As the penalty was stroked home, Yakubu casually acknowledged the almost mute Middlesbrough crowd, forced into life by the insipid, misplaced tones of Papa's Got A Brand New Pigbag.

Welcome to Middlesbrough, the football club where it has to remind its fans when and how to celebrate.

Pigbag made the charts in 1982 with their knee-bend instrumental. It's perfectly likeable - but only if played at a retrospective discotheque, or on the radio, or at some poxy sporting event like an ice hockey match. Now, back in 1982, Middlesbrough were at Ayresome Park. If you'd put on celebration music of any sort there, there would have been one human sacrifice per goal until somebody got the message that It Is Not A Good Thing.

The equivalent nowadays involves less bloodshed. If you are an away supporter whose club remains dignified and moral enough to avoid music after goals like the plague, then the best thing to do is take the rise out of your hosts for selling out.

The penalty was Boro's third goal and City hadn't replied. It was a pedestrian, characterless cakewalk for this uneven but skilled Premiership side. So, City fans started singing the song themselves - after debutant Hines' first half opener, Viduka's gut-wrenching second, and Yakubu's 12-yard third.

Humour in defeat, although had we been able to keep doing this if Boro had then gone on to score four, five and six, I'm not sure. But gloriously, wonderfully, we did have cause to sing the song four more times - and three of those were unaccompanied by the speakers as City incredibly stormed back.

This is one of my proudest moments as a member of the Tiger Nation in two decades. Like our merciless incineration of QPR on Saturday, I can scarcely believe that under our previous manager we'd have clawed back the way we did. But this was different - it was a 3-0 deficit, away at a Premiership club. Yet ultimately we'd gone down fighting and scrapping at 4-3.

Phil Brown was forced into one change from the conquering of QPR after Barmby was ruled out with a foot injury. In came Forster, both deservedly and unsurprisingly after two game-changing sub appearances, which included the equaliser in the first game at the KC. Otherwise, it's as you were: Myhill; Ricketts, Turner, Delaney, Dawson; Ashbee, Marney, Livermore; McPhee, Parkin, Forster. France earned a recall to the bench alongside Elliott (of course), Coles, Duffy and Duke. Boro were without injured colossi Riggott (phew) and Boateng (reh!), but were able to recall some nonentitous clogger called Woodgate. Mmm.

The first half was most notable for me looking for a new seat after being subjected to a barrage of idiotic, know-nowt, belligerent, obnoxious crap from a fat bloke behind me who was prepared to tell all and sundry that referee Rob Styles - a former FA Cup final ref, of course, so obviously an idiot, eh? - was biased towards the Premiership club. Thankfully, the AN collective who had gathered in their own allocated seats had a spare for me for the second period.

That's very self-indulgent, I know, but for a game which would finish so dramatically and unpredictably, the first half was one of the most humdrum you will ever see, certainly from City's point of view. With 3,000 very loud people in the away end and about 13,500 iPod wearing, larynx free wasters in the home seating, the Tigers started well. But just for five minutes, using flicks and passes to good effect.

Then Boro began to feed the England teacher's pet Downing rather a lot, and reputation alone prompted City to give him grudging and misplaced respect.

Downing. Y'know, he does sometimes impress me; there's no doubt he is a capable player who isn't afraid of fullbacks. But against City, while his running and space-making showed real class, his crossing was generally poor. Maybe he is England's long-term future as the left sided player, especially while his former club boss is in charge, but I'd still have been 200 times more scared if his main rival Joe Cole had been foxtrotting through Ricketts' legs for the game. What a thought.

Boro came close when the impressive Cattermole hit a daisycutter against the outside of Myhill's left hand post after Downing's potential alone forced City needlessly to retreat. Cattermole then put in a dangerous centre which beat Myhill all ends up and was chested out by Dawson as the begloved (it was 10 degrees celsius, forchrissakes) Aussie softie Viduka waited for his moment.

Boro squeeze the Tigers tighter. A long ball gives Downing something central to chase with Myhill flying out to meet it. Downing wins, touches it inside and Viduka has no keeper in his way, but instead Ricketts gets a vital block on the ball. Luck is being ridden, but little is happening at the other end; the frustration of which is confirmed when City force two quick corners in succession and Livermore, so good with set-pieces of late, is unable to clear the first defender with either.

Yakubu, unable to get fully involved due to the immense presence of the superfocussed Turner, then forces his expansive backside to run to a flank and receive a ball. His cross is inviting for Viduka's head but a pair of black shorts get in the way. Dawson then gets a brave forehead on to Downing's one dangerous centre of the half. One way traffic, from which Boro finally make a profit just after the half hour.

Youthful debutant Hines, not afforded too much trouble at left back, decided to charge into the space opened by City's backed-off rearguard. He swapped passes with Yakubu, burst between Ashbee and Ricketts and swept in a well-placed shot wide of Myhill's right hand. How many defenders score on their first team debut? The lad has a lifelong memory to cherish; City's defence was slipshod, and not in any mindset to stop him.

And on came the music, followed by the longest gap between goal being scored and goalscorer's name being announced - the game was already well restarted. Boro have a nice stadium, a class act as chairman (the closest any club has to a modern, fan-friendly figurehead like ours, and Steve Gibson is a man to be admired), some good players and an enviable youth system. The financial and footballing side seems reasonable. They just now need to develop a soul.

With little opening for the hard-working Parkin at the other end while Woodgate was in his company, and City constantly giving away possession cheaply by not feeling entitled to spray the ball or pack a shot and test Schwarzer, the game was now about keeping the score down until half time. But for the grace of...

Downing's shot is going in until it smacks Turner's navel and plops a yard wide. From the corner, Viduka has a worryingly free header which he smacks into the ground and over. The same Australian irritant (undoubtedly a great player, but there's something manifestly unlikeable about Viduka, and I'm not even sure it's all because of his previous Leeds connections either) then makes Delaney and Turner together look like lower division meatheads with a sublime piece of skill which gives him shooting room; it slides sharply but harmlessly across goal.

Half time, thank goodness. I found my new seat with the AN contingent. Our own pet bearded icon of lateral thinking and philosophy, batfink, popped over to moan about the police and promise not to tell us - again - who Barney Gumble is. And, presumably, in the dressing room, City were being told to kick some overpaid Middlesbrough buttocks in the second half.

The plan wasn't perfect. Four minutes after the interval, a long throw was half-cleared by a stretching Turner to Morrison, whose low half volley rebounded into Viduka's path via the post. Myhill scrambled to his feet but the ball was already arching into the roof of our net. It looked like game over, especially when eight minutes later, after Yakubu's vicious shot crashed back from the crossbar, McPhee put in a ludicrous striker's tackle on Downing as he tried to control the rebound. An obvious penalty, which Yakubu stroked home with arrogance. And we sang Papa's Got A Brand New Pigbag loudly and gleefully, showing Boro up for the traditionless charlatans they were while simulatenously looking for the dark humour. After all, this could now become a truly demoralising defeat.

Heh! No chance. It was as if each City player had looked at each other and said: "bollocks to this, let's get 'em." And we did. Just about the rest of the game was taken up with the Tigers tearing gratuitously into their hosts with guile, skill, sheer physical aplomb, extraordinary stamina and - most of all - guts. It was cut-throat, iron-fisted, wanton, savage stuff. There was the aroma of Boro blood in every nostril.

And it was just utterly thrilling to witness.

Marney crosses. It's blocked back to the space behind him, so McPhee scuttles out to collect and re-feeds our biggest midfield threat. Dawson, with two men already on his flank regaining control of the ball, is not needed to hang back or overlap, so he gallops into the area instead, and it was he who met Marney's second cross with a smart downward header for 3-1, his first goal for nearly three years. No music for us, of course, so we sang our own.

Spontaneous. Satirical. Funny. Cruel. Brilliant. Let's have some more!

So, four minutes later, and Parkin makes room to issue a very tempting ball down the outside left channel for Forster to chase. Trichologically-insane Portuguese drug cheat Xavier is completely outstripped for pace and takes out the rehabilitating striker by the shins around the box's edge. My initial thought was a free kick, ref Styles blew his whistle, paused for thought as he looked at Forster's landing spot and the obvious skid marks on the turf, and decided on the spot kick. Jings! No Fagan to take it now, and with McPhee temporarily sealed in an iron ball while a short debate began on who would take the responsibility, Parkin took hold of the leather and plonked it delicately and comfortably the opposite way of Schwarzer's dive. 3-2, and Middlesbrough are beyond scared. See it? Smell it? They were sitting in it.

Irritatingly, for all the trouble we were causing them in midfield and defence, you can't negotiate for mistakes at the other end. Within a minute of the pen, Xavier tried a sliding angled pass which Ashbee stretched to intercept, unwittingly doing Boro's job for them. The intervention from our crucial but technically limited skipper went directly on to Viduka's plate and he ate up the chance. 4-2, and the dream dies, no? No? No!

Again the remarkable Forster offered to bruise his body for the Tigers' cause, twisting away from Davies who unceremoniously put him on the deck. Marney looked at this, but for once Dawson had his eye in, and the free kick is one of the most gorgeous things I've ever seen from behind a goal. It curled, arched and dipped beautifully over Schwarzer - hardly a small chap, of course - using the crossbar on its way to City getting back to 4-3. Dawson's got two. And there are still 20 minutes to go. The stench of Teesside blood got stronger. Come on City!

These remaining 20 minutes consisted of City giving Middlesbrough an utter thumping. And the hosts were in a complete panic, which was a joy to observe. On reflection, we should have sang "it's just like watching Seville", given the way the Spaniards trampled all over Boro in last season's UEFA Cup final. Our hosts were unable to control the ball, win it, pass it, clear it. Their organisation evaporated. Their spirit collapsed. Their fans, silent before, actually started to leave rather than get behind their players, who needed the encouragement of their faithful more than ever. In adversity, they were deserted by their supporters and by themselves. Southgate had no answers. Nobody of a Boro persuasion wanted to know. And all because of the brilliance - yes, brilliance - of Hull City.

It should have been 4-4 at least, and it could have been more. City had enough chances to win it, let alone equalise. We at least deserved a crack at them in an extra half hour. The fact that we didn't get that does not compliment Middlesbrough even in the slightest, as they were bereft of every physical and mental asset required in such a desperate situation, more so when that ageing lummox Ehiogu was sent on for Xavier and the Tiger Nation - or particularly, AN's pink-shirted faux-executive Whiting - rejoicefully shouted "Get him on!" over and over again as we recalled Ehiogu's lead-legged incompetence against us while on loan at Leeds last month. Around the same time, Livermore was withdrawn for France.

Anyway, the chances. Parkin was sent down the inside right channel, his arrowed cross shot was pushed sideways by Schwarzer and manically cleared, as Dawson - yep, the man looking for a hat-trick - sniffed a rebound. Marney was then chopped to bits for another free kick and Dawson again beat the wall and found the target, only for Schwarzer to judge the dip and tip it over. The corner caused all sorts of problems as Turner and Delaney both leapt vigorously, and when Parkin fired it back in from the dead ball line, nobody could quite get the vital touch.

McPhee left and Elliott was sent on, possibly as a result of his song screeching in pleading form a couple of times over by the Tiger Nation. City had another left-centric set piece to peruse when St Stuart made his entrance; his first touch was to whap the free kick goalwards and into the brave Woodgate's bladder area. Heroic and painful.

Four minutes of injury time are signalled and it's absolutely relentless. Boro are being humiliated. So, a last push, lads, come on. This is the one now. Delaney starts from the back in feeding Marney, who looks up and sprays it long and accurately. Away goes the quite superb Forster once more, this time down the inside right channel as Marney's pass drops. Again the defender is left high and dry as he shields the ball at pace to the byline and pulls it back. France has it under control, it's a simple finish, extra time and euphoria previously not associated with any other time in Hull City's history awaits!

No. The last of last-ditch challenges from Woodgate deflects the shot for a corner. It was in, I swear. It was a goal. It was. Really. Damn.

The corner is cleared and the whistle goes, and I have never heard such applause in defeat before.

What a fabulous night. It's not as if we were ever in the lead or even clawed back to level up, so the context of a devastating 4-3 reversal doesn't at all apply here. I have no voice left, my feet ache from jumping up and down, my fingers hurt from the sheer quantity of notes I had to make for this report. My cheeks smart from smiling as the City fans still ripped the mick out of Pigbag as they sauntered through some sweating, relieved Boro supporters towards the car parks. And all this from a Hull City side who were emotionally at rock bottom at the beginning of last month. Remember when we couldn't play? Some of our away trips to comparatively skanky opposition still make my nose spontaneously bleed in rage. Now we've scared to death last season's UEFA Cup finalists out of their own ground. A tad more luck and a smidgeon of extra defensive composure and it would have been ours.

Individuals? Well, only Turner properly performed in the first half, but what a performance it was. Forget the early-season chump who tripped over his own feet each game. He's become a truly stunning and genuinely crowd-pleasing defender. We even might struggle to hang on to him at this rate. There were flaws in the second half but the autopsy has to be positive, of course. Marney, Ricketts, Dawson, Parkin and especially Forster were all playing as if their children's lives depended on it. France was a game-changing substitute. Well done to all of them.

Phil Brown is a complete hero. He's instilled fight, belief and confidence in a team which never lacked natural ability but had previously been weighed down with over-zealous tactics and reliance on reacting to the opposition. He's told them they're bloody good at what they do, so sometimes the simple tactic of "go out and play" is all you need to give footballers in this kind of form. City played, really played. It was real football, worth every penny and more. It was exhausting, exhilarating, and I hope Peter Taylor was watching and pondering, because it was precisely the sort of warm-up performance required prior to paying your old manager a visit in the League on Saturday. Wow! (MR)