Try to forget the stereotypes. On one hand, a team from a much derided city with a sparkling stadium seemingly on the up. The other, historically rich perennial play-off contenders suffering a dreadful start. By Taylor Parkes
Before the opening of the Humber Bridge in 1981, Hull was near-impossible to reach from much of the rest of the country. Stuck out on the pointless curve of the East Riding, half-moated by the fat slash of the Humber estuary, reaching Hull by car required a miserable detour of many miles. With half the town smashed by Nazi bombing raids, post-war Hull offered little incentive – if you just wanted to smell a fish dock, you could go to Grimsby. So, aside from the seafood trucks, little traffic passed through for many years, and Hull became known mainly for its lonely coastal desolation. Even today, after major redevelopment, Hull can feel slightly less than welcoming: entering the city from any angle brings a sense of gathering gloom, and the place still carries a reputation as a bleak north-easterly desert, home to hardy, wind-picked fighting boys, or incurable misanthropes thirsting for solitude (most famously, talented racist Philip Larkin)
The Club That Wouldn’t Die