Another thrilling Yorkshire derby sees the Tigers come from behind to beat a silently supported Huddersfield, the black spot being the injury inflicted on Stuart Elliott by serial elbower Efe Sodje.

Huddersfield are a team we owe a thrashing. A proper one, administered with a suitably whippy riding crop, cracked mercilessly and persistently over roasted West Riding rump, turning their backside not simply pink with punishment but red with revenge. Such is the price they must be forced to pay for slamming us twice at their place in the last two seasons and taking an all-too-cosy draw off us at the Circle last April while robbing Ben Burgess of a year of his prime into the bargain.

This was not that eagerly awaited thrashing. In fact for almost all of a dismally drab first half both teams were coyly waving feather dusters at each other rather than getting stuck into the only corporal punishment that counts, that which has the miscreant unwilling to sit down for a week. Things got a shade spicier during the second half, but even so this was not the No Limits session that a man needs to satisfy his sterner requirements at the dawn of a New Year. Still, we beat them – albeit by no means sufficiently robustly – and we collected three more points, and we’ve now won eight in a row. It’s not all bad, I feel. But Huddersfield are still due a damn’ good horsewhippin’ some time soon.

It’s a grey day, it’s a blustery day. We’re shorn of Barmby, Edge is eased out, and Joseph is missing too. We card:

Myhill
Angus Cort Delaney Dawson
Green Ashbee Keane Elliott
Facey Walters

But we don’t start straight away. It’s a window of opportunity for our well-meaning clot of a club chaplain to bumble his way through a few scarcely comprehensible remarks about the recent tragedies of South East Asia, and it’s a minute’s silence. Why o why football feels the need preen itself with such affectation of sanctimonious condolence while other public gatherings (cinemas, foxhunts, Debenham’s sales …) do not is far beyond me. But, hey, we’ve been down this dead-end street often enough in the past on tiger-chat. For me, it brought only accusatory stares from my fellow match–reporters. “We’ll not be left wanting on a tasteless tsunami-related comment in today’s report if you please, Stephen” they chorused, in a manner that brooked no protest. Match reporting. Some of us might make it look easy. You, gentle reader, have no idea of the truth of it. The pressure, the intensity ….

You’d’ve needed a pretty sensitively calibrated monitor to spot any intensity once this football match kicked off. For a derby match, it was flabby. For any sort of match, it was flabby. It bore no relation to the vivid hues of Wednesday night. It didn’t help that Hudders, ostensibly a Proper Football Club with a bit of tradition and achievement to boast about, brought only half as many fans as Donny. Worse still, the blue-and-white who did show up had their gobs gummed securely shut from start to finish. Honestly, add this Hudders debacle to the sight of Bradford fetching a paltry 500 along the M62 earlier this season, and you – though, of course, not fair-minded me – might reckon the West Riding to be home to the biggest bunch of “talk big, walk small” bores and braggarts to be found this side of your nearest Rugby league supporter. But the football is rotten too. The visitors have a frisky striking duo, but little to offer in a midfield that looks pleasingly lightweight. They’ve come to Hull with little ambition in their play. We are – painfully, profoundly – missing Barmby. There is neither invention nor pace in our play. No width, either. Either Green is feeling the pressure of expectation as he attempts to understudy Barmby’s demonstration of the art of deft control, neat passing and clever off-the-ball movement, or else he spent Hogmanay wolfing down eggnog-infused Double Diamond backed by a cascade of brandy and babycham chasers. Either way, it’s not working wonders and he’s not putting a foot right. It’s not much fun, and the home support’s primary entertainment is the abuse of ‘keeper Rachubka, he who (entirely accidentally) exploded Burgess’s knee last Spring. Slim pickings.

We’d produced a bright moment inside the 2nd minute of play when Green had swept a decent pass to Facey down the left. He rolled the ball back into the path of Walters near the penalty spot, but the shot was charged down by an attentive defender. That was the sum total of our attacking efforts for the first half an hour, if you discount – as you surely should – an absurd sprawl inside the box by Facey which referee Danson correctly ignored despite optimistic yells for a penalty from the bored crowd. The best chance inside the first half-an-hour fell to Hudders when fair-haired stick insect McAliskey skipped clear inside the box and belted a left-foot shot which Myhill alertly tipped over the bar.

Half-an-hour in, the rain is falling, the clouds are scudding across the speckled sky above the Circle, and dashes of pink and blue flash up across the horizon as the sun falls gently into the West. Football? Ahem …..

On 32 we perked up as Elliott shoved his immediate opponent out of the way to set up a crossing opportunity. (Of course it was a foul but Elliott is HOTTT!!! right now and a top-flight ref like Mr Danson uses his common sense on an occasion such as this and, like an umpire turning down an appeal against W. G. Grace when his stumps have been sent flying to the four winds, he simply allows play to continue so the crowd can relish the excellence of their chosen hero). Elliott completes his task with divine elegance by placing his cross on the Walters forehead, unmarked at the near post, just six yards out from goal.

Walters heads lamely wide.

On 40 the game acquires a goal. Nope, I assuredly did not expect that. And, still more unexpected, it’s quite a good goal. Huddersfield win a throw on half-way, in front of the East Stand. The ball is hurled down the wing, slipped inside, squared again, and eventually reaches one of theirs, horribly unmarked at the back of the box. Myhill races off his line but is sidestepped and the ball is whacked into our unguarded net. The scorer is Kirk Brandon and, with Jon Moss running the line, there is a strong whiff of the early 80s about the proceedings. Boy George as spongeman, perhaps? We’re all friends in football after all. Anyway, it’s rotten defending, to top off a thoroughly listless display from our team.

I thought we’d lose now, but we’re level in less than a couple of minutes.

Facey shows great strength on the edge of the box to collar possession. He swivels confidently and picks out a delightful ball inside the full-back for Elliott to run on to. The Ulsterman simply smacks it into the net. 1-1. Easy as that. Crikey. In fact Elliott received the ball at such a narrow angle that he had no business even thinking about a shot. He should’ve squared it. But he is King Midas right now, and when he thrashed the shot low at Rachubka there was a sense of inevitability. It’s Elliott. He shoots. He scores. It’s what he does. What price could you put on this man? He’s worth more than a snorkel in the Maldives.

Mr Taylor takes the opportunity provided by half-time to freshen up a team that has served up a rank 45 minutes. Out goes Walters, in comes Wilbraham. No one could argue with the former. Walters was eager enough, but simply looked sub-standard, and missed the sole chance that fell to him. As to the latter … well, Wilbraham’s got plenty to prove. A debut goal would help.

It took him three minutes.

We started the second half in lively fashion as Green sped down the right and placed a deft cross on to Facey’s nut, only for the striker to head tamely wide. (“I can do that Mr Taylor!”, murmurs Walters J on the bench). Shortly afterwards a fine ball forward (from Cort? from Ashbee? I don’t know!) allowed Angus to stretch his legs. This lad can shift. Our most exciting right-back debutant since Charlie Palmer exploded on to the ball, surged forward and then produced a delightful curving cross deep into the penalty area. Wilbraham had timed his run to perfection and, having lost his marker, was able to steer a header past Rachubka from about eight yards out.

If Angus can’t get a game for Cambridge United then they must be a decent bet for a UEFA Cup place this season. As for Wilbraham, it wouldn’t be entirely fair to say he’s deserved this goal. He hasn’t. But I hope this will be the making of him. His career record insists he’s got plenty to offer us, even if his modest on-field contributions so far dispute that.

A tepid game improves markedly. For a period of ten minutes or so after the hour the pattern of play becomes fragmented but exciting and appealingly bitter. Keane and Brandon clash meatily. It’s 6 and 2 3s, though Keane takes the honours for the “falling down like a tart and clutching his face” contest which is currently so popular within the professional game. A couple of players are shot with Uzis, two more throttled with piano wire while five others are disembowelled with bayonets, but quite rightly no one complains, it’s a man’s game after all isn’t it? I am however pleased to be able to record that no one was spat at – spitting really is the lowest of the low, nothing is worse, and I am sure we all agree that we have to stamp it out of the English game. Ref Danson calls it about right and yellow-cards both Keane and Brandon. Neither is impressed and both seek sly retribution for the next few minutes. Love it! That’s my kind of football!

Wilbraham pounces on a defensive error and releases Elliott, who wastes space by sending a cross sailing high over the crossbar. Then a vicious left foot shot from the rather good Nathan Clarke is beaten away by flying Myhill, diving full-length to his right. This is fun now. Elliott’s testing them down the left, the indefatigably excellent Sodje is holding them together through the middle. Generous offside calls help them out too. We’re the better side, but there’s not a great deal in it: at 2-1, the score line tells an accurate tale.

Into the last ten and, what’s this in this season of novelties - well, it’s only a typhoon. I exaggerate, I suppose, but for five minutes cold rain poured down with ferocious velocity and a gale whipped the storm into the hounds of hell. Supporters sitting in the front rows of the East Stand scurried up the aisles in search of cover - even five seconds of exposure to the teeming torrents guaranteed a spot-on drowned rat impersonation. It helped us on the pitch, I think, as the Hudders players were unable to settle down and play in search of an equaliser. We were therefore spared the hair-tearing fragility of our attempts to defend a lead against Donny. In fact the storm was so severe that for a moment or two an abandonment didn’t seem out of the question. But it eased, and Price replaced Green, and then Elliott, who took an innocuous-looking knock in the face in his own penalty box, came off for Junior. Junior pointed quite a lot for the three or so minutes that remained. And then we had won. Again.

I am sure I wasn’t the only tiger-chatter to be delighted to see Kelly Holmes honoured by Her Majesty this New Year for services to remarkable improvement in performances and muscle definition at an advanced age, but this game was not a fitting way to tip us into what we hope will be a 2005 to match our glittering 2004. But never mind. Grinding out three points? Guilty, m’lud. Take a look at that League Table. We’re doing plenty right, though, with Barmby out and fears that Elliott’s early departure from this game may have been caused by damage more serious than initially supposed, suspension and injuries might now be about to become tricky opponents .

HULL CITY (4-4-2): Myhill; Angus, Cort, Delaney, Dawson; Green, Ashbee, Keane, Elliott; Walters, Facey.  Subs: Wilbraham (for Walters, 45), Price (for Green, 86), Lewis (for Elliott, 89), Duke, Allsopp.

Goals: Elliott 42; Wilbraham 49

Booked: Angus, Keane, Price

Sent Off: None

HUDDERSFIELD TOWN: Rachubka, Holdsworth, Clarke, E Sodje, Lloyd, Brandon, Schofield, Worthington, Carss, Abbott, McAliskey.  Subs: Mendes (for Schofield, 77), Fowler (for Worthington, 81), Senior, A Sodje, Brown.

Goals: Brandon 40

Booked: Brandon

Sent Off: None

REFEREE: P Danson

ATTENDANCE: 22,291