Most clubs have a natural status. Arsenal are Premier League, Woking are non-league; those are the rules. In my head, Hull City could be in any of the top five divisions of English football. I saw them last night with my own eyes, but if you tell me they’re struggling in the National League or playing Spurs on Saturday, I’ll still have to check the table to be sure. 

So, while Swansea were all DNA and identity, Hull, frankly, could have been anything. They are neither a grand old club, new money plastics, cosmopolitan sophisticates, school of science or salt of the earth ‘proper’ football club. 

While they exist in a liminal space, we’ve shifted from surprise upstarts to relegation cannon fodder in just over a week. So, rather than there being a rigid template to conform to, last night was a fluid multi-dimensional conundrum wrapped in an enigma. It was like not being able to find your glasses because you haven’t got your glasses. Unresolvable.

There was a strange atmosphere, with all the fireworks going off walking to the ground felt like we were in the opening scene from Saving Private Ryan. All war is pointless, but surely the war to walk to the Kassam Stadium would be the most pointless of them all. 

Once we were in the ground, an eerie mist and the now odd sight of a half-empty away end gave everything a distinctly sleepy Tuesday night lower league vibe.

Then the lights when off, everyone went woo and it was time for the surprise even though everyone has already seen it being tested via social media pre-match show. If you’re the sort of man who doesn’t dance at weddings it was all a bit embarrassing, but I thought we made a decent fist of it despite the volume being too low when it needed to be thundering out of the speakers.

While it gave the game a bit of texture and a sense of occasion, the problem with actual football is that, unlike the stadium lights, you can’t just turn it on and off and on and off again to a stirring soundtrack. It is its own unscripted drama.

Or not. The game quickly seemed to descend down the leagues; the opening few minutes felt a bit Championship-ey, then it went a bit League One-ish, then quiet descended across the stadium as some League Two snuck in. It was a megamix of the divisions – a bit like a Jive Bunny record, but one that was made up exclusively of other Jive Bunny records.

In truth it helped, the players needed to work through Des Buckingham’s new formation at walking pace. That didn’t make it comfortable; Hull set off at a normal pace and too frequently the narrow defensive formation left spaces for them to attack and make chances. 

We were being found out by one of the lesser voices in the division, highlighting the desperate need for Cameron Brannagan to come back. Except, we need Cameron Brannagan to exploit the weaknesses of teams like Hull, not to return fully refreshed for the games laster in the season that we expect to lose.

Brannagan’s quality is not just his ability; we’ve missed his unrelenting commitment to the cause regardless who our opponents are. Even more than his passing, this is what we’ve been missing.

As the game lulled a little into the kind of stupor that makes you wish you’d gone with your gut and stayed in to watch Ludwig, Hidde Ter Avest came into stark relief.

I heard a story this week about a dad whose six year old son didn’t understand why his opponents got to wear different shirts every week whereas he had to wear the same one. It hadn’t occurred to him that the opposition was a different group of players every week. I suspect Ter Avest is the same; the opposition are just the same people in different coloured shirts. He doesn’t need to place Hull City in the footballing strata because he frankly doesn’t care who Hull City are. 

Ter Avest got on with the Brannagonian business of doing his job and trying his best. It helped him nearly open the scoring in the first half. There was a refreshing consistency in the way he played. It didn’t feel like he was having to think about his role, he just let it flow because there was no intrusive thoughts to prevent it.

As the second half progressed, the rest of the team seemed to take note; passing became crisper, commitment was more singular and pressing was more, well, pressing.

The breakthrough came with a raking cross field ball from Tyler Goodrham out to Greg Leigh. His cross looked to have found Dane Scarlett who awkwardly contorted to try and guide the ball goal bound. He didn’t, but the confusion allowed Ter Avest to control the ball and poke it home.

All we then had to do was defend them into the ground. Just as it was looking straight forward Ben Nelson fell to the floor in a worrying fashion. I’m not sure we have an injury crisis; back in the 1960s there was a scandal around the use of cortisone injections on players which left them crippled in older age, more recently its been the relationship between heading and dementia, I wonder what we’re seeing is the result of the inhumane levels of physical stress being put on the players. Maybe one day we’ll look back and question why the hell we allowed it to happen.

Anyway, enter Mr Do Your Job And Try Your Best. Sam Long has a lifetime of experience in doing his job and trying his best. It has seen him see off countless challengers to his thrown. His job is to stop the ball from reaching the goal, so he set about doing just that. A comfortable discomfort set in, Long led the way, Moore and Brown joined in before Kioso was introduced to get the ball equated with the corner flag.

The referee held up a board – injury time would be roughly the equivalent length of the Ice-Age. Kioso was having too much fun in the corner to let things slip.

It was dogged, it was gritty, style was secondary. Entertainment is for light shows and fireworks but, as we’ve come to learn, three ugly points are the best kind.