In an ideal world football matches would be decided on the basis of superior quality, finesse and devastating finishing. Then again in an ideal world, Ivor Cutler would be Poet Laureate, that eleventh pint would never be a bad one, and hazelnuts wouldn’t be so damn’ awkward to crack. I’m not sure all or even any of that is going to happen any time soon but happily yesterday was an ideal footballing world. It was an astonishing match, played in front of another bulging crowd of more than 21,000, and all its six goals were conserved for the hectic final half-hour. But the bottom line is simply stated. We were better than Oxford. We beat them. We slammed them. We’re top and going away. Brilliant.

Demonstrating lissom footballing elegance were an orthodox 4-4-2:

Myhill
Hinds Joseph The Lion of Cork Dawson
Price Ashbee Green Elliott
Alsop Burgess

I can deal with the first hour of this match pretty briefly – it was dogged stuff: never dull, the stakes were too high for that, but Oxford’s 5-3-2 played in the expected rugged fashion and a scoreless draw looked a decent call. Indeed it was the one that the kindly old gent sitting on my right, with whom I am striking up a most amiable relationship, had made. “Nil-nil today sonny jim” he said merrily, waving his betting slip, “and I fancy Keele for the Boat Race this year, you can get good odds on that”.

Alsop tried a dainty but fruitless backheel early on, while, at the other end, Basham got in front of Joseph to meet a cross but didn’t direct his effort on target. Then two Oxen picked up bookings for niggly offences by the West Stand touchline, and, fifteen minutes in, the visitors already seemed well on course for success by spoiling.

We weren’t yet showing the imagination needed to prise open a resolute defence. A free kick move conceived on the training ground and better left there saw Green hover over the ball while Dawson went into the wall, only for Dawson to wheel clear and run backwards into space to receive a pass from Green, and then blast a shot high over the bar. No, Peter, they do not do that in Serie A, and I don’t think we should do it in Hull.

Free-kicks. You kick ‘em hard towards the goal. It’s that simple.

Shortly afterwards an Elliot shot was deflected and looked likely to squeeze inside the near post but athletic Ox netman Roy Burton lunged low to his right to stop the ball. There were pockets of penalty-box incident, but we were finding it very difficult to make headway.

Oxford, backed by fifteen hundred or so fans, largely student-types who clearly imagined it was witty to vomit all over our toilets and then fill them with flowers, smothered midfield and began to have the better of it without offering any serious threat to the increasingly confident Myhill. Paul Wanless was their main man, a chubby chap but with enough football nous to find space regularly. He offered up as fine a display of pass and give midfieldery as you’re likely to see in this Division and his calm control was the focal point of an assured Oxford performance during the later stages of the half. In fact the visitors came close to going in at the break in the lead, as we moved into stoppage time and a header by James Hunt flashed just wide of Myhill’s post.

James Hunt! Errm … he was probably only in the limelight because someone more talented had suffered a hideously disfiguring car crash! Errm … Emerson Fitipaldi wouldn’t have missed that one! Errm … I’m not much fussed about Formula One, but rule 174(3)(d)(iv) in the Tiger-Chat match reporter’s almanac insists that “sport must be had with footballers whose name is the same as someone famous”, so there you are, job done. Roll on Cheltenham next week and their fearsome midfield trio of Buzz Aldrin, Peter Glaze and David Mail’s brother Stat.

Into the second half. Myhill pats down a hopeful free-kick. Price does well near the by-line, squares the ball but Elliott in front of goal is thwarted by an excellent close-range save by a gent in the Ox goal who may after all have been Andy Woodman rather than Roy Burton. “Nil nil” said my neighbour, chortling. “I’ll be having meself a tart tonight, you’ll see”, he added, re-arranging the tasteful display of root vegetable fragments that he sports among the remnants of his yellowing teeth.

Unfortunately for an industry that has a long history in Hull, the money was to stay with the bookies rather than make its way down Myton Street. Because just as the game seemed deadlocked, it exploded with Tiger virtuosity. And – as I began – it is sheer footballing excellence that decided this game. Elliott tricks one man, runs past another and delivers an accurate pass to the feet of Burgess. Big Ben steadies himself and curves a glorious left-foot shot round the defence and just inches inside the far post, with Woodman left hopelessly marooned by this moment of true genius. Only four or so minutes later Elliott slips in another clever ball, Alsop produces a perfect first touch to take immediate control and richly deserves the stroke of good fortune which sees his shot deflected off a defender beyond Woodman. And then, only a couple more minutes on, the buoyant Alsop surges through a tattered defence, shoots low and though the keeper gets a hand to it, he can’t keep it out.

Oxford’s long unbeaten run is at an end. Their defensive stubbornness has been exposed. Their fans look like the Queen’s corgis after Princess Anne has come visiting. We are thrashing them 3-0.

And we have done it by virtue of excellent football. Burgess and Alsop had been kept quiet for an hour by Ox’s sturdy defence, and Elliott’s threat had been kept far from the danger area. But these key players proved just too good for Oxford to quell for the entire 90 minutes. Precise passing, high-quality ball control, confident accurate shooting. 0-0 had become 3-0 in a matter of seven minutes or so. Glorious.

Our best player on the day was, of course, Damien Delaney. It always is. But this spell of attacking verve was memorably superb, and Burgess, Alsop and perhaps Elliott too will soar past the twenty-goal mark for the season if they continue in this delicious vein.

We weren’t finished. Alsop burst clear once more, only to overrun the ball and allow Woodman to gather it gratefully. Green slipped an exquisite pass behind the full-back for Price to chase: his cross was hacked away for a corner as Oxford wheezed and panted their way through the later stages of a bout they thought they were doing quite well in until they’d suddenly got shockingly thumped. Hard. Three times. They are Dave Boy Green. We are Sugar Ray Leonard. Next up Elliott had a header kicked off the line. Glorious.

It was surprising when Oxford scored. Myhill had produced an astonishing ave when he tipped a point-blank shot on to the top of the crossbar – though there was surely some Ox handball in the move – but he was powerless shortly afterwards. Delaney produced a brilliantly judged block at the expense of a corner, but the ball was floated into our box, headed against a post and turned smartly into the net by the alert Basham.

At 3-1 there was a brief moment of anxiety among the Circle tumult. Even the Oxford fans took time out from repeating word-for-word Vic Reeves skits and discussing how many lectures they wouldn’t go to next week to watch the game. They needn’t have bothered. Alsop skipped round the keeper and shot goalwards, but the last defender shovelled the ball out for a corner. Green lofted this to the near post where one of theirs, under pressure from Big Ben, obligingly nodded it into his own net. 4-1, and you know where you can stick your dove from above.

Time for some subs, but what’s this! It’s only our bestest hero of all. It’s Justin! On for Greeny. This I liked, and I liked it a lot. Whittle into central midfield with a roving brief – “get on there, Justin, spray a few forty-yard passes around, a few slick one-twos with Stuart Elliott, do that sitting-on-the-ball thing that Jim Baxter used to do”: I was rapidly re-assessing my opinion of Mr Taylor upwards, I can tell you. Sadly no. Justin to centre-back, where he kicked the ball forward quite hard on a couple of occasions, like he’s good at. Joseph to right-back. Hinds into midfield. If we get promoted before the end of the season I would like to see Justin play the last game as a Stanley Matthews-style on-the-whitewash winger (with the baggy shorts).

It was all so very splendid that a number of people spectating from the areas reserved to Hull City supporters left several minutes before the end. Lovely though it is to see crowds of over 20,000 inside our gorgeous stadium, the cold reality is that many haven’t done service when times were hard. Usually it’s impossible to distinguish the real fans from the glory-hunting floaters. But when someone trots off home early before the end of a game like this, unable even to spare a couple of minutes to thank the players, then it’s not hard at all. I feel a smart clip round the ear is the very minimum that these miscreants merit. Anyway. Holt replaced Alsop, and Forrester took over from Elliott. Into the 4 added minutes Oxford punted a no-nonsense free-kick through our ragged wall past an unsighted Myhill and then it was finished and we had won stirringly by 4 goals to 2.