Agony turns to ecstasy as an early Darius Henderson goal sets nerves twitching before a Nicky Barmby equaliser and a thoroughly dominant second half performance see City smash their way past Watford and earn their first ever visit to Wembley for a shot at the £60M match.

Report by Steve Weatherill.

Yesterday this was the most important game in the history of our club.

It isn't that anymore.

On we go. To Wembley. To the verge of lavish paydays and gauche visits to the opulent boudoirs of the Premiership's trollops. Hull City, one of the twenty brands beamed live into the homes of China's arriviste middle-class; Hull City, a name that will guarantee recognition in the shebeens of Soweto; Hull City, its kit worn proudly beneath the robes of petrodollared Arab sheikhs; Hull City, two Divisions above Leeds United and fit to trouser wealth of which the grotesque Ken Bates dare not dream.

Not yet, not yet.

Not yet.

Last night, then. A balmy evening in East Yorkshire. The sun dips below the rim of the North Stand just moments before kick-off time. And intent on placing us just one game away from the long overdue emergence of Hull City as the Global Recognised Repository of Righteousness and Respect (GRRRR) is a familiar and entirely welcome 4-4-2:

Myhill
Ricketts Turner Brown Dawson
Garcia Hughes Ashbee Barmby
Campbell Mr Dean Windass of Hull

Sunday's winners unchanged. Sunday's losers by contrast have lost the clumsily effective Danny Shittu from their defence while gaining the Boris Johnson-coiffured frontman Darius Henderson back from suspension. 'Don't rate that Henderson', I told anyone who asked and many who didn't before the match, revealing in me a Richard Dawkins depth of contempt for the gods of football that would surely lead them to smite me without mercy. Quickly.

Two minutes in and Nathan Ellington commits a bruisingly nasty foul on Wayne Brown, who groggily limps off the pitch and looks far from settled when he returns. This, we guess, is the masterplan concocted by Watford boss Aidy Hoofroyd - abandon the surprisingly ambitious passing game they ventured periodically on Sunday and instead go long, go direct, go brutal. But we guess wrong. Watford are here to play. And they have definitely not given up on their season.

The first few minutes are played out to the accompaniment of a large flag circulating inside the stadium. It gets twisted. It gets turned inside out. It gets crumpled up like a dishrag, it gets pulled taut like a tent's groundsheet. At no stage is it passed grandly from hand to hand in the manner of the Bernabeu or the San Siro. It's quite a Hull moment. And I like that.

The game's spiky, lively and very watchable. On 9 Fraizer anticipates a backpass and reaches the ball a fraction of a second ahead of keeper Lee but our boy is indecisive and the effort is readily blocked. It's a different story up the other end just a couple of minutes later. Watford enjoy a bit of good fortune as broken play gifts them possession in advanced midfield but there's no luck involved in what happens next. A slick one-two carves open our defence - a defence which has normally proved able to repel most teams' efforts lately - and Henderson, deep inside the box, has time to sweep a confident low shot past Myhill.

Watford are playing with Henderson on his own as a target man, and a mobile, committed and skilful one he looks too. Only a fool would have failed to tag Henderson as one of the Division's principal talents. Support comes readily from midfield and the flanks - McAnuff looks (as always) a dangerously pacy presence down the left, while Tommy Smith, a player with a high reputation but a spotty record against us, looks nothing short of irresistible at times, a cascade of fast passing, intelligent movement, effortless dribbling and selfless support play. Watford, we remember, were a Premiership side this time last year and top of this Division by a street back in the Autumn. Eustace, red card recipient on Sunday and absurdly freed to play tonight by inexplicable League diktat, had been second best to Ashbee in all things at Vicarage Road, including coo-ing calculatedly in the ref's ear, but it's a different story tonight. Eustace holds the midfield together commandingly and looks entirely at ease.

We're in trouble here. The crowd knows it.

No one, aside perhaps from the majestic Turner, looks comfortable. Poor Bryan Hughes, whose game is built around straightforward unflashy passing, misses his targets time and again, gets anxious, tries to over-compensate, gets things even more horribly wrong. Barmby's quiet, Windass too. Garcia's not helping Ricketts defensively as much as he should, but nor is he making any impression going forward. And Ian Ashbee cannot turn this round single-handled.

We're in trouble here. Both teams know it.

It's bitty, it's nervy. On 39 a corner reaches Ashbee in precisely the position from which he scored with that towering header to beat Crystal Palace last month, but this time he steers his effort tamely wide. On 40 Deano scores but the whistle has long gone for an obvious foul by the chuntering veteran. At least we have managed to push play into the Watford half for a while, but as half-time approaches the overwhelming concern is simply to hear the whistle and hope the manager can make the necessary adjustments to attitude and/or formation and/or personnel at the break.

Whereupon the ball is boomed high in the air.

In a witty tribute to the days of Terry Dolan - it's almost a generation ago, can you believe that? – a game of head tennis ensues. Ping! Cross-court volley. Pung! Passing shot over the high part of the net. Ping! Stop volley.

Garcia loops a header towards the goal, conveniently vacated by keeper Lee who, perhaps in search of the Robinson's Barley Water, seems to have taken up a foolishly misjudged position far adrift from his line. The ball plops goalwards, a defensive boot may intervene ... but not if Nicky Barmby's forehead gets there first, forcing the ball into the net from close range.

Brave, alert, determined. Barmby's made his name as a supremely skilful footballer, with a delightful touch on the ball and more vision than the Hubble Telescope. He's also from Hull and he's not going to let a few flailing Watford boots deter him from landing the crucial equaliser in this match.

That, then, is half time. It's the worst we've played at home all season. And we're level. Credit to this team's resilience, one of the most encouraging features of the season so far. And the sense of relief round the ground is tangible.

We should be fine now.

We are.

The second half opens with a much fresher feel to our team's attitude. What was wrong has been put right, by Barmby's strike, by Phil Brown's words in the dressing room, probably by both. Watford haven't given up. But the avalanche of attacking they threatened for periods in the middle of the first-half has been arrested.

On 57 Watford begin to gamble at long odds, as they inevitably have to. Defender Mariappa off, striker Priskin on. The new arrival runs straight over to Eustace and hands him a note. Presumably Boothroyd's instructions, though it would be nice to think it was the continuation of a game of Hangman started at half-time. A minute later a sweeping move down the right culminates in a shot which tests Myhill, but he blocks it. Then Wayne Brown attempts an audacious own goal and is relieved to see the ball spin wildly behind him and out for a corner. Watford really haven't given up.

Shortly after the hour mark Deano takes up a position hard against the touchline in front of the East Stand. Ah, experience. Canny to the end. It's sub time, and Deano will maximise the time spent making the change. It's a long trot all the way across the pitch from the East Stand back to the dug-outs. Especially on those doughty 39-year old legs. What a guy.

Folan replaces him, an injection of pace that can only have dimmed Watford's already slender hopes. And at last there's a sense that the visitors know the game's up. Folan surges into the box and though he's thwarted it feels as if the balance has tipped. Watford won't come back now. Folan fell over quite a lot last night, as he is wont to do, but defenders must be terrified once he starts sprinting at them. It's ferociously destructive.

And the night is won on 70. Garcia advances with the ball down the middle and plays a pass out wide to Ricketts, with space down the right. Watford are stretched. Folan is clear and unmarked at the back post. Ricketts produces a perfectly weighted cross and Folan confidently accepts the gift. 2-1, 4-1 on aggregate.

Wembley yes, Premiership maybe.

This was a really good goal, in fact. Exactly the way to exploit the space left by a team that has to commit to attack. On Sunday, during the second half, we wasted four or five such opportunities. Last night we got it dead right. 'Textbook stuff', I expect Mr Brown would say, and I strongly urge him to write that textbook.

Twenty minutes of relaxation to savour now.

Barmby off, Fagan on. Campbell off, Doyle on, Fagan goes up front.

Fagan didn't do much wrong last night. Really. I know that may seem heady praise. But honestly, he didn't do much wrong. I never thought I'd need to find such warm compliments for the former Colchester hitman. But you can quote me on that - he didn't do much wrong last night.

On 79 Doyle, stooping at the back post to try and reach a Folan cross, heads wide. On 81 a melee in our box and the ball is cleared off our line by (I think) Hughes. A Mexican wave is initiated, witless posturing that left me horrified and wounded. What, the football's not interesting enough for you? Morons. Stay away.

Folan falls over some more. On 88 Dawson brings the ball into midfield, transfers it to Garcia who surges through a despairing defence and fires low into the net. 3-1. On 89 Doyle bursts past Watford players who've played with plenty of pride tonight but who are now mentally checking their beach holiday brochures and sees his deflected shot spin past Lee. 4-1.

Referee Clattenburg has had an entirely acceptable game, keeping up with play with some ease and generally achieving success in keeping the game flowing. Now, with small pitch invasions having followed both the late goals and a bigger one visibly brewing, he decides that some 25 seconds of added time is quite sufficient and blows his whistle while already en route to the tunnel.

And so we have won. 6-1 on aggregate. Which is quite something.

But that's the past. So to the future.

We have one more game to play this season. One more game. A Game of Resonance, Ruthlessness, Rarity and Resplendence. GRRRR.

HULL CITY (4-4-2): Myhill; Ricketts, Turner, Brown, Dawson; Garcia, Ashbee, Hughes, Barmby; Campbell, Windass.  Subs: Folan (for Windass, 63), Fagan (for Barmby, 72), Doyle (for Campbell, 78), Walton, Duke.

Goals: Barmby 43; Folan 70; Garcia 88; Doyle 90

Booked: Barmby, Turner

Sent Off: None

WATFORD: Lee, Mariappa, DeMerit, Bromby, Sadler, Smith, Williamson, Eustace, McAnuff, Henderson, Ellington.  Subs: Priskin (for Mariappa, 57), Ainsworth (for Ellington, 79), O'Toole, Doyley, Poom.

Goals: Henderson 12

Booked: None

Sent Off: None

REFEREE:   M Clattenburg

ATTENDANCE: 23,155