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Only the most isolated of hermits will by now be unaware of Hull’s imminent status of ‘UK City of Culture’. Unlike its European counterpart, which has awarded Capital of Culture status to such boring and obvious places such as Athens, Florence, Dublin, Paris, Copenhagen, Prague, and, erm, Liverpool, the UK City of Culture is that bravest and most British of ideas; we know we’re a bit shit, so here’s some banter. Hull, you have it.

And that kind of amusing attitude is only to be commended. Upon further investigation, it seems that Hull had to enter some kind of competition to be awarded the title, which is rather sweet. Hull bravely fought off challenges from Colchester, Derby and Stoke-On-Trent, so the prize must be all the sweeter for overcoming those cultural titans.

How honoured we were then to travel up from backward cultural desert London up to shining Kingston –Upon-Hull, with its galleries, its concert halls, its opera houses, its hundreds of theatres, its sculpture gardens and its thriving, Weimer style coffee shops. It was not immediately apparent as to precisely where this could all be found, but I am sure all will become clear. Surely the chaps absconded from the team bus to take in some Titians, or a dress rehearsal of Offenbach’s, such must have been the temptation.

Such wondrous and engrossing culture must have provided much-needed succour to the City’s denizens when they found themselves on the receiving end of a delightful drubbing on Saturday.

Saunders was the first on the chalkboard after fifteen minutes with a ‘Lineker’, a deflected shot from Webbley somehow being deflected into the net at enough of an angle for Saunders to claim the goal. Just before oranges the lad had a chance to double his tally from Nelson’s Eye, following Livermore playing Auxiliary Glove Butler and getting shown the Daiquiri.

Young Fenton, so often nothing more than a highly-paid lurcher, has impressed so far this season, and the Frenchman doubled our lead on 55 minutes, with the Gentleman’s Favour coming from a dainty and delightful foxtrot from Mr. Webbley, who is fast-becoming the rich man’s Antonio Valencia. The hosts, spurred on by their imminent visit to the Hull Royal Opera House that evening, pulled one back, again from Nelson’s Eye, but Saunders ensured that there would be no unseemly comeback by smashing one home from close range.

Special mention must go to Graham Shackleton, whose magnificent strike, which arced into the net from fully 30 yards, was one to add to the album. What a player we have in him. Not afraid of the darker arts, yet cannot be left alone within 35 yards of goal. Not for nothing is he known as The Threat from Thetford. I have it on very good authority that Paul Pogba dresses up as Graham Shackleton of an evening.

Mr. Shackleton was again on the scoresheet in a similar fashion at The City Ground in Nottingham. By Chelsea logic, Nottingham Forest are a bigger club than Chelsea, due to their European record. Come to think of it, that may very well be true. Anyhoo – a pleasingly cantering visit resulted in Mr. Perry opening his account with a brace and the aforementioned Thetford Threat bagged another missile, albeit with an unfortunate ricochet.

Mr. Perry’s second was splendid – haring down onto a bit of a lost cause, beating two defenders and poking home, and even Alexander Oxlade-Chamberlain topped his lovely display with a goal to make it four. Eight in two. How nice to make it twelve in three after the visit of Conte’s Cuntys, as they are becoming known, on Saturday.

Talking of unpleasant things, news reaches us of an extraordinary meeting involving snake-like Judas Emmanuel Adebayor, the Togolese Toerag, his agent, and Lyon, in which he asked for a dram of whisky to be slopped into his coffee and smoked a cigarillo. Hitherto, this travelling, grinning idiot-for-hire has only inspired, at best, tolerance from fans of whichever club he happens to be playing for in any given week.

Yet this incident has seen the gangling irritant rise steeply in my estimation, and is now merely on the same level as a Joey Barton or a Shane Long on my list of Footballers I Really Do Not Care For. Have you seen his Twitter feed? It is QUITE EXTRARDINARY.

At some point I will offer a deep analysis of his crushed velvet furniture and multiple mobile telephones. But for now, that’s yer lot.