Sunderland prove far too strong as they pass and move the Tigers into submission in front of City's highest League crowd for 30 years.

There's an excellent statue of Bob Stokoe outside the Stadium of Light. It shows him in the ecstatic throes of his immortal Wembley run of jubilation across the turf to goalkeeper Jimmy Montgomery after his team of Second Division rejects and journeyfolk had won the 1973 FA Cup.

It's brilliantly detailed - from the daft trilby on his head and brown mac round his strong, ex-centre back's shoulders (this despite being in tracksuit and full kit underneath, weirdly) to the meticulouly-shaped studs on his boots. So impressed was I by this permanent memento of football which can still make the sport, as one, smile (unless you support Newcastle, in which case your views are irrelevant; or Leeds, in which case you're sore losers) that I decided to photograph it.

Pointing the camera at the statue didn't, however, prompt the middle-aged couple swathed in red and white and enjoying two enormous roast beef butties to remove themselves from the vicinity, continuing to stand there as I clicked and snapped. Eventually, they noticed and laughed. "He's our Messiah," said the female beefeater. "He's responsible for our greatest day. Dunno when yours was, like, but it won't be today."

Ouch. Even her husband winced at this. I don't look like a hooligan (the last time I felt like physically assaulting the police was in 1985 when Sting decided to go solo) but he gave a look for a moment which suggested he feared an argument, a threat, a scrap. Sadly, there would be evidence of this from less cerebral and less sober branches of Tigers on Tour later on, which I'll come to. Anyway, instead of idly offering these two scamps the chance to step outside (although we were already outside, natch), being a real man, I cackled some sort of witty rebuff and walked away. Trust me, it was a reply Eric Morecambe would have paid for. However, my mood did change - it changed from the dual schools of thought that a) we were unlikely to be able to get anything here; and b) everyone could accept Roy Keane's marvellous job and privately have a mild admiration for his good work. Now I wanted Mackem blood, metaphorically, and I wanted this loudmouth female in floods of tears after a damned good mauling by the Tigers.

From the moment the whistle sounded it was absolutely clear that this wasn't going to happen. Spending half the game avoiding litter from a spoiling galeforce wind were...

Myhill
Ricketts Turner Delaney Dawson
Parlour Ashbee Livermore
Forster Windass Elliott

So the same XI which started at Luton, with Forster passed fit. The opening 20 seconds suggested this was a duff decision by Phil Brown, as he was outstripped with ease to the first long ball of the day from Ashbee and had barely half of the speed and tenacity which has so galvanised our season since the new year. Sunderland lined up with a similar formation than ours except with volumes more fluidity - when they attacked, they had an extra man over on whichever flank they chose to populate. When they defended, ditto. It did beg the question as to whether they had too many players on the park, such was the ease with which they dominated in numbers. I did count, and they weren't bending any rules. It was just that Elliott and, to a lesser extent, Parlour, weren't getting forward enough when we cleared and, certainly in the unwilling Elliott's case, getting back enough when the Black Cats (never quite understood that nickname; I know they had to ditch the Rokerites when they left Roker Park, but do they have lots of witches in Sunderland? Apart from the one I met at the statue?) charged forwards.

The conditions were poor, but the gusts were swirling and therefore didn't offer advantage to one particular side, and the Mackems dealt with it far better than City. By the time the Tigers began to adapt in any semi-acceptable manner, they were one down, thanks to that bane of our lives - the set-piece. Livermore conceded it on the Sunderland right, Whitehead bent in a beauty to the far post where centre back Evans, on loan from Manchester United and unfit (according to the same morning paper which claimed Rio Ferdinand had a busted rib and was out for, well, ever) climbed high and with alarming ease to nut the leather past a scrambling Myhill.

The noise from the home fans was deafening, and brought home the already clear-as-nose-on-face fact that if Southampton and Leicester had hired architects to build stadia to equal this, they hired wrong. The Stadium of Light (known in other areas of the north east as Joker Park) is magnificent, pretty much perfect. It's not over-ambitious (38,000+ there for this game) it's acoustically sensitive, it's accessible, it's not symmetrical and it's brazenly partisan (hence the banners detailing each of the dozen 1973 heroes hanging down - in a droll manner, the away concourse gets only David Young, the unused substitute who nearly fell down the Royal box steps while shaking the hand of the chairman's wife). It could do with some signage around the rest of the city. That's all.

Anyway, enough of this fair-minded garbage. City are a goal down to a team on form who are backed by an enormous, patient and ecstatic crowd. The revival of this season must feel as joyous as the despair of being the most laughed-at club in football history last season must have hurt. And City could now get a good going over.

A slight recovery. Forster is fouled as he shapes a shot on the edge; Windass wastes the free kick while the wall lines up and the Tigers fans sing Dawson's name. Forster then stretches to a ball which has bounced awkwardly from Dawson's long throw and shoots wide. Two chances which could have at least worked the keeper; neither did. This isn't very good. Forster is already struggling; Elliott is having a nightmare as he jogs directionlessly back and forth in the manner of those frequent performances by Le Tissier at Southampton when he didn't feel like being a genius and which ultimately robbed him of many more England caps.

Ward punts a huge goalkick downfield which Delaney can't clear properly, giving Connolly an excellent chance which he squanders via a hopeless slice. City fans mock him, but the opening was made golden by our own, and the catcalls mask the obvious concern. Despite the experience of the heavily-marked Parlour (whose 50 50s with Dwight Yorke hammered home how far we've come - six years ago these were 50 50s in an Arsenal v Manchester United match; now they're in a City league game....), City are reacting to the occasion; not inspired, but frightened. The windy conditions don't help, but there's more to this. It's as if those two wins have made us look at the table and label this one as a gimme for the opposition. After all, we can sort out Southend in a fortnight, can't we...?

Ricketts cuts in towards the edge of the box, but from his blocked shot Sunderland break mightily quickly, through Evans and Whitehead to Connolly, who ultimately mishits it thanks to an effective bit of wide-armed scaremongering by the onrushing Myhill. That should have been two. The fact that it isn't - and remains so to the break - is not to City's credit.

Towards half time, Windass is penalised oddly for climbing and continues the row with the ref for some time, his use of shoulder and arm gesture making sure the tiff is articulate and respectful, as somehow there's no card for dissent. The manager carries on the heated discussion with the sitting duck holding the substitute's board on the touchline. This is getting daft now. City are losing their discipline, but not, it seems with the opposition, who merrily spray the ball around, continue to gain ground from City's sluggish midfield cover and make chances.

City find room to break and win a free kick near the left edge. Livermore swings it in, Forster wins a back header and it loops over Ward and lands on the roof - our closest chance yet, and yet it wasn't especially close. The ball is retrieved sharpish and Sunderland exploit Elliott's one-legged approach to defending by charging down the right flank and giving Connolly another pop, although Delaney does well to get his body in its path and send the shot out for a corner. From it, Evans wins it with some cleanliness again, and Myhill makes a brilliant, brilliant save. Somehow it's still 1-0, and that's at least a reason to look forward to the second half.

Yorke heads another cross wide as City's midfield is shredded again by Sunderland's eagerness to get forward. This isn't quite the most one-sided half against City of the season (anyone who went to Colchester will back that up) but it must be close. City get to the call of injury time - just one minute of it - before finally applying any further pressure.

A set piece. Parlour goes for a combination of cross and shot and Ward has to tip it behind as Windass crashes in. The encouragement is massive, but irritatingly (yet probably lawfully) the ref decides to blow for half time just as Livermore is taking his two steps back prior to delivering the corner. Windass applauds him sarcastically and whinges further, and is still not carded. Off go the players, downstairs go the massive City following to finish off the lager and crush the plastic cups with Sunderland logos on them, on come ex-Tigers and, er, Rokerites John Hawley and Tony Norman (give him some gloves and a pastel blue kit, quick) to do the half time draw.

The second half, no changes, Forster still half-able. The arrival of a black flying creature (I don't know that it was a magpie, and I didn't have Bill Oddie's number to hand to send him a photo, but symbolically it seemed to be as the Sunderland fans booed it) hopped on to the pitch, seemingly unable to fly off due to the high winds. Such was the lack of belief that City would be able to haul their way back into this game, much of the focus of the fans around me was on whether the creature would be safe or not with balls and boots flying around. This was where the City display had taken us.

Let's see. Yorke gets more midfield room as the defence backs off - they couldn't have been more respectful if they had formed an orderly queue and put their shirts over the puddles to give the grinning Sugar Lounge life member a shot at goal - but he wasted it anyway. Murphy then exploits further room afforded by City's all-shalt-pass attitude and crosses dangerously for Delaney, stretching every Irish tendon, to poke out for a corner. The fact that it's still 1-0 is to neither team's credit, as City's willingness to fight is negligible and Sunderland's final ball and finishing is shambolic. But they're so much better than us. It's obvious, and we're oblivious. The manager isn't, as Marney, Barmby and Vaz Te get themselves warmed up, and the latter two are introduced for the ineffective Elliott (say what you like about Parkinson, but the last time Elliott played like this was on the opening day at West Brom, and the ex-boss swiftly saw how dismal he was and got rid before the half hour) and the limping Livermore. Forster ambles on, waiting for his turn. The magpie retires to sit on an advertising hoarding.

City then get away with daylight robbery twice in succession - it's just a shame that neither incident was an undeserved goal. Instead, Ashbee launches a two-footed tackle which doesn't even get a whistle, never mind a card of either colour (although a Mackem is unafraid to have a loud word with our halo-polishing skipper in the aftermath); then Turner handles a ball right on the edge of our area, and the ref doesn't give anything. City fans laughed, Sunderland's lot were rightly raging. Give us a point now and we'll laugh even more.

Of course, it isn't going to happen; although if it is, the chance Sunderland then contrive to spurn would irritate the coolly stanced, arm-folded Keane in front of the dug out far more than the non-decisions around Ashbee and Turner. Another counter attack, Leadbitter is released in absolute acres down the Mackem right, his low cross evades first Turner, then Myhill, leaving Connolly with a far post tap-in with an empty net and more deafening noise from the SoL. He misses. Badly. Dear, dear.

Myhill beats out a long-range Simpson shot, then recovers well to prevent Connolly from feeding off the bits. It's an onslaught, but something ridiculous, it seems, is going to have to happen for Sunderland to get another. Or - don't laugh - City to equalise. I hate to sound scathing of the team I adore, but it's keeping me sane after a performance we all were scared of seeing beforehand. I'll say it again; we were outplayed because we were petrified.

Forster is finally rescued by the bench, and on comes Marney, with a 4-2-4 now effectively - ok, maybe effectively in one context isn't the right word - in operation. Marney makes an impact in his usual way; firstly, by starting and nearly finishing City's best flowing move of the game which involved the other two subs (Marney's shot is blocked by Evans) and then by giving the first defender a doozy of a free kick (which, if Marney's delivering it, becomes tautological, really) when everybody had eagerly gone forward in search of an equaliser. Why does he get the set-piece gig? Why not Parlour? Why?

As the magpie returns to the pitch, Sunderland counter for one final push for certainty. As this is happening, the stadium announcer reveals the 38,000+ turnout (awesome) and then thrice asks City fans to stay in their seats after the game. Not overly surprising a request, nor too taxing either, irrespective of public transport arrangements. However, this is not met with what you might call "approval" from some of the less gentile elements of Tigers on Tour. It wasn't in my vicinity of the away end, and I'm rarely one for standing up to watch an argument to my left or right when there's football still being played ahead of me, but it was obvious that the local gendarmes had some work to do. There did seem to be a larger collective of drunken louts there than normal, and even Leeds didn't prompt tensions between the uniform and the black and amber quite like this.

Anyway, Sunderland lose possession on halfway and Turner backpasses to Myhill. The wind is howling, there's litter right in front of him, but even I couldn't say that our custodian's awful miskick across his own goal was down to the ball being minutely diverted by a breeze or a stray chip tray. The ball screwed across towards substitute John, who is forced slightly wide by the spin, but still has just enough room to find the net and seal the win before Myhill, in a lung-bursting effort to right his wrong, can get across. 2-0, and the traffic-dodgers aren't even permitted to escape the injury time. The magpie leaves the stadium, having seen enough. We're not allowed to do likewise.

The whistle goes. We deserved nothing and got it. Three biggies for Sunderland, while City's position changes almost not at all, despite a freakish win for that hateful QPR side at Leicester. Southend and Leeds cancel each other out (good); Burnley lose again (amazed that Cotterill is still in a job) and Barnsley also get a spanking. It's ok, after all, we were never going to get anything from this, were we? Ahem.

After the game, everybody got up and waited for the doors to be opened. Eventually, we were allowed out of the exits into a heavily cordoned area and, finally, on to the street. Some inebriated Tigers fans tried charging the mounted police towards Mackems on the other side (and I hope they got their testicles kicked clean off by one of those horses - you don't mess with them, seriously - I'd be far more scared of a police horse than a grumpy police Alsatian with a rubber band round its scrotum). I was parked the opposite way so only saw it briefly threaten to kick off, but it was clear that we'd not had a day like this in our Championship adventure - this season or last - and City and the vast majority of its support can feel let down.

A fortnight's break ahead then, which will do the ageing limbs of Parlour, Forster and especially Windass some good. Southend's visit kicks off the final, vital stage of this heart-wrenching but mind-enhancing season and that game is the first of four at the Circle which should be our manager's basis of survival. Win them, or at least get nine points from them, and we'll be okay, irrespective of what happens at Molineux (we'll be overcharged horribly and get rained on), the Britannia (we'll have a good laugh at stadium and city) and Ninian (we'll be on our best behaviour, just like the home fans always are).

That mouthy Mackem bird was right. And I kind of knew she would be.

HULL CITY (4-3-3): Myhill; Ricketts, Turner, Delaney, Dawson; Parlour, Ashbee, Livermore; Forster, Windass, Elliott.  Subs: Vaz Te (for Elliott, 53), Barmby (for Livermore, 54), Marney (for Forster, 74), Coles, Duke.

Goals: None

Booked: Delaney

Sent Off: None

SUNDERLAND: Ward, Simpson, Nosworthy, Evans, Collins, Whitehead, Yorke, L Miller, Murphy, Stokes, Connolly.  Subs: Wallace (for L Miller, 63), Leadbitter (for Stokes, 64), John (for Connolly, 83), T MIller, Fulop.

Goals: Evans 2, John 90

Booked: None

Sent Off: None

REFEREE:  A Bates

ATTENDANCE: 38,448