A strong first half performance fails to yield goals and the Tigers capitulate meekly in the second half to an organised but limited Stoke side.

You have the neighbours round for a drink just before Christmas. There’s one you really don’t want to invite. A bit whiney, petty, small-minded, lacking in grace or even a whiff of humour, he always sits in the corner picking his plukes and exuding a faint humming hint of stale sweat, refusing to take off his elderly zipped-up Parka festooned with Thin Lizzy badges. But it’s Christmas, you have to invite everyone or no-one. So, trying desperately to summon up the spirit of giving, you issue the invitation. And, same as every year, he turns up with a bottle of warm Liebfraumilch, winking at you, saying ‘the ladies’ll love this eh!’ before taking up his customary brooding station in the far recess of the front room, picking hula-hoops from the bowl and licking them before replacing them, farting then giggling, and succeeding in a self-appointed task to cast an immoveable pall of fetid gloom over the festive event.

That’s Stoke City, that is. Sitting in the corner. Dressed in grey, lacking poise and elegance, concerned only to ensure you put nothing from later than 1973 on the gramophone.

And it’s always been the same. Admittedly, we haven’t had them round every year, particularly not recently, but the dismal suffocating effect of Stoke City has been tormenting the Hull City party for too long now. They come, they’re grim, they win. Last night’s reverse was by no means as agonising as the FA Cup Quarter Final in 1971 (lost 2-3 after Waggy had put us 2 up, young people), nor as history-denying as the defeat in the Watney Cup Final at the old Victoria Ground a couple of years later, nor even as wretched as the 0-4 capitulation at the Ark in the 1980s. But it was dispiriting because it was so mournfully familiar. We played better than Stoke. And lost to them.

Bowing the knee to history on a pleasant early Autumn evening:

Myhill
Coles Cort Delaney Edge
France Welsh Curtis Elliott
Barmby Brown

When we arrived in this Division, how we looked forward to meeting opponents whose name we actually recognised. Palace had proper internationals on Saturday. Stoke? Michael Duberry. And a very fat Ed de Goey. How we chortled! Ah, hubris. And yet we opened them up on the first of many occasions only 6 minutes in, as Stoke lost the ball pitifully in midfield, Brown transferred it on to Barmby down the right, who squared it to Woodhouse Curtis who, under no pressure, struck a disappointing shot high over the bar at the North Stand end. Stoke’s turn next, and a heavily deflected shot flies past the wrong-footed Myhill’s right-hand post. In fact, for the first quarter of an hour Stoke are surprisingly ambitious. But then the game turns sharply in our favour.

On 17 Elliott surges down the left and slides a pass inside to Barmby inside the box. Nicky tumbles to the turf under pressure from full-back Broomes, appeals for a penalty and is utterly outraged when he doesn’t get it. He berates the linesman, howls at the referee. Didn’t look a penalty to me. A simple collision. But a minute later Duberry forcibly holds down Brown inside the box and we appeal a great deal less urgently even though, for me, this really was a clear-cut penalty.

Stoke are there for the taking now. Some of our passing is intricate, incisive and hugely pleasing. But it’s not quite enough to shred a stubborn last line. The closest call arrives on 26 when de Goey limply paws out a cross and, amid a frantic melee deep inside the box, it seems to me that not once, but twice, shots flying goalwards are inadvertently blocked by flailing bodies wearing amber-and-black. Desperate bad luck.

Stoke are hanging on, niggling, naggling, noggling, timewasting, fouling, spoiling the party, which may well be their club motto. We look able to slice them open in the air and on the ground. But we can’t quite do it.

On 37 Elliott collapses to the floor as a free-kick is lofted into the box. The ref books him. The official, one Colin Webster, was right on the spot and there was little dissent from City. Not one of Stuart Elliott’s more glorious moments.

On 40, Brown plays a fine pass and a low Barmby shot is held by de Goey. On 45 a Welsh drive brings a nervous punch from de Goey, and the ball spins away for a corner. From it, France thumps a header against the crossbar. It’s half-time, we’re well on top, but it’s goal-less.

What occurred at half-time will, I think, be forgotten by those present only when the man with the scythe comes calling. To call it the strangest thing I’ve ever seen at a football match would be to undersell it. It is likely the strangest thing I have seen anywhere. Description that does it justice will surely escape me. But I try. It involved, in short, three groups, each comprising four Royal Marines in uniform, who came out and took up position on mats, one at North Stand end, one at South Stand end and one in the middle, towards West. We were promised a display of unarmed combat. And they proceeded to pretend to run at each other, fall over each other’s shoulders, pinch baseball bats from each other and brandish them like cheerleaders in an Iowa highschool and throw those really silly joke punches that stop about a foot away from the supposed target. Tarts. Utter comedy – Tally Ho Kaye, Les Kellett, Jim Breaks, your legacy is secure. In the absence of an Iraqi strapped to a forklift truck this footling display got what it deserved – guffawing derision. Still, pride of place goes to the routine which promised us ‘three ways to disable an enemy sentry’. Route 1 involves strangling him, route 2 is to jump on top on his head and wriggle round a bit, and route 3 is to punch him in the tummy a few times. The main thing that I learned from this was that it is especially important to make sure that when you sneak up on him your target sentry always looks the wrong way, even when lots of people nearby are bawling ‘BEHIND YOU!’.

Back to the football, gentle people.

At half-time, Price replaced France – seemingly like-for-like, but surprising because, unless France was injured, there was simply no need for it. We were playing perfectly well. And, admittedly, we continued to do so for a while. On 48 an ambitious Woodhouse volley was deflected wide and, from the corner, Cort headed wide. On the hour Price’s header caused alarm in the Stoke defence and Elliott forced the ample de Goey into a close-range smother. Chances enough to win the game. But what sort of formation were we playing? Well, Elliott was now playing mainly through the centre, and Price was cutting inside more than France had. Welsh drops into the holding role, in front of the back four. It is intended to provide more attacking power, I suppose. And it sort of works, I suppose – we’re well on top, for sure, as the second half takes shape.

An ever stranger shape. On 66 Brown, after a good performance, is replaced by Green. Price and Elliott now move up front. For about 90 seconds. Then Mr Taylor makes his third and final substitution, taking off the impressive Curtis for Burgess, so now it’s Elliott and Burgess up front, and poor Jason Price’s head is spinning as he wonders which position he’s not going to have filled come the final whistle.

It’s a bunch of substitutions and switching of formation that would have been hailed as tactical managerial masterstrokes had we won. But not by me. Such praise is always exaggerated. Since we lost, no doubt Mr Taylor will be accused of getting his subs wrong. Not by me. Blame of this type is always exaggerated. We didn’t play well in the later stages of the game. We ran out of steam, we ran out of ideas. I don’t suppose the odd pattern of substitutions helped and you could fairly ask why Barmby was left on the pitch looking exhausted for the last 20 or so minutes. And Elliott may have been suffering from a dose of ‘international fatigue’. But it’s not Mr Taylor’s fault that Burgess looked desperately ponderous, nor that Green was woefully ineffective.

Stoke had hit the bar on 55 when the otherwise useless Sidibe found space for a free header, and on 62 a fast break had allowed ex-Hibee Harper to fire wastefully wide. But these were isolated moments and the visitors were strictly second-best. Stoke’s support managed a vibrant version of Delilah, their theme song (though unaccountably so), during the second half but their numbers were shockingly thin – 500 or so. Traditionally a well-backed club, they must be in steep decline. I do hope so. But they were about to burgle the points.

On 74 a messy passage of play in midfield resulted in Stoke carrying the ball down the left, sending in a cross which eludes two attackers, before Harper, on the right, hammers the ball back across the face of the goal where it is turned in first-touch by Gallagher. Players and supporters celebrate – with a degree of astonishment, I think.

We were weary and unsophisticated for the minutes that remained. Three up front – Barmby, Elliott, Burgess. Cort joined in later. But, aside from calls to get the squaddie with the baseball bat on the pitch, the only real hint of a successful rescue mission came on 81 when Price deftly headed a ball square across the face of the goal for Burgess, just five yards out, equally deftly to guide the ball wide of the post. This was really a dreadful waste.

Pasty-faced partypoopers Stoke kept the ball for most of the minutes that remained, newbie ‘footie fans’ left early, mingling with those old-timers who just know that Stoke City spells Trouble, and that concludes our first unarguably Poor Result Of The Season.

Rubbish we certainly weren’t. But we need more flair going forward and more ferocity in the box. Fagan may be back on Saturday. That would work for me.

HULL CITY (4-4-2): Myhill; Coles, Cort, Delaney, Edge; France, Woodhouse, Welsh, Elliott; Brown, Barmby.  Subs: Price (for France, 45), Green (for Brown, 65), Burgess (for Woodhouse, 67), Ellison, Duke.

Goals: None

Booked: Elliott

Sent Off: None

STOKE CITY: de Goey, Buxton, Hoefkens, Duberry, Broomes, Harper, Brammer, Henry, Kolar, Sidibe, Gallagher.  Subs: Russell (for Henry, 45), Dyer (for Harper, 83), Junior (for Kolar, 89), Taggart, Duggan.

Goals: Gallagher 74

Booked: Gallagher, Henry, Kolar, Sidibe

Sent Off: None

REFEREE: C Webster

ATTENDANCE: 18,692