VICARS, policemen, old ladies with walking sticks, scantily clad nurses and Bob Todd... they all chase Benny Hill but he just runs and runs and runs.

And he always leaves you wanting more.

Down a sheer cliff face tumbles his red Ford Cortina, bouncing and rolling off the rocks but Hill ain’t giving up that easily as he darts into the local park, pinches a rope off a mountaineer, lassos it around the top of Everest and pulls himself to the very top.

Wolves didn’t quite manage the impossible.

At Eastlands the players didn’t quite leave the pitch at double-speed to the sounds of “Yakety Sax”.

They’d given themselves a big mountain to climb alright.

Carlos Tevez had boxed them into an almighty fix.

Yeah, Hill was chased by a gaggle of busty beauties but he was never pursued by top Olympians with tracker dogs which is how it must have felt to Mick McCarthy after 66 minutes.

But with 40,000 screaming Mancunians trying to chase them out of town they drew on superhuman resources.

Write them off at your peril.

No hopers against Chelsea, lambs to the slaughter at Anfield, down to the bare bones against Blues and three down at home to Bolton.

Like the Duracell battery advert says: ‘‘They’ll go on and on and on and on’’. Or the washing machine TV ad that hooked the nation in the eighties: “One million French think they’re tres bons, half a million Germans can’t be wrong, from Italia to Briton... Ariston and on and on and on.” You can push them into the ground and kick dirt in their face.

Just don’t expect them to lie there for long.

Neither did they deserve to be 4-1 down because it was they, little old Wolves who need to take a young Scotsman on trial before mulling over a transfer fee that is trousered by Tevez inside four days in wages, who were the dominant force.

Not the team with the nuts and bolts of a top-four Premier League side watching from the dug-out.

For half-an-hour the league was upside down.

Wolves were winning the 50-50s, Wolves were spraying the ball about, Wolves were creating the chances.