Punting it longer, higher and uglier than has been witnessed at the KC for many moons, Stoke City's aerial assault yields but a point after a late Livermore equaliser on the day Jay-Jay Okocha made his Tigers debut.

Stoke. My chauffeur to and from yesterday's game informed me on the way home that "Stoke" is an old Anglo-Saxon word meaning "place". I, along I suspect with many other seasoned Tigerwatchers (especially those who go back as far as 1971), do not find it an arduous or lengthy task to recall to the mind many other words and phrases more appropriately conjured up by that name. Cheats. Dour. Unremittingly tedious. Thoroughly unloveable. Resolutely soulless. Perpetually jammy. Unshakeably graceless. Whingeing, humourless, waspish manager. Odious, soapdodging supporters. And that's before you get onto the town as opposed merely to the football team.

It is (in truth, thankfully) rare for there to be unanimity about anything on TigerChat, but judging by the comments posted to date about yesterday's match (which I always read, as the individuals who offer post-match comments very often watch the game much more carefully than I do, in the hope of learning things before penning the report), the general consensus seems to be that yesterday was A Typical Stoke Afternoon. And that's exactly what it was. It was less a football team that the Tigers faced yesterday than a procession of hulking lummoxes, so devoid of character and originality that you suspect that to lift the shirts of any of them at the back would have been to reveal a faint whirring noise and a metal key rotating slowly. One was reminded, as one always is against Stoke, of those fanciful Roy of the Rovers stories in which Melchester Rovers were duped or coerced into playing against a team of androids, the brainchild of some sinister Eastern European scientist.

Of course, in those stories the men in red and yellow always came good after a shaky start, and City are no Melchester, but the current breed of Tiger has steel in his psyche and fire in his belly. In recent seasons we have not always had the stomach for the likes of Stoke (the classic exception being their curious but hilarious implosion at the Britannia of a couple of seasons ago), and indeed before yesterday had neither garnered a single point nor a single goal against them at home since our return to Division 2, but yesterday we stood up to the challenge and gradually wrested the ascendancy from our grim opponents as the game wore on, culminating in a deserved if late equaliser and what the late Eddie Waring would have referred to in tortured vowels as "a grandstand finish", in which a little more steadiness in front of goal, an observant referee or a little bit more luck for the mercurial Okocha might well have seen us wrap up all three points.

Granted, it was by no means a great performance, and Browny does need to consider whether he selected the right tactics against a team such as Stoke, with the constant hoofing up the field constantly resulting in the front two, especially Deano, who was giving several inches and pounds away to his predictably physical and niggly markers, not really getting much in the way of change. But just when Stoke, as we all knew they would, started to get the whiff of victory in their nostrils and pulled nine or ten men behind the ball, (in fact, maybe because of that), we started to play to the strengths of our by now reshuffled team and tried instead to create things and build proper attacks. And guess what? It worked. Stoke were denied an undeserved victory, and it was pleasing after the game to reflect on the frustrations that their baleful supporters must have been feeling, coming as it did so relatively quickly after a late City equaliser at Stoke last season effectively cost them a play-off place. You know what - I bet Stoke don't like us much. And that's gratifying. Maybe we can one day really become their bogey team and remain so for all eternity; that would be gratifying, too.

Anyway, enough gratuitous anti-Stoke stuff for now. The state of the League table will no doubt be a source of unease to those who fail to realise that League tables are meaningless until at least a third of the season has passed (in fact until comparatively recently tables weren't even printed in the papers until five or six games in), but in this age of analysis paralysis let me offer you an encouraging statistic for this fledgling season. Take out Blackpool because we didn't play them last term, and our other four results have to date yielded five more points than the corresponding fixtures last season. Maybe that proves nothing, but I think it says something about City. Last season we suffered a dreary 2-0 reverse at home to Stoke because we unable to combat their style of play, but yesterday we were able to. Early days yet, and we are far from being the finished article, but the indications are that this season ought at least to be less of a strain on the nerves than the previous two.

The weather was fine, albeit with a deal of grey cloud about and a definite feel in the air that autumn is upon us. The attendance was a healthy 19 642, swelled no doubt by the presence of those seeking a vital ticket stub in order to be able to get a ticket for the Chelsea game, some of whom were clearly identifiable as such on the walk from pub to ground in their unofficial Ingerland merchandise, and there was a Stoke contingent of 750-ish, including an aggressive and menacing gaggle of 100 or so at the front of the stand, who provided a background of the only two songs they seem to know: "Delilah", which was drowned out magnificently by a cacophony of boos and whistles from the City support the first time they tried it, and that inane dirge that came out when they got to the League Cup final in whenever it was in the early 70s - I really can't be bothered to look.

With new faces "in the building", a thigh strain for Matty Duke, Browny presumably (and correctly) losing patience with Dawson and an evident decision on the part of the manager that this wasn't the fixture in which to give Pedersen his Tigers debut, the City line-up looked as follows:-

Myhill
Ricketts Turner Brown Delaney
Garcia Ashbee Marney Hughes
Folan Windass

After an appearance on the Circle pitch by Sir Geoff Hurst to warm applause from (nearly) all the crowd, the game started slowly with City kicking towards the North Stand, and it's fair to say that chronicling the dash and sparkle of the first half will not place an undue strain on my typing fingers. It was obvious from the outset that City were going to struggle to win any sort of aerial battle, but we produce something pretty tasty on 4 mins when Garcia controls and plays a crossfield ball to Hughes, who beats one man before seeing his low drive pouched by Simonsen. Two minutes later and referee Webster misses a clear handball by Deano (not the last handball he was not to spot) who is allowed to turn and shoot but Simonsen parries the leather away. We then get pinned back for a spell, and suffer a scare on 7 when Brown, who had his least convincing performance to date in an amber shirt but to his credit eventually got the better of his rival, was thoroughly skinned by Sidibe whose cross was turned away for a corner by Hughes.

We probe, and Stoke repel dourly, pinging the ball, or firing in howitzer-like long throws, to the lofty trio of Sidibe, Creswell and Fuller (who was supposed to have been missing the game due to being stressed out or something) at every opportunity.

On 15 we attack again though and a Marney effort is headed behind for a corner, which is not properly cleared and after a City shot is blocked Deano appears to be tripped just inside the box, but Mr Webster, who didn't give us - and Deano in particular - as much protection as he ought to have done from the niggly attentions of the Stoke defenders, is not impressed.

Another formless spell follows until on 24 we come close to breaking the deadlock when some fine interplay between Delaney and Hughes sees the Scouse ex-Addick fire in a low effort which Simonsen spills. Deano reacts quickly but a Stoke defender is closer and clears the danger.

After another scare when Sidibe feeds Creswell, whose every touch of the ball was greeted with a mixture of boos and cries of "Go for his knee!", in a good position, but the former piece of WS shoots just wide of the far post with Boaz beaten, we have what is by the standards of an undistinguished half a decent spell. A Folan header from a Garcia cross is saved on the half-hour, and a couple of minutes later Garcia turns a looping ball from Delaney just wide with Deano just unable to provide the final touch that might just trouble the onion bag.

But these are mere specks of gold in a half which has seen us descend to the ugly level of the opposition, and with sad predictability and despite the fact that Boaz has not yet had a shot to save, we fall behind just before the break. Sidibe is allowed far too much time on the ball in the box without a decent tackle being landed on him, and eventually gets in a low shot which Boaz does well to stop but can only divert to his left. There are plenty of us back and we really ought to have got the ball away, but everyone seems to leave it to everyone else, and in the end the inevitable happens when a grateful Delap (I always want to call him "Dewlap" for some reason) sweeps the ball high into the City net.

Not a good half. We have shown nothing like enough creativity and guile, and have spent much of the session playing into Stoke's grubby hands. Furthermore, this being Stoke you know that absolutely every principle and tenet of honest, skilful, entertaining football is going to be sacrificed by them in an endeavour to preserve their slender lead.

I had the misfortune to write the match report for the Stoke home game last season, and as the second half started I was reflecting on whether, if I saved myself a lot of time and effort by the simple expedient of copying and pasting that report and maybe changing one or two names before re-issuing it as a report from yesterday, anyone would notice, such were the similarities so far between the two games. But you're an observant lot, and so I summarily ditched that mischievous plan, albeit not without a smidgeon of reluctance.

And I am almost rewarded for this on 48 when Folan dummies as a Delaney ball comes in from the left, leaving Garcia to storm through the middle, but the Aussie with the high-pitched voice loses his head at the vital moment and dispatches the leather into the stratosphere. But it's another false dawn, and as Stoke start to get into time-wasting mode with a succession of players doing the dying swan bit in the hope of denying City the opportunity of striking up any sort of rhythm the mood is not optimistic.

But then Browny makes an uncharacteristically early substitution, brings off Marney, who has had a very Marney sort of game, doing one or two good things but going missing for spells, and sends Okocha into the fray. The Circle erupts in anticipation at this, and the mocking Stokies, mouths now agape, fall apprehensively silent. But, crucially, this is the right decision. Suddenly we can offer creativity, confidence and skill, and the new Tiger's presence seems to instil new vigour and purpose into his colleagues (although rumours abound that Ash was seen to react less than positively to this substitution: I didn't see this myself, but if that is true (and I stress if) then he should be reminded none-too-politely that if he does not like the arrangements at the Circle he is perfectly at liberty to ply his trade elsewhere).

Anyway, talking of Ash (who did OK in the limited football environment of the first half but was resorting to his trademark headless-chicken stuff before the second was enough minutes old) the City skipper then has a shot saved after a corner was cleared to him.

On 58 we are treated to the first bit of Okocha magic when he turns his man three times, rides an enthusiastic tackle and finds Garcia. For some reason I find myself wondering how Stuart Green would have fared in the same situation.

We continue to play the ball to feet and suddenly you feel that we might get something out of this, but we're not really creating actual chances as Stoke defend in numbers, offering little threat of note during this spell of the game, although this is due to the fact that Turner and Brown had now clearly gained the ascendancy over the Stoke attack. An Okocha corner is cleared back to him on 66, and while everyone else in the ground is expecting a return cross, the City number 44 confounds everyone by hammering a vicious rising drive from virtually no angle but the leather just clears the corner of bar and post. Relief was palpable in every contour of Simonsen's body as the shot goes over; he knew damn well he'd been beaten by that one.

More Stoke play-acting on 70 when one of theirs, denied what would have been a perversely-unjust penalty, stays down as if poleaxed but, surprise, surprise, is gambolling friskily about within a minute or two. Shortly afterwards Hughes is replaced by Bridges and we look to go into a sort of 4-3-3 or maybe 4-3-1-2 with Bridges in the hole. This was perhaps a bit of a gamble on Browny's part as working in a three-man midfield might have served to neutralise Okocha, but that would be to underestimate our new recruit.

Nevertheless, the clock is ticking, and the frustration within the City ranks - both on and off the field - is mounting, not least when, after Deano plays an Okocha cross back to Bridges, the leather's resultant goalbound trajectory is clearly intercepted by a flailing Stoke hand. How the referee missed that one is hard to explain, but how very Stoke.

After Doug comes on for the largely-ineffective Garcia, for the second time during the afternoon a substitution causes a stir. This time it's Jon Parkin, whom the programme rather nostalgically referred to as the Beast (We never really called him that did we? We did? Well, we didn't really mean it then, did we?) coming on the field to receive an onslaught of derision from the entire Tiger Nation, apart from one guy towards the front of E5 who defiantly stood up and applauded him. Is he any slimmer? Marginally I suppose. Did he look any more committed than the last time we saw him in the flesh? Undoubtedly.

But this is a fleeting distraction as we soon head back down to the other end, where on 82 a long-range effort from Okocha, who generally did enough with his control, passing and vision to give us all confidence that we might well enjoy having him play for us and that our opponents might not enjoy that experience, is headed out for a corner. This time Livermore takes it, but it's a lamentable effort that doesn't even clear the first man.

Within four minutes, however, but not before more time wasting from our hosts, the WS's shortest-serving player makes up for it. Bridges, on the left side of midfield just inside the Stoke half, finds Ricketts out on the right. The Welshman swings in a cross. It's deep but Folan's under it on the corner of the six-yard box. The angle is wrong for an attempt at goal so he heads it back into the middle where the big Stoke centre-halves are waiting to pounce. But they wait in vain. Our Doug seems to have this knack of ghosting into the box undetected (think Derby away and Preston at home last season) and he does it yet again; Simonsen spots the danger too late and there's not a Stoke defender within elbowing distance as Livermore gets up by the near post and diverts the leather with his head over the line. The City fans, delighted by the beautiful simplicity of it all, cavort with glee, while their Stoke counterparts posture sullenly.

Inevitably, there's then a slight scare when Parkin turns where he shouldn't be allowed to and hits a low hard drive but Boaz collects easily. The announcer then says there'll be two minutes of injury time. Howls of protest emanate from three sides of the ground and that's corrected to four, a spell in which we might on two occasions have nicked it. Firstly on 91 an almost carbon copy of Okocha's earlier narrow-angle effort sees him hit the side netting - one of those that looks from certain angles as though it's gone in and then if caught out you have to pretend that you weren't really cheering a goal but had just been tickled by a fly or something. A minute on, and a short corner causes a bit of a scramble in the Stoke box, but we can't get the ball under control and the chance us lost.

So that was that. A deserved point for some impressive endeavour. Whether we did enough to deserve another two is a moot point, especially as we were really quite ineffectual for over half the game. But Stoke didn't deserve all three, partly because of their ugly, cynical attitude to it all but mainly just because they're Stoke. It's probably fair to say that the City supporters went away the happier.

So off to the Moulinex on Tuesday, the third and final of our little run of three games against teams from markedly downtrodden towns, and another opportunity to chalk up a better result than in the corresponding fixture last season. We've been bloody awful at Wolves twice running so we're due something a bit better, and if we carry on where we left off yesterday we might just get it.

Tomorrow, I have to travel to Old Trafford for work purposes (I hasten to add that my business is not connected with the residents of that edifice; it just happens to be the venue for a meeting I'm going to), and my journey there will take me past the Britannia. As I pass I shall enjoy a slow smirk (to the extent that one can ever smile when in Stoke).

HULL CITY (4-4-2): Myhill; Ricketts, Turner, Brown, Delaney; Garcia, Ashbee, Marney, Hughes; Folan, Windass.  Subs: Okocha (for Marney, 54), Bridges (for Hughes, 69), Livermore (for Garcia, 75), Dawson, Aspden.

Goals: Livermore 87

Booked: Folan

Sent Off: None

STOKE CITY: Simonsen, Zakuani, Hill, Shawcross, Craddock, Lawrence, Matteo, Delap, Cresswell, Fuller, Sidibe.  Subs: Parkin (for Fuller, 79), Eustace (for Lawrence, 85), Hoult, Wright, Wilkinson

Goals: Delap 44

Booked: None

Sent Off: None

REFEREE:  C Webster

ATTENDANCE: 19,642