A finer day in the life of a Hull City supporter can scarcely be conceived of.  City scrap out a win at Cardiff thanks to a sweet Windass strike, thereby consigning Leeds United to the third tier of football.  Joy!

Hard to know where to start with this one. It's not a healthy state of affairs when you're trying to write a match report but you're virtually lost for words, albeit for all the right reasons on this happy occasion. This has to go down as one of the most momentous days ever in the history of our Club, maybe even eclipsing the wonderful scenes at Yeovil three years ago. That was an emotional day as it gave notice to the footballing world that, after some twelve years of being the most long-suffering in the game (oh yes, even the likes of Brighton had it easy in comparison with us) the Tigers were, as the song goes, back, but yesterday at Parc Ninian was in truth much, much more intense. This wasn't just about survival in the CCC, it was a fight to the death with the team that, however much they regard us as nonentities, pretty much all of us hate the most, and to see them retain their status at our expense would have been to much too bear for anyone with a Tiger etched on his or her heart.

Not only that, but it was the sort of emotional experience that the expression "roller coaster" cannot even begin to describe, as it lurched from one passionate extreme to the other. The game started, the mood was nerve-stretchingly tense, the White Shite were soon in front, we learned, City were playing terribly, and at half-time an air of resignation hung like a pall over the Tiger contingent of, I would guess, approaching 1 500, probably two thirds of whom would, probably very sensibly, normally have found some good reason not to have to venture into the south-west corner of the Welsh capital in support of the men in amber and black. Surely Leeds were going to get off the hook, as they have always seemed to do, yet again. But then we come out looking more settled and creative, we score, we're looking OK (ish) at the back and we start to dare to contemplate a win which at least gives us a fighting chance going into the last weekend of this torrid season. And then the unthinkable: Ipswich, bless them, equalise. Unspeakably wild scenes on one half of the Grange End. Text messages then start arrive declaring that Ipswich have scored again: utter euphoria for a moment or two, but then it emerges that this, typically where Hull folk are gathered in such circumstances, was a false alarm, but we're all still pretty jubilant. Our game ends, but there's no word of a result from Bellend Road, the reason for which then becomes stomach-turningly clear: the Leeds fans, hateful filth that they are and always have been, have in a predictable measure of desperation invaded the pitch in an attempt to get the game stopped. Staggeringly, but maybe predictably because Hull City is indirectly involved, the nearest precedent for this - Old Trafford, 1974, when the Manc Derby ends early after Denis Law scores a late goal which looks to have sent the home side down and the United fans surge onto the pitch, but the result is allowed to stand - is thrown out of the window and the Leeds game is to be restarted with a corner to the home side. As Radio 5 provides live commentary of the final minute, no City fan dares speak or even breathe, but the game ends and we are, to all intents and purposes, safe, as Dennis Wise, diminutive in all human qualities, not merely physical stature, sounding like a broken man on the radio, is forced to admit, and the football media have unanimously taken as read.

Please go back and read the preceding paragraph again, and just digest it for a second or two. Have the emotions of a Hull City supporter ever before been pulled, stretched, wrung and twisted in so many different directions in the space of a single afternoon? Tell you what, even the writers of Roy of the Rovers, or the lazy, sensationalist scriptwriters of soap operas, couldn't have come up with such a storyline and got away without sustaining an imprint of the sole of their editor's shoe on their buttocks.

Inevitably, there have to be a couple of reflections in the cold light of day once the alcohol and subsequent hangover have worn off. Firstly, it is notionally possible that the WS could catch us, but they would need to beat Derby (who do seem to have lost it completely if the commentary this afternoon from Selhurst Park was anything to go by), we would have to lose to Plymouth and a relative goal difference of nine in our favour would have to be overhauled. It's all a bit like the cat playing with the wounded and stricken mouse before eventually administering the coup de grace, but even in the event of some freak result at Pride Park next Sunday it's most definitely in our hands, and nobody else's, and we can't complain at that. Secondly, we look to have rescued ourselves, but by the thickness of a mere fag paper (or, more tellingly, by dint of a goal by us at the death one Saturday and one by Ipswich the following one). It was with the benefit of hindsight always likely to be a difficult season after the turmoil of the summer, and to achieve safety after the state we were in last November is admirable, but we surely can't afford another season like this one. Now is not the time to dwell on this as we still bask in the glow of yesterday and consider ourselves thankful for where we find ourselves today, so suffice to say that it is imperative that Pearson shows resolve and makes some difficult and probably controversial decisions in the next few weeks, and yesterday does not change that one jot.

But let's talk about the football. The day was fine and clear, the mood was jaw-clenchingly tense but the City support trying to peer round the pillars of the stand in the direction of the pitch was boisterous, and, after the ritual eardrum-shattering blast of "Men of Harlech" from the tannoy was followed by a minute's applause and a chorus of "There's only one Alan Ball" in memory of the late flame-haired dynamo (a propos of which, respect to the Cardiff supporters who participated fulsomely and respectfully in this tribute to a player who was the scourge of their national team on many an occasion), we got under way with City facing away from the visiting support, many of whom were enjoying a rare chance to watch a game standing on the terraces. Paper talk of injuries to Daws and Peltier turned out to be just that, and so Browny kept faith with the starting line-up at the Britannia the previous week:-

Myhill
Ricketts Turner Delaney Dawson
Parlour Ashbee Peltier
Windass Forster McPhee

Any vain hope that Cardiff manager Dave Jones might issue instructions to his troops to give City an easy ride by way of retribution for the vile abuse slung at him by the WS support was quickly dispelled as the game got under way. A weakened (but not as weakened as we had been led to believe) Cardiff team were in sprightly mood as the City fans kept up a barrage of anti-Leeds ditties and the Cardiff fans in the corner of the main stand near the City support - historically the vantage point of choice for the notorious element of their support, joined in. After a fairly event-free opening we had a couple of major scares in as many minutes. Firstly, Bo raced out his box to head clear a dangerous bouncing through ball as Ricketts - who was alone among the City support in receiving much stick from the home fans, because of his Swansea connections - dithered, but he did not find touch, the ball eventually being swept into the box where Thompson, unchallenged by the hesitant Delaney, met the leather only to direct it into Myhill's grateful clutches. The Cardiff number 9 was equally profligate after another defensive lapse - this time from Turner - allowed Glombard to get in a cross onto his yet again unchallenged bonce, with the same end result.

It wasn't looking promising at this stage, and it became decidedly less so at about 3.14 when the word started to get round that the WS had gone in front. This was the cue for the exasperating side of the Hull mentality to rear its head, as a section of the City support, which had happily been belting out songs either in support of City and condemnation of Leeds, decided to wind up the home support by singing "God Save the Queen". No doubt those responsible for this thought they were being clever, being as they are too incurably stupid to be capable of ever understanding that cranking up an atmosphere of animosity from a set of fans was not noted for its tolerance of overt displays of Englishness was the very last thing we needed. These vacuous oafs will be the same ones who try to get on the pitch next Sunday, you watch.

Anyway, point made. Back on the pitch it's more of the same. Boaz is called into action again on 19, diving to his left to parry away a goalbound long-range effort from Johnson, and then four minutes later Whittingham volleys just wide of Myhill's right-hand post after Turner makes a hash of a clearance. In case you haven't yet got the picture, it's fair to say that none of the boxes for a successful afternoon are exactly being ticked at the moment. The midfield, ceding a man to their Cardiff counterparts, is offering nothing (whilst his passion and effort could not be doubted, in terms of the quality of his distribution Ash was simply woeful most of the time), leaving the front three shorn of proper service and the defence under continual pressure and being forced into errors on many occasions.

We are than thankfully spared further trauma for a while as the game settles down (and although we don't know it at the time, we are over the worst of the Cardiff onslaught), and indeed we even manage an attack on 33, when the hitherto-anonymous McPhee goes on a run down the left and the ball eventually finds Deano who shoots on the turn but well wide. On 35, we even win a corner, but Dawson's effort, in keeping with the way the afternoon is going, is predictably lamentable, being scuffed in and even bouncing once before reaching the first man. What earthly excuse is there for this? Parlour does a bit better with our next corner on 37 but it is nonetheless cleared, and then somewhat unexpectedly we come very close to taking the lead on 39, when Deano gets into space in the inside left channel and hits a vicious drive from the edge of the box. The Tiger Nation is on its haunches in anticipation of celebration, but Forde in the Cardiff goal makes a fine one-handed save, tipping the leather over the bar. The resultant corner is predictably scuffed.

Nothing else of note happens, and we are through to half-time. Against a backdrop of the sonorous outpourings of an earnest PA announcer who sounds for all the world like the Shadwell character off Naked Video for those old enough to remember, the mood is starting to get a touch recriminatory among the Tiger support. It's been a thoroughly wretched half almost from beginning to end, and frankly the protestations of the more forgiving types that it's only to be expected because the players are tense simply doesn't wash; those same players are in a predicament to a large extent of their own creation. No, we're not a happy set of bunnies. And the WS are still winning. And you can't smoke inside the ground. Sod it.

But what's this? Marney comes on for Peltier, who struggled to make any sort of an impression in the first period, and the change is palpable. Now, it's still far from clear that the considerable outlay for Marney's services was a prudent piece of business, but putting him on the field yesterday was a hugely significant factor in the way things panned out. Suddenly the pace of the game lifted, and Cardiff were caught unawares by it. Suddenly, there was energy and creativity coming from midfield, balls were being played to feet instead of getting lashed into the stratosphere, and the men up front took grateful advantage and put the home defence under pressure for the first time. And suddenly, most deliciously of all, on 52 minutes we were in the lead.

It is well documented that Deano had pledged to get to twenty goals in total for the season and save City from the drop, and both of those promises were all but delivered in one fell swoop. It all started when a Ricketts throw found Marney, who played the ball inside the box to Mc Phee, who shot powerfully from about 15 yards. It was a fine effort, but Forde dived to his left and punched the ball to safety. Well, not exactly, for he had reckoned without Deano. If you watch a replay of the goal, note how, even as Mc Phee shapes up to shoot, Deano is already anticipating where the ball is going to go. As the ball bounced down from Forde's fists, there was an "Oooooohhhhhh!" from the City fans behind the goal, and for a moment or two everything seemed to be in suspended animation, except for one man, who, having moved into position with the sort of instinct that you just can't teach, swung out his right boot and blasted the leather into the unguarded net.

I have seen some wild celebrations of City goals over the years, but I'm not sure that any of them matched the delirium which ensued. The roar seemed to go on for minutes, increasing in intensity as it went, and those packed in the standing area surged forward helplessly in a flailing human tidal wave. Total Tiger Mayhem, even from Deano who was booked for over-enthusiastic celebration with the Tigers fans at the front.

We learn that Leicester are beating Barnsley, so it's all looking a bit rosier, but Whittingham pings wastefully wide after more suspect defending, But it's City again, and Dawson has a header saved on 58 from a raking cross, then two minutes on an excellent Marney run comes to nought when the ailing McPhee fails to anticipate the resultant lay-off. Forster then has a low cross-cum-shot pouched by Forde before McPhee is substituted, and while this is going on Deano, sailing as close to the wind as ever, responds to the requests for a wave from the City support by pulling his shorts high up into the crack of his bum. Photos of this have, I believe, been posted of this on some sites, and pretty it is not. Still, nice to know he apparently wasn't feeling the strain to the extent that most of the rest of us were.

Cardiff start to enjoy more possession at this stage, but although our hearts are in our mouths it thankfully doesn't come to anything. Then on 79 a fine piece of short passing involving Marney, Deano and Barmby, whose experience and composure proved invaluable as the tension mounted, resulted in Marney being released into a goal-scoring position but adjudged narrowly offside.

We're defending deeper and deeper though, and time seems to have stopped. As the Cardiff fans start to depart, we enjoy a little bit of respite when Barmby wins a free kick and Turner's header from Marney's ball in is deflected over for a corner, which again doesn't even reach the near post (I mean, this is schoolboy stuff) but poor Cardiff control gives Deano a half-chance which he unfortunately miscues.

On the back foot again, but Cardiff don't seem to be able to recreate the menace they showed in the first-half hour and our defence continues to have the upper hand, with a special mention for a particularly solid performance by Turner. After a bit of possession stuff from City in the corner where the Tiger Nation is billetted, the ball runs into touch, Cardiff decide to make a substitution, and then......it happens.

It starts with a bit of noise down in the very corner, and spreads within one or two seconds across the massed ranks of City fans. Ipswich have scored! Absolute pandemonium, which spreads even to the City bench and players. The noise from City was raucous before, but now its cacophonous in its celebration of Leeds' setback, and once again the Cardiff fans are joining in. Absolutely bizarre. Has there ever been so much raw, slavering detestation heaped up on one football club? And has it ever been more justly deserved?

Referee Friend (now there's an oxymoron for you!) signals four minutes of injury time, and word reaches us from Whiteshiteland that they're playing six. But the game has petered out here, and, one little scare notwithstanding when the leather bobbles about a bit too freely in the City box before getting cleared, we are home and dry, at least as far as this game is concerned.

But what's happened at Leeds? The City players gather in front of the big screen in the corner, the false rumours of a second goal for Ipswich spread, and there's word of a pitch invasion at Smelland Road but nobody in Cardiff realises just how serious it is. We eventually file out of the ground some ten minutes after the end of the game, pausing only to offer to the perplexed and embarrassed-looking Cardiff team, dutifully performing their end-of-season lap of honour, a chorus of "We love you Cardiff, we do", while City are applauded warmly off the pitch by those Welshmen still in the ground.

Outside, and whereas normally upon leaving Ninian Park as an away fan you have to trot briskly between two lines of Heddlu into the car park and fire your motor up pronto before the home fans are let loose, yesterday we sauntered out to receive handshakes, congratulations and cheerful cries of "See you next season" from the same guys who normally seem to want to tear your head off and play football with it. Anyone care to bet that the first away game next season will be at Cardiff and the atmosphere will be as evil as ever? Or maybe not. Perhaps the footballing world at large owes us a bit of gratitude for our part in the downfall of the vilest football club the world has ever seen, as they march on together to the Third Division and hopefully much worse.

Anyway, eventually the Leeds result is confirmed, and we can go off to celebrate.

Truly the most bizarre, surreal day I have ever witnessed following City, one whose like I can't imagine ever experiencing again in the light of its unique double significance.

Suck that, you filthy White Shite scum. And bring us some rock back from Bournemouth next season.

HULL CITY (4-3-3): Myhill; Ricketts, Turner, Delaney, Dawson; Parlour, Ashbee, Peltier; Forster, Windass, McPhee.  Subs: Marney (for Parlour, 46), Barmby (for McPhee, 63), Parkin, Coles, Duke.

Goals: Windass 52

Booked: Dawson, Windass

Sent Off: None

CARDIFF CITY: Forde, Blake, Purse, Johnson, McNaughton, Parry, McPhail, Ledley, Whittingham, Thompson, Feeney.  Subs: Flood (for Whittingham, 64), Gunter (for McNaughton, 80), Ramsey (for Parry, 89), Alexander, Green. 

Goals: None

Booked: None

Sent Off: None

REFEREE:  K Friend

ATTENDANCE: 12,421