The Championship Play-off Final (at Wembley) – Saturday 24th May 2008

How curious it is that as we celebrate our finest hour, thoughts turn to days gone by. Martin Fish and his regular trips to the High Court; Terry Dolan’s gutting of our squad and our morale; the relegations of the 90s; David Lloyd’s petulant idiocy; the wickedness of the Sheffield Stealers; the Great Escape; being locked out of Boothferry Park; the Bradford riot; the heart-breaking and seemingly irreversible decline of our club.

And not just the big events either. It was the small miseries too. The numbing defeats at places like Macclesfield, Lincoln, Rushden, Mansfield, Cheltenham – poor teams beating our poorer team, and seasons passing in grim frustration as the years ticked by.

For it began to appear we were unalterably cursed. Recalling those events is still not difficult; summoning up the intense and bitter despair of yesteryear will never be hard when the feelings were so powerful. Nothing seemed able to halt our spiralling woes, and even those who stayed so loyal must have started to wonder if we would ever see the sun shine on us again.

That loyalty, that steely determination to keep the club going somehow, has been rewarded in the most stunning way. Of course we could never have envisaged this – but footballing fortunes can swing in the most alarming fashion, and after 104 years, they have finally taken an almighty lurch in our favour.

For Hull City have been to Wembley and accomplished promotion to the top flight for the first time, in the same unforgettable afternoon. In front of 86,703 at England’s national stadium, by far the greatest gathering for a City match in history and half of whom were assembled sporting our favours in the largest mobilisation of the Tiger Nation of all-time, we can say with pride – we are Premier League.

Rumours of the team selection reached us the night before the match, with the unsurprising decision by Phil Brown to retain the same XI that swept past Watford in the semi-finals, meaning that on a hot afternoon in the capital the Tiger fielded: Myhill; Ricketts, TurnerBrown, Dawson; Garcia, Ashbee (c), Hughes, Barmby; Windass, Campbell.

On the bench for City were Duke, Doyle, Marney, Fagan and Folan – meanwhile, Bristol were lacking beanpole defender Jamie McCombe, missing through illness. Fontaine replaced him.

Before kick-off we had yet another illustration of how this was no ordinary afternoon as the vast crowd raised itself for a lusty rendition of God Save The Queen – and did one discern the first visible signs of emotion amid a highly charged City crowd as the national anthem was played at the national stadium and we braced ourselves for a crack at the top flight? Or perhaps it was the glare of sun making eyes look a little more moist then usual…

City kicked off attacking the Bristol end, as full as our own, and it was they who looked the better side in the early stages of the match. Garcia flashed a volley from outside the area which went miles over in the first minute – then Dele Adebola, as is his wont, stampeded through a worryingly flimsy challenge to fashion the chance to shoot – however, Brown recovered his station just in time to provide ample distraction so that the shot trickled through to Myhill.

City were looking uncommonly anxious though, and Nick Carle had the next chance when he wriggled free of a challenge on the edge of the area, although Brown slammed into him just at the point of shooting, again doing just enough to hassle Carle into dragging his shot narrowly wide.

City had their first chance of the game with twenty minutes gone, our first corner of the afternoon being floated in by Hughes, where Turner thudded a header a yard wide – from this observers’ vantage point in the right-hand corner of the City end, it had looked in. Telling, in conceding this corner, the excellent Bradley Orr had taken a meaty whack to the side of the head which would become more significant later in the game.

The Tigers were coming into the game much more now, with Hughes’ neat passing beginning to see more promising ground-based assaults on the Bristol back line. Ricketts was also managing to come forward, and his foray on the left in the 25^th minute saw a tasty cross headed narrowly over by Richard Garcia.

Equality of possession and territory now accomplished, the match drifted through a watchable but chance-free spell. Pre-match giddiness about Wembley now spent, the football was now the sole focus for both sets of fans, from whom the noise was unrelenting. After the earlier aerial bombardment, both sides were looking to play more open and expansive football – one trusts that any neutrals present will have found it engrossing fare.

Then, just as we seemed to be trundling along to half-time, came a moment we will never forget.

Nick Barmby sent Fraizer Campbell haring into the space on the left – he skipped past a couple of challenges, advanced to the goal-line just inside the area and, with a brace of Bristol sorts closing in, he looked up, chipped the ball back to Dean Windass, thundering in at the edge of the area…and he smote a searing volley from eighteen yards that flew past Basso into the net, and sparked riotous scenes of jubilation at the other end of the stadium.

And right we were to explode with joy – City led, led at Wembley, led in the game to settle the Premiership’s final member next season, and led with a fabulous goal from our home town hero, and the forty-thousand or so City fans generated an ear-splitting cacophony to herald this momentous event.

With the celebrations still in full flow, Bradley Orr fell to the turf in some distress – the City players were among those demonstrating some concern, and after being administered oxygen he was stretchered from the pitch after a lengthy delay, to be replaced by Lee Johnson.

It required six minutes of injury time to be seen through; City cruised through these comfortably enough, and referee Alan Wiley signalled the end of the first half, to raucous applause from the City fans.

The half-time pint was an unusual experience. Luxuriating in Wembley’s vast concourses, a rather disbelieving “fucking hell” seemed the most popular refrain. Not just the score either, but the entire experience to date. Whatever the arguments about Wembley’s location, its cost, its lengthy period out of service, never let it be said that it is not a truly amazing stadium. The sightlines are fabulous, the noise rolls around in a quite inspiring way, the giant screens are not the distraction they are at other grounds – even secondary considerations such as the concourses, the staff, the stewards (who permitted standing much more than you often find), the tannoy, all is fantastic. To see close to forty thousand people from Hull creating a sea of amber and a wall of sound in such a magnificent venue was lump-in-throat stuff.

And now were a half of football away from the Premier League. 104 years of hope distilled into 45 minutes. We re-took our seats, and braced ourselves for the long three-quarters-of-an-hour of our lives.

Bristol didn’t formerly lead the division for no reason, and they again started the half the better of the two sides, although with quite imperious Turner and the resolute Brown marshalling City’s rearguard action, it wasn’t until Mr Wiley generously awarded them a dangerous free-kick six minutes into the half that they had a chance – Noble fired it straight at Myhill.

This was proving to be a useful weapon for Bristol, and they were awarded another free-kick minutes later, this time taken by white-booted fop and one-time City wannabe Michael McIndoe. This was deflected by the chest of Wayne Brown, though a few red types rather ambitiously requested a penalty instead of a corner. This still saw a threat to goal when the otherwise quiet Trundle headed the ball just wide after dangerous delivery.

City had been struggling to string anything together at the other end, but as in the first half, we gradually came into the match as players on both sides began tiring in the merciless heat. Campbell had a chance after going on a mazy run, but his shot was scuffed and it bobbled into the hands of Basso.

Both teams made changes as the half wore on – Sproule replaced Noble fo Gary Johnson’s men, while Phil Brown withdrew first Nick Barmby for Craig Fagan, then with twenty minutes left, Deano left to a deafening ovation in favour of Caleb Folan.

Yet another dangerous free-kick was served up to Bristol which the manager’s son Lee hit straight at the wall, but with their need becoming more urgent and our priorities switching from looking to score to looking not to concede, the greater part of the action once more began taking place at the far end of the pitch.

Trundle was next up to try his luck after skilfully cutting inside from the left – unfortunately for him, this necessitated shooting with his right foot, which he is notoriously incapable of doing and Myhill cheerfully scooping up his weak effort. He was tested a few minutes later after a long range shot by McIndoe, but this was again a comfortable save for Wales’ number one.

Fagan, a lively and disruptive presence on the City left, drew a caution for Ivan Sproule after beating him to ball on the left – despite failing to convince to date in his spell at The Circle, his wingplay yesterday was ideally suited to the conditions. Fast and full of running, the wearying legs of the Bristol backline must have hated him. He could even have made the game safe after being teed up by Garcia, but his shot went straight at the keeper.

And now there are ten minutes remaining.

The half has quite surprisingly sped by, but time is slowing as we get closer. Nerves are beyond frayed, they are shattered, in pieces. Many more are standing now, a few have partially disrobed, and we are hoarsely bellowing desperate messages of encouragement. Still Bristol come; still we stand firm, but we are creaking just a little.

Folan requires treatment for an injury – this goes on for some time, and he recovers enough to continue but fails to make any further impact. And now Bristol almost live in our penalty area, and when a dragback to Trundle saw the tubby scouser smack a shot at goal, it seems destined to destroy our dreams, until suddenly Michael Turner leaps in with an almighty intervention, flinging his body at the ball and diverting it over. Interesting, Wayne Brown races over and embraces his defensive partners – he too recognises a truly colossal moment, and we sense that the day may be ours.

Now there are five minutes left.

It is agony. The perversity of success is all around us – we lead at Wembley, and forty thousand Yorkshire folk all look distinctly unwell as we manfully repel Bristol’s attempt to snatch it from us. Sam Ricketts is the next to effect a stunning block, beating Byfield to the ball after a low cross from the right evaded Brown and Myhill.

The ninety are up; Mr Wiley has decided four more will be added. About right.

It’s horrible now, absolutely gut-wrenching stuff. And yet we nearly settle the issue when Bryan Hughes flashes a free-kick narrowly over the cross bar. Bristol respond by tearing up to the other end, and Byfield blazes a great chance over.

Campbell sees yellow for an impetuous lunge and is lucky not to see another one for rather ill-advisedly bellowing his dissent at the referee; Phil Brown then takes him off in favour Dean Marney.

Two minutes.

Byfield misses again.

City fans are embracing already; not in anticipation, but for mutual support. We beg for full-time.

A minute.

Marney chases a long ball up front and inserts a crashing tackle that pins Bristol back in their own half. We cheer loudly.

A cross from the right after neat build-up play hangs horribly in the air – it is in Myhill’s zone but will he come? He does, he rises, hearts stop, but the ball sticks and Wayne Brown leaps on him and we howl with relief.

The four minutes are up. 

And so are City.

The instant Mr Wiley ends the match, Dean Windass races from the bench and sprints over to us, only to collapse to the turf and sob. He’s not alone – in the stands tears are flowing from young and old, male and female, hardcore and gloryhunter.

Wherever one looks, flags, scarfs, shirts and being waved, songs are pealing out, a huge mass of amber humanity rejoices and embraces in the greatest moment in our history.

Deano is still on the ground weeping – last season he kept us up in the Welsh capital, this time in the English capital he has taken his own club to the top flight and the emotion continues to overwhelm him.

More festivities are due – and here it comes, the proudest moment in our history as Captain Fantastic, Ian Ashbee, our totemic leader, mounts the Wembley steps along with his team-mates, into the Royal Box…and we see him lift aloft the trophy, actual silverware, at Wembley Stadium, and our cheers must be audible back in Hull.

For Hull City are in the Premier League, and no amount of repetition of that fact will ever grow tiresome over the summer. We can leave the forensic examinations of our chances of staying up for another day. Let’s treasure this one. Let’s savour the memories of our triumph.

City versus Manchester United. Liverpool v City. Trips to Goodison Park, the Emirates, White Hart Lane. Tick grounds that even the hardiest ground-hopper will never have managed with the Tigers. National exposure for our club and our city. Global audiences for our games. Riches beyond measure for the long-term building of a major footballing force in East Yorkshire.

And as our thoughts drift to the glittering future that awaits, they also return to the past. The better aspects of it this time – Warren Joyce, Adam Pearson, Justin Whittle, Gary Brabin, Peter Taylor – people who saved the club and began its resurrection so that we could at least have the chance of one day achieving what we have. To them, our thanks.

And our thoughts return to the past in other ways. One thinks of the generations of City fans who’ve come, spent their lives in support of the club and passed on without ever seeing anything like this. How many old boys still with us must have feared City would never make it during their days? Hell…I am 26 and never thought I’d see the Tigers in the top flight. To be of the generation that finally makes it, over a century after the adventure started, is beyond description.

So to the current squad, captain, manager and chairman, at whichever part of the journey they joined us on, whatever their future holds and however the next chapter of the story unfolds – for providing quite possibly the happiest moment of this humble and humbled observer’s life, for the greatest episode in our club’s history, for one of the greatest days in our whole city’s long history, our sincere and profound thanks. (AD)

The Championship Play-off Semi-Finals (2nd leg) – Wednesday 14th May 2008

Forty minutes played, and we are in an ecstasy of agony. Watford lead one-nil on the night, our aggregate lead halved and looking unbearably fragile. The small band of Watford fans sense a stunning comeback is on, while we fretfully chomp on fingernails and ruefully reflect upon City’s infamous capacity for doing things The Hard Way.

An hour later, we are running rampant, and the biggest party in the Circle’s short live is in full flow. And Hull City are going to Wembley.

Phil Brown selected the same XI that won so handsomely at Vicarage Road on Sunday, our vividly-hued manager sticking faith with: Myhill; Ricketts, TurnerBrown, Dawson; Garcia, Ashbee (c), Hughes, Barmby; Windass, Campbell. For Watford, Adrian Boothroyd was able to call upon John Eustace following the rescinding of his weekend red card, and Darius Henderson, his suspension having being served. The injured Danny Shittu was replaced by Jay DeMerit, Mariappa also came in for Lloyd Doyley.

The Tigers came out to an explosion of noise, a crowd containing some 22,000 City fans in a febrile mood. However, with so little to lose following their cuffing on home territory three days earlier, Watford had no option but to charge forward in search of a miraculous comeback. It showed; and Watford have correctly been scorned for their abysmal style of football this season, they actually succeeded in several instances of ball/grass interfacing.

For a few horrible moments, it seemed like their attempt to breach the City defence would be aided by the departure of Wayne Brown – he was felled by a high boot courtesy of Nathan Ellington, and although the City fans howled for justice to take the form of a rectangular piece of red plastic, the excellent referee Mark Clattenburg sensibly kept his cards to himself.

City were visibly nervous though, and fell behind on twelve minutes. The Tigers cheaply squandered possession on their right, and a very tidy move saw the ball finish at the feet of Henderson, who expertly steered the ball past the isolated Myhill.

The Watford fans, few in number but creditably solid in support, cheered wildly. We fretted, and generally felt a bit queasy.

And justly so – City were looking as anxious and disjointed as we’ve seen in some time. Watford were creating little, but the momentum was with them and with City’s passing erratic we were ceding possession and territory with alarming regularity.

Many of our troubles came on the right, when the superb Jobi McAnuff was given Sam Ricketts an uncommon chasing. With Garcia a little off the pace, the Tigers looked fearfully unbalanced, and while the Tigers began to see a few half-chances fashioned as the half wore on, a low panic was starting to gather in the stands. Surely – SURELY – we couldn’t come so far, achieve so much, come so close, and stumble in the final stretch?

Half-time was looming, just five minutes away, when the Tigers raised themselves and capitalised upon Watford’s squall of domination finally blowing itself out. Firstly, Deano had the ball in the back of Lee’s goal, although Mr Clattenburg has spotted an earlier foul whose occurrence had eluded the notice of this observer. However, with a horrible interval being faced up to, the Tigers scored.

A long ball from Dawson – how we chortle at Watford being undone in such fashion – was badly headed by Bromby, inviting Lee to charge out to collect it. However, his judgement was severely awry, allowing Garcia to steal in, loop a header high, and suddenly from nowhere Nick Barmby thundered in to head home from about a yard, and spark scenes of wild celebration among the City fans.

Half-time, and yes! all was well with the world. Watford’s players had trudged off with their heads discernibly lowered, cursing their appalling defence’s inability to keep us out. City sprang cheerfully from the park, relief and elation in equal measure.

Would the Tigers hold on? Even with the benefit of hindsight, yes. Watford had had their spell, their lack of self belief was tangible as the second half opened, and an engorged Circle eagerly anticipated the party to follow.

And what a party it was. The East Stand finally found a rival to its years-long vocal dominance in the South Stand, the patrons of each disregarding the away fans and chanting to each other. Little was happening on the pitch save for a gentle increase in City’s domination, and so the noise levels continue rising, building to the explosive climax we were now awaiting.

Well, perhaps some things did occur on the verdant greensward. The excellent Priskin (why does Boothroyd not start him?) came on for the anonymous Mariappa and forced a neat intervention from Myhill with a sharp shot. City reacted to this change of personnel by introducing the fired-up Folan for Dean Windass, whose leisurely saunter from the pitch was serenaded with a fearful tumult of applause.

With sixty-five minutes gone and Watford looking increasingly resigned to their fate, Turner was cautioned moments after a surging run from Folan, both incidents combining to lift the pace of the game. And on 70 minutes we led, won the tie, and sparked scenes of near-unprecedented fervour.

Ricketts, as is his wont, thundered down the right, carved a yard (or five) of space, and sent over a perfect cross. The Mighty Caleb had thoughtfully engineered for himself a similarly abundant degree of isolation, and his powerful header flew past Lee, City led 2-1 on the night, 4-1 on aggregate, the tie was over, City were going to Wembley.

Not that we wish to dwell too gloatingly upon this moment, but truly it was one to savour – a goal celebration whose recollection in years to come will become the stuff of near-myth. Arms pumped madly. Unhinged cries of delight threatened to bring the sky falling in. The sense of maddening delight meant that no physical demonstration could do it justice. Even now, in the first re-telling of it, the hairs stand on end; a little shiver of happiness races down the spine; a beatific grin lights the face.

The Circle was now partying. East, South, West, North – all stands were stood, singing, jumping, cheering. Modern all-seated stadia may sometimes impose un-football-like decorum upon their patrons, but not always – and as the noise rolled deafeningly around our home in a way it never has before, it truly felt like a coliseum.

Nick Barmby, half-forgotten a few months ago, now elevated into the upper reaches of Tiger acclaim, jogged off to an ear-splitting ovation in favour of Craig Fagan, then Fraizer Campbell was withdrawn for Nathan Doyle.

However, events on the pitch were almost becoming secondary as songs of glory filled the night air. In several areas of the ground, nascent gatherings were forming at the front, a full-time pitch invasion the obvious intention. These were being well stewarded, although it was quite clear that nothing was going to halt post-match incursions on a grand scale.

Indeed, some didn’t even wait that long, for with two minutes remaining City scored again. Garcia collected the ball, slalomed through a trio of shattered Watford defenders and coolly slid the ball past Lee before haring away in delight as the crowd erupted yet again. A few hundred City fans in the North and East stands ran onto the pitch in ill-timed celebration, an act not appreciated by most, although they were quickly escorted from the pitch. None were ejected. It wasn’t that sort of night.

It got better in the last minute, as the groups preparing to race for the centre-circle swelled – the ball fell to Doyle after a Fagan dart forward was just about halted; he smacked a left-footed shot at Lee, a cruel deflection sent the ball past the spot he’d just vacated, and City led the tie by a crushing 6-1 margin.

Again some supporters entered the pitch – these were swiftly cleared, before Mr Clattenburg (already halfway off the pitch) ended the match suspiciously early, we roared in triumph, and seemingly a split-second later half the stadium appeared to be on the pitch, celebrating one of the finest moments in our history.

And that it is. Our past, while long and proud, is not overburdened with glorious interludes. There’s almost a perverse pride attached to that. No trips to Wembley; no domestic cups; no top flight football; yet the club remains inexplicably well-supported. And rarely has that faith seemed more well-placed.

For we are going to Wembley. The self-declared home of English football has never before hosted this country’s most exasperatingly under-achieving club. But now it will. In shortly over a week, 36,000 will depart this city and head to London in support of the Tigers.

It will be a memorable and emotional occasion. All those trips to Macclesfield and Bury; those gut-wrenching flirtations with financial ruin; the plunge to the foot of the League; Terry Dolan; the decay of Boothferry Park; the sense that it was simply never going to be us, that our club was irreversibly doomed to a meagre existence. All gone.

We shall savour next Saturday, of course. Not for decades will so many Hull-folk have gathered in one place to support City. We’ll take souvenir photographs, there may be some slightly slack-jawed gaping at Wembley’s vast opulence, and we shall generally act like the stereotypical exciteable Japanese tourists.

Until 3pm. For then, there begins the most important ninety minutes of football we’ve ever known. And by its conclusion, after 104 years, Hull City could finally be in the top flight. (AD)

The Championship Play-off Semi-Finals (1st leg) – Sunday 11th May 2008

“Wembley”, we chorused, “Wembley – we’re the famous Hull City and we’re off to Wembley”.

Few constituencies are more prone to erroneous predictions of imminent glory than football fans; few groups more susceptible to concocting manifestly unsustainable claims. For instance, we should graciously concede that we are not the world’s greatest football team, irrespective of our frequently chanted assertion to the contrary. However, in predicting City’s first ever trip to the national stadium, which would arguably be the most glorious achievement in our infamously modest history, one can suspend the cynicism, unleash the optimism, and proudly declare that we are the famous Hull City, and we’re off to Wembley.

Propelling us one step closer to the promised land were: Myhill; Rickets, TurnerBrown, Dawson; Garcia, Ashbee (c), Hughes, Barmby; Campbell, Windass. An unexpected line-up, prompted by Dean Marney’s untimely injury in training, affording Nick Barmby his first start for some time, while Folan was the unlucky forward who missed out with our reversion to a 4-4-2 formation.

For Watford, Nathan Ellington replaced the suspended Darius Henderson, while Lionel Ainsworth came into the side as home manager Aidy Boothroyd attempted to stem the awful form that saw the one-time league leaders barely qualify for the play-offs.

It was a blisteringly hot afternoon at Vicarage Road, and Watford were on the front foot immediately, kicking towards the 2,000 City fans populating the away end. Given the unpromising kick-off time, there was a decent atmosphere in the ground, though we are sorry to report that Watford mainly relied upon a drummer to get them going.

The first two incidents of note both occurred in front of us – firstly, Bromby just failed to connect to a dangerous Sadler corner, but with only four minutes gone Watford thought they had scored. Another excellent set piece delivery, this time from McAnuff, saw Danny Shittu tower above the City defence and bludgeon home a header – however, referee Kevin Friend had already blown for a free-kick, and relief abounded.

Now, we pride ourselves on being fair-minded, so we should observe that there appeared little wrong with Watford’s “goal” – an obstruction on Myhill by Bromby seemed the likeliest candidate, but it was a soft and fortunate decision.

We ruthlessly capitalised. McAnuff had a shot expertly palmed over by the City keeper, and moments later the Tigers led. Campbell fastened onto the ball after some comedy defending by Shittu, he hared into the edge of the area on the right, dragged the ball back to the thoughtfully unattended Nick Barmby, whose low hard shot was too much for Watford keeper Lee, and once we’d concluded that agonising second-long did-it-didn’t-it delay so common to goals scored at the far end, the City fans exploded with delight.

Watford came back, but a little clumsily, their play a little staid and predictable. City, meanwhile, looked threatening on the counter-attack, and when the second goal arrived midway through the half, it owed as much to experience as to the splendid football that fashioned it.

Garcia and Barmby combined to set Dawson free on the left – his cross found Campbell, whose meaty header was deflected onto the crossbar. With Lee still floundering, in stole Dean Windass to firmly head the ball into the goal, and the away end once again detonated.

Watford looked crushed, but gamely sought to stay in the tie, and nearly found a way back when a powerful Ellington shot was superbly blocked by Dawson, the ball spinning behind for a corner that City comfortably dealt with. Campbell was then cautioned for pointing out to Mr Friend that a Watford free-kick was being taken ten yards away from the perceived offence – a silly thing to argue over, however correct his case.

The star of the show was becoming Boaz Myhill, having one of his Premiership days, and with the interval approaching he made another excellent save to foil Smith, but City held on and took a 2-0 lead into the dressing room, along with thunderous acclaim.

The look on many faces at half-time was slightly dreamy – a two-nil lead at the break was certainly towards the upper end of realistic hopes, and with Watford FC miserably failing to provide alcoholic refreshment for their thirsty northern visitors, instead we intoned “bloody hell” quite a lot, and trooped back up in expectation of the classic Watford aerial bombardment, and in the hope we’d withstand it.

Watford did indeed threaten first, a looping header by Ellington going narrowly over, although the peerless Myhill appeared to be in the correct position for a more accurate effort. The City keeper then produced one of the best saves this correspondent can ever recall seeing in person, when a flashing shot by Sadler appeared to have wrong-footed him, only for a sudden change of direction and the thrusting of a giant paw to bat the ball behind for a corner. A truly astounding piece of goalkeeping, and once senses a pivotal moment – Watford began to visibly doubt they’d ever beat him, and moments later their chances took another turn for the worse.

With an hour gone, a horrendous challenge from Watford captain John Eustace prompted some pushing and shoving, with Ian Ashbee involved, though the City skipper was ostentatiously holding his arms aloft to demonstrate his unwillingness to incur Mr Friend’s ire. Once the dust had settled, Eustace was shown a straight red card – whether for his appalling tackle or for the subsequent handbags is unclear, but he petulantly flung away his armband, flounced from the field, and probably took Watford’s hopes along with him.

Shittu was the next to depart, the lumbering oaf hobbling off with what looked like a pulled hamstring – the splendidly named Jay DeMerit replaced him. Campbell flashed a shot over, Barmby went off to a tumultuous ovation (Fagan replacing him), and we luxuriated and partied in the summer sunshine.

A man down and flinging bodies forward, Watford left themselves badly exposed to City’s rapier-like counter-attacks, and the Tigers should have made the tie completely safe on 72 minutes when Frazier Campbell burst through a tiring back line to advance unimpaired upon Lee – however, his shot was hit weakly at the onrushing keeper, it bounced out to Garcia, who shovelled the ball over.

Garcia was then replaced by Doyle, who slotted in on the right-wing, while Boothroyd introduced O’Toole and Priskin, the latter looking quite lively and quickly prompting a smart save from Myhill. Back came City, and Doyle smacked the post with a terrific curling shot from twenty yards after a lovely piece of skill had created a yard of space for himself.

Watford looked quite deflated by this point, and those City fans stood at the top-left of the stand had some sport by cheerily waving farewell to Watford fans sullenly trudging home on the road behind the stand – regrettably, these merry nature of these good wishes were not universally reciprocated, which served only to raise further the spirits of their tormentors.

Meanwhile, Mr Friend advertised that Watford had four minutes of injury time to salvage their situation, but the only side that came close to scoring was City, with Lee again saving from Fraizer Campbell. And that was that.

The City players made a show of not being overly triumphal as they accepted our rapturous cheers at full-time – there’s little sense in providing Boothroyd’s team-talk on Wednesday for him, although a weary, sweaty, madly-grinning Phil Brown maybe betrayed just a little bit of emotion.

And who can really blame him? His charges are now just the avoidance of disaster on Wednesday away from a trip to Wembley. He knows of our history, he knows how much this would mean. It’s worth repeating though, if only because it’s a sentence we maybe thought would never apply to us: City are just 90 minutes away from a trip to Wembley to contest the right to play in the Premier League next season. (AD)