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