The gulf between the higher echelons of world football and Hull City is cruelly exposed as a half-paced Chelsea rattle four the Tigers without reply.

Ten years ago we played at Salisbury in the FA Cup. Ah, the fun we had standing on the grassy banks that surrounded that miniature stadium up on the rolling green Wiltshire hills above the town watching our boys dismantle eager but desperately limited opposition. 'Florist!', we howled at the left-back. 'Greengrocer!', as we greeted the winger. 'Social worker!', 'Ironmonger!', 'Teacher!', 'Gay porn star!'.

How far we have travelled in the intervening decade. Last night we could enjoy 'sullen millionaire', 'sour-faced greedy dimwit', 'bone-headed grumbling Porsche-driver', and 'snarling indictment of the modern age of monied footballer'. And we did enjoy it, up to a point.

But we certainly lost this game to a dazzlingly superior force.

20 to 8. Flags yes, opera yes, fireworks yes. For those who like that sort of thing, that is the sort of thing they like. You know me, I'm not one to judge, but I think it's insufferably unimaginative tosh. I mean, Nessun Dorma, lovely tune and all that, but the opera's set in Peking. It's never made any real sense as a song for the football, so why keep witlessly trotting it out? And fireworks. Ten or so. Fizzing and phutting in the night air like Dad's damp Roman Candles on Bonfire Night. Woo!

Still, live and let live, as Paul McCartney had it after Ringo turned down the Bond gig, and perhaps there were people who came away last night enthused by what Super Fun footie is. It's not how it was in my day, I can tell you, and it still isn't. Football is there to be endured.

Quarter to 8, and we can start the serious stuff.

Myhill
Ricketts Turner Brown Delaney
Ashbee Livermore
Pedersen Okocha Elliott
McPhee

Or, as the glad phrase so frequently has it, something like that anyway. The doughty McPhee was tasked (it's our club's misused verb du jour, as far as I can see) to play a solo hand bothering England captain John Terry and Ben-Haim, and did as decent a job as could be expected in the circumstances. Okocha played behind him, though moved about freely and looked as comfortable on the ball as anyone on the pitch. More so, perhaps. Pedersen and Elliott were more right- and left-sided midfielders respectively than wingers: understandably so, we'd've been swamped in midfield otherwise. While Ashbee and Livermore played as a sturdy duo lying just in front of the back four. This, I think, was our manager's principal tactical device for the evening. A perfectly astute one too, designed to restrict the space available to Chelsea's advancing midfield intent on inflicting horrors on our backline.

However, Chelsea's advancing midfield proceed to inflict immediate horrors on our backline. Essien whisks the ball away from Okocha, transfers it to Wright-Phillips, on to Pizzarro, already inside our box: the shot's blocked, two more chances follow briskly, deflected and then saved by Myhill, and then two more corners are rained down on our shivering rearguard. Umm, that's three minutes gone, and we've been shredded repeatedly like an unwanted credit card application form. Could be a tricky tie, this.

We needed a sniff of possession. It would be helpful if football had a six corner rule just as Rugby League has a six tackle rule. But eventually we crawl towards wobbly survival.

Okocha has a shot, deflected for a corner. It feels as if we've lifted a glowering siege, but in fact the clock's showing only 4 minutes. Such has been the pace of the opening rush. On 5 Elliott punts s shot wide from 35 yards. That looked a bit silly, Stuart. And nn 6 McPhee is intelligently set up by a through ball from Pedersen, only to find himself expertly stifled by John Terry.

As McPhee inspects his aches, bruises and lacerations this morning he may perhaps reflect that the England captain paid him a tribute last night by unveiling such a range of sly tugs, vicious taps, niggly fouls and thumping digs. Terry reads the game well and has a splendid touch on the ball for such a lump. But he's thoroughly nasty with it. Apart from Gaetano Scirea, the best centre-backs tend to be calculatingly rough, I reflect ruefully, though Terry has some distance to travel before he is fit to be mentioned in the same breath as the late great Willie Woodburn.

The game settles down after its exhilaratingly breathless opening. And, you know, we're doing just fine. That Ashbee/ Livermore deep-lying central midfield partnership is proving an excellent choice by Mr Brown, and Chelsea are now finding it awkward to create space. Whereas we're using both flanks perfectly attractively, particularly the right side, and Okocha, when supplied with the ball, is clearly relishing the occasion.

Just after midway in the first half we get sloppy and gift possession too readily. Suddenly we look too tentative and Damien Delaney looks especially vulnerable. But it's not a surrender, and we respond by instituting our own spell of modest pressure. On 28 the splendid Ricketts skips down the right and whips in a fine cross which is headed behind for a corner, absurdly denied by Premiership-loving whistler Foy. Good football, City. And, 35 minutes in, we've every right to feel we're in the game.

A word about Chelsea.

Flash.

Another one?

Gets.

Ah, it's too easy. I'm sorry. No more unlovable bunch of players has ever been assembled this side of Don Revie's Leeds, but make no mistake, just as the vile cheating so assiduously practised by Giles, Bremner and co only lightly disguised immense footballing ability and intelligence, so too this Chelsea squad's ostentatious avarice and arrogance should not blind us to the royally impressive talents within it.

And even though their tabby-cat white socks look as daft as ever it's a relief on a mild East Yorkshire evening to see no gloves being sported.

Their support impressed too. Well over a thousand had travelled, and noisily too. Before kick-off one of them brandished a home-made banner declaring 'Roman, it's our club, not your toy. Long live Jose'. Ah, bless. It's not true, of course - it IS his toy - but it's sweet. Mourinho's gone, but they sang their favourite gay icon's name frequently last night.

The largely unimpressive Kalou has been fouling Brown throughout. Sinclair, down the left, is way out of his depth. Not that he isn't as good as the rest of his Chelsea teammates. He isn't as good as Sam Ricketts. Wright-Phillips is a bit more serious. He's not great on the ball, but he's fantastic off it, moving incessantly to disturb defenders and create space for his colleagues. And this eventually breaks the deadlock. Right-back Belletti, of whom I knew little beforehand but whom I now know to be as impressively skilful a ball-playing full-back as I've seen since the heyday of Maurice Malpas, advances into space vacated by Wright-Phillips, who's moved infield. Belletti sinuously dumps Stuart Elliott on his backside before squaring the ball to a Chel whose shot is deflected over Myhill's crossbar by one of his own men. A moment later and Belletti sets up Wright-Phillips with a delightful pass, and Myhill rescues us with a point-blank block. Belletti has been creating this mayhem down our left, and absence of mention of the involvement of poor Damien Delaney is not an error. Never has Damo's unflagging honesty been so cruelly exposed. Terrific man. Desperately at sea last night. Now he gets close to his markee but he can offer only a challenge as unconvincing as Helen Mirren's Yorkshire accent in Calendar Girls. Wright-Phillips is away all too easily, sprinting down the wing. A firm low cross travels further than intended across the face of our area and reaches the hapless Sinclair who manages his sole piece of proper football of the whole evening, slamming a sidefooted shot back across Myhill who is doubtless unsighted, stranded in a crowded goalmouth.

Chelsea have taken the lead without really deserving to. But if their game plan was to isolate Delaney as a weak link, then it's worked handsomely well for them. And, it gives me no pleasure to add, no one watching City play their last couple of matches would have been surprised that Delaney had been targeted for exposure.

Wright-Phillips hurtles around to terrifying effect now. He's too good for us. Essien is an extraordinary figure - as deep-lunged as a cyclist, as powerful as a weightlifter and yet in between trips to the chemist he's managed to develop into a beautiful footballer as well, perfect pass, delightful touch. He could become a very great player. Sidwell won't ever quite be that, but he's terrific too. There is some fantastic football on offer from this Chelsea side.

We are a bit deflated now. Players and supporters.

On 43 Okocha slips the ball in from the right and McPhee, making an excellent run across the box to get in front of his man, whips a first-time shot narrowly off target. It's a lovely move, and had the ball flown into the net the balance of the game would have been very different.

As it is we go in 1 down at half-time. And quickly emerge to go 2, then 3 down.

We begin the half with a cross from Okocha from the right but Elliott is crowded out as he attacks the header at the near post. Then, moments later, the ball is up the other end and a Wright-Phillips shot is saved. Lively opening. About to go horribly wrong.

Delaney loses possession carelessly, and the ball is speedily transferred across the pitch. Pizzarro sprints to the by-line and lofts an inviting cross beyond Myhill where Kalou, unimpressive so far, cannot fail to bundle the ball over the line from close range.

Then Ashley Cole and Pizzarro combine down the left and, after a sublime first-time touch from Cole, Sidwell is invited to convert a shooting opportunity from the edge of the box. Under little pressure he picks his spot and the ball nestles in the far corner of the net, having brushed Myhill's fingertips on its route to goal.

3-0 now, game over. But that was a superb display of utterly ruthlessly and top-speed football by Chelsea. We were sliced apart, twice.

Wright-Phillips has gone off for Joe Cole, and now we remove Elliot in favour of Garcia. Then Dawson replaces Delaney. Despicable cheers greet this alteration. The Lion of Cork deserves a great deal more from our support than these feckless witless boo-boys offered. Sour taste.

The game is a bit dead for a while, as both teams contemplate (differently shaped) challenges in the days and weeks ahead. But on 63 Pedersen glides fatly through a couple of soft tackles and sets up Garcia, whose shot is beaten away by Cudicini's legs. On 64 Dawson sends in a decent long ball from the left and Ashbee rises powerfully to head narrowly wide. On 65 Turner is confounded by a slick attack and, having fallen to the turf, he cuddles the ball like a child clutching a comforting teddy-bear. Pizzarro cannot believe a penalty is not being given. Neither can I. We escape with a corner, from which Terry's booming header is cleared off the line.

On 69 Ricketts scoots inside and shoots into the side-netting. On 71 Okocha lifts a wicked free-kick just over the bar and onto the roof of the net. We'll lose. But there's no disgrace in the way we've taken the game to our opponents, even if the gulf in class is palpably vast.

Pedersen comes off, and Featherstone is given a deserved opportunity to mix it with players whose quality, I hope, he aspires to emulate. Meanwhile Essien is subbed by Makelele. Crikey. It's a fair trek since Stamford Bridge would have swooned to Teddy Maybank replacing John Bumstead. Not to mention Peter Rhoades-Brown.

On 75 Brown fouls Pizzaro and receives a slightly harsh yellow card. At this point, however, we are treated to a brief and ugly glimpse of Premiership reality. Pizzarro, scarcely touched, crumples to the turf, moans, writhes, howls, yelps. Chelsea's players, led by the snarling Terry, crowd round the ref and abuse Brown. Do they practise this sort of thing, I wonder? The shadow of Revie's Leeds lives on here and it's shameful sham. Ian Ashbee, to his immense credit, is not taking this arrant nonsense lightly and he gives every bit as good as he gets, treating Terry to a blinding Brummie ballet in stern finger-pointing.

It's nearly over now. But there's time for a fourth goal as we are opened up expertly down our right, a pass inside, lots of space, and Kalou knocks the ball past Myhill with nonchalant contempt.

There are ten more minutes and there are three added beyond that, but the tie is over, and the enjoyment is now confined to wondering whether the hapless Sinclair will ever manage to beat Sam Ricketts. He won't.

So there it is. We beat a Premiership side in the last round, this time we lost to one. How fractured has that Division become. Wigan were not much different from us. Chelsea were. What we witnessed last night was - when they needed to display it - Proper Football, by a team largely (though, Mr Sinclair, not entirely) composed of very good and in some cases great footballers.

HULL CITY (4-4-2): Myhill; Ricketts, Turner, Brown, Delaney; Pedersen, Ashbee, Livermore, Elliott; Okocha, McPhee.  Subs: Dawson (for Delaney, 53), Garcia (for Elliott, 53), Featherstone (for Pedersen, 73), Hughes, Woodhead.

Goals: None

Booked: Brown

Sent Off: None

CHELSEA: Cudicini, Belletti, Ben-Haim, Terry, A Cole, Wright-Phillips, Essien, Sidwell, Kalou, Sinclair, Pizarro.  Subs: J Cole (for Wright-Phillips, 49), Bridge (for A Cole, 65), Makelele (for Essien, 73), Shevchenko, Hilario.

Goals: Sinclair 37; Kalou 48, 81; Sidwell 52

Booked: None

Sent Off: None

REFEREE:  C Foy

ATTENDANCE: 23,543