Imagine something that is simultaneously horrific yet soporific – both repulsing the viewer yet reducing him to a catatonic state as tedium mixes and magnifies the atrocity on show. Think “Passion of Christ”, but worse. You’ve now got QPR v Hull City. Be warned, dear reader, this is not going to be a thrilling read.

Confidence restored following successive wins over Leicester and Sheff Weds, plus the historic victory on penalties over Hartlepool in midweek, City fielded the widely anticipated XI of: Myhill; Mills, Collins, Turner, Dawson; Fagan, Ashbee, Livermore, France; Bridges, Parkin. QPR no longer possess the robust presence of Danny Shittu in defence, a loss that is no small part due to their league predicament. So expectations of a good game and a Tigers victory were not exactly far-fetched. They were, however, sadly misplaced…

Now, if your humble reporter were to assert that practically nothing of note happened at any point during the first half, please do not misinterpret this as the consequence of enthusiastic pre-match refreshment. Indeed, as the late-summer sun shone on a sparsely populated and funereal Loftus Road, many heads seemed to be nodding. It was a bit like the fourth day of a county championship match where no result is possible, or an afternoon at the Conservative Party conference. Eyelids drooped. Drool slipped silently from sagging lips. Concentration lapsed. Minds wandered. Torpor reigned supreme.

Zzzzzz……

City won a corner early in the second half from which Turner powered a header towards goal, but Paul Jones neatly clasped the ball. Then another extended period of dullness occurred, before QPR took a soft lead on the hour. The ball was hoisted into the City area from a free kick, which the Tigers’ defence gazed at with the same slack-jawed wonderment an aeroplane causes in Lincolnshire, allowing one of theirs to head it back towards Jones, who bundled it in. Easy as that.

A cheap, nasty goal to concede, and unforgivably heralded by music afterwards – Queen’s Park Rangers, you have forever forfeited your right to be considered a club with tradition. And the game was over, despite there being thirty minutes remaining, as City were simply not producing a threat of any kind to the home goal.

Yeates and Forster came on for France and Bridges. City lumbered around some more. Anger replaced indifference among a few in the largely silent away end. Marney replaced Livermore. Then it got worse when QPR broke free on our right and a lovely cross found Blackstock in tonnes of space to head home for the second goal.

Four minutes were rather sadistically appended to the game by the referee, during which nothing else happened – no, really! – and the players slunk off after offering desultory applause to the stony-faced away fans.

Gah. That was shit. Defeat to a good side is one thing, but a miserable, gutless capitulation to a lousy side is unacceptable. The side was collectively unprepared to work hard enough to win an eminently winnable game, and quite frankly that is a disgrace.

The defending was lazy and witless. The midfield was one-paced and entirely bereft of creativity. Ashbee was off the pace; Livermore had his worst performance since joining. France is struggling for consistent form, Fagan cannot produce a telling ball. Up front, Michael Bridges looked every inch a Carlisle player, while Jon Parkin looked every inch a Macclesfield player. That is not meant as a compliment to either. Forster looked lively enough, though Yeates and Marney both looked as though they were far from thrilled at being invited to participate in the whole wretched affair and performed accordingly.

Enough. It hurts to recall it almost as much as it hurt to witness it. We sit bottom of the table, and based upon yesterday’s embarrassing debacle it is impossible to argue that we deserve anything else. We are undoubtedly in a relegation scrap, the outcome of which looks horribly uncertain. Worse still, as the defeats worsen both in number and manner, we draw closer to the time at which the first murmurs of discontent with our new manager arrive. A bleak thought indeed. A long, difficult winter awaits. (AD)