A largely spiritless performance until 0-3 down, the Tigers are soundly beaten by play-off chasing Wolves.

Foreign names, eh, how do you pronounce them? Take, for example, Vaz Te. Now, is that Te as in the silvery river that is Perthshire’s finest? Or is it Te as in a nice pot of Darjeeling with crumpets drowning in butter? I feel I need to know. If it is Te as in Tay, then the following works:

There once was a player called Vaz Te Who made me weep every week with dismay Our manager’s crazy To sign someone so lazy We’d be better off picking Tanni Grey.

But if Te is properly spoken as Tea, then that just won’t do at all. In that case it would have to be:

There once was a player called Vaz Te Who Bolton offloaded with glee Lazy, outrageous He’s stealing his wages We’d be better off picking Rusty Lee.

You will, perhaps, have to bear with me as I seek to beat down the persistent gut-wrenching stream of vile bile that has contaminated my body since about 5 to 3 yesterday when I discovered that Vaz Te’s feckless dishonest displays as sub had been rewarded by a place in the starting line-up at Molineux. A shocking managerial decision, and an atrocious piece of man-management. What must the rest of the squad, especially full-time contracted Hull City players, think when this minstrel with gossamer-thin commitment is parachuted straight into a relegation battle which so blatantly makes him yawn with disinterest?

Anyway. Bright Easter Monday, plenty of gaps around the old gold home, but still a crowd nudging 20,000:

Myhill
Ricketts Turner Delaney Dawson
Parlour Ashbee Peltier
Forster Windass Vaz Te

So, 4-3-3, and Forster and Vaz Te swapped sides periodically – to be precise, Forster selected some intelligent and thoughtful options which involved occasionally moving over to the left, while Vaz Te did his best to go wherever the ball was not, and on the few occasions on which a tackle loomed he shrank away like a 7-year old girl offered the chance to go into the woods to see some puppies.

And the game settled into a rather scrappy, but more-or-less even, shape. The only moment of early alarm occurred on 9 when skinny frontman Keogh scooted all-too-easily clear of our backline, but Delaney chased back to harry the striker and his rushed shot was easily blocked by Myhill.

But we were behind on 19.

Messy, shapeless, lack of concentration. Our defence was pulled over to the right, and when a looping cross was delivered into the heart of the penalty area the lanky Bothroyd had managed to isolate poor wee Andy Dawson as his immediate adversary. Bothroyd outjumped him in routine fashion and headed past Myhill with the minimum of fuss.

How had we been pulled so easily out of our defensive positions? I fear the video is going to make disappointing viewing for those who, like me, are fans of Damien Delaney.

A minute later we had a very plausible shout for a penalty after a blatant handball inside the box, but after the referee had shrugged his shoulders on that one the game slipped inevitably away from us like fetid water down a drain.

Remarkably enough, Vaz Te was not our worst player. That badge of honour belongs to Ian Ashbee. I despise Vaz Te’s lack of professional pride but I can’t dislike Ashbee. Tough, determined, and a major factor in two promotions. But it is painful to watch him right now. His positional sense was never a major asset, but he looks woefully lost too much of the time right now. His passing was always erratic at best, but now he seems only rarely able to find a team-mate. That leaves us with his workrate and leadership to cherish, and, sad to say, even those don’t at present look remotely good enough to cope in this Division. Pelltier was playing left side, but closer to the centre than in his two previous (listless) appearances, while Parlour was passing the ball with a pleasing crispness absent from the Norwich debacle and so we were just about coping in midfield. But that was in spite of Ashbee, not because of him.

A second goal for Wolves is looming. It looks likely to involve Michael Kightly, a very lively and menacing right-sided forward, and on 35, after Ashbee squanders possession criminally, Kightly hares down the right and delivers an inviting low cross which just eludes his team-mates. It’s not long in coming though. Kightly loops a ball into the middle, gliding easily on to the meaty forehead of Olofinjana and thence into the ground and bouncing into corner of the net. The Wolves player will have been surprised there was no opponent within spitting distance. I know I was.

Our attacking threat had been confined to an awkward shooting opportunity for Forster, which he’d screwed wide of the near post. Vaz Te had offered nothing – I may already have implied this – and Windass, starved of service, had mooched around disconsolately. Ten years ago he’d’ve got himself sent off in frustration. He’s wiser now. But from somewhere we needed a flash of anger, of defiance, of sheer bloody-minded will. There was no such spark on Friday, there was no such spark yesterday. The whole tepid attitude reeks of submission to relegation.

Half-time. A double change. Off comes Pelltier, who’d been poor though a shade better than against Southend and Norwich. And off comes Vaz Te. Or maybe he just couldn’t be bothered to wander back down the tunnel. Whatever. Do, if you wish, allocate credit to our manager for using the half-time break for this exercise in incisively cutting out the wilfully half-paced cancer at the heart of our team. I won’t. He picked them. He brought loan players to the club who’ve swanned around with supreme contempt for our predicament and for our fans. And our Chairman will not have been impressed by our manager’s poor judgement, I think.

Marney’s on, so’s Elliott. And it’s 3-0.

Yes, we lasted a good ninety seconds of the second half before allowing Wolves to put this game to bed. Flabby defending down our left, a cross poked towards Bothroyd, a smart finish, and poor Damien Delaney watching from a respectful distance as if the matter of marking the striker had temporarily slipped his mind.

Shockingly inept. And, worse, rancidly lame and limp when the League table says we should be anything but.

The City support, scattered along the length of the lower Steve Bull stand, was as quiet as I’ve heard it in a long while and the Wolves fans took to prompting each other, largely ignoring our sullen presence. Paying 27 quid had doubtless curtailed our travelling numbers. Watching such an abject display had doubtless silenced those who did rumble apprehensively into the Black Country. Still, quality counts, not quantity. And I was seated just behind tiger-chat legend Victor Markham and only a few seats from a man who is – if it is possible – even more famous. Johnny Francome. Really, it was him, crinkly smile, dark if greying curls and leg muscles wrought from iron. I was awed. A fellow fan informs me he is the uncle of Sam Ricketts. If this is so, Sam Ricketts is my new Favourite City Player Ever. And I shall be disappointed if Lester Piggott isn’t at Stoke.

An hour gone, and Forster has a shot that is on-target. Woo! It’s saved, of course, but we’re improving, yes? A bit. A couple of minutes later and the Wolves defence caves in, each player expecting a team-mate to apply a hoof to the ball, and Forster is allowed to cavort gleefully clear and smash the ball past the exposed Budtz. 3-1.

Wolves promptly open us up down the other end but Keogh, well positioned down the left after a good move, shoots from an absurdly narrow angle and sees his effort easily stopped by Boaz. A calm square ball would have had Wolves queueing up to score. But the disease is contagious. On 68, Ashbee finds Windass, on to Elliott … he needs only to lay the ball square where Forster has made a fine run towards the back post, but he shoots hopelessly tamely.

It’s lively stuff now, a proper game, and had we hauled it back to 2-3, there’s no knowing how jittery Wolves, beaten 6-0 last time they played at home, might have become. Their attackers are becalmed now and we are the better side. Parlour shoots – smartly saved. Bridges replaces Parlour and we adopt a 4-2-4, with Ricketts pushing forward aggressively from right-back and Marney looking as lively as he has all season.

This is what we want. So why didn’t we get even a sniff of it during the grisly first hour of this match?

We don’t get the necessary second goal. There are five added minutes but we’ve run out of ideas.

Scrawled on the piece of paper I used for yesterday’s jottings is the allegation ‘5-0’. I didn’t put it there. It is an intrusion authored by Mike Scott, sometime match reporter on this list and father figure to Amber Nectar’s popular post-pampers generation. He asserted this prediction midway through the first-half yesterday and I wasn’t inclined to protest. So let us be thankful that we ultimately escaped from the Black Country with a beating that amounted to a mere two goal margin. But let us also be clear that Wolves toyed with us for much of the time after taking a 3-0 lead and that we obtained only ignominy and dismay from this humbling. I’ve been expecting us to stay up this season (with little to spare) because we’re not rubbish, we’re just desperately inconsistent. After this brace of reverses a reassessment presses. We’re rubbish. At least we have been over Easter.

HULL CITY (4-3-3): Myhill; Ricketts, Turner, Delaney, Dawson; Parlour, Ashbee, Peltier; Forster, Windass, Vaz Te.  Subs: Elliott (for Peltier, 46), Marney (for Vaz Te, 46), Bridges (for Parlour, 78), Coles, Duke.

Goals: Forster 61

Booked: Ashbee, Forster, Parlour

Sent Off: None

WOLVERHAMPTON WANDERERS: Budtz, Little, Breen, Craddock, McNamara, Kightly, Olofinjana, Potter, McIndoe, Bothroyd, Keogh.  Subs: Collins (for McNamara, 57), Gleeson (for McIndoe, 78), Ward (for Bothroyd, 78), Hennessey, Davies. 

Goals: Bothroyd 18, 47; Olofinjana 39

Booked: Olofinjana, Ward

Sent Off: None

REFEREE:  P Joslin

ATTENDANCE: 20,772