He bounds into open space, defenders left trailing and hares towards goal. Thirty yards from the goal he sees the goalkeeper off his line, not by much, but by more than enough when your left foot contains such sorcery. The ball arcs majestically from the boot, spins into the air and at the very height of its heavenly trajectory must be more than fifteen feet in the air. It then falls back to the earth, a prone Frenchman clawing desperately at thin air to save a lost cause and the ball hits the net with an almost audible shiver of delight. Sometimes it appears that the heavenly forces that guide St Stuart through his life see fit to intervene in his worldly affairs - it is never less than an absolute privilege to witness them.

A series of changes were made to the side that rather limply lost in the League Cup at Blackpool in midweek, as the manager carded: Myhill; Joseph, Coles, Delaney, Dawson; Price, Woodhouse, Ashbee, Elliott; Barmby, Fagan. A spirited 525 had travelled from Hull, a more than respectable turnout for the longest trip of the season and they were providing a good backing for the lads.

That match started fairly quietly, the home side forcing a couple of corners but seeing them all ably repelled by the City defence and a Norris effort harmlessly bobbling wide. The home side had more possession but were already giving some clues as to their woeful lack of invention. Gradually, things become more even, Elliott having a chance with his head that was covered by Nigerian international Taribo West. Good work by the imaginatively-coiffured one, but this was not typical of his afternoon's work, which was generally slow and wretched.

City were now countering intelligently and one swift raid down the right saw Fagan race towards goal. He knocked it past West, whose deliberate bodycheck might well have brought about a red card for serious foul play had referee D'Urso not taken the safe option of a caution. City had the ball in the net from the resulting free-kick when Delaney smacked home from short range, but the linesman's flag had long been raised for offside. Impossible to tell from out distant vantage point, but the protests were far from indignant.

It had raised the temperature quite a bit in the stadium, the City supporters incensed at the leniency shown to West. It was to rise further moments later, when Joseph and Price combined smartly to relieve Bojan Djordic of possession on our right. Then suddenly Djordic was writhing in manifestly false agony and referee D'Urso was strutting over with an exaggerated sense of importance. The Plymouth crowd in front of whom Djordic was breathing his last, who'd no more seen the "offence" than than the referee, City fans or indeed anyone present, howled in self-righteous anger. D'Urso, playing his part to perfection, sent Joseph off for an alleged elbowing.

The red card brought about a recovery for Djordic more miraculous than anything even St Stuart's good book would dare to relate just as it appeared the last rites were about to be performed. Praise the Lord, the sick have been healed. The City supporters did not quite rejoice in this glorious resurrection, booing both Serbia's finest and hapless referee D'Urso throughout the remainder of the half. And a tough half it was becoming. Ashbee was moved to right-back and Barmby retreated into midfield. Depressingly, 0-0 had become the summit of our collective ambition, through little fault of our own.

Plymouth had a brief spell of dominance following the dismissal, with the right-sided combination of Ashbee and Price not looking terribly secure. Djordic saw plenty of ball and showed that what hadn't killed him had made him stronger, as he's a useful player when playing the game. He swung in a number of crosses that was manfully dealt with by the thoughtful interventions of Danny Coles and the perennially colossal Delaney. And Plymouth swiftly ran out of ideas, resorting to a series of desperate long-range shots that earned ribald mirth as they flew further and further from Myhill's goal. Half-time arrived with City holding on, but facing a 45-minute war of attrition to take a point back north.

Peter Taylor made a pair of frankly outstanding substitutions at half-time and backed it up with a precise and wise series of midfield manoeuvrings, withdrawing Barmby and Price in favour of Welsh and France. The latter tucked in at right-back while Welsh bolstered the midfield, a kind of 4-3-1-1 being adopted - Welsh, Ashbee and Woodhouse forming a trio that gave Elliott the platform to support Fagan up front. It restored balance to the side as the right-sided problem was solved and meant that City played a narrow, tight formation perfectly constructed for the circumstances. Hats off to Mr Taylor, he earned his wages yesterday and was as deserving of credit for the win as the goalscorer or the men who kept Plymouth out.

Plymouth knew they had to make their numerical advantage tell, it was writ large across their faces. Sadly for them, they had no idea how to do it, and that too showed. Sure, a handful of corners were forced and scrambled clear, but the actual attempts on goal continued to be of the long-range and wildly inaccurate variety. Fagan was harshly cautioned for a foul on the wing while Myhill joined him in D'Urso's little black book shortly after for a perceived time wasting offence. It wound up the home fans, whose frustrations as their team's manifest inferiority was already showing. And as the hour approached, so St Stuart's glorious intervention sent the City fans into wild glee.

Delaney nearly doubled the lead five minutes later when his header from a corner was safely pouched by Larrieu. Home manager Williamson, the target of much Plym ire, panicked and sent on Buzasky and Zebroski in an attempt to rescue a point. With about twenty minutes remaining, the sinful Djordic was hit the side netting with the goal gaping, to the amusement of us and the satisfaction of karma. Still City held on, with much less anxiety than one might have expected. Myhill actually had little to do. Plymouth were now finding touch with their passing more than they were finding men, to a mixture of cheers from us and, increasingly, exasperated boos from the small Plymouth crowd.

The match drifted along. The desperation among Plymouth's players was now a tangible thing, the knot of worry mushrooming into a blind panic in their minds. City's composure was absolute, their dedication to the task complete, their confidence unshakeable. McPhee relieved the tiring Fagan. Plymouth spewed a few more passes out of play. A chance was headed wide. Ashbee mopped up a few loose balls outside the box. Three minutes were added by D'Urso, who was now belatedly atoning for things by giving City a series of generous free-kicks as time passed. We won, and celebrated joyously.

We now lie ninth in the table with nine points from five games. No side in the division has a meaner defence, coughing up just two goals in those games. We have taken six points from two games against teams who'll have targeted their fixture with Newly Promoted Hull City as a game they should have been winning. Instead, City have efficiently and quietly racked up a brace of wins. It puts us five clear of the bottom three already. The giddier may note that we are only two points off the play-offs. The more pragmatic will celebrate in a fine afternoon in which City battled in difficult circumstances and won the day with a fabulous goal, some resolute and focussed play and an inspired bit of management. It made the longest trip of the season more than worthwhile - well done Tigers.  (AD)