Showing stamina which no respiratory ailment could hold back, Stuart Elliott chipped in a late cross from the left flank and then proceeded to follow the ball's path into the box.

Ryan France leapt at the far post to meet it, and got a good spring and angle on the ball. It dropped between Nicky Forster and a Lutonian, but there was Elliott, ready to pounce, about to complete his re-canonisation after a few months with a dislodged halo.

The shot was true and vicious. Luton keeper Marlon Beresford got something on it, but the ball almost tore the roof of the net. He'd done it! We'd done it! A minute to go, victory was ours, the recovery was underway.

Then the referee said no.

Why did he disallow it? I heard probably three different theories through the disbelieving mumbles as the heaving throng shuffled out of the East Stand and into the night. France climbed on the defender? Forster shoved a defender? Someone else strayed offside as Elliott smacked the shot?

This was just our luck. After 90 minutes of vibrant, scary but at times thrilling football, we deserved this late break. And the referee - quickly daubed a self-abuser by the raging Tiger Nation - denied us it.

And yes, you read rightly. Elliott was in the team. So was Forster. So was Sam Ricketts. And, even more brilliantly, so were Danny Coles and John Welsh. And our World Cup right back was at right back. Bridges, Yeates, Thelwell, Dawson and Marney were all given the elbow by Phil Parkinson. Maybe he read a lot of internet forums or consulted Big Mike prior to selecting the team.

The latter three didn't make the bench, and I don't believe a word about injuries to Dawson or even Marney, even though he was gingerly helped from the field at the Burnley massacre. Welsh had been standing on the touchline for two whole minutes, waiting for the ball to go dead, before Marney hurt himself.

Parkinson selected a fresh-looking XI, no doubt after much issuing of bollockings, panic calls to the chairman and Samaritan consultation. It consisted of Myhill; Mills, Coles, Turner, Ricketts; Fagan, Welsh, Ashbee, Elliott; Forster, Parkin.

Remarkably, this is only the second time Ashbee and Welsh have ever started a game together. And, while one should still nod Livermorewards a bit, they already look like our best bet. The skipper patrolled the middle third with his usual unfussy mixture of bluster and brutality; the bullet-headed Scouser and our best all-round midfielder covered all the blades with terrific desire, accurately crunching tackles and genuinely high-quality use of the ball.

Nobody expected confidence to be high, but quickly it looked so. Fagan, a player who has few of the attributes his wide position would demand, won a sharp-falling ball and got Parkin on his way with only the keeper blocking his path. But this wasn't the Parkin of that exquisite chest 'n' tuck against Palace last season; that Cruyff turn and sliding shot at Stoke seven days later; that marvellous volley in our last win against Wednesday.

The chance here was identical to that fantastically cool opener at Millwall on Valentine's Day. But at the New Den, he didn't panic, didn't take the chance too early and too casually, and didn't belt it at the keeper's shins. He did this time. A great chance was gone.

Still, it proved that Luton were penetrable, and Ricketts - playing in his national team position and looking refreshingly solid and creative in comparison to the stunted Dawson - had the boldness to try a 70 yard crossfielder - the sort of thing we expected laughably of Marney - on to Fagan's toes, and just missed the target by inches. It was almost the pass of the season. Then City won a free kick which Elliott slapped into the wall, only for the chaotic series of ricochets to land at fortunate Luton feet rather than luckless City ones.

Although the visitors, managed by a man who three quarters of football see as a hero and the other quarter see as a contemptible snitch, looked capable of mounting strong attacks - a partnership of Vine and the other Parkin (Sam, comically balding ex-Ipswich and Swindon player who Peter Taylor looked at before deciding on Jon Walters instead) up front, plus the talented Feeney in reserve, is one to be envied at this level - they spent most of the half soaking City up. And, to their absolute credit, they were good at it. They were charmed on occasion but their defensive togetherness was, at all times, magnificent.

Their blessed luck was no more obvious than when the ever-talkative Danny Mills got the ball back from his own throw-in, cut inside and drove a low left-footer past Beresford, only for right back Kevin Foley to clump it off the line when we'd managed the 'go' in 'goal' (not that anyone ever shouts 'goal' when a goal goes in - that's strictly reserved for Ball Boy and his mates in the Beano). It doesn't take much to irritate Mills, and that denied chance wreaked havoc with his brain, as he flew into tackles and issued threats/insults to any opponent daft enough to listen, before receiving a resounding cheer from the East Stand when he literally threw a Luton player out of the way in order to line up a free kick, which Elliott ultimately thumped down Beresford's throat.

Fagan managed to keep a spinning ball on the deck with a sizzling volley which Beresford couldn't reach but still trundled a yard wide. This was ok stuff from City - not wholly pretty, but full of the honest endeavour and willingness to try which Saturday was so clearly lacking. But we still hadn't scored.

Luck had deserted us again, but at least Luton - backed by a group of hardy supporters who must have been embarrassed into silence by their Conference South-esque numbers - were incapable of finishing the few coronary-inducing chances we handed them. Michael Turner failed to track a marvellous run from Leon Barnett, whose grasscutting cross evaded Myhill - dressed in an effeminate shade of pastel blue - only for Vine to trip over the ball as he tried to glide it into the empty bag.

City drew breath and started again. Another set-piece, another howitzer from Elliott which deflected into the air, and the head tennis amidst the bedlam from Ashbee, Turner and Mills gives Forster a quarter-chance, but he had to stretch too far and toed the volley over the crossbar. Luton then built something with composure and intricacy through the midfield, ending in a go for Stephen O'Leary which the aqua Myhill managed to block. The keeper's frustration at looking like a tennis player in Miami Vice boiled over when he smacked a backpass needlessly into touch and hit Steve Jordan, our beloved announcer. It was hardly his fault Myhill looked so girly.

Parkin, looking second best and upset after that early miss, picked up a yellow card from officious ref Graham Laws for a dive in the Luton box, and his game got steadily worse as balls were lumped his way which he didn't win; nor was he seen to challenge for the second balls enough or do any serious chasing. He wasn't shockingly poor, but his eventual substitution was inevitable. It's notable that he is being referred to as the Beast scarcely right now.

Luton's impressive Dean Morgan danced through Mills and Fagan on the byline (that's how you do it, young Yeates) before chipping an awkward one to the far post where David Bell headed it back to precisely no-one. A big waste from Luton. The fake Hatters were making fewer chances but theirs were better. Maybe it was to be our night after all. Maybe.

Half time and although we weren't winning, I noticed many smiles and nods of approval among the Tiger Nation as I wandered up the steps to have a word with our slimmed-down, trainer-loving lord and master, Les. The half time conversation centred on Mills ("he's a cunt, but he's our cunt") and Welsh ("brilliant") and the fact that Big Mike and young Cropper had missed the first half because of a car which wouldn't start or lock. One quick amused reminder of the photo of Batfink's impersonation of Buster Merryfield later, and the second half was ready to happen.

Little occurred in the opening ten, although one Luton player whipped in the sort of dangerous, dipping, swerving, fast-paced corner which the absent Dawson could only dream of. And there was none of that bouncy-ball, arms-in-the-air cobblers beforehand either, which is something City were still doing each time Welsh popped across to the flag.

The other point of interest in the early minutes after the break was the odd presence of Myhill's coach Mark Prudhoe in the moat area at the front of the East Stand, a place reserved only for ballboys and snappers and certainly not for coaching staff, who aren't allowed to offer advice from anywhere except the technical area. The clipboarded Prudhoe seemed to be checking on Elliott, possibly with tactical instructions, possibly with inquiries as to his health, but the naughty innovation only lasted ten minutes or so before a linesman spotted him and grassed him up to Mr Laws, despite Prudhoe's comical effort to look like a normal supporter by leaping into a front row seat. Off he was sent back round the pitch, and we could resume.

City forced a corner, Welsh bounced the ball and promptly had it headed back to him. His second effort was similarly returned. His third, however, was a peach of a cross which Coles, making a rare foray forward, met with a meaty volley that was clutched by Beresford.

City's best move of the match then came when Ricketts charged down the flank to give Elliott room for an early cross. Parkin met it and flicked it downwards for Fagan, who heard the cry of Welsh on a sprinting overlap just inside the box and fed the Liverpudlian harrier, only for a fake Hatter to get an annoyingly well-time toe on the ball just as Welsh drew his shooting foot back.

Time rumbled on and City still looked the most likely to score, despite Luton's occasional foray (greeted with a cynical and very annoying "oh no" from the irregular fan sat next to me - he even said it when Luton had possession near their own corner flag and I wanted to chin him by the hour mark) which brought on the odd worry at our end. Ashbee prevented one breakaway with a late tackle and saw yellow, then a high clearance was - in a rolling back of the weeks - chased down by Parkin who committed his first proper Beasting for a while as he won the aerial duel with Beresford but, with the ball bouncing, the angle narrow, the defenders getting back and the confidence not at an all-time peak, he clipped the chance a yard too high.

Fagan was booked for a trip and then Parkin received his call to the bench, with Ryan France coming on to work the flank and allow Fagan a shift into the middle. This was the tactic which worked so devastatingly at Leicester and, with Welsh's amazing energy and Elliott's even more admirable resources still in plentiful supply, City had the ammunition to give the last phase of the game a real go.

Fagan immediately sent a superb slide-rule ball to France, whose pacy overlapping allowed him a yard to get a teasing ball in, only for Barnett to head courageously clear from under his own bar as Elliott clattered in for the kill. Fagan then created a circle of space with his back to goal to give Welsh a shooting chance, but the ball went over.

Parkinson refreshed the forward line again by introducing Bridges for the breathless Forster, who received worthy applause for the effort he put in. Luton took advantage of City's momentary regroup, and Myhill did well to catch a header from their own Parkin after a Foley up 'n' under (a better one than any Hull FC player managed at the weekend) caused all sorts of strife. Then Foley galloped past Ricketts to deliver a low ball which stranded Myhill, only for Mills to block superhumanly from Morgan as the goal begged to be hit. The ovation for our ex-England right back and chief stirrer was, to put it mildly, loud.

Spurred on by this escape, City returned to the correct end of the pitch. Another free kick was earned, with Elliott this time stepping over the ball to allow Mills a dig, which Beresford spilled at Turner's feet. The centre back nearly became our late hero for the second home match running, but his follow-up was inexplicably blocked. I have no idea how, either literally or figuratively.

Then came Elliott's late show, and the referee's robbery of the goods. That was that - game over, we wouldn't win this now - but there was still time for Mills to be booked for a reason I didn't notice - sending an unflattering comment officialwards leads the long list of possibles - then Parkinson threw on Damien Delaney, recovered, fit and - get this - a like-for-like replacement for Elliott as an attacking left-sided midfielder. He only touched the ball once and, after a last-ditch run of almost the whole pitch by Ricketts ended with Bridges and France getting in each other's way, the whistle sounded. Major applause for the players, boos for the referee.

I initially felt cheated - obviously because of the phantom Elliott goal, the erasure of which I still can't fathom, but also because the response after Saturday's nightmare clearly merited a goal, a win and a new beginning. Parkinson had done the work we prayed for in ringing the changes and consequently restoring some pride into the team by clearing out the off-form or clueless ballast which had clogged our display at Burnley.

But after a night's sleep I look back and just think how entertaining and inspirational we were for large chunks of the game, and if we can maintain such a demeanour when we go to Preston on Saturday, Southend and Southampton in the coming weeks, and also face Sunderland on our patch, we'll be okay. We're still bottom, but we didn't look like a bottom team. And Luton are clearly in possession of some consummate defenders - they have to apportion some of the responsibility for our not scoring. Respect to them for that, and also for not timewasting with meaningless late substitutions - they didn't make any changes at all, unusually.

The trip to Deepdale is always daunting - Preston are on form, always a top team at this level, always good at home and managed to issue us with our worst humiliation last season - but City should be able to react in the right way providing the personnel and the attitude from this game remains. There were so many positives - Mills backchats too much but he's both effective with his gob and superb in his defensive duty. Welsh was everything we needed in a midfield leader, everything we knew he could provide if only Parkinson could see beyond Marney's shortcomings, and also looked like he'd played with Ashbee forever. Forster worked his backside off up front and Fagan likewise on the touchline; Ricketts was a joy to watch both on the ball and in the tackle; Coles led superbly at the back and brought out the best in the wayward Turner.

And then there was Elliott, who defied lack of match fitness and held off the effects of his illness to play a typically saintly match, the type that endorses our former manager's stark assessment of him - lacking in real footballing nous, but always threatening to pull the points from the bag. And, but for the crucial opinion of a self-abusing referee, he did. (MR)