A tremendous two goal start for the Tigers disintegrates into feeble defending, witless strike play and three away goals for a willing but hardly world-beating Barnsley side.

What must Mr Parkinson think?

I mean, I strongly suspect that, sunning himself in the California sun, he doesn’t bother with the English football results much these days, except to brush up on his favourites’ latest result and to re-invent his accent in case he’s due to deliver another teeth-grindingly self-important homily about coalfield values to a visiting English hack. But if we assume for a moment that the King of the Chatshows, lounging poolside, macrobiotic carrot daiquiri in hand, did raise an eyebrow and stifle a nervous cough at about two in the afternoon yesterday (LA time) when Mavis fed him the soccer results, then we’d be entitled to guess he’d muse “we won 3-2 away to Hull, eh? I must see if I can get Skinner Normanton on the show in the next series”.

“He’s dead” replies Mavis curtly, keeping a close eye on the ripples of Ramon the poolboy.

Meanwhile, on a warm summer's evening in East Yorkshire, we kicked off with the team that played most of the match on Saturday, that is, with France replacing Elliott in the starting line-up:

Myhill
Ricketts Turner Delaney Dawson
Fagan Marney Welsh France
Duffy Parkin

And we played a lively couple of attacking minutes before Barnsley, doubtless inspired by the swooping flight of their kestrel mascot, a traditional display of greeting which has been tawdrily copied by Benfica, suddenly ripped us apart. And Barnsley are not a side I had pegged as likely to rip us apart in this season of consolidation and promise (on hold). On 4 Devaney found hectares of space on the right and struck a fierce swervy shot which Myhill beat away awkwardly. Then, more alarming still, Devaney skipped clear of our creaking offside trap with practised ease and though Myhill raced off his line to smother, the ball broke free to another Barn (ex-Scun Hayes, I think) who fired a powerful shot towards the gaping net. Ha! Shut that gape! Andy Dawson hurtles into the picture and effects a magnificent block hard on the whitewash of the goal-line. Defending that’s worth a goal.

How the visiting throng, journeying in their tens up from remote Derbyshire, cheered this panache. Now we silenced them.

We’d already shown a liking for testing the visiting full-backs, but on 6 the examination was carried to a new level. Fagan sped past his man, driving powerfully inside the penalty box and providing an inviting low cross skimming along the edge of the six yard-box. Parkin’s current lack of mobility doesn’t matter when the service is shining silver, and the Beast calmly flicked the gift into the net. 1-0, this is a breathtaking beginning.

No time to inhale, and we’re two up. Colgan, in goal for Barnsley, moves confidently to take a bouncing ball inside his penalty area, but finds himself clattered by the Beast. Colgan crumples to the turf, the ball is transferred to the net from a narrow angle by the nonchalant Beast.

He’s not going to give that. Surely.

He does. The ref concocts a peculiar mime, crossing his arms energetically in front of him as if trying to do the bit in the Haka before you slap your elbows and stick out your tongue, and it dawns on me he’s trying to convey NO GOAL! I’m wrong. He’s trying to convey NO FOUL!

Now, that’s generous.

The referee? One Scott Mathieson. A strutting little Napoleon, officious and a shockingly poor judge of a football match. Seared in my memory is his gutless display on a hostile afternoon in South Wales when he granted Swansea a ludicrous penalty against the faultless Justin Whittle and with it rescued the league status of a club from which it would have been richly rewarding to have stripped it. Here he stands revealed as a rampant homer. But, 2-0 up ten minutes into a game we by common consent just needed to win anyway, anyhow, I admit I was simply chortling with glee, content to goad the sullen Barnsley support, composed of a supine block sitting near to the corner of North and East and another smaller breakaway block away to the far left carrying a flag describing themselves as the Socialist Barnsley Supporters and headed by a peculiarly-coiffured man named Scargill, accompanied by Joe Gormley, gravel-voiced guest Mick McGahey and, sitting on his Jack Jones, Jack Jones.

What follows is one of the most colourfully flowing and appealing spells of football I’ve seen at a Hull City match for a while. On 19, excellent work down the left from France sets up Marney in space just inside the box; he slices a shot high and wide. Writing this on a grey morning, as the shrill radio picks out Hull City as one of the few teams without a point in what is vilely labelled The Championship, I’m seeing in my head Marney’s effort sailing inexcusably wastefully into the South Stand, but at the time, I admit, I was exhilarated by the pace of the match. This, I suppose, is Mr (Phil) Parkinson’s preferred hi-tempo football, and richly enjoyable it is too. On 22, France to Marney – better shot, beaten away by Colgan. 24, the Beast wins the ball in the box - - just ‘cos he can – and chips deftly if ambitiously on to the roof of the net. On 35, France, stretching at the back post, toe-ends an effort wide from close range. Even if we’d need to admit that if our government, currently presiding over a knife amnesty which is a well-crafted component of a modern criminal justice policy and not in any sense a cowardly surrender to the vindictive demands of our tabloid press, launched a defender amnesty then Barnsley would have every reason to turn in most of their jittery back four, the truth is that City are attacking with tremendous pace and conviction here. Parkin’s sheer bulk is a threat, Duffy slips and slides into all kinds of dangerous attacking positions, Fagan’s enjoying the width on the right, Marney and France push forward willingly and Welsh is again on top of his game in deep central midfield.

But the seeds of doom were already being sown. Barnsley, to their immense credit, kept pushing men forward and passing the ball around with pace. Their manager Brian Glover deserves credit for their enterprising attitude – it’s proper football (even if he’s not quite Bobby Charlton today). They’d come close on 32 as Hayes had found a criminal amount of space deep inside our box, only to squander the opening by heading tamely straight at Myhill from only eight yards. But shortly after the board is lofted to indicate the four extra minutes made necessary by Colgan’s recovery from his Beasting, damage is done. The visitors attack down their right, a low cross, turned into the net by McIndoe from close range. Myhill gets his glove on the ball but can’t keep it out – it’s not his fault, our back four looks worryingly unco-ordinated.

It could have been worse. On 45-plus-4 Myhill stands mesmerised, failing to collect a through ball or at least to order Turner to hoof it clear and suddenly, gruesomely, Richards has shown the decisivetude our players lack and he’s in the clear with only the exposed Myhill to beat. Thankfully his chip is feeble and flops into our goalkeeper’s hands.

So. Half-time. 2-1. A fast, open, vivid game. But Barnsley aren’t out of it.

And on 47 they’re level. A corner, a glancing header loops towards the far post, hits it, ball bounces on to the floor, is bundled over the line by a gleeful Barns.

Absence of reference to our defenders in the preceding paragraph is not an error. They didn’t get involved.

On 48 Parkin sets up Duffy for a shot but he’s (just) offside, but that hint that we can adjust and get back on top is an illusion. It’s going to a long second-half, and a deeply worrying one.

On 53 Andrews replaces Marney, but the game is scrappy. We’re defending listlessly – on this evidence Turner’s no Cort, while Ricketts is a Stockdale – but most of all the back-line looks nothing like a unit. There are too many nervous glances to check on teammates’ positions, and Myhill looks ever unhappier as the game progresses. On 59 the ball drops kindly to Fagan at the back post and he has time to size up a shot – he does all that, but then spears it high and wide. That’s so poor – you just HAVE to hit the target in such circumstances - but generally the speed and wit of our fluent first-half forward play has completely vanished.

67, Burgess for Parkin, The latter is just not fit. The former is, it pains me to say, impossible to imagine as effective in this Division. Big Ben lumbers and adds nothing. Duffy I like – fast, hungry, tricky, Scottish – but goals count, and he’s not counting. Fagan is not a natural wide man but doesn’t look like a proper goalscorer either. And I can’t seriously imagine us achieving our season’s target as a decent side perched happily midway in this Division with a player as limited as Andrews in the line-up.

At 2-2 we’re at least taking a point, but with just over quarter of an hour to play we lose even that. It’s a grotesque goal. Ricketts attempts a clearing header. It should go up the pitch. It should go out for a throw or a corner. It shouldn’t go looping crazily back across the crowded penalty area towards Myhill’s post. But that’s exactly where it does go. Myhill seems bewildered, very slow to make a move – did he lose the flight of the ball in the floodlights? – and a scramble ensues before the ball is rammed into our net. 3-2, Barnsley win.

We’re flabby and grey in the minutes that remain. On 75 Fagan is booked for being fouled, a reminder of Mr Mathieson’s incompetence, but this defeat isn’t the ref’s fault. We had the better of his eccentric decisions overall. Elliott comes on for Welsh, with France, one of our better performers on the night, moving into the centre, but there’s no respite from the crude clumsy pattern that has infected our football ever more painfully as the game has developed.

Three added minutes to nick a point, forget it.

Barnsley played attacking ambitious football in this game and they got precisely what they deserved. We were terrific going forward for most of the first half, though without ever suggesting this defence can convince, but overall we also got precisely what we deserved from this game.

HULL CITY (4-4-2): Myhill; Ricketts, Turner, Delaney, Dawson; Fagan, Welsh, Marney, France; Parkin, Duffy.  Subs: Andrews (for Marney, 52), Burgess (for Parkin, 66), Elliott (for Welsh, 76), Barmby, Duke.

Goals: Parkin 6, 9

Booked: Fagan

Sent Off: None

BARNSLEY: Colgan; Hassell, Reid, Kay, Heckingbottom, McIndoe, Togwell, Howard, Devaney, Hayes, Richards.  Subs: Wright (for Richards, 68), Williams (for McIndoe, 85), Tonge (for Howard, 89), Letheren, Austin.

Goals: McIndoe 45; Richards 49; Hayes 73

Booked: None

Sent Off: None

REFEREE: S Mathieson

ATTENDANCE: 18,207