Two text messages arrived on my phone prior to this match. One was from Amber Nectar’s own pet Trevittite absentee Bunkers Hill, who claimed from his Brixton ghetto that: “The Great Escape (Part 2) starts today.”

The second came from a friend who is a Stockport fan, who merely claimed she was “laughing very loudly” at the prospect of Gary Megson, ex-boss of Stockport, becoming our gaffer.

Later, she sent another, having heard the scoreline of our game. “See what the threat of Megson does? My case is rested.”

Stockport fans clearly have reason to dislike Gary Megson, the belligerent manager who also made his mark on West Bromwich Albion (two promotions, numerous fallouts) and Nottingham Forest (just numerous fallouts). And yet the word was that whatever happened in this latest escapade under the caretaker stewardship of Phil Brown, the ginger gum-gnawer would be unveiled after the weekend’s activities had died down.

But did our chairman bank on a 4-1 win?

Did he bank on seeing a classy, vibrant, personality-driven performance from eleven players whose desire seemed to have come flooding back by the poolful now that Phil Parkinson has gone back to his family in Essex?

Did he bank on a 23,000 crowd – many of whom came via the five quid factor – making it clear that they’d love their club to be known for football and style such as that served up against Cardiff?

Maybe he didn’t. He is thinking hard over his Sunday papers as I type this. I’m sure of that.The decision is made? Maybe it’s since been re-made.

Mr Brown was advised strongly by Mr Pearson to pick an attacking line-up and try to win the game through sheer flair, just to introduce some pre-Christmas bounce into a crowd which had done a season’s worth of abject suffering in a mere four months. The wannabe gaffer did just that. Three up front, plus some proper creativity in midfield and an instruction to the two full backs to get the hell up there whenever they could.

City carded Myhill; Ricketts, Coles, Delaney, Dawson; Ashbee, Marney, Livermore; Barmby, McPhee, Fagan. What a joy to see Steve McPhee starting his first game since there was last a Conservative government. Or thereabouts. And yes, Damien Delaney at centre back. And Craig Fagan playing centrally, kind of. He was the left-sided player of a proper three-pronged attack – not that half-cock effort which was a weak 4-5-1 in reality but was shrouded as an overestimated 4-3-3 whenever Fagan got the ball. Michael Bridges took a place on the bench, and with McPhee’s match sharpness clearly in doubt, there was a good chance of seeing him too. The clouds had lifted. Now we just needed a performance.

We got one. And the added bonus for me was that our best 90 minutes of this season (and, actually, I’m struggling to think of a better all round destruction from last season under Saint Peter) came against a club I’ve always despised. Largely because of the inarticulate, knucklescraping, numbskulled louts they call their travelling support, who reverted to the type of last season – V-signs and self-abuse symbolism to children in Tigers shirts as the coaches pulled into the car park, wearing no club colours and containing next to no women, kids or ethnics (barring the odd Welsh, natch). I like their manager a lot, and he deserves better than this wretched shower who would be better off in a zoo than a football stadium. How good it was to see, however, that their team’s utter, utter ineptitude rendered them little more than gibbering mutes for the game, whose only threats were to their own players.

The extra City fans were housed in the North Stand, and they gamely joined in the singing and, wonderfully, the Bluebird baiting when City took an early, euphoric lead.

Barmby and the awesome Marney had already spurned decent openings by the time a pair of corners were forced. Dawson wisely stayed well away as Livermore trotted over, without hand signals, to deliver a peach of a ball on to the late arriving nut of Ashbee. The skipper forced a smart block from Alexander in Cardiff nets, but Delaney was there first to stab home the rebound.

The joy of Delaney – who I’m now convinced will do ten years or more with us – as he wheeled to a pleasantly near-full West Stand was felt 23,000-fold. Here was the reward for a player’s uncomplaining loyalty to team affairs, finally playing back in his proper position at home for the first time since the Barnsley capitulation and earning a wonderful early bonus as a consequence. Fans were still re-taking their seats and arguing over who had the initial header (I’m still not entirely certain it was Ashbee, so if I’m wrong, point it out) when City amazingly, ridiculously, joyously, madly, made it two. Oh, I forgot an adverb – try ‘spectacularly’.

This was one of the best team goals I’ve seen City score in almost two decades of sufferance. McPhee made a superb diagonal burst on to Livermore’s searching ball, reached the byline and dealt with two half-bovvered Cardiff challenges to find Barmby square in support. His scrummy flick further inside found Marney who went down his left side – initially this looked a wrong choice – but we proved we knew nowt when the super-skilled midfielder staved off the defensive attention and clattered a tremendous left footer across Alexander and into the far corner.

Marney’s first goal for us was a long time coming, and predictability prevents me from saying it was worth the wait, but it was certainly the clearest indication yet that the player purchased for serious wedge in the summer had real ability and a wonderful positive outlook on playing, and merely needed to settle down and channel his strengths correctly. Those of us who saw him at Southend, or when he made that superhuman knife-through-butter run through the Southampton defence at St Mary’s, already had this inkling. Now, for arguably the first time, the KC support has seen it too.

City calmed it down as demands were made for the suited ‘n’ necktied Phil Brown’s first wave to the East Stand. It was done. Fagan won a looping header from Ashbee’s cross and McPhee was an extended toe from getting something on it before it dropped out of play. The two then almost combined again with Barmby freeing Fagan down the inside left snicket, but the low centre was cut out before McPhee could get close.

What exactly were Cardiff doing during all this relentless aceness from City? The answer is absolutely nothing. They were shellshocked by the early goals, any team would be (us at Burnley leaps to mind, urrrgh), but this pacesetting, swashbuckling, spirited team we’d been hearing about were lacking in any of these key attributes, as well as any faculty to pass the ball to one of their own. Lacklustre didn’t do them justice. Horrifying? That’s better. I almost hope they still go up, just so they can be re-despatched to the Championship a year later with no points whatsoever. I’d be cock-a-hoop, me.

Their fans were less than impressed, and so began their usual artless bravado at some of City’s own confrontational elements, although there was no repeat of the cordon breaking which was an off-pitch highlight of sorts while we did them over last season too. The gap between Cardiff fans and City’s East Stand lot was too great, and there was at least one police officer on the unused staircase, so that was okay then. The rest were in the South West corner, out of harm’s way in case any trouble actually started.

We have two Welsh of our own, of course – one by name and one by principality. The former was injured (I’d have loved to see him bossing this midfield) and the latter was booked after a foul later than a Christmas card posted on the 23rd. Ricketts picked up his caution after our slumming ref Andy D’Urso saw the advantage out for Cardiff, and nobody complained. Like Mark Halsey the other week, it’d be nice to get more refs like these guys more often, though if Uriah’s on our schedule again, bring a good book and your iPod.

Dawson made a splendid run – the type of athletic, optimistic dash which made Ricketts look such a better bet at left back – and the resulting cross was toepoked over by the eager Marney. It was still only 2-0. Yeah, only. We were getting greedy. We were in possession constantly, looking forever threatening, and Cardiff were desperate. So a third was almost expected.

And we got it. We got it! 3-0, at half time, versus Cardiff, third in the table. Heck.

It came from little incident of note, but did expose Cardiff’s shambolic lack of communication in defence, something which Dave Jones would bemoan in his post-match musings. Fagan found himself in all the space the world had to give, and he showed admirable – and, frankly, rare – composure to round Alexander and stab the ball into the empty net.

The elation was extraordinary. I want to feel like I did at that point every home game. Rapturous. Enthralled. Suddenly overwhelmed with a feeling that all was not lost for the Tigers this season. Yes, it was only one game, one half of a game, but it proved that we could measure up with some ease against the so-called better teams of the division provided we were prepared and schooled correctly beforehand. I suspect Phil Brown’s back is red raw from all the pats he would have received after the final whistle.

It wasn’t absolutely fresh in feeling – we had a telling reminder of our complete inability to defend at set pieces when clueless centre back Glen Loovens sent a free header from a rare corner over the bar. Under Phil Parkinson, it might have gone in. We will never know, and now we never need to know. Cardiff’s pointless existence was enriched further when they made a sub before half time of an entirely inconsequential manner.

Half time, a Tiger roar of the type not heard in ages, and a brass band not heard in the stadium. I was hoping for the Rev Bagshaw, as I am of the belief that singing carols on Boxing Day is like signing a player after the window is shut - out of place. Still, when Leicester pop up to see us so we can complete our first double of the season, we’ll get to do We Three Kings and Away In A Manger to our hearts’ content. Or go into the concourse for a hotdog.

Dawson started the second half with another exceptional dart down his line, and his through ball for Fagan seemed perfect until the linesman waved the World’s Latest Offside Flag. Then Dawson put in an earlier ball and McPhee headed goalwards, with Alexander plucking it out of the atmosphere in a manner clearly designed to give the snappers a decent pic. Fagan then zipped a volley into Alexander’s clutches after Livermore’s free kick was half cleared.

Cardiff then got back into it. It all happened a bit quickly, but when the previously invisible Chopra was put through City’s offside trap, leaving Coles for dead, the outcome was a formality. Myhill was beaten, the visiting dervishes had a reason to cheer and make new, idle threats and, for a short while, City had to soak it up, especially when Thompson managed to knock down a ball to Chopra for a gilt-edged chance, only for Myhill to earn his fee with a courageous blocking save at the impish striker’s feet.

A fab piece of teamwork between Fagan and Livermore resulted in McPhee nodding just over from an offside position, then Mr Brown (I wonder if he has a Lovely Daughter?) sent on Bridges for the crocked Barmby, with considerable applause for both the exiting player and his replacement. Bridges was instantly poleaxed by the knee and head of Loovens, who wasn’t carded (amazingly), so he promptly did it again, and got the yellow he deserved. What a complete div.

Chopra did amuse and thrill briefly when he managed one of those heel-to-toe turns first executed by Clive Allen at QPR in the late 70s, but unlike Allen, Chopra made nothing of the chance, although Ashbee and Livermore were well fooled. Chopra then let his frustration boil when a decision didn’t go his way, and saw yellow for berating a linesman in an unflattering manner.

At 3-1 City were still comfortable, but deserved a fourth goal, if only to re-establish that three-goal lead which was so worthy after the first 45. And, blissfully, it came. Livermore’s flicked header wrongfooted Cardiff full back Gunter and Fagan was set away. His gentle near post cross was scuffed away from McPhee, but Bridges followed up to get his first KC goal and wrap up a quite astonishing day.

It could have been more – imagine us doing to Cardiff exactly what Colchester did to us – when Marney gorgeously sent Fagan clear. He was tackled in the box fairly, got up, reclaimed the ball, and was hauled down again. Penalty, screamed we. It was given. Fagan wanted it. Ashbee told him to let McPhee take it. After so long out, so many knockbacks, so many agonies, at last he could open his City account. The problem was that when Zidane’s chipped penalty hit the crossbar, it bounced down over the line. McPhee’s didn’t. It bounced right back over his head. He almost made amends with a goal when Marney again sent a long ball worthy of artistic admiration, but a last ditch tackle did for his hopes here. McPhee will feel a fool for trying to be too clever with the penalty, but clearly his role in City’s future success or otherwise is plain for all to see, and the ovation he got from even the flask-swilling, tartan-rug wearing areas of the ground when he was subbed was massive. Elliott got a few minutes in his place.

Cardiff tried to make it respectable, with two close range efforts manfully blocked by Delaney and Myhill, before Ricketts – ex-Swansea, lest we forget – threw his whole being at a third drive and got painfully and heroically in the way. Everywhere we could do no wrong against a team nobody expected us to beat, not least the opposition themselves, despite their five-match winless streak ahead of their fruit-free visit to the KC.

Pick any of the starting XI out at random, as they were all magnificent. For one, Marney was a delight to watch, worth the entrance money alone, even if the entrance money had still been around the score mark. Vision, positivity, determination, creativity – he had everything which was slung in those introductory paragraphs of the local rag when he signed in the summer. This was the reason why so many of us were pleased to have him. If he plays like this at Leeds next week, we’ll devour them. Wish the game would hurry up and get here.

He’s just one, but they were all terrific. Beyond that, they were equipped with an impeccable attitude, as if a dredging weight had been lifted from their collective shoulders and the burden of packed midfields, daft set-piece chuck-ups and goalkeeping kicks to diddymen had been eradicated forever. Of course, it wasn’t perfect, nor will it be this good every week, but for this display alone, Mr Brown should be given the job, the blueprint to become Hull City’s saviour and the opportunity to prove Bunkers Hill correct as he cowers in his South London hovel, waiting for his neighbours to acquire a broadband connection for him to steal.

And Gary Megson? If he comes, he gets my support. But appointing him after this display without his influence isn’t exactly wrong, just extremely unnecessary. And my Stockport-supporting friend has a rather grating laugh. I’d rather not hear it too much. (MR)