I believe. I finally do unquestioningly believe. Not that we will do it – City’s history of underachievement is simply too lengthy for such surety. No; what I now believe that we can.

Not that your humble correspondent is alone in developing this ‘feeling’. Over two thousand City fans squeezed into a corner of Leicester’s Walkers Stadium surely felt the same thing. You can’t define it, you can’t explain it, it doesn’t even have a name, but you know it when it arrives. It was last seen around these parts in March 2005.

Phil Brown unsurprisingly stuck with the same XI that pulverised Southampton and cantered past Colchester in the preceding week, as we once again carded the eminently well-balanced 4-4-2 formation staffed thus: Myhill; Ricketts, Turner, Clement, Dawson; Garcia, Ashbee (c), Marney, Pedersen; Windass, Campbell.

Leicester had recorded a stunning and very helpful 4-1 win at West Brom the week before, but their parlous position in the table had prompted their clownish chairman to unveil an offer of reduced ticket prices in the hope of inspiring their clownish manager Ian Holloway’s charges to lift themselves from danger. That didn’t quite work, but 30,374 people levered themselves into the ground, not too far from capacity. An impressive attendance, whatever the reason for it.

Unfortunately, they weren’t the most boisterous lot, although we can testify that a grim predicament hardly lends itself to fearsome noise-making. “Apprehensive” is maybe the most apt description of their collective mood. The Tiger Nation, strong in number and solid in voice, was stationed in the left-hand corner of the stand we attacked in the first half – and it was swiftly clear that one side was considerably superior to the other.

Dean Windass had the afternoon’s first sight on goal, firing a free-kick a little over Paul Henderson’s crossbar, and with the pattern of the game continuing to favour City, Fraizer Campbell came close to scoring yet again when a neat ball by Deano found him in space – however, with pressure being applied by the covering Leicester defenders, his shot squirmed narrowly wide.

This opening salvo faded a little, and as snow showers and brilliant sunshine battled for supremacy, and with a pitch that looked tired and bare, the football was not the silkiest from either side. Leicester began to gain a foothold in the game, firing a few crosses in that Clement and Turner comfortably contained, and having withstood this momentary flurry City restored order with the excellent Henderson intervening to foil Garcia and Windass (twice).

Leicester did fashion a great chance for themselves when the lacklustre Garcia was cautioned for a foul which presented Lee Hendrie with the opportunity to cause alarm, but he was having a mediocre game and his delivery was poor, and the game seemed set to drift towards half-time without a goal.

Whereupon we scored in injury time – a Campbell centre was partially cleared to where Dean Marney was lurking, unmarked, twelve yards from goal. His instant volley wasn’t perfectly timed but it bounced into the turf and beyond the flailing right arm of Henderson to give us a just-about-deserved lead. We celebrated raucously – and delirium would have become utter bedlam had Dawson’s free-kick a minute later gone a foot higher and beat the flying Henderson.

Going to football in Leicester can be a curious experience. There’s nowhere to park – we handed over a fiver to a courteous fellow who cheerfully wished us good luck in fractured English. There aren’t many pubs – we sweet-talked our way into an establishment close to the ground that ordinarily takes a dim view of away fans. The ground is very utilitarian, and they require a half-naked man, morbidly obese, with a drum to spark any kind of noise. They didn’t even serve ale at half-time. It should be bad. It’s not great – but for some reason it’s better than it sounds. Perhaps our last couple of results here, and the thrilling season to date, are lending this cynic towards uncommonly magnanimity.

On with the football, and Holloway had made a change to his side during the interval, introducing Etuhu in favour of the labouring N’Gotty. The half opened cagily, with City understanding unwilling to extend themselves unduly having grabbed the lead, Leicester looking every inch the division’s joint-lowest scorers at home.

No small part of our secure demeanour is attributable to Ian Ashbee, undoubtedly in the form of his career. Now shorn of the need to provide all of the side’s vocal encouragement on the pitch with the arrival of Wayne Brown, he looks more comfortable simply playing his destructive game, scampering, scurrying, chasing, and recognising that other players can use the ball more potently than he can. His influence and importance is every bit as significant as it was this time four years ago, when we were battling our way out of the basement.

As such, it was a surprisingly bitter blow when he hobbled out of the action with 53 minutes on the clock. He had been a little off the pace for a few minutes and was finally withdrawn for Simon Walton, receiving thunderous applause as he departed.

Not that it fundamentally altered the direction of things. Leicester at times appeared to be playing a discordant 4-1-4-1, one of those formations on Championship Manager you just never ever chose, meaning that fluidity was always beyond them. A Steve Howard header that went anxiously close to the wrong side of Myhill’s post was the best they managed.

The home side’s star performer, Paul Henderson, was again called upon to keep their deficit to one with a smart save from a crashing Neil Clement shot, but midway through the half he found himself involved in a less positive way.

A nice ball slid through by Marney set Campbell haring free, Henderson charged out to meet him, and as the nimble footwork of the City forward managed to safely steer the ball beyond him he was wiped out on the edge of the area. Referee Beeby showed a yellow card to the Leicester keeper, the correct decision with enough doubt surrounding Campbell’s direction and possible defensive cover.

Dean Marney stepped up to take the penalty and possibly win the game…we held our breath…and the home fans roared with delight as his powerful shot was parried by Henderson and hacked to safety by a defender. A great save, but a bad penalty – the perfect height, nowhere near either corner of the goal, and we fretted upon the possible repercussions of this miss.

Shades of Colchester’s stop-Campbell strategy were beginning to show, and a thudding foul by Stearman on our hero saw him cautioned – regrettably, it succeeded where Colchester had failed, and Campbell limped gingerly off a couple of minutes, to be replaced by Caleb Folan. Leicester responded with a double substitution, the laughably over-rated DJ Campbell and Joe Mattock replacing Matt Fryatt and Jamie Clapham. Then the Mighty Caleb scored and the game was won.

It came in slightly familiar circumstances – his deceptive pace springing a rusty offside trap late in the game, and as a trio of blue-shirted sorts attempted to effect a last-ditch intervention, Folan side-footed a slightly mis-shot low past Henderson into the bottom corner.

One corner of the ground exploded – the rest of it began to empty as songs of triumph were sung, predictions of imminent and untold glory were cast, there was dancing and bouncing, and my word, did this little part of the Midlands feel like a fine place to be.

Little else happened. The game was over, despite thirteen minutes remaining at the time of Folan’s strike. The porcine drummer to our left – surely a source of considerable embarrassment for his peers? – was invited to join in the singing. He grumpily declined. He didn’t look the most energetic sort anyway.

Myhill was interestingly booked for timewasting, an act that would surely have been of greater benefit to Leicester’s beaten side, the unfortunately ineffective Garcia was replaced by France, and finally Mr Beeby signalled that the game was ours. There was enough time for a hush to descend as the stadium announcer read out the scores (another almost indecently favourable batch), and then the rejoicing recommenced.

This was a dominant and assured display. Leicester were certainly very poor, but to so wholly deprive any home side of a real chance for the whole game speaks volumes for our ruthless discipline, while at the other end the menace of our three attackers means that goals are always likely. Ten in three games, helping us to harvest the maximum nine points from the easiest part of our run-in, is a superb return.

City are now third in the second tier of English football, level with the highest finish in our history. Our haul is 65 points from 40 games, and our goal difference – formerly unimpressive - is now the division’s second best. We are now a very healthy six points clear of seventh-placed Ipswich. Missing out on the play-offs would require us taking fewer than a point a game from our remaining fixtures. 

But…crumbs…an even more glittering prize is now being coveted. Once impossibly distant, automatic promotion is becoming a genuine goal. Two points cushion Bristol City from us, while leaders Stoke have but three. Of course, success for Watford and West Brom in the games in hand they hold over the rest of the pack will see us back in fifth. There’s a massive amount that’d require doing to finish second, probably entailing five wins from our last six games. And yet…

And yet there was that feeling in the air. We look invincible. We feel invincible. Our charge up the table feels beyond the power of anyone to halt. The old adage runs that once every year, someone comes from nowhere to claim a glorious prize. Might that finally be us? (AD)