Off, then, to Eastlands (or is it the City Of Manchester Stadium? As if anybody gives a hoot...) for the first time this season. Great and the drive up (and home) is almost wholly without incident for once. Whatever the new ground is called, its primary selling point is that it's not Maine Roade (see what I've done there?), which means it's not situated in a favela, there's room to breathe in a press box which has more than one exit and there's a palatable view of Manchester City's latest calamity.
And there's lots of people I like here: Jackson from The Guardian (or is it The Observer), Lovejoy of The Observer (or is it The Guardian). Rico of the Express (or is it The Sunday Express) and the rest. I don't have a hackbox nickname. There's no need to ask why.
I don't have quite enough words, but it's a fascinating match to write on. Those who had runners are not smiling afterwards. Then it's time to pray the subs are good.
The food is terrific, the people are friendly despite their new money and the wi-fi is free. And City are always fun to write about. They were fun without new money (Uwe Rosler makes an appearance before kick-off and isn't stoned to death) and they're fun with it - what does Robinho think about while he's playing? It certainly isn't the game - as they lurch from weirdness to weirdness.
Against Hull City they should have sauntered home once they were gifted an opener, but they dilly, they dally and they give away a silly penalty near the end.
I'm not sure if Mark Hughes is the man for this job. Afterwards he's defensive about drawing seven on the trot, forget to trumpet how far they've come and how few they've lost and begs for more time by saying that everyone at the club knows it's going to take time. I wonder if he believes it.
Hull, meanwhile, are a travelling soap opera. There's the big rumour which surely cannot be true and the little one which makes more sense, but the harsh truth is that they're in the wrong division. But they have pluck, Jimmy Bullard and proper spirit. I'd still bet against them, but it isn't going to be straight-forwards.
Phil Brown is cock-a-hoop afterwards and I don't blame him. It's the best point of his season at the very place where some say (not me; it's an idiotic argument) Hull began to implode. He always makes me smile, even if (or perhaps because) no manager has ever had quite such a skew-whiff grasp of PR and what on earth was all that stuff about him saving a woman on the Humber Bridge all about? Perhaps Phil Brown is Jesus and it was a metaphor. Perhaps not. Anyway, today is his triumph and he savours it. I wouldn't dream of begrudging him a moment of it.

Moment of zen: Sylvinho's piece in the programme (a fine read, probably because the mighty Neil Jeffries is involved). He hasn't started a league game yet, he's 35 and he wants to stay. I bet he does.

Soundtrack: Snoop Dogg's Malice N Wonderland. His best in years - if no Still D.R.E. - and I am indeed aware of how this looks.