Finally some spirit - the Tigers match an aggressive but limited Stoke side, whose lead came from a spawny shot that span in off Andy Dawson's head, and claim a point with an injury time Nick Barmby equaliser.

I admit that I have never relished the sight of away fans, togged up in their replica shirts and their acrylic scarves, pootling round Hull City Centre like they own the place. Nor do I rest easy when I see garishly enambered Hull City supporters wandering the streets of tough Northern towns without a care in the world, grinning aimlessly at home supporters as if they are their friends. Football is not like a trip to Alton Towers or Flamingo Park. Or at least it shouldn’t be. Football needs to be raw, edgy, adversarial. Or else it’s just another disposable Entertainment For The Family. Then again, I wouldn’t wish on the gilded youth of today the alarmingly exaggerated adrenalin rush that a couple of generations ago attended visits to the likes of Burnden Park, Bramall Lane, don’t forget, Stoke’s Victoria Ground. You had to mind your ps and qs, and every other letter of alphabet too. It’s gone, though, hasn’t it? Those extremes?

Well, passion, violence, tribalism, madness, they were back yesterday at the end of the game as Stoke’s maniacs surrounded the City pen, generating electrifying bursts of violence as the flimsy separation fence came under pressure. Skirmishing followed outside the ground, as luckless Hull groups, some including children, were targeted. We weren’t back in the 1980s, because if we had been the policing would have been cheerfully savage whereas yesterday it was lettuce-limp and utterly ineffectual, but there was a genuine throwback whiff of wanton evil. No, I don’t want to see it back in our game. But no, I don’t go big on sympathy on those who found that making their way around the alleyways of Stoke-on-Trent in a Hull City shirt was no picnic. It was, perhaps, an exercise in education. Treat it like that first attempt to top off a gallon of chemically-confected modern lager with half a bottle of cherry brandy, found lurking at the back of your parents’ drinks cabinet when you stagger home at 3 in the morning. Or that first fumbled, sticky and mercifully brief rummage with an equally inexperienced partner. Learn from it. Move on. It gets better.

Well, I can’t guarantee that.

‘To the football!’, I hear you cry.

Well, there wasn’t a lot of that to savour. This was a match of poor quality, and both sides were for the most part appallingly clueless in the final third. There were long spells when you groaned for our witlessness, but Stoke were generally little better and sometimes worse. So we just about deserved to last-minute them. And, you don’t need me to add, that could prove a pivotal goal in our club’s development.

Myhill
Ricketts Turner Delaney Dawson
Parlour Ashbee Peltier
Forster Windass McPhee

4-3-3, and, it would be fair to say, midfield does not look our strong suit in that line-up.

It looked a shade better on 20 as the under-committed Peltier limped off to be replaced by Dean Marney in what was by some distance the most exciting moment of an execrably poor opening period. There were dogged stalemates all over the pitch, though any ambitions we had to pose an attacking threat were undermined by McPhee’s ponderous presence. To me he looked immobile and simply not fit.

Goalmouth action? Nothing of note until 23 minutes had gone when Myhill splendidly tipped a Higginbotham header from a corner over the bar.

Stoke, as befits their town, their inhabitants, their manager and their tradition, were ugly. I can see why Parkin is so popular here. Long ball hoof-and-hope. Parkin fits. I hope they get to keep him once the next fortnight is done and dusted, for a decent ransom of course. More on the treacherous Parkin later on.

On 35, we won two corners. Dawson took them. They were blocked.

Umm, you might wonder why I troubled to share that double corner moment with you. The reason is that it was so much more thrilling than anything else that happened round about that time. The game was a grey midfield plod, and though we had the edge in possession there was scarcely a hint of incisive forward play. Parlour shot well wide on 43 and half-time beckoned with the solace of 0-0 and a long march to a dogged point.

2 added minutes. They score.

It was a grotesque goal. Liam Lawrence ‘spends his time in the knocking shop with 15 year-olds’, I was advised by an impeccably reliable source, the landlord of the pre-match pub. Here he swung his left boot, the ball took a deflection, looping high and horrible up over the aghast Myhill, who scrambled to get back to prevent it spinning into the net but couldn’t quite get there in time. It reminded of the German goal in the 1990 World Cup Semi-Final. For Myhill, read Shilton – but label it equally fluky, messy and ill-deserved.

Half-time, one down.

The second half opens with a serious scare as Delaney, a man in desperate need of a holiday, makes a comically inept attempt to deal with a ball knocked into the box. Ricardo Fuller turns, shoots and the ball thumps against the bar before bouncing back into play. Big escape?

Indeed, but only if we can sneak a goal from somewhere. It looks improbable, with McPhee ineffective, Windass taking plenty of heat down the middle but unable to break free of the defence, and Ashbee’s passing sinking to new lows of inadequacy.

Parlour tries a long shot on 60. Tipped over. The play is broken and shapeless. Stoke lead and the patchwork pattern of the game suits them.

On 65 Simonsen is done no favours by his defence as a backpass is left woefully short. The willing and alert Forster charges down the hasty clearance and bundles it into the net, but the strike is immediately chalked off. It’s down the far end, but I think hand ball was the call and I think it was the correct one. And finally McPhee is removed, replaced by the divine Nicky Barmby.

Our third and final sub would not count as divine on any measure, I think. Parlour’s stint is up and, with twenty minutes to go, it’s Parkin time. He receives a rousing reception from the home fans. The Stoke players seem quite pleased to see him too, and chat away amiably with the recent inhabitant of their dressing-room. Parkin has after all spent most of the afternoon wandering along the touchline exchanging greetings with his new Stokie friends. If he has any recollection at all that he is a Hull City player, he hides it well. Just as he expertly hides from the ball in the later stages of this game. A disgraceful shift. Had we lost, I’d be truly angry. As it is, I just hope we get plenty money for him when we shift him out in the summer. Worth his weight in lard.

A minute after Parkin’s arrival on the pitch the game should have been placed beyond our reach. Dawson surrenders possession inexcusably feebly, and Fuller sweeps the ball square to Lee Hendrie, unmarked deep inside the penalty area and with time to pick a spot beyond the exposed Myhill. Hendrie casually pulls his effort wide of the post. His team-mates do not hide their disbelief and frustration when confronted by this absolutely shocking piece of ineptitude. We, on the other hand, take a deep breath. Relief.

Soon after Delaney sets up Russell for a much harder chance, but he misses too. We’re not helping ourselves here. Scrappy, inconsistent defending? It’s been the season’s defining feature.

Into the last 15 minutes. It’s lively enough. We’ve got ten triers out there, plus Parkin. But no goalmouth chances. We’ll lose.

Ha!

Five added minutes. And we score in the first of them.

Ball knocked in and then knocked down. To Barmby. Divine, as I said. He shoots, it’s down the far end, I’m not a reliable witness, but I think there was a slight but crucial deflection, the ball spins away from Simonsen’s groping fingers, and it gently curves into the middle of the goal. Utter joy, exultation, relief, delight, vindication.

Blue touchpaper lit as well, as events outside after the game would reveal. But for the moment we could revel in a precious point gained, and deserved. The remaining minutes of added time seemed to hurtle by and the final whistle went to Stoke’s dismay and our jubilation.

The only anxiety for me was whether it was Parkin who knocked the ball down to Barmby to lash in for the equaliser. If it was, then my criticism of Stoke’s long-ball hoofery and Parkin’s lack of impact look a bit misplaced, don’t they? But hey, match reporting, it’s a tightrope, no one said it was easy, you gotta be fearless on a Sunday morning. Ahem.

So there we are. Luton gone, Southend nearly. Barnsley on a commendable run that has almost brought safety, and wobbling Leicester saved by the welcome appearance of Preston, the Division’s get-out-of-jail-free card, on their fixture list yesterday. One place on the trapdoor left vacant, two teams eyeing it with apprehension. Ten minutes from the end of yesterday’s game Leeds clutched a point, we didn’t. It finished the other way round. Leeds have to better us by two points over the last two games to save themselves. No set of results, outside of unimaginable goal gluts next Saturday by Leeds and/ or Cardiff or both, can prevent Leeds needing to play for a win, not a draw, at Derby on the final day of the season. This will allow Craig Fagan to devastate them on the break.

We might yet get away with this. Right now, we should. Just. And, if we do, even if it’ll be in part down to the dismal failing of others, at least yesterday we showed the necessary willingness to keep hunting right through to the final whistle.

HULL CITY (4-3-3): Myhill; Ricketts, Turner, Delaney, Dawson; Parlour, Ashbee, Peltier; Forster, Windass, McPhee.  Subs: Marney (for Peltier, 23), Barmby (for McPhee, 66), Parkin (for Parlour, 70), Coles, Duke.

Goals: Barmby 90

Booked: Barmby

Sent Off: None

STOKE CITY: Simonsen, Hoefkens, Fortune, Higginbotham, Griffin, Lawrence, Eustace, Matteo, Hendrie, Sidibe, Fuller.  Subs: Russell (for Eustace, 65), Pericard (for Sidibe, 79), Martin (for Hendrie, 88), Zakuani, Hoult. 

Goals: Lawrence 45

Booked: Matteo

Sent Off: None

REFEREE:  A D'Urso

ATTENDANCE: 17,109