Bolton and Brown

The visit of Bolton Wanderers to the KC Stadium tomorrow represents an important day for our manager.

Phil Brown's success at Hull City, taking an unfancied club with little historical significance into the top tier for the first time, then bloodying the nose of many a member of the Premier League establishment afterwards has prompted, rightly, a wave of praise for the manager himself.

And this is not least from Bolton fans. Brown was their club captain for a while, then returned to the club as a coach after retiring as a player. He was fortunate to be kept on by Sam Allardyce when he became manager - given the propensity of new managers to clear out the old regime upon receiving the job - though Brown's old association with Allardyce when he played for him at Blackpool could also have contributed to his retention.



And so a partnership was born. Two promotions via the play-offs, the second of which came with a masterplan to make sure that, unlike the first, it wouldn't result in the Trotters popping straight back down again, and Allardyce had a legacy as a manager to go with the somewhat ruthless reputation he claimed as a player at the old Burnden Park. A City player called George Lyall will confirm this - a tackle by Allardyce as the Tigers played Bolton in 1977 broke his leg and ended his professional career.

Bolton fans still laud Allardyce as his reputation in the wider football bosom takes downturn after downturn, but Brown's glorious spell at the KC has prompted supporters of all clubs to wonder whether his influence at Bolton was greater than initially perceived, and that Allardyce leant far more on his batman than we assumed. Certainly Allardyce talked fondly of his relationship with Brown while doing a spot of punditry on Sky Sports for City's day at Wembley, and letters to varying media sources have questioned whether Brown was as influential on Allardyce as Allardyce was on Brown.

So, Bolton fans are watching their old first-team coach take a club to unfound heights while they continue to flounder without their all-compassing (figuratively and literally) boss of yore, who seems more and more unemployable by the day. Brown has used his Bolton days to benefit the Tigers, bringing in Jay Jay Okocha and Henrik Pedersen last season, fetching in Bernard Mendy and Stelios Giannakopoulos this season and acquiring Ricardo Vaz Te on loan the year before last. Four out of five ain't bad.

As the game gets closer, one comes to the simple conclusion that Brown will take no pleasure from seeing Bolton beaten at any other time of the season, but my word will he want them accounted for at the KC tomorrow. He doesn't do sentiment, remember...

Merry go-round

A trio of Hull City folklore figures in the news this week.



First up, I can't say I'm disappointed that Stan Ternent has got the bullet from Huddersfield Town. He signed a shedload of players in the summer and only managed four wins thus far. But his loathsome demeanour and near-bankruptcy of the Tigers thanks to obscene contracts given to has-been players mean he will always be rather low in the estimation of Hull City supporters. He obtained some goodwill by saving us from relegation in 1990, then dissolved it by utterly ruining the team and morale. The fact that one was relieved to get Terry Dolan in afterwards says it all, really.

Meanwhile, John Ward's departure from Carlisle United means that Greg Abbott and Dennis Booth, bot fine Hull City players in their day, are in temporary charge. Booth is one of football's survivors, associated predominantly with Brian Horton (and not just at Boothferry Park) as the exuberant assistant and previously a fine right back, while Abbott was a ratting, stalwart midfielder in Dolan's hump 'n' lump days of darkness who was given the most undeserved free transfer in the club's history. Their continuing contact with the club probably enabled them to acquire John Welsh on loan last week, though two defeats since Welsh joined suggests the City reserve has been able to do little. Whether Abbott or Booth will get the chance to manage Carlisle permanently we'll see, but no Hull City supporter would wish them anything but well.

Game, Set and Match: Tiger Nation

This weekend, Hull City host Bolton Wanderers in the Premier League. Little more than a decade ago, a game against the same side over at their Horwich ground involved a three-division gap and one of the most infamous bits of direct action any indignant set of supporters could concoct. Boyhood Dreams asked ANDY DALTON to recall the Tennis Ball Protest. You may find some of the language used hilarious.

September 1998, and City were struggling. As usual. Mark Hateley's second season was starting as badly as his first one had gone, and the Tigers were stuck near the arse end of Division Four. The gut-wrenchingly familiar off-field problems we thought had ended with the arrival of David Lloyd and Tim Wilby were beginning to bubble up again, with rumours of the crap-haired southerner wanting to shift City into Hull FC's decrepit Boulevard "stadium" swirling.

It was against this backdrop that City prepared for a League Cup second round first leg tie at Premiership side Bolton Wanderers following a surprise away goals victory over Stockport County in the first round - this being more creditable than it sounds, with the Hatters then lying in the second tier. The build up to what was actually a fairly glamorous occasion was spectacularly dismal, with a humiliating 4-1 defeat at Barnet being the warm-up fixture. The City fans were outraged by the prospect of being herded into a sub-Conference standard ground by an increasingly unpopular and out of touch southerner, and feelings were running high. And so one of the most imaginative supporter protests ever seen came into being...

City fanzines Amber Nectar and City Independent clubbed together to purchase several hundred tennis balls, which we spent an afternoon in the White Lion pub scrawling a large "NO" onto using marker pens - the negative in question being a direct response to Lloyd's insane Boulevard scheme. The plan was to surreptitiously distribute these in Hull, en route to Bolton and outside the ground, with an explanation being provided as the protest's purpose and timing. It worked a treat.

Despite a heavy police presence outside the ground, the home stewards and constabulary had no idea of the plan, and although most City fans were frisked on the way in, let it be known that if you're determined to smuggle items into a football ground, it can certainly be done. Yet...the precise timing was the one thing that'd remain slightly vague. Before the game? During the game, to hold it up and ensure maximum publicity? At half-time? We hadn't nailed this down, and as kick-off approached and the hundreds of City fans armed with luminous yellow tennis balls were uncertain and unsure.

Then suddenly, with the players preparing for kick-off, a lone tennis ball arced through the air, propelled from the upper tier. Then madness took over, as this was taken as the signal for hundreds of tennis balls to be hurled onto the pitch from the corner of the ground we were congregated in. Steve Wilson, the City keeper nearest to the surreality, held his arms out in utter bemusement. Bolton instantly deployed stewards and ball boys to clear the field, which was now covered in tennis balls - and as this was being done, a deafening chorus of "say no to the Boulevard" echoed from the City fans.

To this day, it remains a spine-tingling memory, the sheer intensity and duration of this verbal protest booming from the away end of the Reebok Stadium. The Tigers lost the game 3-1, which saw plenty of City fans ejected by the embarrassed officials, and outside the game police dogs and horses were needlessly deployed in what looked suspiciously like an act of revenge by the home plod.

No matter - the protest worked beautifully. Crushed by the embarrassingly personal nature of our action, David Lloyd was chased out of town soon after, and the legend of one of the most thrilling and original protests by a set of desperate fans fighting for the club's survival was born. Lloyd's sudden capitulation did, however, rob British sport of the possibility of a protest that'd have made even more national headlines - for a follow-up had been mooted about travelling to a Davis Cup tennis match and throwing footballs onto the court. Would this really have happened? We'll never know...but in those mad, bad times, desperate times were calling for desperate measures. And so the Tennis Ball Protest passed into City folklore.

Andy Dalton is the co-editor of Amber Nectar.

A prince among Mendy

Bernard Mendy is arguably the most endearing player Hull City has had in a generation. His cameo turn at Old Trafford, during which he single-handedly turned the most illustrious team in the world into gibbering incompetents, has added an extra dollop of fuel to a fast-growing bit of legend.

Phil Brown signed Mendy as a consequence of his good relationship with the Frenchman when he spent a year on loan at Bolton Wanderers a few years back. Mendy spurned offers from clubs like Werder Bremen in order to team up with Brown again, and although starting places have been rare (in fact, he has only begun one Premier League game for the Tigers) he has become something of a darling, a cult hero, a figure of jollity, within a Hull City squad brimming with heroes.

Mendy will frustrate everyone, manager included, because it's in his nature, it would appear. In pre-season he missed penalties and scored an own goal at Crewe Alexandra, a feat rarely achieved by any professional player, even allowing for the entirely groundless meaning of the game. Into the season proper, and in our second game of the campaign at Blackburn, Mendy is introduced as a second half sub and spends half an hour losing the ball, diving with such lack of disguise that everybody laughed, and then going on a faintly ridiculous mazy dribble which almost presents a shooting chance which could have won the game.

At Arsenal, Mendy was again brought on as a second half sub and immediately stood statuesque as William Gallas got ahead of him to head a corner on to the crossbar. The stick Mendy took from a raging Ian Ashbee and Michael Turner was comical to see afterwards on television, if only because ultimately - by dint of immensely good fortune - this failure of concentration did not lead to an Arsenal goal. It was on the final whistle that Mendy's entrance deep into Tiger Nation hearts was confirmed, when he proceeded to do a jig of triumph for a good few seconds before the thrilled visiting masses. Each victory since has seen a repeat from Mendy.

Finally, we get to Manchester United and Mendy's introduction for the woeful Bryan Hughes. Supplying width, he scored one goal from a difficult position and then outmuscled the world's most expensive defender to earn a penalty. That Hull City still lost the game isn't quite the point here; Mendy's half-hour contribution will immediately match some of the great impacts by substitutes down the years, as until he came on City were staring at a possible scoreline of 5-1, 6-1 or shudderingly, more than that. As if to prove he enjoyed restoring Tiger Nation's hopes of another astonishing scalp, Mendy was the last to leave the pitch, applauding the travelling supporters for longer. A dance was inappropriate in defeat, and indeed he chose not to perform it, but thanks to Mendy, this defeat felt like a victory in almost every conceivable way.

Dare he be trusted with a starting position? Brown used Mendy, a natural wide midfielder, because the width required of the full backs in a narrow 4-3-3 simply wasn't there. Against (coincidentally) Bolton Wanderers this weekend, Mendy's time might just have come, eccentricities and all.

11: Manchester United 4 - 3 Hull City - 01/11/2008

I love that scoreline, even though it is as useless as a 6-0 reversal when it comes to acquiring points on the board. A defeat, but a defeat bathed and drizzled in glory, in determination and in spirit which should now set any remaining seals on Hull City's status as the most admired football club in the country.

A 4-3 scoreline can also, should you have not attended the game or read any reports, prompt numerous theories on how the match transpired. Did the home side score a late winner? Did the visitors peg back three times, or even lead the game on a couple of occasions? Or was it over long before the end and the winners ultimately eased their toes from the throttle a little too much?

The latter, in fact. Well, partly. The game was over by the hour, when Manchester United scored their fourth and established a three-goal lead. Here, lesser teams would have collapsed entirely, lost their will and fight, and succumbed to a fifth, sixth, even seventh. Not Hull City. Two strikes, thanks entirely to the industry and endearing awkwardness of substitute Bernard Mendy, triggered the European champions to soil their underclothes for the closing ten minutes or so, and although the equaliser couldn't be found, the losing side left the Theatre of Dreams with a far more heroic aura around them than their distinguished conquerors.

Some suggested that Mendy might start at Old Trafford as a consequence of Ian Ashbee's suspension. However, Phil Brown eschewed the idea of using extra width in midfield and merely elevated Bryan Hughes to the starting XI while giving George Boateng the armband. Other than that, as you were.

And, just like Chelsea in midweek, City did not get anything like the required period to size up their opposition. United smelled blood, blood of black and amber stripes, and set about their visitors with ruthless efficiency and attacking instinct, leading to a goal after little more than two minutes. Cristano Ronaldo heeled down Gary Neville's diagonal ball to Dimitar Berbatov, then controlled a strongly-hit return before lashing a left-footer beyond Boaz Myhill's stretch and in off the near post.

Ulp. Chelsea were never in trouble afterwards when they did this to us on Wednesday night, but they weren't at home and never felt the need to rip us to pieces. At Old Trafford, a Manchester United side containing Ronaldo, Berbatov and the spud-headed pocket of petulance Wayne Rooney would have no qualms about doing to us what their predecessors did to Ipswich a decade and a bit ago.

Still, we had to grin and bear it, and the City contingent, crammed in like battery chickens in the corner of the East Stand, did at least outdo Manchester United in the singing stakes. This is not surprising. A ground so vast contains, on a percentage basis, so few Mancunian obsessives in comparison to the tourists, from both Surrey and Shanghai, that singing audible pro-Manc songs is a little difficult. Gleefully, the Tiger Nation lapped up the legendary lack of atmosphere from the home quarters and created their own little world of noise and bravado. Now the City players needed to respond.

Geovanni, afforded extra booing from the dozen or so people within the home stands who knew he played for Manchester City last season, swiped a free kick high over the bar - the Tottenham one was no fluke, but he hasn't tested a goalkeeper properly with one season - as City struggled initially to know what to do with the spherical object bouncing near these red shirts.

Rooney swatted a left-footer high over the bar as United maintained possession, keeping it simple with Michael Carrick and those two first-name-only peripheral figures, Anderson and Nani, gently feeding the illustrious trio of headliners who chose to attack purely when it suited them. City's possession began to grow too, but there was little Marlon King or Daniel Cousin could do with the channelled balls from Dean Marney and Geovanni as the central defenders - they're good, Rio Ferdinand and Nemanja Vidic - frequently read the pass before it had even been played.

City lacked width too - there were occasions where Marney was pleading for a wide outlet as he faced two red-shirted oppressors, but Paul McShane patently failed to provide it, much to Tiger Nation chagrin. Days like this make on yearn again for an on-song Sam Ricketts, but the width problem would be devastatingly remedied by Brown later on.



Anyway, the best hope for an equaliser appeared to be via a set-piece. And so, it was with little surprise but indescribable joy that, after Vidic had been a little too friendly with King, Andy Dawson bent in a wicked free kick which Cousin glanced home. His second goal for the Tigers had finally come, and having got his first at Arsenal, clearly he is relishing the big occasions. Someone should tell him, without any element of blame or criticism, that we are Hull City and therefore all these occasions are big. Still, he celebrated grinningly with the travelling masses whose own celebrations were hellishly insane, and quite superb.

So it's 1-1, at Old Trafford. Flip. Is this going to be another of those iconic examples of Hollywood-style underdog victory which most dreamcatchers would allow to slip through its web because it's too far-fetched?

No. It's level for only six minutes.

United break in truly jaw-dropping manner. Rooney, then Berbatov, and ultimately the unheralded but useful Carrick collected the ball and drove a low left-footer, like United's opener, again beyond Myhill and in via his post.

It's 2-1, and this time the hosts don't fancy letting anything slip. Ronaldo quickly hares through on goal but Myhill bashes away his chance. The same Portuguese whining genius then takes his time as he find room again, only for Kamil Zayatte to get in the way. Still 2-1, and anything but a disgrace to be going in with that score at the break, we think.

Fatal. Just as we observe the fourth official start twiddling his knobs on the touchline, United force a corner which is delivered on to Ronaldo's forehead, despite the attentions of four (yes, four) Tigers defenders, and Myhill hasn't a prayer.

It's still not a disgrace to be 3-1 down, though the opportunity for a crafty point to take home is severely dampened by a two-goal margin. Irrespective of who the opposition is, it's also annoying to lose a goal top such a simple set-piece when City has prided itself on defensive strength when corners and free-kicks have been swerved into our box. We have Rory Delap's long throws to cope with before the end of the month, too...

Having joined an immovable pie queue at half time for non-existent pies (Old Trafford is more disgraceful in some quarters than a lot of so-called 'lesser' stadia - the catering being one issue, the stewarding another), I returned to my seat, just in time for the restart. With City now attacking the Stretford End, I bemoaned the craning my neck may need to do to spot the correct protagonists when we attacked. Then I realised that City in attack may be an irregular event in this second half so I should be grateful for any cricking.

Indeed, Manchester United were quickly into their European-dominating, American-bankrupting stride. Rooney got to the byline after some glorious interplay and, after a slightly lucky deflection on the shaven Scouse antagonist's cross, Berbatov screwed a shot wastefully wide.

All City had to show for the opening 15 minutes of the half was another Geovanni free kick off target. It was otherwise the Manchester United showcase event. Berbatov, inexplicably wearing gloves (just how tropical is Bulgaria in the winter to make 11 degrees celsius tantamount to a cold snap?), delivered a sublime ball into Ronaldo's path but again he didn't smell the hat-trick quite enough and put his shot far from the post.

Ronaldo was then sent, one-on-one, at Myhill. This was it, the hat-trick, the match ball, the posing, the preening. We couldn't bear the idea of it. Neither, gratifyingly, could Zayatte, who made sure the Portuguese's disrespectful dithering came to nought by haring across his nemesis and making count a fabulous, applause-inducing tackle. Sadly, from the corner, City fell asleep again Vidic sidefooted home, unmarked, from close range. Another soft goal against opposition who are talented enough to rip teams to shreds without poor marking to assist them.

Enough, thinks Phil Brown. At 4-1 down, and with width (not to mention keeping the ball) a severe issue, off comes the anonymous, frustrating Hughes (another chance gone begging there) and on comes Mendy.

Bernard Mendy. Unquestionably the cult figure of the Tigers squad, an experienced French international midfielder, now in his 30s, whose bungling, effervescent, almost maverick style has made him both a hero and a source of immense frustration to the Tiger Nation and, presumably, to his manager too. And now, here he is, expected to help transform a game already lost, against the greatest side in club football, on their own patch.

He succeeds.

Taking a fine ball from Boateng, Mendy chests it down past his French compatriot Patrice Evra and lobs the onrushing Edwin Van der Sar. The ball drops and is volleyed clear by Vidic but the assistant referee correctly (brilliantly) flags for a goal. Replays later confirm he was bang on. City have pulled one back.

Then, with little under ten minutes remaining (during which time United have profligately missed through Rooney and sub Carlos Tevez), Mendy gets both strength and pace on Ferdinand, who hauls him down in the box. Not many opponents get penalties at Old Trafford, especially at the Stretford End, and Mike Dean was as brave as he was accurate in his assessment of the challenge. Geovanni found the corner and it was 4-3.

If we're honest, City didn't really create anything resembling a great chance to equalise in the remaining minutes, and other issues came instead - Michael Turner, booked earlier, was lucky not to be sent off for a tackle on Carrick as the midfielder glided into a shooting position, while the loony Rooney went into his usual sulky, kick-out-at-all mode and picked up a yellow himself. Breakaways for the Tigers did raise hopes but no chance came of them, and after much chortling at the way Manchester United's multi-millionaires were panicking at the end, the whistle sounded.

Three goals at Old Trafford, but not a point to be had. Ah well. There was certainly a restoration of pride following the tepid showing against Chelsea, and another occasion to store in the memory bank for when the grandchildren start asking questions about City in a few years time. The players stayed on the pitch for a long session of mutual appreciation with the Tiger Nation, and quite right too. Everything about Hull City represented pride, progress and talent today. The lack of points, the concession of our unbeaten away record, and the drop into a meagre sixth place in the Premier League table is almost incidental. You should never feel happy after defeat but this is the closest feeling one can have to it.

The holiday is over and City return to the real business next week with Bolton Wanderers coming to the KC. Ashbee will be back, and I just wonder if Bernard Mendy might play?

Manchester United: Van der Sar, Neville, Ferdinand, Vidic, Evra, Ronaldo, Carrick (Giggs 72), Anderson (O'Shea 88), Nani (Tevez 64), Berbatov, Rooney. Subs not used: Foster, Park, Rafael Da Silva, Fletcher.

Hull City: Myhill, McShane, Turner, Zayatte, Dawson, Marney, Hughes (Mendy 59), Boateng (Folan 86), Geovanni, King (Halmosi 63), Cousin. Subs not used: Duke, Barmby, Garcia, Ricketts.

Stuart

Ask most Hull City fans of a certain vintage who they think of when they connect Hull City and Manchester United, and Stuart Pearson is the name which comes out.

Pearson was the last player to leave Hull City directly for Old Trafford, back in 1974. Tommy Docherty signed him after being impressed with the Cottingham lad's sturdy, unflinching effort to step into the iconic goalscoring boots vacated by Chris Chilton.

Docherty was only at Boothferry Park for a bit, as an experienced assistant to Terry Neill, before the call to manage Scotland naturally drew him away. Within a year he had left his country behind to go to Manchester United and, having realised Denis Law was past his best, aimed for youth and enthusiasm to rebuild a falling giant of the game.

Pearson, along with future household names like Macari, Hill, Coppell and Greenhoff, was part of it. It was a big deal around the city when Manchester United, freshly relegated into the same division as the Tigers, forked out £200,000 for the centre forward's services, but it represented good business all round. A year in a division he was already familiar with helped Pearson settle quickly, and he scored vital goals within typically bustling displays that endeared him quickly to a demoralised Old Trafford faithful and sent Manchester United straight back up. This was the last season that the two clubs would face each other in the League until now, and each side won at home.

Pearson also became a rare breed of Hull City player to have left the club and gone on to represent England, which he did sporadically for Don Revie and Ron Greenwood from 1976 until 1978. Only Brian Marwood has done this since. His Manchester United career was blighted by injury, but he won the FA Cup in 1977, scored in the final at Wembley, and went on to win another FA Cup with West Ham United after joining them, back in the second tier, in 1979. He remains on the hospitality roster at Old Trafford but his family are still in Hull, and it would be of mild interest to know who he roots for at Old Trafford today.

United we fall

There seems to have been a lot of footballers over the years who had a spell as a schoolboy, youth, apprentice or triallist at Manchester United, and of course, never quite made it.

For every Paul Scholes, there is many a Paul McShane or David Brown, a Mark Lynch or a Jamie Wood. If they are lucky, these also-rans manage a League Cup appearance or two, or maybe the odd Champions League substitute cameo at a stage when the group is already won.

Those four names randomly picked out were not random at all, as Hull City got them all. McShane is with us now, on loan from Sunderland, having been brought up at clubs in Scotland and Iceland in his youth days. His Manchester United times were as typical as a wannabe spell could be - looked good at 17, signed up, given a squad number, won the FA Youth Cup and then was sent out on numerous loans before leaving for free. Perhaps the oddest thing about McShane's time at Old Trafford, given his comfort in the Premier League these days, is that he didn't make even the fabled substitute appearance in a distinctly unimportant first team match.

That couldn't be said for Lynch, a predecessor of McShane's as a wannabe Manchester United right back and a first choice Hull City right back. Lynch infamously made a solitary United substitute appearance in the Champions League against Deportivo La Coruna - infamous as he scored an own goal. He was given a free transfer to Sunderland and then within a year was freed again to join Hull City.

Unlike McShane (at this stage anyway - doubters exist about aspects of McShane's game but he isn't a kamikaze right back), Lynch was an instant failure at the KC Stadium. He wasn't helped by being kneecapped 15 seconds into his debut by Paul Furlong's studs, but even upon his return he was exposed as a full back of limited positional sense, restricted tackling ability and wretched distribution. Peter Taylor's desperation at one stage forced him to switch Lynch from right to left as both Andy Dawson and Roland Edge were crocked, and Lynch responded in the way we all expected - with a car crash display. He was sent off at Coventry City (although we won that game thanks entirely to John Welsh) and was, for the third season in a row, given a free transfer by his club. It was one of Peter Taylor's final acts before he also left, and Phil Parkinson did at least find Sam Ricketts as a replacement. Lynch spent two years at Yeovil Town before he was - you're way ahead now - given a free transfer. He's now at Rotherham United, who are probably checking their limited accounts to see if they can afford an ejector seat for the season's end.

David Brown and Jamie Wood go back a decade with City, a period which is much publicised by the slavering Fleet Street slowcoaches at the moment as we were bottom of the pile. Both were kids at Old Trafford who were let go, and when you saw them partake in the lowest division, it wasn't hard to see why. Brown was, with hindsight, probably not afforded the requisite amount of credit as he could clearly score goals. He scored 11 in a dreadful team, which was a good start, but his desire seemed to dissolve thereafter, along with his strike ratio, and he was famously released into the non-league pyramid when there were still two years left on his deal.

Wood epitomised the ineptitude of Hull City more than most players. A striker of speed and awareness, he was let down by being quite appalling at hitting the target. Severe doubts about his finishing were expressed the moment he joined the club, and ultimately he didn't find the net where a keeper's gloves, an item of woodwork or some bloke in Boothferry Park's seats would suffice. His name would be even more consigned to the historic dustbin were it not for his sly elevation to the international arena, stretching the qualification rules to the absolute limit by earning a lawful call-up for the Cayman Islands. We're blessed with serving internationals these days, but in 1998 it was Wood and the two Jamaicans who were receiving their papers and adding their names to a short, concise list, never to be removed.

These four players all did the same thing - went to Old Trafford with dreams of superstardom, and ended up playing for Hull City with dreams of, erm, still being in the team the next week. McShane is the latest incumbent and reservations notwithstanding, he may just be, finally, a Manchester United reject who could one day turn round to Sir Alex Ferguson and claim he was a tad hasty. Let's see how he copes with Cristano Ronaldo first though...

10: Hull City 0 - 3 Chelsea - 29/10/2008

There's no harm in being taught the odd lesson. The achievement surrounding City's fixture against Chelsea was more summed up by the position each club was in prior to kick-off, rather than the result 90 minutes later.

That's the positive spin. The less cynical would claim that Chelsea were utterly brilliant and City chased shadows for the majority of the match.

Little can spark complaint, given the amazing feats of the Tigers thus far. It has been beyond everybody's expectations, and at least the expression "reality check" can be applied only half-heartedly, as Chelsea are as capable of doing this to any club in the Premier League if they fancy it. This was no Wigan Mk II.

The only mild slice of disappointment was that although the two teams were equal going into the match, there was next to no chance of City trying to match their illustrious opposition as equals once the action started - thanks to a piece of undisputed genius from a fine footballer after a mere two minutes.

Frank Lampard's goal may have been a fluke. It may also have been simply stunning vision and improvisation. I go for the latter, as although the ball reached him on the left corner of the penalty area fortuitously - his initial ball to the chasing Florent Malouda had been deflected straight back to him - the breathtaking, left-footed chip which he instantly dispatched across the box and over Boaz Myhill was a work of top-drawer artistry that only the sublimely gifted footballer can attempt and execute.

Immediately, City were on the back foot. This was hardly fair, but it was Chelsea, after all. They'd been stung at the weekend and the last thing they wanted was to be made to feel awkward by a team of northern upstarts with little history for anything other than being laughed at. They had their wish. The goal not only earned them a priceless early lead, it knocked the stuffing out of City for a good 20 minutes.

Phil Brown had written this game off, sneakily, in his post-match interviews following the West Brom game. We had 20 points from nine games, and he announced that 20 from ten would be an excellent return. Clever man. It was clear that City weren't going to get 23 points from ten, or probably even 21. Chelsea proceeded to utterly dominate the ball, play simple and effective passing sequences and occasionally deliver an eye-catching pass of fizz and precision which reminded every optimist in black and amber why they were who they were.

City, with the same XI as had become the norm (Andy Dawson made a remarkably quick recovery from a dead leg when he had been entirely ruled out 48 hours ago), did make a few bits happen. A corner was forced and, with the knowledge that our success at set-pieces was largely the way forward against Chelsea, hopes were raised. Dawson delivered and Michael Turner climbed impressively above John Terry but the header landed on the roof of Petr Cech's net.

Geovanni then got his best sniff of a spectacular response but inexplicably chose not to shoot when Chelsea showed him inside on to his trusty right. Instead, he tried to beat one man too many - and ended up diving, in as unconvincing a manner as it is possible to display. Even Joe Cole, on the opposite side and prone to the odd spot of flying fakery himself, must have found the gall to protest at that one.

Myhill, nervous after losing a goal so early (one awfully sliced clearance proved this), pouched a shot from Joe Cole with conviction after Nicolas Anelka's cross deflected back to the England man, then Lampard bashed a swerving, unpredictable free-kick from 30 yards only just wide.

City had begun to up their game, as if the realisation that they were playing mere humans had just hit home (though Jonathan Pearce's typically-melodramatic claim, in both meaning and tone, that they were "starstruck" was one of the most nauseating and patronising things I've heard - why do the BBC employ this man?), and the quiet Marlon King was very unlucky to be flagged offside as he seemed to time a run on to Kamil Zayatte's searching ball with expert precision.

Malouda, whose contribution to Chelsea seems to consist entirely of fluffing straightforward chances, contrived to miss the first of many when he headed well off-target from a Deco cross, getting his angles severely wrong. The industrious Anelka, wearing gloves on a night far less chilly than the Hull public had hoped for (see also Deco and Jon Obi Mikel for this), then struck a shot just wide when Deco, again, had supplied the ammunition.

On 21 minutes, City came the closest they would ever come. Daniel Cousin, the third part of a three-pronged strikerforce and easily the most overshadowed, came into his own with a strong, purposeful run across Terry and Ricardo Carvalho. He wasn't even distracted by Cech's flourescent orange strip, the sort that would guarantee a nocturnal cyclist a high degree of safety against even the most myopic of drivers, as he drove a low, curling shot beyond the high-calibre keeper and, so unluckily, away off the foot of a post.

A 1-1 scoreline at this point would have been delicious and, without any doubt at all, would have made it extremely interesting. But it was not to be. City barely troubled Cech again.

Geovanni, ludicrously but without protest from his manager or captain, then smacked a free kick at Cech which was closer to the centre circle than the penalty area. We were looking at 40 yards or so. It's a confident (or perhaps reckless, or perhaps deluded) chap who believes he can outfox the world's best goalkeeper from such a range, but the luminous custodian did nevertheless was required to perform an inelegant beating away motion to keep the ball from his net.

Time for Malouda to miss again. His snapshot went high over the bar after Zayatte's poor clearance, and then he did likewise a few minutes later; this time he got a toe-end to a cross from a sharp counter attack but again missed the target.

Chelsea looked like they could score again anytime. They weren't quite playing with City, not teasing them as such, but they certainly had that air of taking everything in their stride and maintaining their professionalism until the time was right to punish their hosts again. Anelka thought he'd done it when he hit a vicious drive after exquisite build-up involving Lampard and the two Coles, but Myhill got a deft fingertip to the ball and it was enough to send it above the bar.

Malouda then shot wide. Again. Although his time would ultimately come, it is clear that he is a weak link in a super-strength Chelsea unit. He has his uses away from goal, but ultimately his finishing is poor for a man so obviously primed by the Chelsea tactical plan to get into these far-flung positions on the field.

City had two late goes before half-time; Geovanni's hit a free kick more within range which Cech spilled and Carvalho cleared; then King headed Dawson's sweeping cross straight at the vividly-clothed stopper.

So, just the one goal conceded as the players trooped off at the break. A glorious, unpreventable goal it was too. So City were just one piece of world-class football adrift of their world-class footballing opponents. It seemed healthy enough.

Sadly, the game plan for the second half was shattered by some dreadful incommunicado from Myhill and his centre backs just five minutes into the second half. A long, low ball towards the edge of the box; both Zayatte and Turner try to shepherd it to the keeper, believing Myhill would be haring from his goal-line to kick it clear. Or perhaps they misjudged the pace of the ball and expected it to drift into the area for Myhill to collect. Neither applied in the end, as Anelka nipped between them all and, although his touch which thieved the ball took him mildly wide, his instant left-foot shot was never going to go anywhere but the net.

Who was to blame? Myhill certainly could have put his boot through it, but equally the central defenders were both in a position to stop Anelka sniffing around it. They can all take a share. Utterly crestfallen now. Two goals down, thanks to the unplayable and the unspeakable. In both halves of the match City had started with the wobblies, and Chelsea are the last side one should be wobbly against.

Still, hope remained that a goal for the Tigers could at least arouse interest in the rest of the match. For as long as Malouda was getting the bulk of Chelsea's chances, a third goal for the visitors looked less likely. He soon missed again after some divine, slick interplay between Deco, Lampard and Anelka gave him a chance not just on a plate, but with knife and fork, napkin and choice of condiments.

Brown made a change, opting for width as he withdrew the overrun George Boateng and threw Peter Halmosi on, clearly allowing the Hungarian a chance to earn himself a start at Manchester United on Saturday with a midfield reshuffle in order thanks to Ian Ashbee's suspension. Halmosi instantly pleaded for the ball and showed some bits of mild sparkle within a side clearly demoralised by their own misfortune.

A free-kick. Dean Marney takes and Turner wins the header but it strikes a Chelsea shoulder and flies over. Richard Garcia, presumably with the same brief as Halmosi, is then introduced for Marney, who was given the supporters' man of the match despite a rather humdrum display, an assessment you could levy at the whole midfield and pretty much the rest of the team.

Chelsea fancy a third now. Ashley Cole, booed throughout due to a mixture of tiresome fan trends and the player's own odiousness, crossed dangerously for Lampard to gently guide down into an Anelka's path, but the ball gets trapped a little beneath his studs and the shot is half-hit enough for Myhill to save.

But the third soon comes and, gadzooks, it's Malouda who scores it. As players remain upfield after a Chelsea corner, the second attack allows Ashley Cole to feed Carvalho down the left - that's Carvalho, centre back, down the left - and he bends a cross with the outside of his right foot in a way which totally belies his usual task on the field. Malouda is there to steer it past an exposed Myhill from six yards. He finally has his goal, but boy, is he wasteful. Chelsea must never rely on him to score in tighter games when only one goal might win it.

Cousin, probably City's real man of the match on a night when glory didn't shower itself on anyone dressed in stripes, headed a decent chance over from Garcia's clever overlap after Geovanni had been initially unable to bring the ball down into a shooting position. With little to play for other than the rule that games must last at least 90 minutes, Brown decided that Dean Windass might raise the crowd's deflated spirit, chucking him on for the surprisingly despondent King. It's only his second Premier League appearance, but the decision to give him a place on the bench instead of Caleb Folan might be significant. It also might not be, of course.

Windass got a few touches and City had some reasonable possession as the final minutes ticked on by. Chelsea had done their job and done it devastatingly. They merely wished now to maintain a clean sheet, although a consolation should have come City's way when Dawson delivered a typically accurate injury-time corner on to the free head of Garcia, who promptly put it wide.

Full time, and anyone who suggests a bubble has been popped should be flayed publicly. This wasn't Wigan, it was Chelsea. Despite the bravado of the chairman on national media outlets prior to the game, it was clearly a no-go game. Saturday probably will be too, and that factor, along with Ashbee's suspension, suggests Brown can do a spot of tinkering with the team to provide hope for the peripheral figures. The goal difference is at least neutral, not negative again, and after Old Trafford there then comes a serious sequence of back-to-business fixtures, with Bolton Wanderers, Manchester City, Portsmouth and Stoke City all providing the opposition in November.

Hull City: Myhill, McShane, Turner, Zayatte, Dawson, Marney (Garcia 71), Ashbee, Boateng (Halmosi 62), Geovanni, King (Windass 84), Cousin. Subs not used: Duke, Hughes, Mendy, Ricketts.

Chelsea: Cech, Bosingwa (Ivanovic 86), Carvalho, Terry, Ashley Cole, Deco (Kalou 78), Mikel, Lampard, Joe Cole (Belletti 54), Anelka, Malouda. Subs not used: Cudicini, Di Santo, Bridge, Alex.

Chelsea and the pensioners

Beyond all the nostalgia of City's win over tonight's opponents Chelsea 20 years ago, and the various Cup ties since, the wonderful Tigers side under Cliff Britton which won the old Third Division title in 1966 have their specific reasons for wanting tonight to go well for City.

It's not about bearing grudges, of course. But the fact remains that Andy Davidson, our record appearance maker, still thinks the referee cheated City out of a penalty which would have won the FA Cup quarter final at Stamford Bridge (assuming it was scored). He has been known to use the actual word "cheat", which is particularly pejorative to this day as the official was Jack Taylor, distinguished 1974 World Cup final referee and still very much alive.

The game ended 2-2, when Ken Wagstaff scored twice, and Chelsea won the replay at Boothferry Park 3-1, thanks largely to the return of the mercurial Peter Osgood, who had been injured for the first game. Chris Simpkin, an unfussy midfielder of the enforcement type, scored City's goal.

Chelsea promptly lost the semi-final to Sheffield Wednesday, who in turn were famously clawed back from 2-0 by Everton, who won the final 3-2. City have only been in the quarter finals once since - losing 3-2 to Stoke in 1971 from 2-0 up, with Waggy again getting both City goals - and even the fifth round hasn't been visited since 1989. It's just as well that we have as reasonable a record in League games against Chelsea as a 20 year gap can supply, as we're plainly useless in accounting for them in any other competition.

Sensible over captain

After four rounds of Premier League invincibility, a change to the Hull City starting XI is on the way for tomorrow's game against Chelsea.

It's a straightforward alteration. Andy Dawson suffered a dead leg at West Bromwich Albion and was subbed after just ten minutes. Sam Ricketts had a fine match as his natural replacement and will begin at left back - his international position but never before his Hull City position - against Luiz Felipe Scolari's side.

However, might there be more changes? Brown, who has surreptitiously written off the Chelsea match as far as points are concerned, may use the hefty points tally and the insurance it supplies to give Ian Ashbee, the captain, a breather. Ashbee is suspended for the visit to Manchester United on Saturday after accumulating five yellow cards, so maybe an opportunity to give him a fortnight's respite from games is a temptation.

George Boateng and Dean Marney have been tremendous alongside their leader in that three-man midfield. Fluidity, determination and no little quality has trademarked their performances. A chance to rest Ashbee shouldn't affect their places, but it will be interesting to see how Brown alters the dynamics, as only Boateng provides a serious option for the role of enforcer - and he's already in the team.

Bryan Hughes replaced Ashbee at the Hawthorns, with Brown sensibly deciding that the skipper had merited a longer rest, with the game won and risks unnecessary. This withdrawal of Ashbee, however, lends credence to the idea that he may not play at all against Chelsea, a game for which he is eligible as the suspension law needs seven clear days before activation. It would be harsh on Ashbee, from a sentimental viewpoint, to deny him a match against Chelsea in a week when he has already sacrificed his place at Old Trafford, but Brown doesn't do sentimentality, as Dean Windass, Nick Barmby and Ryan France would all attest.

If Brown drops Ashbee, then the next question is whether Hughes is the obvious candidate to come into the midfield. Although he has considerable Premier League experience, Hughes has been underwhelming, and occasionally very bad indeed, as a Hull City performer. He has a nice touch and extensive vision of the pitch, but does seem to display the odd air of apathy when taking an active part in a game. His acute lack of pace - not to mention match fitness - suggests that he would also not suit a stretched three man midfield, so if he does play, it may only be with an extra midfielder deployed.

But would this be Geovanni, or would a naturally wider player like Bernard Mendy or Peter Halmosi be summoned? If so, then either the Brazilian or one of the two grafting strikers - Marlon King and Daniel Cousin - would be at risk. Again, none of these deserve to be dropped - or rested - but that may not stop Brown from doing so. King's place seems secure, but Cousin does let his head drop and has barely found a scoring position since his winner at Arsenal. Geovanni is a diamond, but ominously Brown took him off at West Brom as soon as he started doing his tricks and, consequently, losing the ball. Even with the game won, Brown frowns on that kind of disrespect to the opposition and creation of needless work for his own defenders.

All of this may be academic, as Ashbee might still partake - he's the player Brown has shown more loyalty to than any other - and the XI would be essentially the same, on a tactical front. But Brown is full of surprises and the identity of the opposition, plus the ballast provided by four straight wins, suggests he won't be afraid to issue a couple more surprises this week.