It could have been the boxer dog bedecked in a 1990s home shirt or the little lad waving his “C’mon City” poster at the passing players from his dad’s office window.

But then maybe it was the dreadlocked fan staging a one-man party in his high-rise flat or the young lads shouting for the City Gent to throw down his plastic bowler hat. And of course, he willingly obliged.

There was the flare that lit up the corner of Centenary Square as the mass of claret and amber hysteria burst into view.

And the constant choruses, songs and impromptu outbreaks of applause that accompanied every inch of the open-topped bus route from Valley Parade to City Hall.

Then, of course, there was the roar to beat all roars when the three vehicles finally drew up to be confronted by a solid wall of deliriously happy people.

It is impossible to pinpoint one moment that made Wednesday night’s celebration so special. Every minute brought something that will stick long in the memory for those lucky enough to say “I was there”.

Judging by the thousands on parade, there can’t have been many Bradfordians who were weren’t. The whole city, it seemed, had turned up to party like it’s 1999. Which, of course, was the last time that Bradford played host to a promotion knees-up.

If Prince thinks he’s had a lean time of it in the intervening decade or so, then try being a City fan. He knows nothing.

From the privileged perch on the back of bus number two, what struck me amid all the screaming, cheering and general mayhem that stretched as far as the eye could see was the number of children.

These fans of the future have never witnessed anything close to this before. They have only known Bradford City disappointment, Bradford City torment, Bradford City woe.

Promotions, bus parades, Wembley appearances – those sort of things only happen to other clubs. It’s not a Bradford City thing.

But now those success-starved young supporters can march round the school playground feeling ten-foot tall. It’s fashionable to be a Bradford City fan again.

That huge black cloud that descended over Valley Parade amid the financial ruin that followed dropping out of the Premier League has been lifted. No, it’s been obliterated.

Three relegations, two administrations – numbers that roll depressingly off the tongue and do no justice to the pain and sense of despair that they have caused.

But how appropriate that the sun should beam down from a cloudless sky on the day that a city turned out to pay homage to the team who have reversed that slide.

It may be one of the coldest springs on record – and Thursday was par for the course as the rain fell and temperatures plummeted once more – but for that glorious hour and a half the Heavens smiled on a Bradford reborn.

And there getting the biggest cheer of them all was Phil Parkinson, the modest hero of the Bantam revival.

He is not one who generally seeks the limelight but this time he had no choice. A city had come out to say thank you to the man who has restored their faith in football.

And it’s more than that. His success – City’s success – has made Bradford as a whole feel good about itself again.

The headlines are positive, both locally and – just as importantly – nationally.

The name Bradford now conjures up images of a team who have made Wembley their second home, who have bloodied top-flight noses – and who are led from the front by a bright, young manager.

For now at least, the tired stereotypes of riots, discontent and racial disharmony are shoved into the background. But don’t expect to see too many Channel 4 documentary makers wanting to rush north to cover this “community” story.

Their cameras should have been on the top of those buses snaking their way through the adoring throngs. Then they would have captured the sheer glee and pride etched on every Bradfordian – every Bradfordian of different colours and creeds.

Whatever their background, each and everyone was a Bradford City fan wanting to express their admiration for a group of people who have revived the self-belief of an area that has been kicked as hard as any during these difficult times.

Now those fans can bore their friends with that Wembley bar man joke – “the usual, sir?” – and bask in the glow of following an upwardly-mobile football club. And when could you last say that?

I’m approaching my 13th anniversary covering City for the T&A. If I was a manager with my losing record, I’d have been shown the door ten times over.

My first game for the paper was against Manchester City at Maine Road – the ground doesn’t even exist now!

I said it on stage at the club’s recent awards night that this season has made up for all the doom and gloom of the previous dozen. It has been both a pleasure and a privilege to follow.

So to Parkinson, the players and everyone who has had a hand in finally waking this comatosed giant can I just add this: Thank you.

And maybe we can make a date to do it same time, same place again next year?