a fine afternoon to date, and when he produced a flying one-handed save from a 25 yard drive by Morrison, one sensed that another superb away win was to be ours – it looked great on the first viewing, and the replay on the stadium’s big screen confirmed what a truly outstanding piece of goalkeeping it was. And important too, for within the next five minutes the match was over.

Firstly, Geovanni flicked onto King, who expertly shattered West Brom’s offside trap, advanced on the left, and hooked the ball over the man covering in defence, where it fell perfectly for the returning Geovanni to steer a beautifully executed diving header past Carson. The away end went mental. Again. And this is a goal of rare skill and vision that we’ll never tire of seeing.

Myhill pulled off another terrific save from a long-range shot by Koren, and almost immediately we made it 3-0. A long clearance was met with a shocking header that King instantly fastened on to. He delightfully took hold of the ball by nudging it with the outside of his right foot before calmly steering it past the exposed Carson and triumphantly rushing over the single writhing mass of humanity that was previously 3,000 individual City fans.

Another great goal, made by an immaculate first touch and converted ruthlessly. And that was game over. Some of the less hardy home supporters scuttled away ’neath a torrent of Tiger scorn, while we gleefully cavorted and partied away the remaining twenty minutes.

Enquires were made as to whether Mr Lawrenson was observing our fourth away win in a row, and events on the field assumed a surreally peripheral air as the City fans, mostly stood, all singing, revelled in moments we’ll remember forever.

Ian Ashbee was withdrawn as Phil Brown decided to blood Bryan Hughes into the central midfield role he may assume in the impending absence of our skipper, while Geovanni sauntered off to a hero’s ovation for Richard Garcia.

City should have scored a fourth when a Marney free-kick found Turner unmarked at the far post – however, he went to head a low ball when perhaps a volley may have been wiser, and the ball went straight at Carson. Meanwhile, Morrison struck the outside of Myhill’s post with a twenty-yarder that curled just away from the goal.

Mowbray’s triple substitution in the 80^th minute was much too late to change the pattern of the game, which featured several instances of us crying “ole!” as ostentatious passing moves were served up for us – deliberately, one suspects, as our men played to the gallery. Mr Brown was asked for a wave – he did, we cheered. There was a classy chant of “one Brian Horton” too, and one hopes a man whose own football life has spent so much time bound up with City appreciated it as much as he is appreciated.

And with the home ends half-empty, Mr Probert ended proceedings after a brief period of injury time, and three more points were ours.

Twenty, we now have. No Premier League side has more, although the match between Chelsea and Liverpool will see at least one of our title rivals (heh) move clear. No matter; we’ll host Chelsea on Wednesday night at what is certain to be an engorged and intense Circle in third place.

When will it end? This is the question on so many lips now. Arsenal may reasonably have been viewed as the absolute pinnacle of our season, and although it’s unlikely we’ll gain such an incredible single victory again in 2008/9, that we’ve continued winning since then is deeply satisfying.

Four wins in a row. Four wins on the road out of five. Just a single defeat. Third in the table. Twenty points already gained, with twenty more certain to keep us up. Already thirteen clear of the relegation places. The statistics become no less remarkable for being regularly related.

More remarkable are the individual performances we’re seeing. Boaz Myhill looked an international goalkeeper yesterday, and not just for Wales. McShane was targeted by West Brom, who frequently doubled up on his flank, but he coped bravely. Ricketts put in a solid effort in an unusual position at club level. Michael Turner should be in the next England squad; Kamil Zayatte looks like he could star in any international squad.

Ian Ashbee is continuing to write one of the most extraordinary personal stories in the history of English football, Dean Marney’s fearsome workrate keeps the midfield permanently chugging away, George Boateng is the experience and intelligent glue welding the whole side together.

Marlon King is a strong, fast, menacing presence leading the line, Cousin likewise has fine stamina and pace, while Geovanni is reason enough to have kids, just so you can tell them you saw him play. They’re great, all of them, absolutely great.

And so we march on, and we prepare to face Chelsea next – and then a visit to Old Trafford that is no longer the chance to be a tourist, it’s the chance to claim the biggest scalp of them all. For we had one final chant at full-time: “who the fuck are Man United? When the Hull go marching on on on”. And you know what? We meant it. (AD)

Myhill 8.5; McShane 7; Turner 8; Zayatte 9; Dawson n/a; Marney 7.5; Ashbee 8; Boateng 7.5; Cousin 7.5; King 8; Geovanni 8; Ricketts 7; Hughes 7