The Groundhopper

Nottingham Forest 0 Burnley 2

2012-01-31T13:51:00.005Z

"Stop me, stop me, stop me. Stop me if you've heard this one before."

Report up late Wednesday evening.

Hinckley United 0 Luton Town 0

2012-01-15T18:16:00.008Z

It’s Friday morning. We’re gathered around our pod at work talking about people’s plans for the weekend. ‘The Reaper’ pipes up that he is down London, clearing up after an exhibition at Olympia.

He seems quite excited. He’s sussed out a parking spot adjacent to Brompton Cemetery and has a few hours to kill. The Reaper is obsessed with celebrity death. He’s scouring a list of well known dead on Wikipedia that are buried in Brompton Cemetery, when he lets out a huge squeal.

His all-time favourite film is the 1969 kitchen sink drama Kes, which is set in South Yorkshire (he bought a hawk on the strength of it) starring balding Bobby Charlton wannabee Brian Glover, who controversially awards a penalty to himself in the film. He is The Reaper’s hero and is buried in Brompton Cemetery.

It’s Saturday morning, I’ve delivered the papers, devoured my poached egg on toast. I’m getting ready for the afternoon’s junior football. I hear a message alert go off in my pocket. The text is short and sweet and accompanied by a picture: “Look what I’ve found” Attached is Brian Glover’s gravestone ‘1934-1997 wrestler actor writer.’ The Reaper strikes again!

Monday evening proves to be a stressful one for Sticky Palms. As part of my FA Youth Award badge I have to put on a 25 minute session for the Notts County under 9s squad. I’m a bundle of nerves folks. FA tutor Mark Kearney rigs up a microphone and sets the camera rolling. The kids are fantastic and make the session easy peasy.

There’s a sharp frost on Tuesday morning. Already the game looks in doubt. I log onto the BBC Football website and notice that the tie at Hinckley has been put back 24 hours. They claim it is a victim of the weather, but a high police presence is expected at the King Power Stadium this evening for the FA Cup replay between the Foxes and the Tricky Trees.

By the time I get home Sticky junior has already text me from the Supporters’ Club bus, en-route to Leicester, to inform me he’s drawn Guy Moussi out in the ‘first goal’ sweep. Honestly, they still do first goal-scorer at NFFC?

I watch the first half. I’m totally shocked and appalled. I opt out of the next 45 minutes and watch a re-run of Channel 4’s Coppers from Monday evening, who follow the Nottinghamshire Constabulary during the summer riots.

It’s Wednesday, the day of the game. I fly through the door at home, wolf a pizza down, put on a heading session for ‘The Skipper’s’ team and finally pick up ‘The Taxman’ at just gone 6.30pm.

We have to take a diversion down the A606, through the village of Upper Broughton, as the A46 slip road is closed. The drive to Hinckley is a cinch, although the queues into the ground are blocking the Leicester Road.

The guy on the gate gleefully fleeces me of £2 to park the car. It’s £12 on the gate. I don’t think I’ll bother with a programme tonight. I make a donation to the Hinckley Sea Cadets instead.

Luton is a town 30 miles north of London in Bedfordshire. It was once famous for hat-making and was the home of the car manufacturer Vauxhall. During the Second World War the factory built Churchill tanks as part of the War effort. This led them to be vulnerable to the German Luftwaffe, with 107 people losing their lives during air-raids.

Other notable firms with headquarters in the town include: Easy Jet (the club shirt sponsor), Monarch Airlines and Thomson UK.

Well known folk born in Luton include: One Foot in the Grave writer David Renwick, music composer David Arnold (Bond films), the author Arthur Hailey, film director John Badham (Saturday Night Fever), Britain’s ‘most violent prisoner’ Charles Bronson, cricketers Monty Panesar and Will Smith, ex Chelsea striker Kerry Dixon and crap singer from the 1980s Paul Young.

Luton Town were founded in 1885. Their chairman is the former ITV sports presenter Nick Owen. They are managed by former nightclub bouncer Gary Brabin. Their most famous fan was the comedian Eric Morecambe, who became a director at the club.

Well known former managers include: David Pleat, Joe Kinnear, Lennie Lawrence, Ray Harford and Mike Newell. The Hatters most capped player is Northern Ireland’s Mal Donaghy who was capped 58 times. Record transfer received is £3 million from WBA for central defender Curtis Davies. Record transfer paid out is £850,000 for Lars Elstrup from Danish club Odense Boldklub.

I’ve a good mind to ask the gateman for a full refund once I hear some of the toons Bruno Brooks is churning out: East 17 ‘Stay Another Day’, New Kids On The Block ‘Right Stuff’ and ‘I Owe You Nothing’ by Bros have me pulling my free-issue FA beanie hat over my ears.

The stadium is a belter. I’ve been a few times before. There’s a main stand on the half-way line (£2 extra... sod that). Covered terracing is to the right and on the far side. The end to the left backs onto a leisure centre.

We have a mosey around the wonderful club shop. It’s stacked out with old programmes, videos, scarves and football books. I admire the passion of the guy who runs it. We’re thumbing our way through the programmes and having a right old chuckle at a Nottingham Forest v Wolves game from 2000. Number 7 on the team-sheet is old ‘Moonhead’ (David Platt), who single-handedly ruined the Tricky Trees during his disastrous tenure.

The man now lives off the back of ‘Roberto’ at ‘City.’ You’d be begging for a power cut at one of his press conferences. He just talks and talks and talks and talks..... utter baloney.

Luton Town have sent their second string. The numbers are up in the 40s on the back of their shirts. I thought we were watching an American football team. Youth are amongst their ranks.

Both teams defend with a high line. The Knitters’ forward Andre Gray is playing on the shoulder, he has pace to burn. He rifles in a shot that stings the hands of former Posh keeper Mark Tyler.

Luton’s 37 jacket, Alasan Ann, clearly doesn’t fancy it. He feels the force of a Denham Hinds clearance and is felled to the ground. Five minutes later he is waving the white hankie.

The Hatters begin to turn the screw. They counter-attack at break-neck speed. Liverpudlian midfielder John Paul Kissock takes a stranglehold of the game. He has a beautiful balance, a low sense of gravity and can thread the ball through the eye of a needle. He is the Scouse equivilant of Georgi Kinkladze.

Luton are wasteful in front of goal. Dance, Woolley and Fleetwood are guilty as charged as Kissock and the Hatters up the tempo.

I thinks Bruno Brooks has been reunited with Liz Kershaw at the break, as the appalling sounds of pop rock all-brother USA teen band Hanson ring around the Greene King Stadium. To top it all the clown on the decks inflicts further misery with ‘Love Me For A Reason’ by The Osmonds.

It’s at times like this that I hope a power cut kicks in, like it did at Bedworth a few months back. How about a raffle draw? A bit of marching by the Sea Cadets? Or even a penalty shoot-out with both sets of supporters? Anything but the bloody Osmonds.

Hinckley are bursting with confidence but the Luton ‘keeper is in unbeatable form. Young Andre is causing chaos but Tyler is equal to everything he throws at him.

The game is fizzling out. Luton look totally disinterested and have set-up for a replay. Please God, not a 0-0. I don’t do them. It’s been nearly a year – I don’t count Bedworth, it was match abandoned. Where’s Brian Glover when you need him, he’d have awarded a dodgy penno in my hour of need.

It’s all over, bloody hell 0-0. I feel sick. The drive home is silent. Brighton have knocked Wrexham out on penalties. Plenty of goals to see at The Racecourse Ground. Every cloud has a silver lining though. The Normanton Plough has Legend Bitter on as its guest ale. It’s named after Brian Clough. Cheers, ‘Old Big Ead.’

Man of the Match: Denham Hinds (Hinckley ‘keeper – ex Leicester City Academy)

Attendance: 752

Burton Albion 0 Accrington Stanley 2

2012-01-06T12:58:00.007Z

It’s Monday January 2nd. I’m sat up in the Gods of the Derek Pavis Stand at Notts County’s Meadow Lane. Lee Clark’s Huddersfield Town are the visitors. They are here to spoil the Magpies’ 150th birthday party. Legends from the past are paraded around the ground (my boss Mick is one of them). 150 black and white balloons are released into the sea-blue sky.

It’s a scrappy first half, chances are at a minimum. Notts refuse to let the Yorkshire Terriers steamroll all over them. I’m sat with ‘The Angler’ and cigar-smoking Keyworth United legendary Reserve Team manager Alan Jackson. Jacko celebrated his 60th birthday in style last weekend by scooping the Notts County Lifeline jackpot draw. It’s his second pay-out in 30 years.

Huddersfield are coasting at 2-0 up with 20 minutes to go. They gift the Pies a blatant penalty, which is dispatched by Northern Ireland midfielder Jeff Hughes. Their talismanic striker, Lee Hughes, finishes emphatically with five minutes remaining. It’s been a pulsating and breathtaking second half. I record my third 2-2 in three days. Right now, I really can’t half pick em.

After three games on the spin, kindly rubber-stamped by Mrs P, I’ve had to keep my head down and buy into the good lady’s hectic night-time TV schedule. She unearths a gem on Wednesday evening. Sticky’s favourite, Anna Friel, headlines in the BBC drama ‘Public Service.’ The star of the show, though, is the brilliant Daniel Mays, who plays the role of a ‘convicted murderer’, adjusting to life after a ten year prison sentence.

It’s Friday morning. It’s been manic at work. I’m been pulled here, there and everywhere, but hey-ho it makes the day fly by. I’m walking through the Warehouse door, where I see booking-in legend ‘Shifty Edwards’ skulking about the place, looking a bit sheepish. And no wonder why readers; he’s only listening to a re-run of the ‘Craig Charles Funk and Soul Show’ on 6 Music, without asking Sticky Palms to join him.

I’m spitting feathers folks. We always listen to ‘Craigy Boy’ together. To top it all, our favourite band Smoove and Turrell are live in session. I trudge back upstairs to my office. I’m proper sulking. I surf the net at lunch and notice that Smoove and Turrell are playing The Maze, on Mansfield Road, in Nottingham, on March 10th. I bag a couple of tickets at £13 apiece and wave them in the air at Shifty. The Geordie duo are the best thing to come out of Newcastle since Joe McElderry (lol).

I spend the afternoon in our ‘Production’ department. It’s bloody torture listening to both sides of Now 79. It’s as if someone has just tuned in to Capital FM.

I’ve asked permission, by text, to attend tonight’s game. After a table tennis text rally and a few “I love you xxx”, I finally get the thumbs-up. Accrington Stanley are one of the few teams in the Football League that I’ve never seen play.

I bolt out the works’ door at 4.30pm. I’m straight into the garage searching for the hay and sawdust. Keyworth’s friendliest rabbit, Finley Palmer, needs the Kim and Aggie treatment. Accrington fans may not be aware but Finley is famous for his crap score predictions. He fancies a 1-1 draw tonight. “Both sides are struggling to find the back of the onion bag”, he remarks, whilst chewing on some raw broccoli.

After a quick whizz around the bathroom with Mr Muscle, that Mrs Doubtfire would be proud of, I just have time for some chicken stir fry before Dafty rings the doorbell bang on 6.30pm. We avoid the A453 and hurtle through the backstreets of Kegworth and onto the A50. Talk Sport are chatting the usual shit on the car radio.

The conversation soon turns to talented 8 year old ‘Sport Billy’, ‘Gangsta.’, who is Dafty’s youngest lad. He’s currently training with the Tricky Trees and The Pies. Burton Albion are also expressing an interest in the speedy winger. He’s on trial at more clubs than Robbie Keane.

We park up at the back of some industrial units, across the road from the Pirelli Stadium. I still pine for the old ground at Eton Park, with its filthy, beer-stained 1970s flowered carpet and its Phoenix Nights good-feel factor.

Having paid £14 on the turnstile, and £3 for a programme, we enter the ‘Popside Bar’ and meet up with Robbo, who I’ve known for over 40 years. He was a decent player back in the day, but still holds the record for the most own goals scored (apart from Richard Dunne) in a season.

We’re in the beer-making capital of England and I’m waiting at the bar with thirty other folk. Four people are trying to change a barrel in the cellar. It’s a comedy moment that only a football club could throw up. Honestly, you couldn’t make it up. I opt for a Coca-Cola, which I spill all over Robbo.

Accrington is an old mill town on the western edge of the Pennines, in Lancashire, close to Blackburn and Burnley. It has a population of 35,000. Accrington Stanley were formed in 1968, although a previous club from the town, Accrington FC, were one of the original twelve founder members of the Football League in 1888. They play at the Crown Ground, which has a capacity of just over 5000.

Notable people born in Accrington include: the cricketer Graeme ‘Foxy’ Fowler (who informed his second wife by FAX that he wanted a divorce, cricket commentator David ‘Bumble’ Lloyd, Jon Anderson, the lead singer with the rock band Yes, Julie Hesmondhalgh (Hayley Cropper) and Vicki Entwhistle (Janice Battersby) from Coronation Street and the astrologer Mystic Meg (“what’s that Meg, 2-0 to Accrington?”).

Stanley arrive at the Pirelli on the back of an eight match unbeaten run. AFC Wimbledon and Morecambe have been amongst their scalps on their recent travels. The Brewers have stuttered of late, only winning once in their last five outings.

The first half is a non event and short on action, as both teams play a safety first game. It’s Accrington Stanley who are pleasing on the eye. They play a short passing game that in my experience is pretty alien in this league, particularly on a shoestring budget.

Stanley are managed by Liverpool-born John Coleman, who was a formidable non-league striker back in the eighties. It has always mystified me, why after 12 years of performing a minor miracle, no other league club has took a punt on him.

I used to love coming to ‘The Albion’ when they were a top-drawer non league team under Nigel Clough. I miss the passion of Darren Stride, the jinking runs of Keith Gilroy and the speed and shooting prowess of Shaun Harrod. It says it all when one of their best players on view tonight is 19 year Callum Driver, who Mrs Brady has loaned to her husband (Paul Peschisolido) from West Ham United.

I’m desperately disappointed with their journeymen centre forwards Calvin Zola and Justin Richards. Robbo remarks that the injured Billy Kee, with a 12 goal season tally, is more direct. Dimunitive Irish midfielder John McGrath, an old favourite of Sticky’s, is also struggling. His passing is off the radar and his legs look heavy.

The game is in need of a goal, it arrives on the half hour. Stanley are awarded a free-kick 22 yards from goal. Former Birmingham City and Charlton Athletic midfielder, 35 year old Bryan Hughes, is lining it up, it’s cleverly rolled to Kevin McIntyre who fires home a deflected effort. Phew, I don’t do 0-0s.

The Brewers spurn a golden chance on the stroke of half-time, a quickly taken short corner is whipped in, but Zola heads over totally unmarked.

We’ve been joined by Robbo’s two teenage sons. The eldest is like a chip off the old block, young un is also very sociable. Jessie J is the pick of the half-time toons. Word spreads around the ground that Oldham-born Jordan Rhodes has rediscovered his shooting boots and has already bagged a brace at Wycombe.

The second half is entertaining as the game opens up. The Brewers play with more width. I’m astonished when the tricky Maghoma is withdrawn, although two wide men (Cleveland Taylor and Jimmy Phillips) are flung on.

Accrington’s 19 year old Congolese centre half Aristote Nsiala, on loan from Everton, has been immense this evening. He’s substituted on the hour following a clash of heads. He’s replaced by Tom Bender, who’s also on loan, from League One Colchester United. He hit the news headlines back in October when a JPT game between Stanley and Tranmere was abandoned after he was carried from the field unconscious.

Accrington put the game to bed on 62 minutes when a Craig Lindfield corner is misdirected towards his own goal by Tony James, it clips the underside of the bar and hits the roof of the net. Stanley have played a beautiful game with the veteran Bryan Hughes and Andy Proctor bossing the midfield. They’ve been powder puff in attack. They desperately miss the goals of Bobby Grant, who was sold to Scunthorpe United in a deal worth up to £260,000.

As for Burton, they need to get their walking wounded and suspended back quickly or on this performance their season will just fizzle out.

Man of the Match: Andy Proctor

Attendance: 2486

Eastwood Town 2 Boston United 2

2012-01-03T20:03:00.013Z

All I seem to have done is drink lager, wine and eat cheese and biscuits. The build-up to Christmas was quiet. The Loughborough University v Gresley FC, Midland Alliance Friday evening Christmas appetiser was washed away by torrential rain.

Christmas Eve afternoon and evening was spent in the company of my Godson, Will, and his cheeky little brother ‘Gangsta.’ We went down to ‘Megabowl’ on the soulless Lenton Lane Industrial estate. I sank a couple of San Miguel’s, returned to our house for a few more and then devoured some smoked salmon and cream cheese sandwiches, accompanied by a bottle of champers.

Present opening on Christmas Day morning was the usual disappointment – there was no Murphy the budgie to report on folks. He would have been a breath of fresh air to this blog. I’d train him to whistle the EastEnders theme tune and to dive-bomb Mrs P during Holby City and Casualty. We (me and the kids) cling onto fading hope that he’ll turn up for my birthday in February.

I asked Mrs P if it would be alright to take a game in on Boxing Day morning in the Leicestershire Senior League between Asfordby Amateurs and Melton Mowbray. The good lady was having none of it and gave me an icy glare that even I knew meant NO.

I tentatively enquired about a treble groundhop at the weekend (including two re-visits). I craftily mention that I’ll take her Dad down Meadow Lane for the ‘big one’ against the Terriers of Huddersfield. It gets the royal seal of approval.

New Year’s Eve is spent with some good friends, one of whom is celebrating her fiftieth birthday. A curry is delivered to the door. I’m tucked up in bed by 2am, sober as judge.

I’ve not been to Eastwood since they battered Alfreton 4-2 at the fag end of last season. Looking back over the last few seasons I appear to have been a lucky charm. I listen to 6 Music, slurping on a mug of tea, whilst quaffing a crumpet, smothered in butter and Marmite. The DJ is playing ‘The Look’ by English Riveria band Metronomy.

We’ve two car-loads travelling up the North today. White Van Man, Groundhopper, Sizzers and Sticky Junior are in one, whilst the Nuclear Scientist, Snooksey & The Skipper join the convoy in Inspector Morse’s’ Jaguar.

I must have a ghost in the ‘Rolls Royce’ as the radio has suddenly been tuned into the woeful 96.2 Capital FM. Rizzle Kicks latest offering is blaring out. The kids know it annoys me. We collect a bleary-eyed White Van Man, who has only recently rolled out of his pit. He was on the West Bridgford run last night and finished up in the Pearl Bar. He drank them dry of shandy.

We seem to have missed a torrential downpour as water gushes down the road and congregates around the drains. I’ve literally had my wipers on intermittent for most of the journey. We manage to park up on Chewton Street, facing the right direction, ready for a quick get-away

It’s tipping it down with rain. We prefer the warmth and cover of the social club. Sticky jnr bags an Eastwood Town scarf for a bargain £2. The kids then fleece me for a tenner to get some drinks in. £7.20 for four small bottles of Coca Cola is bloody scandalous by the way.

I bump into ‘Lank’ in the lavatory. He’s not as chipper as usual. Turns out he had a skinful last night and has also made an early start on the beverages this morning - Trumpy would be proud of that performance. I notice that the taps have no running water.

I’m fleeced for a further £19 at the gate for one adult and three kids. I don’t bother with a programme as the well has run dry.

The golden era at Coronation Park appears to be over. John Ramshaw has returned to the Badgers from Shepshed Dynamo. He has unfinished business and a total re-building job in-hand. The money from the Rob Yong era dried up. With a ground not deemed fit for Conference football and the play-offs denied, despite finishing fourth, Yong upped and left. Another consortium took over at the beginning of the season – it was an unmitigated disaster.

Ramshaw began his second spell at the Club with them rooted in the lower echelons of the Blue Square Conference North. With a tight budget and dwindling crowds, survival in this league will be a cause for celebration.

I have to admit I didn’t enjoy the hullabaloo and razamataz at the time. Flashing the cash and big-time Charlie’s is not Eastwood Town’s way. It’s a working class area, steeped in a tradition of coal-mining. Folks say it as they see it. Take it or leave, but don’t be offended. The tables have now been well and truly turned. Hyde, Stalybridge Celtic, Guiseley and Gainsborough Trinity are now the league’s grand fromages.

I travelled across to Boston the other evening to see them take on the Steelmen of Corby. It was a terrific game of football played in arctic conditions. Jason Lee’s team play a passing game that is pleasing on the eye. Lee is always available for plan B which consists of a diagonal ball met with a knock-down or flick on by old ‘Pineapple Head.’

Boston is a town and small port in Lincolnshire with a population of over 55,000. It is estimated that a quarter of its inhabitants are immigrants, with a high proportion from Eastern Europe and Portugal. Their York Street ground would coast into my all-time top ten stadia to die for. So would the ‘Eagles’ chippy and Coach and Horses real ale house.

In the opening stages we witness how a centre forward should lead the line. Jason Lee’s supremacy in the air is frightening. He finds the runners and holds up play. A pumped-up Badgers take the lead slightly against the run of play, with a deflected Francis Green effort. The Pilgrims play-maker, Ben Milnes, hobbles off after 15 minutes after a late tackle.

Boston equalise on 18 minutes with a perfectly weighted free-kick from former Blade and Magpie Ian Ross, who had earlier seen a lob tipped over by Eastwood ‘keeper Deakin.

On 25 minutes there’s a mix-up between Jordan Fairclough and Paul Bastock, Eastwood’s Jervaise Christie can scarcely believe his luck as he rolls the ball into an empty net.

We’re stood behind the nearest goal to the clubhouse. At the opposite end is a huge following from Lincolnshire. We’ve hooked up with the Shepshed Van Man, ‘Dave.’ He and White Van Man are discussing the motorways and A Roads of Great Britain – it’s boring me to death, readers. ‘Dave has been hopping in Northants and the West Midlands at the weekend.

We then discuss the coldest we’ve ever felt at a football ground. Dave says it has to be Rossendale in Lancashire. WVM and I agree that Barrow Town, in Leicestershire, a few years ago would take some topping.

It’s 2-1 at the break in an open and entertaining game. WVM very kindly buys a full round of hot drinks. One or two famous faces are in the crowd: Ilkeston Town manager, the former Chelsea striker, Kevin Wilson and ex NFFC and Leeds defender Chris Fairclough are amongst them.. WVM spots an Eastwood WAG with long blonde hair, in tight denim jeans and knee-high leather boots – he can’t half pick em.

Sticky jnr has had an altercation with a Boston United fan at the tea bar. Junior claims he’s ‘Eastwood till he dies’ following his £2 scarf purchase. The DJ, right on cue, plays ‘Rebel Yell’ by Billy Idol.

Boston attack the end at the bottom of the slope where their supporters are crammed in. I’m stood in the middle of them, when a corner comes sailing over, Cannonville heads it towards goal, but it’s brilliantly blocked by the impressive Burge and clawed away by a busy Deakin.

Moments later Eastwood switch off from a Pilgrims short corner, Newsham’s predatory instincts restore parity for Boston. Eastwood hang on for a deserved point, in a fantastic advert for the Conference North. It’s my second 2-2 draw in 24 hours.

Slowly, John Ramshaw is assembling a competitive, strong, energetic outfit. I will definitely catch up with them on their travels soon.

Attendance: 596

Peterborough Northern Star 2 Kings Lynn Town 2

2011-12-31T09:54:00.008Z

It’s Thursday December 22nd. I’m driving the ‘Rolls Royce’ out of Ruddington Business Park. I swing left at the roundabout onto the A60. Legendary warehouseman ‘Shifty Edwards’ is my wing man. The radio is turned off, we both remain silent. We’re apprehensive, nervous, anxious and excited.

I drive past the old Nottingham Knight hotel and take a right hand turn into Wilford Hill Crematorium. We’re here to pay our respects. Shifty spins all the discs in our warehouse, he has got me listening to Tamla Motown and Northern Soul music. We both share a fondness for the American soul singer Edwin Starr, who died in the bath at his Bramcote home, near Nottingham, eight years ago at the age of 61.

We know he was laid to rest in the Southern Cemetery. We walk off in opposite directions. Suddenly Shifty catches my eye-line. He’s jumping up and down and waving his arms about frantically. He’s found him. I scamper over towards him.

The headstone is black, and the grave well tended to. Etched onto the stone in gold lettering is his real name ‘Charles Edwin Hatcher.’ It’s a poignant moment for both of us. A Northern Soul and Motown legend, buried less than a mile from where we work together.

The Top 50 Most Shocking Celebrity Moments on Channel 5 fails to amuse me on Friday evening. I turn in for bed at 10pm. I have a restless night. My stomach is churning from all the Stilton and Rioja that I’ve devoured.

The morning papers are full of the New Year’s Honours List. I notice that 82 year old Ashton-under-Lyne born BBC sports reporter Stuart Hall has been awarded an OBE. Not before time, Ma’am.

I have a browse of the Web whilst listening to The Charlatans lead singer Tim Burgess presenting the 6 Music Breakfast Show. He plays ‘Autobahn’ by German electronic synth-pop band Kraftwerk. I once saw them at Rock City in 1980. It was the most boring gig on earth. The highlight of the night was when my mate ‘Topper’ got booted out for being drunk and disorderly.

Mick McCarthy’s leading groupie, ‘Gangsta’, is 8 years old today. He had the pleasure of meeting the dour Yorkshireman last week at Molineux. ‘Gangsta’, just like his Uncle Sticky, can’t arf pick em, as Wolves and Norwich played out a cracking 2-2 draw.

I mention to ‘Gangsta’ and my Godson Will that I’ve spotted a rat in the kitchen, and that it might be wise to invest in a trap from our local hardware store. Turns out that Santa has dropped a hamster down the chimney for the youngsters.

I’m all set for my trip to Peterborough. I should know the route like the back of my hand, but nevertheless rig up the Sat Nav.

There have already been a couple of goals to report on at the King Power Stadium, Walkers Stadium – or in old money Filbert Street. David Nugent has bagged against his old club. I rate him highly and saw him terrorise the Tricky Trees earlier in the season.

I drive down the A606 towards Melton Mowbray. To my right in the distance is the recently refurbished Pullman Inn at Widmerpool. I pass signs for Long Clawson, which is one of only three places where Stilton cheese is produced.

I saw an interesting stat from BBC football commentator Conor McNamara on Twitter earlier today. Apparently Blackburn have taken points off Manchester Utd in five out of the last seven seasons. They’ve started well at Old Trafford, with their Nigerian striker Yakubu putting them one to the good from the spot. Insightful summariser Jimmy Armfield pours scorn on any comparisons between Phil Jones and the late, great Duncan Edwards.

The A1 south-bound has served me well on recent trips. I’m parked up in Peterborough town centre in just over an hour. I’m meeting an old school friend called Ackers in the Brewery Tap on Westgate. I walk past a bustling market place, with the cathedral on the opposite side of the street towering above the shops.

Ackers shouts me up a pint of Inferno from Oakham Ales, who are based in Peterborough. The pub is huge and two-tiered. A local makes good use of the jukebox –The Smiths, James and Arctic Monkeys are particular favourites of mine.

Peterborough Northern Star’s ground is situated on a huge council estate on Chestnut Avenue in the town’s Dogsthorpe area, which featured on the Channel 4 programme The Secret Millionaire. The road is crammed full of parked cars. A heavy away following is expected. I squeeze the ‘Rolls Royce’ into a tight spot on the main drag.

Peterborough Northern Star was originally formed as a village side from two brickyards, Northam in Eye and the Star brickworks in Peterborough. It would appear that there is a natural progression from their junior ranks and the untapped talent on the sprawling estate.

Kings Lynn is a sea port and market town, which lies on the River Great Ouse, in the county of Norfolk, with a population of just over 40,000. I remember visiting it as part of a Geography project in 1979. We saw scores of Skoda cars arriving in the docks from Hamburg. We also visited Lockwood’s, the tinned fruit manufacturer.

In 1987 Kings Lynn became the first town to install CCTV in its centre. Notable people from the area include Queen drummer Roger Taylor, Formula One racing driver Martin Brundle, England fast bowler Martin Saggers and former bin man Michael Carroll, who scooped over £9 million on the National Lottery and blew the lot.

Kings Lynn were formed in 1879. On 25th November 2009 they were wound up in the High Court over unpaid debts of over £77,000. Last season they were knocked out of the semi-final of the FA Vase by Coalville Town. The Linnets currently top the table, having only suffered two league defeats. Peterborough NS are sitting in 4th position.

It’s £5 on the gate and £1 for a glossy 38 page programme, heavily laden with adverts. I’m immediately impressed with the ground. Tiny covered stands are dotted on both sides of the ground. The pitch has stood up to the blustery conditions that the country has suffered over the last few days.

Business is thriving at ‘Angie’s Kitchen’ and ‘The Square Snack Bar.’ The teams are announced on the PA. One or two names are familiar to me. Former Nottingham Forest scholars Liam Hook and Robert Hughes lock horns on opposite sides.

There’s a fast, frantic opening, with chances at either end as Northern Star match the league leaders. The Linnet’s ‘keeper makes himself big and beats away a Northern Star shot, the rebound is fired wide. Kings Lynn immediately pour forward, Spriggs leaves his marker for dead, clips in a cross to the back stick, where Luke Thurlbourne nods the ball high into the net.

The remainder of the first half is tepid at best, as both teams fail to craft a worthy chance. Kings Lynn have been a major disappointment, they are narrow and without quality.

I’ve forgot my glasses so can’t check the half times on my phone. Ackers is not wearing his reading glasses. We both struggle to scan the BBC vidiprinter. No need to worry about goals at The City Ground – apparently they’ve cancelled the Goal of the Month award at the Tricky Trees for December.

Ackers has pea and ham soup, which appears to be a local delicacy in these parts. I notice that tea is poured from the pot, and very nice it is too. It’s marked with a score of 8 out of 10.

Lynn’s manager Gary Setchell has certainly kicked an ass or two after a lacklustre performance. They play with more urgency in the second period. The front two decide to stretch their legs, the link-up play is impressive. The Linnets go two to the good, with Spriggs hitting the onion bag from close range.

They decide to run the clock down and withdraw their two forwards, not through fatigue though. I’m immediately impressed with youngster Robbie Harris, who has energy, movement and desire.

Northern Star throw caution to the wind. A deflected shot loops up into the air, ‘Gibbo’ thumps the clearance into the net. The Linnets are on the back foot but still manage to hit the woodwork through Harris. Minutes from time Northern Star’s substitute is bundled over in the box. Stead converts from the spot, despite the Linnets’ ‘keeper getting a strong hand on it.

Attendance: 466

Man of the Match: Richard Jones

Histon 1 Gainsborough Trinity 1

2011-12-17T08:26:00.007Z

It’s 8.30am on Saturday. I’m driving the ‘Rolls Royce’ through the black wrought iron gates of the oldest Football League club in the world. I head towards ‘Lawton’s Bar’ – named after legendary Lancastrian striker Tommy Lawton, who notched 90 goals in 150 appearances for the Magpies.

I’m here for a FA Module One course. The tutor is former Mansfield Town and Chesterfield midfielder Mark Kearney. He asks us to mingle with the other students and to introduce ourselves. I get chatting to a tall, thick-set chap, with a receding hairline. He’s sporting a D***y County football shirt.

I don’t quite catch his name. We’re chatting about our respective roles in football. He says he is a youth team coach at D***y County. I ask him his name again. “Noel” he replies. He says he used to play for Dirty Leeds, Coventry City and Middlesbrough. I feel such a fool for not recognising him. I apologise. It’s none other than the striker Noel Whelan.

Four hours later Mark Kearney announces we’re having a lunch break. He comically asks Noel, in his thick Scouse accent, what food he’s rustling up. It totally slipped my mind that Whelan was a contestant in Celebrity MasterChef 2006. The course blows my mind away. Topics include: a child’s self-esteem, how to manage mistakes and motivate a child. It puts me in a positive mood for the rest of the day.

I spend Sunday morning watching a top two clash at Under 16 level in Nottingham. I catch the second half of ‘The Skipper’s’ game at Clifton FC. I note another manager behaving appallingly towards a referee. The FA inspectors, who have assessed my team on two occasions this season, in the space of a month, would have been an interested observer today.

I’m dragged around Sainsbury’s at Castle Marina in the afternoon. It’s the Christmas nibbles and Red wine shop. I manage to sneak a few extra items into the trolley, but I’m well and truly rumbled at the check-out by a grumpy Mrs P. Grapefruit segments, a tin of pineapples and lime and mango poppadoms were apparently not on the shopping list.

TV viewing on Sunday evening sees Little Mix breeze their way onto the winner’s podium on X-Factor. Lennon and McCartney, Sonia, Jim Royle and Julian Cope will see little threat to their record sales from Scouse one-trick pony, Marcus Collins.

I visit Boston United’s York Street on Tuesday for their Conference North clash with the Steelmen of Corby. The biting wind and slippery conditions make for entertaining fare. Old ‘Pineapple Head’ (Jason Lee) ploughs a lone furrow up top for the Pilgrims. He wears a short-sleeved shirt in arctic conditions. I wouldn’t put him down as a man to wear black woollen mittens – sadly I’m mistaken.

The highlight of the evening is the pea and ham soup in the ‘Executive Lounge’ at half-time. We even grab a cup of tea and some ‘Nice’ sugar-coated biscuits. 1-1 is a fair result. Ten men Corby see Matt Rhead fluff a penalty. A controversial goal, three minutes from time, by Tyrone Kirk hardly improves morale.

A quick dash around Nottingham on Wednesday lunchtime (Christmas shopping) should keep me in good books for another year. The lady behind the counter in the Pandora shop certainly earned her corn.

Friday night is spent in silence. I’m proper seething about summat. Never mind, I’m hoping the trip to Histon will blow the cobwebs away. I read an article in The Times about how Demba Ba was not offered terms by Barnsley, Watford and Swansea when he was a youngster.

It’s Saturday morning and I’m back from the paper round. Sticky junior has picked up £20 in tips. A hat tip to number 137, who despite the occasional sarcastic remark (“better late than never”) managed to leave £5 in a Christmas card.

I make a brew, whilst Mrs P kindly knocks me up a sausage sandwich. Danny Baker is asking folk to ring in his Radio 5 show to tell him what they eat and drink while in the shower. He has that buffoon Barry Fry on the ‘Sausage Sandwich Game.’ White Van Man has noticed on my Facebook and Twitter accounts that I’m Histon bound. He books a place in the ‘Rolls Royce.’

Trumpy trudges out the front door, with his plastic bottle of cider caressed like he’s holding a baby. He’s chatting away almost immediately. He went to hospital yesterday for a scan on his groin. He took the opportunity to have a couple of jars in The Dragon on Long Row in Nottingham, before catching the bus to the Queens Medical Centre.

White Van Man says he won’t be drinking for the first three months of the New Year. I reply that I will be having three weeks off it too. Trumpy pipes up that he’ll go for a personal best of three hours without an alcoholic beverage in January.

He recently spent the night in Boston, Lincs, holed up in the Coach and Horses. If you drink eight pints of Harvest Pale Ale you get the ninth one for free. Trumpy cake-walked the task.

We sail down an empty A1 and onto the A14. The drive, once we hit Cambridgeshire, becomes as dull as dishwater. New readers will be interested and amazed to know that Trumpy Bolton’s sole aim in life is to make a financial transaction in every village, town and city in England, Scotland and Wales.

The first pub he’s earmarked has turned into an old people’s complex. Another hostelry says ‘open 12-3pm’, but there’s no sign of life. In the village of Impington disaster strikes again, the legend mistakenly enters a Chinese restaurant believing it to be a pub. We finally settle for a spot of lunch in a gastro bar called the Rose & Crown. Motown is on the jukebox. Trumpy moans about the ‘anti-social networks’ as I type out a few Tweets.

We stroll up past the village green, where an elderly couple with their grandchild are feeding bread to a flock of waddling ducks. The Red Lion, opposite the Green, is a treat. The ceiling is festooned in hundreds of beer mats. A pint of Yorkshire terrier from the York Brewery puts me in the mood for football.

We leave the ‘Rolls’ in the pub car park and take a wander up to Bridge Road. The walk is longer than anticipated. Trumpy is struggling with his possible hernia injury. A very kind steward offers to drive us back into the village after the game.

Histon is a village to the north of Cambridge with a population of 4500. Chivers jelly and marmalade was made in the village for over 60 years. Up to 3000 people were employed at the factory. It was sold to Schweppes in 1959.

The Stutes were founded in 1904. In November 2008 they became the first non league team to knock Leeds United out of the FA Cup. Managerial dream team Steve Fallon and John Beck are long gone. The money has also dried up.

Former Arsenal and Millwall midfielder David Livermore, at the age of 31, is the current manager. His remit is to blood youth.

It’s £10 on the turnstile and £2.50 for a decent programme. Trumpy limps his way up to the Glassworld Bar. He finds a seat next to a window and radiator. It gives him a panoramic view of the ground. White Van Man takes a particular interest in a tray of crusty meat pies that have recently arrived from the kitchen. There are pendants on the wall from Ipswich Town, Liechtenstein and Notts County.

I leave the pair of big girls’ blouses snuggling up together in the bar and take a stroll around the Glassworld. There are open terraces at both ends. On the far side a stand runs along the whole length of the ground. Towering above them are leylandii. On the opposite side the stand is split into two. Tucked away in the corner is the ‘Club Shop.’ It’s a flat surface, perfect for passing football.

The standard of football, as it was at Boston on Tuesday evening is above average, although Trinity are poor in the final third. Dan Holman is lively going forward for the Stutes. He scored 60 goals in 78 appearances for UCL team Long Buckby. He forces a save from Gainsborough ‘keeper Kenny Arthur.

I’m back in the bar having just chatted to a lad who has signed for Corby Town from Kings Lynn. Trumpy has already become the barman’s best friend. Group 4 will have to employ an extra man to carry out the takings as the legend ups his game in the drinking stakes – they’ve already run out of cider.

Trumpy’s day gets better with news that David Nugent has nudged Leicester ahead at Doncaster. I also notice that the ‘Red Imps’ have taken the lead at Forest Green. Suddenly our eyes are on the game, a poor punch by Arthur falls at the feet of Daniel Sparkes who smacks the ball into the back of the net from the edge of the area.

I stand in the away end in the second half and strike up a conversation with a Trinity guru. He explains that they are without their talisman Ryan Kendall who is injured. He admits that they are well below par today.

A double substitution changes the game. Darren Stamp has already missed two gilt-edged chances when Gainsborough take a quick free kick. Jamie Yates ghosts past the Histon full back, before planting the ball onto the head of Stamp, who makes no mistake at the third time of asking.

There are chances at both ends as defences wobble like the Chivers jelly with either team searching for a winner. It’s a fair result, with the game played in an excellent spirit. I like Histon FC a lot. I admire the club ethos and wish them well for the rest of the season.

Attendance: 342

Man of the Match: Dan Holman

Alfreton Town 3 Newport County 2

2011-12-06T17:12:00.005Z

I leave work at 3.20pm. I’m ghost white and trembling with fear. I make the short ten minute journey back to our village. This dreadful day has finally crept up on me. That bloody 70p bag of broken rock from Whitby has done for me.

The dentist said I could have root canal treatment for £250 or an extraction for £47. It’s Hobson’s choice folks. I tentatively climb the stairs up to the surgery. I flop into one of the chairs after some pleasant chit-chat with the receptionist, who has worked here for 33 years.

There are some magazines lying on the table. I’m not in the mood for Golf Monthly, February 2008, or the Reader’s Digest from May 1999.The girls on reception are having a hoot, whilst I stare into space, absolutely kacking myself. I scroll through my Twitter timeline and fire off a few texts.

“Mr Palmer.” Ooh bollocks; that’s me. The toothache worsens when I hear Steve Wright and his condescending cronies on the radio. Two massive needles are plunged into my mouth. How the hell did Gazza enjoy the dentist’s chair?

There’s crunching, twisting and turning, but out she finally pops. Never again readers. Never again, will I buy a bag of broken rock, from a seaside resort, at the fag end of summer.

There’s no time for groundhopping at the weekend. We’ve a big contract at work to fulfil. The MD asks for volunteers for the weekend. I work Saturday morning. I coach ‘The Skipper’s’ team in the afternoon. It’s a tough, uncompromising game, played in Stapleford, to the west of Nottingham. We bow out of the Notts FA Shield, but not without a fight.

I’m as miserable as sin on Sunday. There’s no tea-time alcoholic beverage or evening bag of pork scratchings. I plod on with my pre-Christmas detox. Mrs P raises a glass of Chardonnay in my direction, whilst Sticky Palms downs a pint of water out of a Stella glass.

On Monday I’m up with the larks for a 6am start. I weigh in after seven days of torture. A five pound loss lifts my spirits. I’m back home for 3pm. I watch the hilarious satirical comedy Black Mirror. It’s Channel 4 at its best.

Tuesday evening can’t come quick enough. I leave ‘The Skipper stretched out on the sofa listening to Jessie J. The Taxman arrives at 6.40pm. We’re on the guest list tonight and he’s volunteered to pilot. The ring road is as dead as a dodo, and the M1 as clear as a bell. We turn off at Junction 28. I’m already annoyed that The Taxman has Deano and Pete on Capital FM 96.2.

The Taxman has been Christmas shopping in town with The Taxlady. Having pounded the streets of Nottingham for four hours, his patience finally snapped in Marks and Spencer. An altercation with ‘er indoors’ resulted in a single bus fare home for the Inland Revenue’s finest.

We fly down the A38. Smoke billows out of a chimney on an industrial estate at Broadmeadows. We park up off North Street in a residential area of Alfreton. We follow a guy wrapped up in Alfreton colours up a snicket.

I squeeze through the turnstile and pounce upon a programme seller. I’m disappointed, having parted with £2.50, to find no player profiles for the Exiles.

I glance at the line-ups and recognise a familiar name, who was once an icon at Meadow Lane. David Pipe wears the No.19 shirt for Newport. He recently signed on non-contract terms following his release from prison, having served just over a year for a 38 month sentence for fracturing someone’s skull in an unprovoked attack.

It’s Alfreton’s maiden season in the Conference Premier. They are finding it tough without their grand fromage, Liam Hearn, who has flown the nest to the Mariners of Grimsby Town.

The 70 hardy souls from Newport, who have made the 300 mile round trip, are tucked away in the corner. It’s my first experience of segregation in the non league this season. There are even a couple of Taffy plod tossing it off for the night.

Newport is a city in South Wales with a population of over 100,000. The city stands on the banks of the River Usk. It’s port grew during the Industrial Revolution, with the transportation of coal and iron.

Notable people born in the city include: Animal Magic presenter Johnny Morris, author Leslie Thomas, actor Michael Sheen, footballers Chris Gunter and James Collins and Stoke City manager Tony Pulis.

The Celtic Manor Resort is situated just outside the city. It was, of course, the scene of a dramatic victory for Europe over the USA in the Ryder Cup in 2010.

Newport County were founded in 1912. They were relegated from the Football League in 1988 and went into bankruptcy in 1989. I once saw them trounce my team, Lincoln City, 4-1 in 1982. I left with half an hour to go. John Aldridge and Tommy Tynan bagged a brace a-piece that cold, wet night. Oxford United paid £75,000 for Aldo’s services. Liverpool shelled out ten times that, three years later.

Record transfer received by the club is £100,000 for Craig Reid from Stevenage. Record transfer paid is £80,000 for Alan Waddle from Swansea City.

As we take a stroll around this lovely old ground with its bucket full of soul and endless character, The Taxman drops out that his Dad once lived in Newport when he left Poland to head for these shores. We’re ambling behind the goal chin-wagging when the reserve keeper blasts a shot that misses my head by inches. I toss the ball back over the wall and give him an icy stare.

We stand on the back row at the bottom of the slope that Newport will attack. The pitch is flat, the surface short and greasy. The DJ plays Emerson, Lake and Palmer and ‘Radar Love’ by Golden Earring. I’d put him as late fifties.

Newport start like a house on fire. Matthews and Buchanan look a menacing partnership for the Exiles. Buchanan lashes home a loose ball after Danny Potter had blocked a Matthews shot. He’s inches away from doubling his account only minutes later. He twists and turns and let fly from 20 yards out, only to see his shot flash the wrong side of the post.

There’s some interesting folk here tonight, dressed in an array of different headgear. There are flat-cappers, Bear-skins, pom pom hats, beanie hats and baseball caps. Alfreton are soon on level terms. A Josh Law corner is swung in from ther left and is headed home by Anthony Church. The Exiles lose their way as the home team enjoy possession and exert pressure. Jake Moult hits a rasping 20 yard drive to put Alfreton 2-1 up.

We’ve picked another cracking game. It’s 28 matches ago since I blogged a 0-0. I’m keen to stand in the away end in the second half but a couple of burly stewards put paid to that. I peer into the John Harrison Suite. It’s packed to the rafters.

Alan ‘Fluff’ Freeman continues his Pick of the Pops at the break. Rod Stewart and Hocus Pocus by Focus must mean the Golden Year is 1973. We consider whether to nip out to the off license to purchase a Worthington’s Party Seven and four bottles of Mackeson.

Newport come out all guns blazing. The ball is pinging about the Alfreton area when captain Gary Warren equalises on the hour.

It‘s all Alfreton in the final ten minutes but they can’t find their way past the Newport goal. With a minute remaining a loose ball finds its way to hard-working substitute Nathan Jarman who gleefully dispatches the ball through a ruck of players and into the net to send the Alfreton Town Baby Squad into raptures.

I really can’t half pick em.

Attendance: 529

Man of the Match: Referee (Darren Bond), who was superb. Let the game flow and only one yellow card.

Shepshed Dynamo 0 Carlton Town 6

2011-11-30T13:23:00.007Z

It’s been an unproductive Sunday morning, talent-spotting in Arnold. I’ve covered three games and drawn a blank. I’ve driving through Daybrook on my way home for Sunday lunch. Five Live presenter, the smooth-talking Ian Payne, is chatting to Andy Dunn, Ian Dowie & Michael Gray about the previous day’s events in the Premiership.

Ian Payne suddenly interrupts one of them “Oh my goodness, we have some very sad news. I hardly know what to say.” He hands over to Nigel Adderley who is about to commentate at Swansea City’s Liberty Stadium. Adderley announces, through an FA of Wales press statement, the untimely passing of Welsh manager Gary Speed.

I’m totally in shock. He’s a player that has been admired at every club he’s represented and has made 85 appearances for his country. It’s live radio at his best as they round up his former colleagues and friends to pay tribute to Speed. It puts a dampener on the rest of the day. All I can think about are his two sons that he has left behind, who are the same age as my boys.

Yesterday (Saturday) was a more positive day. ‘The Skipper’s’ team made it one defeat in six games with a convincing win on the Notts/Derbyshire border. We then headed into town to watch the fast feet and close ball control of Sticky junior.

He played in one of my favourite spots in town. It’s against a club who I have had a tug-of-war with about junior players in the past. They choose now to send their conveyor belt of talent down the A52 to D***y County. It breaks my heart that boys from inner city Nottingham will learn the ropes and develop their skills at the Sheep Dip, and not at a breeding ground like Notts County who have a history of discovering talents from these parts.

Sticky jnr's team have the last laugh, with an injury-time equalizer. Both teams behaviour is exemplary. The same cannot be said of some of the adults. The game ends in chaos with a confrontation with one of their coaching ‘staff.’

Mrs P is down the ‘Smoke’ on a girlie weekend. I take full advantage. Last night we visited a KFC establishment close to Meadow Lane; tonight we have a take-away pizza from the village.

I give the ‘Nuclear Scientist’ a tinkle. He ventures round for the Spanish Football. Real Madrid dish out a drubbing in the local derby, whilst Barca suffer a rare defeat. We complete a hat-trick with Match of the Day. Three bottles of Rioja are polished off. Oops!

Monday morning has a miserable, solemn feeling about it. I’m starting an eleven day detox to shift some weight. Out the window go carbs, alcohol, fatty foods and red meat. Into play comes fish, water and lemon, salad and cranberry juice.

Anxiety has reared its ugly head too. On Thursday I have a visit to the dentist at 3.30pm (not tooth hurty) for the removal of a tooth. I’m petrified.

I’ve buried my head into a great cricket groundhopping book for the last few evenings. It’s about a guy who trawls the Northern leagues in Lancashire, Yorkshire, Cumbria and Northumberland. It’s titled ‘Slipless in Settle’ by Harry Pearson. His endless anecdotes have cheered me up no end.

White Van Man is back from the wilderness. We travel to the Dovecote executive style. I glance at the panel on the radio. It’s lit up in neon lights with words GEM 106. ‘Every Breath You Take’ by The Police is talked over by an annoying DJ.

It’s a filthy, cold, wet and windy evening. The Market Place in Shepshed is lit up with Christmas decorations. As we turn left up Loughborough Road and approach Butthole Lane, the woeful Robbie Williams ‘Rock DJ’ is played on 106.

White Van Man is sporting his £140 navy blue Barbour jacket from John Lewis. It overshadows my little nifty number from Next. It’s £7 on the gate. I have a little natter with Dave the programme seller. He asks me how Finley is. It’s good of him to enquire of the well-being of my rabbit. I daren’t tell him that ‘Fin’ doesn’t like teams from Leicestershire because of their association with foxes.

We poke our head into the bar. It’s a cosy little joint that’s carpeted. It has chairs and sofas. Braga are playing Birmingham City in the Europa League – boring hell.

Shepshed Dynamo have had an interesting start to the season. John Ramshaw resigned as manager to take up the gaffer’s role at struggling Conference North side Eastwood Town. Rammers has unfinished business to attend to at Coronation Park.

The board of directors at The Dovecote have appointed Chris ‘Chalky’ White as his replacement following a string of successful results during his caretaker role.

I once saw Lincoln United when ‘Chalky’ was in charge –Rammers had gone walkabout again – it was below an old colliery spoil heap at Frickley. The Whites lost 4-1. ‘Screats’ was sent off for an x-rated tackle. Justin Jenkins didn’t break sweat that day – his brother Zeke is playing left back tonight for Dynamo.

We hook up with Big Sean (for some reason I always call him Darrell) and Mick Sloan. Both are die-hard Dynamo. We observe a minute’s silence for Gary Speed.

Shepshed make a bright start. Former Millers’ striker Steve Chaplin sees a shot beaten away by Danny Marshall and another effort hit the side-netting. Carlton begin to get into their groove. They are lightning on the break, as they were last week versus Ilkeston. Ian Brown gives them the lead with a speculative shot; Ashley Grayson slams in second, minutes later.

Chalky becomes animated and frustrated with his team. I daren’t even look at Big Sean and Mick because they’ll be hurting. Dynamo go close twice before their ‘keeper Sam Andrew punches a corner into his own net, when under no pressure.

I’ve lost my car keys and so trudge back to WVM’s car for a butcher’s hook on the floor. There’s no sign of them. I phone home, apparently I forgot to take them. You can hear a pin drop in the clubhouse. Modric claws a goal back for money-bags Tottenham as they trail PAOK 2-1.

I’m dreading the second half as this could turn into an embarrassment. 3-0 flatters Carlton Town somewhat. Shepshed fluff a couple of early chances. I decide to have a wander around this lovely old ground. I take a gleg at the groundsman’s den. It’s cluttered up with skips full of discarded England flags. There are three old turnstiles tucked away in the corner, along with some traffic cones, an incinerator, an old wheelbarrow and a flat-bed trolley.

I wander past the far goal, kicking pieces of gravel off the cinder path. Behind the concrete fence are huge leylandii, which sway in the swirling wind. I walk past a fluttering corner flag towards the ‘Shepshed Ultras’, whose numbers are dwindling. One of them amuses me, though. He sings at the top of his voice ‘Gold’ by Spandau Ballet. It’s followed up with “We’re going to win 5-4.”

Ashley Grayson has bagged a further two goals whilst I’ve ambled around the ground. By the time I return to base a negative steward is winding up the crowd. He has moaned at, and verbally abused most of the players this evening. He shouts out loudly that people are leaving the ground early. Of course they are you fool, can’t you see that they are all hurting, or perhaps just want to catch the fag end of ‘I’m a Celebrity Get Me Out Of Here.’ “Come on WVM, we’re off home, son.”

Man of the Match: Ashley Grayson

Attendance: 129

Carlton Town 2 Ilkeston FC 0

2011-11-23T12:36:00.004Z

Mrs P and I spend a relaxing Friday evening on the sofa watching the ever-popular Children in Need on BBC 1. Mad Dog, a mate of mine, has walked from our village primary school to Chatsworth House to raise monies. It’s a 100 mile round trip that he completes in 24 hours. He really is as mad as a March hare.

I wake up to the desperately sad news of the death of the South African-born England Test cricketer Basil D’Oliveira. Sticky’s favourite reporter, Pat Murphy, reads out an obituary on the radio.

For those too young to remember, Cape-coloured ‘Dolly’ was unable to play first-class cricket in his homeland under the apartheid regime in the 1960s. He fled to England and forced his way into our Test team. In 1969, his inclusion in the England touring party to South Africa caused a huge rumpus, with the series eventually being cancelled and South Africa being exiled from international cricket.

His final few years were spent in a nursing home, where his death was announced earlier this morning at the age of 80. Although it is led to believe he was much older than this, but he never wanted the cricketing authorities to know his true age, as they wouldn’t have selected him, as his was 38 when he made his Test debut.

I feel quite sombre on the paper-round this morning. It’s bitterly cold and still dark. I have a snigger when I pop the Daily Mail through legendary Keyworth United Reserves team manager, Jacko’s letterbox. On the front page is the headline ‘Surge In Divorce For The Over 60s.’ Jacko turns 60 years old this week. I rib him later in the morning.

I’m down my local club just before lunchtime. I’ve arranged a friendly for Sticky Junior’s team against some lads from Notts County. Junior has a smile as long as the railway track that runs along the back of the goal when he pokes home Keyworth’s third goal of the game, shortly before half-time.

I change into my KUCFC rain coat after the match as I prepare my boys to do battle with Carlton Town. We play some champagne football during our 5-0 victory. One defeat in six games should clinch me the Bells Whisky Manager of the Month award. The perfect day is complete with a three course dinner prepared by The Taxman. I didn’t know they did puddings at the Indian take-away. You learn something every day, readers.

It’s Sunday afternoon. I‘ve just finished washing ‘The Beast’ and the ‘Rolls Royce.’ I pour a can of Stella into a pint glass and wander into the lounge. ‘Gangsta’ is sprawled out on the sofa. His brother has just rocked up from winter nets at Trent Bridge.

I witness Charlie Adam play a raking cross-field ball to the 27 year old serial under-achiever Glenn Johnson. He cuts inside leaving Ashley Cole on his backside and rifle homes the winner for Liverpool. It gets Groundhopper out of his seat.

The highlight on Monday occurs in the Warehouse at work. Shifty has got BBC 6 Music on. Huey Morgan from the Fun Lovin’ Criminals is hosting a film soundtrack show. He plays the Pink Panther theme tune by Henry Mancini. Sticky and Shifty practise their Inspector Clouseau impersonations for the rest of the day.

I hear the loud sound of a klaxon going off outside. I thought the QE2 had come into dock. It must be ‘The Taxman’ in his London cab. Finley looks proper miserable. I enter his crib to put my cuddly friend to bed. I ask him for a famous crap score prediction. His voice is croaky and hoarse. I barely catch his whisper in my ear “2-2”. No wonder he sounds like Bonnie Tyler, the poor little sod hasn’t any water in his bottle.

I’m in a bit of a flap by the time I reach the car. ‘The Taxman’ asks me what I’ve been faffing about at, and whether I’ve been watching Holby City on catch-up. “No I haven’t you cheeky sod.” I’m out of breath. I’ve literally been home for a few minutes, as it’s training night for ‘The Skipper’s’ team, and I’ve taken the session.

We drive down Gamston Lings Bar, over Lady Bay Bridge, onto the Colwick Loop Road, passing Nottingham Racecourse to our right. I’ve already clocked the Kentucky Fried Chicken establishment at the top of Meadow Lane. Me and the boys will be dining there on Friday evening, while Mrs P enjoys her soiree in London.

A fluorescent-jacketed steward waves us towards an overflow car park at Carlton’s Stoke Lane ground. We park next to an Astroturf football pitch. Ironically, the team we beat so convincingly last Saturday, are having a training session.

It’s £7 on the gate. Programmes are £1.50 each but ‘The Taxman’ has kindly sourced a team-sheet. I’m sporting a new olive trendy green coat, a fetching little number, that I bagged at Next last Sunday. I’ve kicked H&M firmly into touch.

There’s a vibrant feel to the place tonight. There’s a cracking away following from Ilkeston. The attendance looks set to break the 300 barrier. The visiting support at times can be raucous, challenging and daunting. We approach the far side of the ground where surroundings are more genteel and placid.

Ilkeston have risen from the ashes. They were wound-up over an outstanding tax bill in 2010. It’s their first season back. They are mainly a team full of lads let go by pro clubs. I saw Ilson get trounced by Lincoln City earlier in the season. They made the Imps look like European champions. A glance at the league table begs to differ. Ilson are top.

The Millers are up and at em from the start. Ilson struggle to cope with the pace and movement of Ian Brown, formerly of the Stone Roses, and Ruben Wiggins-Thomas.

The Robins have big Gary Ricketts up top for them this evening. A friendly game against Mansfield Town was abandoned earlier in the season when it was alleged that Ricketts hospitalised three Stags players in separate incidents. He has received a final written warning from the club.

The tempo and pace of the game is terrific. Carlton take the lead on 20 minutes. Wiggins-Thomas, a threat all night, wriggles away from his marker and blasts a shot at Alex Archer which is beaten away. Brown coolly slots home the rebound.

Carlton are frightening on the break. Adam Kimberley hits the bar and Wiggins-Thomas fluffs another chance when through on goal.

It’s The Taxman’s turn at the Tea Bar. Unfortunately the Millers have under-estimated a record league attendance. Despite cries for help and volunteers the queues just get longer. I feel like offering my services, but there’s little evidence of a teapot to brew in.

I studied Ilkeston Town manager Kevin Wilson (ex Chelsea) whilst The Taxman queued for tea. He seemed more interested in talking to the crowd than watching the game. His broad Oxfordshire accent reminds me of a character from Inspector Morse. One thing we both agree on is that his young charges are way off the pace in the first period.

We stand alone near the end the Millers will attack. I expect them to push on and win the game comfortably. The Ilson fans congregate at the far end. Their biggest contribution to the game thus far is the amusing ditty “My garden shed is bigger than this.”

Ilson continue their aerial bombardment with Ricketts the obvious target. The impressive Waite blazes over and Big Gary heads wide. Brown is slipped through again, the finish is calm and collective.

I notice a member of management from a rival Evostik team close by. I remember him being sent off in a game a couple of years ago, at this very ground, for some appalling behaviour. My abiding memory of him was watching him stood on a picnic table barking out instructions.

The final whistle goes; a Carlton fan begins to play a trumpet. Ilson have been desperately disappointing. The 2-0 scoreline flatters them.

Attendance: 280

Man of the Match: Matt Millns.

Birstall United 2 FC Dynamo 0

2011-11-15T23:13:00.003Z

We’re on the A5, driving on the way back from Heath Hayes. You couldn’t take your eye off the game, unless your name is Mr T Bolton. Hayes can feel hard done by. The 4-1 reverse is a harsh score-line.

Trumpy Bolton guzzles the final dregs of his litre bottle of cider. He has two emergency rations in the boot. Suddenly he tries to stand up and bangs his head on the roof of the car. The National Anthem is being played at Wembley Stadium, prior to the England v Spain friendly international. Trumpy belts out ‘God Save the Queen.’ He dusts himself down and takes a pew. There’s an outside chance that we may have another outing on Saturday December 17th. Histon v Gainsborough Trinity is on the agenda.

Mrs P has snapped up a Chinese banquet from the West Bridgford M&S Food Hall. It’s accompanied by a bottle of Red and the ghastly X-Factor. I peruse the non-league results on the Web, occasionally glancing at the TV set when I hear a catchy toon. I ask Mrs P what price London all-girl band Little Mix are at the bookies, to the bag first prize. The good lady totally blanks me.

I sleep like a log and don’t rise until 9am. ‘The Skipper’, ‘Cairnsy’ and Groundhopper wolf down a bacon cob, before shooting off to Clifton where young un has a game. I exit the Clifton FC car park and head off to Gedling to view an under 16 game. I watch my targets for 45 minutes, make an assessment and return to Clifton to watch my boy in action.

Mrs P has gone Christmas shopping in Nottingham with the Mother-in-law. It could be a good opportunity to have a little skive, but there’s work to do in the garden. Finley Palmer is on all-fours. He’s desperate for a run-out in the shrubbery. “Not on your Nellie, son” says Sticky Palms.

I spend Monday evening down the Notts County FC Centre of Excellence training ground at Dayncourt School, in Radcliffe-on-Trent. I meet and greet a trialist and his parents. I show them around the facility, make them feel welcome and ease the boy’s fears. The rest of the night is spent writing up the Heath Hayes blog to the sounds of the corny Ant & Dec on the new series of I’m a Celebrity.

It’s Tuesday evening, the night of the game. The Taxman gives me the thumbs up. I’ve just had a succulent meat casserole, which has been bubbling away all day in the slow cooker. I’m flopped out on the sofa watching Alexander Armstrong present the BBC1 tea-time TV show ‘Pointless.’

There is one helluva commotion going on upstairs. Call of Duty Modern Warfare 3 has found its way into our crib. Sticky jnr is ranting and raving at some Yank down his headset. Oh my good days, he’s started cursing the bloke. Suddenly I hear this gem: “No wonder we battered you in the War.”

I pick up my mobile and dial him up. I can’t be bothered to shift off the sofa. “Son, just thought I’d point out that USA and Great Britain fought on the same side in both World Wars.” “Ah, sorry, didn’t realise” replies an embarrassed jnr.

I phone up my boss at Notts County to get some feedback from the Monday evening friendly game for the Youth Team at Ilkeston Town. We lost narrowly 2-1.

I get wrapped up. According to the East Midlands Today weather girl it’s going to be a fresh one this evening. The Taxman is out of his front door like a shot. It’s been over a month since we last went to a game together. He looks as snug as a bug in his new Parka jacket. There’s probably a Lambretta scooter parked up in his garage.

The Taxman says he could of quite easily cranked up the heating, put on his Wallace and Grommit slippers and stayed in and watched England v Sweden on ITV. He later confesses that The Taxlady is catching up with a week’s worth of Coronation Street.

There’s an absolutely dreadful moment to begin the evening, which almost causes a road-rage incident. Radio Nottingham presenter Alan Clifford has just played a Robbie Williams track. I’m that keen to change station that I take my eye off the road and almost end up in a ditch.

The Taxman has just come back from his art class in Bottesford. He’s moved on from painting L. S. Lowry matchstick men. It’s week 3 on his latest effort by Monet. He tells an amusing story on how he was made to strip to his white y-fronts at the City Hospital in Nottingham last week in front of three student (lady) doctors. Can’t have been as thrilling as Aylestone 4 Rothley 2, surely?

We reach Birstall in 25 minutes as we breeze up the A46. Sat Nav takes us through a few rat-runs. We appear to be heading down a dead end, when we notice an opening to our right, and some players warming-up.

Birstall is the largest village in the Charnwood Borough of Leicestershire. It has a population of 12,000. Famous footballers to have first cut their teeth at Birstall United include: Stefan Oakes, Scott Oakes and Luke Varney.

We avoid another ditch to our right and park in an unlit and untidy area. It’s is down a dark lane that backs onto the Watermead Country Park, which stretches two miles to the north of Leicester, along the River Soar valley. Two brothers died at the park in January 2010 after falling through broken ice at a place known locally as ‘Mammoth Hill.’

Four youths are lurking about the car. If I’d been in Sally Gunnell I wouldn’t have been concerned. She’s but just a distant memory. The ‘Rolls Royce’ is a different kettle of fish.

We are greeted at the gate by ‘Trev’ who is a founder member of Birstall from back in 1961. He gives us a little insight into the history and running of the club. It’s £3 admission. There’s no programme issued this evening but Trev very kindly gets someone to fetch an old one from out of the Clubhouse.

Turns out it is from an FA Vase game against Yaxley from Peterborough. I mention to The Taxman that the Star Wars and Life’s Too Short actor Warwick Davis lives in Yaxley. “How the hell did you know that?” enquires The Taxman.

We walk past the plush clubhouse, with its flat screen TVs and real ales. There’s a brick-walled changing room facility and a covered area for standing. The rest of the ground is open. We make our way across to the far side of the ground. I’m hoping for a few lyrics from the Birstall United bench.

Each member of the Birstall backroom staff (they have more than Leicester City and Dunkirk) are carrying a cup of tea. Leicester has one of the most multi-cultural areas in the country. Birstall have no ethnic minorities in their starting line-up, whilst the visitors, FC Dynamo have a mixture of Asian and African lads, although their ‘keeper is white.

It’s the Dynamo ‘keeper who gifts the home side a goal following a poor goal kick. Captain Ryan Seals is the chief beneficiary, converting a chance from close range. The home bench celebrate with another round of teas.

I’m just informing Twitter of the opening goal when a stray clearance heads our way. The Taxman does a runner, whilst Sticky Palms pulls off a Gordon Banks type save. The chances stack up for United, but it’s like watching The Arsenal as they try to walk the ball in. Dynamo spurn two golden opportunities to restore parity. The referee blows early as the entire Birstall bench are dying for a pee.

I chat to a big guy at the break who is an authority on the local scene and also hook up with an old boy, originally from Basford in Nottingham, who now runs Kirby Muxloe Reserves. Their passion and love of the game is jaw-dropping.

More teas are brought to the dugout for the second period. At this rate the Ref will need to halt play so that someone can nip out to Happy Shopper to stock up on teabags. After missing a hatful of chances ‘Chalky’ White taps in at the far post to put the game beyond doubt.

Special mention to both linesman, who were spot on all evening. One had hair like Sideshow Bob off The Simpsons, whilst the other will surely bring home Gold for GB in the London Olympics next year in the ‘Spitting the most in a minute event.’

Man of the Match: The Taxman.

Heath Hayes 1 Gresley 4

2011-11-12T08:25:00.009Z

I’m sitting in the kitchen drinking a cool pint of Stella, waiting for my laptop computer to boot up. A familiar character appears as wallpaper on the desktop. He’s wearing his trademark green sweatshirt. He is the greatest manager that ever lived.

It gets me thinking of the best Cloughie anecdote I’ve ever heard. He often came over as rude and arrogant. But there was a compassionate side to the man that was not often heard of.

Shortly after he died, I was perusing the letters page in the Daily Telegraph. A pastor from a small local church in Leicestershire had written in. Back in the 1970s his Church under 12s football team had unexpectedly reached a five-a-side final that was to be held at Wembley Stadium on a Sunday before the League Cup final.

The Church would not allow the boys to play on a Sunday; naturally they were devastated. The vicar wrote to three local teams: D***y County, Leicester City and Nottingham Forest to see if the boys could have a tour of the ground.

The Sheep said their Secretary was away in Europe and that they couldn’t oblige, Leicester City said they didn’t do that sort of thing. Brian Clough personally wrote to the Pastor and instructed him to phone him personally to arrange a day out for the kids. The boys watched the first team train and had lunch with Clough and the players. It’s a true measure of the man.

Thursday evening is the highlight of the week. Mrs P slopes off to bed after her soap TV infusion. I watch a hilarious scene involving Liam Neeson and Ricky Gervais in Life’s Too Short on BBC2. I follow this up with the gruesome documentary about the UVF group the ‘Shankill Butchers’ who terrorised the streets of Belfast in the early 1970s.

It’s Friday tea-time. ‘The Skipper’ has managed to blag a ticket to watch Tinie Tempah at the Capital FM Arena in Nottingham. ‘Sticky Jnr’ is also at the gig. Mrs P doesn’t want the pair of clowns wandering around town at 11pm. She has booked a table for two at Bella Italia at the Cornerhouse.

There’s one slight problem; I’ve arrived home from work with an upset stomach. I’ve had a dodgy beverage in the Apple Tree on Compton Acres. Bang goes my trip to the Gladstone in Sherwood after the meal.

I struggle through my pasta and sulk with a diet Pepsi. Mrs P is in sparkling form. She enjoys a couple of glasses of wine. We end up in the old Royal Hotel (Crowne Plaza). I order another Coke. The West Indian barman keeps saying “yeah man” to me. My mood is lightened when ‘Hit the Road Jack’ by Ray Charles is played on the hotel sound system. The kids are buzzing after their first Rap concert. All I want to do is curl up and die.

Predictably, I rise early and carry out junior’s paper-round duties. I rustle up a couple of poached eggs, hoping that they will settle my stomach down. Radio Nottingham are running a story about how Derbyshire Police wrote to a number of criminals who had evaded arrest for a number of months, offering them complimentary crates of ale, by pretending to be a marketing company. Nineteen of the silly Sheep got caught in the sting.

I take a quick glance at Facebook. White Van Man and his pals appear to have mopped-up at the Brazilian restaurant Tropeiro. Apparently WVM lost to ‘Big Ollie’ in an eat-off.

To keep on the right side of Mrs P I clean all the inside windows upstairs and downstairs. Just call me Sinbad, folks.

Trumpy is waiting impatiently at the end of his drive. He’s wearing a Dunlop blue and white chequered polo shirt. He claims it’s an anti Nottingham Forest shirt, as Tricky Tree fan Lee Westwood often sports one of these on the world’s golfing fairways.

The litre bottle of cider is clutched tightly in his vice. There’s no need for the radio to be switched on. The great man has more stories than Jackanory. He’s left Mrs Trumpy painting and decorating. There’s not a pang of guilt. Trumpy claims that he has to ask for a glass of water and a sit down, if he ever goes into a DIY store. I decide the A453 will be trouble-free of heavy traffic, totally unaware that there’s been an accident at the roundabout.

Trumpy navigates me through the streets of Kegworth and onto the M42. A Torquay United supporters coach is on the opposite side of the carriageway. They are due to play Chesterfield in the first round of the FA Cup today.

Trumpy is waxing lyrical about recent trips to Leominster, Birmingham and Durham. He actually phoned me twice whilst in Durham. The second call was because he was so pissed he forgot that he’d made the first call to me the previous evening.

We have a spot of lunch at the delightful Redmore Arms at Cannock Wood. Bobby McFerrin’s 1988 hit ‘Don’t Worry Be Happy’ is on the jukebox. We both have a pint of Timothy Taylors. Trumpy also orders an additional cider. I plump for the relatively safe chicken and bacon sandwich. The legend splashes out on a homemade fish fingers.

Not content with the one pub, I chauffeur Bolton a mile or so up the road to the Park Gate Inn. The setting is spot on. There’s a Staffordshire bull terrier patrolling the bar area. Trumpy is petrified of the canine creature. The dog keeps popping across to say hello to Groundhopper. We play a bit of tug of war with his lead.

We finally pull into mud-ridden car park at Heath Hayes’ Coppice Colliery Ground. Trumpy immediately befriends a bloke from the local nuthouse.

Heath Hayes is in the Cannock Chase area of Staffordshire. It has a population of over 10,000. Well known footballers born in the area include: former Nottingham Forest striker Stanley Victor Collymore and Bury forward Andy Bishop. England Test cricketer Kevin Pietersen once played for Cannock Cricket Club. We spot the No.7 nightclub on the high street: “I bet Stan has pulled in few in there” remarks the legend.

It’s £5 on the gate and a further £1 for a programme which is a cracking effort for this level. Trumpy starts to make a few enquiries on the whereabouts of the bar. He’s stunned to hear there isn’t one and that he’ll have to get a pass-out and have a trudge up the road.

We walk past the Main Stand and Tuck Shop, towards the far goal. Gresley captain Gary Hateley runs towards us, having spun up. We have exchanged a few Tweets over the last few days. He’s always up for banter. Gaz looks like he’s just arrived from a male modelling agency. As ‘The Skipper’ would say – “he’s hench.” His short-sleeved grey top is skin tight. He’s sporting a bronze tan. He must have raced here straight from his 1pm appointment at the Tanning Salon on Hednesford Road. Not a hair is out of place.

Former Redditch defender Michael Nottingham scores twice in the opening 12 minutes (one an assist by Gaz), as Gresley begin where they left off at Coventry Sphinx last Monday. Everything looks hunky-dory on 22 minutes, when Dean Oliver delightfully brings down a long ball and beats the Hayes ‘keeper on his near post to surely put the match beyond doubt.

Gaz is in big trouble. His BMW has blocked in a dog walker, who is spitting feathers. “You’ll have to wait until the break” remarks a wag.

Heath Hayes are a plucky lot and never give up the battle. David Waple wallops a loose ball home from close range following a game of pinball. Former Bristol City and Swansea winger Marc Goodfellow scoops a golden chance for Gresley over the bar, with his weaker right foot on the stroke of half-time.

Trumpy has done a runner. He’s dug in at a boozer around the corner. We’ll not be seeing him until dusk. I’ve been stood chatting to a couple of supporters from Gresley. They tell me some incredible, heart-warming stories about their manager Gary Norton. It is said that he pledged a large amount of his own money to save the Club from liquidation.

Hayes are terrific in the second period. Gresley are pinned back in their own half. Nottingham clears off the line and Ben Haseley sees a shot come back off the woodwork.

Mr T Bolton has returned. He notices that both teams have a woman physio. He starts to mention a long-term groin injury that might need a diagnosis. There’s a moment of controversy on 78 minutes. A Gresley player has kicked a ball out for a throw-in. The ball trickles over Trumpy’s brand new Fila trainers, leaving a large splat of mud on them. The legend complains to the player.

Busy winger Rob Spencer wraps up proceedings for Gresley firing a cross shot into the corner of the net. As we head towards the car, with minutes remaining, Gaz Hateley goes walkabouts, but is saved by yet another goal-line clearance, by one of his defenders.

Attendance: 156

Man of the Match: Jamie Barratt

Aylestone Park 4 Rothley Imperial 2

2011-11-08T22:19:00.004Z

It’s February 5th 2011. 1966 World Cup final hat-trick hero, Sir Geoff Hurst, is visiting the Carrington Sports Ground in inner city Nottingham. He is there to present an award to Sherwood FC, who have been named Grassroots Community Football Club of Year.

Sir Geoff lays on a coaching session for the kids. He has sound advice and kind words to say to the adults, boys and girls. A mate of mine is a coach at Sherwood. It’s a cold, bracing wintry morning. He asks Sir Geoff if he would like a hot drink. They stride towards the pavilion to find some warmth on this bitterly cold day.

My friend crouches down, puts his hand into a cupboard and pulls out a couple of random mugs. The pair stand chatting in the kitchen. Sir Geoff is charming and engaging. They share a brew. Sir Geoff tells a few anecdotes from his playing days.

Sir Geoff takes a final few slurps of his tea and gazes at his mug. “Do you mind if I take this mug home with me? says Sir Geoff, with a smile on his face, as long as Wembley Way. “Well of course you can”, says my friend with a look of bewilderment.

Written on the red mug in white lettering is: ‘They Think It’s All Over …. Well It Is Now.’

It’s Friday 4th November. Sixteen years ago today a bundle of joy entered our lives. Three weeks earlier my mother had collapsed and died outside a shop in our village at the age of 55. She never held Sticky jnr in her arms. It haunts me to this day.

Junior holds his birthday bash at the Key IV Fitness. I sink a few Peroni’s and enjoy the modern sounds of Josh’s Disco. He clears the entire dance floor with Ollie Murs new single – ‘Heart Skips a Beat.’ An eye is kept open for any contraband items that might be smuggled into the venue.

It’s Monday evening and I’m soaking-up in a piping hot bath, listening to Mark Chapman and John Motson on the ‘Monday Night Club’ on Radio 5 Live. Motty’s challenge this week is a corker of a question: Who was the first Dutchman to score an own goal in the Premiership?
I grab my phone and fire off a text with the first answer that enters my head. Arjan De-Zeew is the incorrect answer.

It’s Mrs P’s tic-tac-toe night - a double helping of Coronation Street and a single episode of EastEnders. The Reaper texts me to tip me the wink that there’s a documentary on BBC Four about Ulster loyalist gang the Shankhill Butchers. I daren’t ask Mrs P if she fancies missing out on the Junior Apprentice. I immerse myself into the latest edition of cult football magazine When Saturday Comes.

It’s Tuesday and I’m in the Warehouse with Ergo Computing legend ‘Shifty Edwards.’ It’s doom and gloom down here. ‘Shifty’ is an authority on the world of boxing. Today he is in mourning following the sad passing of South Carolinian boxer “Smokin’ Joe” Frazier, who died earlier this morning at the age of 67. We’re listening to the ‘Craig Charles Funk and Soul Show’ on 6 Music. There’s no toe-tapping or larking about; we’re both busy and in the zone.

I drive the ‘Rolls Royce’ home from work, tonight’s game is firmly on my mind. I devour a meat and potato pie with the full trimmings, before Mrs P dashes up to the gym. I have a scroll through Twitter while my dinner digests. Troubled footballer Joey Barton is having a fall-out with TOWIE – which apparently stands for The Only Way is Essex.

How a guy who has stubbed out a cigar in the face of a colleague, beat another team-mate to a pulp and been imprisoned for six months for common assault and affray, has the brass neck to criticise anyone, is beyond me.

I leave ‘The Skipper’ sprawled out on the sofa watching the toe-curling Big Brother on Channel 5. Finley is put to bed. Not a word has passed our lips since ‘the shed incident’ a few weeks back.

The Taxman has failed a late fitness test. I drive through Stanton-on-the-Wolds towards the A606. It’s a miserable, damp evening. Light drizzle falls onto the windscreen. I set my wipers to intermittent. Radio Nottingham presenter Alan Clifford is playing ‘Torn’ by the Australian singer Natalie Imbruglia. He fades the music out and announces that Leicester has been declared the second greenest city in England.

I sent the Rothley Imperial manager ‘John’ a random text yesterday, having discovered his mobile number on the Web. I left my signature as ‘Groundhopper.’ He kindly confirmed that the game is to be played at the Mary Linwood Ground, with a 7.30pm kick off.

The A46 to Leicester is deadly boring. I shoot up the M1 and exit at Junction 21 (Mrs P’s favourite – Fosse Park). I then take the A563 Outer Ring Road. I get snagged up in traffic just two miles from the ground.

Aylestone Park FC is in a suburb of Leicester close to South Wigston. Leicester City legend and former England international Gary Lineker began his career at the club. They named the clubhouse at the old ground the ‘Lineker Lounge.’

Aylestone Park Youth Football Club was founded in 1968 by a group of boys from a local church. Over £1.3 million pounds has been ploughed into creating new facilities. Both teams playing tonight sit in the top three of the Everards Brewery Leicestershire Senior League.

I park at the back of the Clubhouse in a spacious car park. I notice an already healthy gathering of supporters in a covered terrace to the left of the new facilities. There’s only been a small print-run of programmes. A club official informs me they’ve sold out.

I take a peek at the bar area. It has a bit of a works canteen feel to it. Tables and chairs are in-line. There’s a food and drink hatch, but it’s the vast trophy cabinet fitted high up on the wall that catches the eye.

I take my position to the right of the nearest goal that the tangerine-shirted Rothley will attack. I strike up a conversation with two gentlemen. One is called Alan; the other is named ‘Cat.’ They’ve been following Aylestone home and away for 26years.

The ground only has three railed-off sides accessible to the supporter. Behind the solitary stand are poplar trees, which hide the neighbouring Samworth Enterprise Academy. The side where the dugouts are situated are out-of-bounds. A Respect sign is firmly planted in the ground denying access.

The game is rushed and hurried in the opening 20 minutes. The ball, as ‘Cat’ quite rightly puts it, is a ‘hot potato.’ Aylestone open the scoring after a Rothley defender over-hits a back pass past a stranded ‘keeper, who resembles QPR stopper Paddy Kenny.

Rothley are soon on level terms from the penalty spot, following a blatant push from a corner. On the stroke on half-time Aylestone regain the lead with ‘Gilly’ stabbing home a rebound after ‘Paddy’ could only parry a cross-shot.

I give the Clubhouse the swerve at the break and carry on chatting to Alan, ‘Cat’ and ‘Dog’ who is the Club Chairman. Alan enquires whether I’m retired. “Bloody hell pal, I’m only 47”, I reply.

There’s a game-changing moment early in the second period when ‘Oggy’ the Rothley Number 6 is red-carded in mysterious circumstances. He doesn’t take kindly to his dismissal, calling the official a ‘knob’ and a ‘twat’ en-route to the changing room.

Aylestone make it 3-1 from the penalty spot following a swallow dive by their forward. Ten men Rothley find some energy from within. They see an effort crash off the bar and are awarded a penalty themselves following a shove in the box. The penalty is saved but the rebound is smashed into the roof of the net by the Rothley 10 jacket.

The fourth penalty of the night is awarded during the dying embers of the game. Gary Seal, who is due to be married on Saturday scores his second goal of the evening.

Man of the Match: ‘Neaty’ Aylestone No.5

Attendance: 50 odd.

Quiz Answer: Ken Monkou (Southampton).

Kidsgrove Athletic 0 Bradford Park Avenue 2

2011-10-29T19:49:00.004+01:00

It’s Wednesday 26th October. I’m driving across the North Yorkshire Moors towards Whitby. It’s my third visit in 12 months. We park on the West Cliff and take a leisurely stroll towards the Quayside. We pass the Arnold Palmer Crazy Golf Course. Regular readers will know I was cheated out of the Whitby 2010 Open Championship after a virtuoso display of putting.

We queue outside the Magpie Cafe for take-away fish n chips. I notice they are selling bags of broken rock off at 70p a go. What a bargain. I’m sucking and chomping on some mint-flavoured rock. Blimey that seems a hard bit. Bloody hell, I’ve only gone and pulled out a filling.

I’m driving back to my brother’s in York. I’m still sulking about the filling. Mrs P offers me a Cadbury’s chocolate éclair. I don’t bloody believe it; another bloomin filling has dropped out on the opposite side of my mouth. It’s an expensive day out.

It’s Friday lunchtime. Mrs P has asked if I fancy a trip down to the soulless Riverside Retail Park in Nottingham. “Yeah, I’ll just get Finley back in his cage.” I can’t find him for love or money. Mrs P goes off in a huff, on a solo shopping spree.

I can see a pair of eyes and his buck teeth. He’s found a small gap under the shed and is refusing to budge. There’s been a two hour stand-off. Finley really is as thick as a brick. He falls for the oldest trick in the book. I dangle a carrot a few inches from the gap. He pokes his head out. I grab him and place the wee man back in his run.

It’s a lifetime garden-hopping ban, plus a three match crap score prediction suspension for old floppy ears. When will he ever learn?

It’s Saturday 7.20am. I’m heading up to Martins newsagents in the centre of our village. I’m wetting myself with excitement at what crap headline the Daily Mail has gone for. Disappointingly it runs a story on the European Union Referendum in Brussels.

I’m sitting down at the breakfast table, ploughing my way through two poached eggs on toast. Arcade Fire are blaring out on 6 Music. Mrs P’s mobile goes off. Some geezer in town is coming round to view ‘Sally Gunnell’ (not much to look at but a bloody good runner). I feel a lump in my throat. It’s the end of era. We agree a price and I wave her off. What a loyal servant she has been.

It’s a day off from coaching and scouting – there’s very little on because of the half-term holidays. I wish Sticky jnr good luck in his 12.30pm kick-off and head off towards Ratcliffe-on-Soar Power Station on the A453.

Alan Green and Pat Nevin are covering Everton v Manchester United at Goodison Park for 5 Live. The Mexican, Hernandez has just notched another goal. The game sounds dull and uninspiring. I flick on the Graham Norton Show on Radio 2. He’s playing the new single by boy band The Wanted. It’s called ‘Lightening’ and contains lyrics that I could have written in my tea-break. Sticky jnr saw them loitering in the lobby of the Holiday Inn in Nottingham recently.

I’m cruising down the A50, past the JCB World Parts Centre at Rocester. I hit Stoke in less than an hour. Sat Nav takes me up the A500. I pilot the ‘Rolls Royce’ through the historic mining village of Golden Hill, which stands 700 feet above sea level, and is the highest point in Stoke-on-Trent.

I clocked a pub in the main section of the 2009 Good Pub Guide that sits on the edge of the Mersey Canal in Kidsgrove. I pull into the car park of the Blue Bell at 1.15pm.

The place is bustling. There are about eight real ales on. I settle for a pint of Regal Blonde from the Oldershaw Brewery in Grantham, Lincolnshire. I take a seat in a quiet corner. Three elderly guys sit close by, excitingly chattering about the game.

They advise me to leave my vehicle in the pub car park, as they are expecting a big crowd, and parking may be a problem. I down my pint, exit out of the pub and walk up the main drag towards the Seddon Stadium.

One or two residents are tinkering with their cars or mending bicycles. I walk past Bargain Booze, Sharon’s Store and a boarded up pub called the Woodshuts. The area becomes more unpleasant and depressing. I notice shards of glass scattered all over the pavement.

I take a left turn into another residential area. I donate some money to an old boy for the Poppy Appeal and proudly pin it to my hoodie. It’s £7 entry and £2 for a programme that turns out to be a good read.

Kidsgrove is a town in the borough of Newcastle-under-Lyme in Staffordshire. It has a population of 25,000. Famous people from the town include: Reginald Mitchell, who was the designer of the Battle Britain fighter plane the Spitfire and former Crystal Palace and Leicester City striker Mark Bright.

Bathpool Park, in the south of the town, is where serial killer Donald Nielsen (The Black Panther) took local heiress Lesley Whittle after kidnapping her in 1975, prior to murdering her. Kidsgrove Athletic were formed in 1952 and reached the FA Vase semi-finals in 1998.

I wander across to the far side of the ground and position myself to the right of the Grove dugout. I purchase a hot dog and can of coke from the ironically named ‘1st Class Food’ outlet.

There’s a balcony on the far side of the stadium, where all the corporate sponsors and local dignitaries are quaffing sandwiches and drinking wine.

I notice a Yorkshire terrier dressed in a Park Avenue green and white coat. Its lady owner, with an Eastern European accent, is tall with curly, long blonde hair. She’s wearing leggings and cream leather boots.

I have a scroll through my Twitter timeline shortly before kick-off. Wes Morgan has been made captain for Nottingham Forest on his 400th appearance, whilst new Lincoln City manager David Holdsworth has recruited Curtis Woodhouse and Gary Charles to help out with coaching at Alfreton Town today. Sad news emerges of the death of Sir Jimmy Saville.

The DJ is playing the most random tunes. Sir Jimmy might have enjoyed The Dave Clark Five, Billy Ocean and Bryan Adams. He salvages the situation with ‘Needin U’ from Brooklyn House DJ David Morales.

The crowd begins to swell. It rises to over 1100 by kick-off time. One or two Stokies have rocked up as they have no game until Monday evening. The atmosphere is a tad disappointing. Maybe it’s nerves or apprehension. The players enter the field of play to a woeful Eminen track.

BPA kick down the hill in the first half. They look a cut above, but overdo it in the final third. They have four corners in quick succession without ever really threatening goal. Kidsgrove rely on breakaway attacks. Their forward Dave Walker looks on his toes.

BPA hit the bar as the two Grove full backs collide with one another. Duckworth flashes a shot the wrong side of the post, as Kidsgrove seem content with hanging on until half-time. A few black clouds have blown in. It begins to rain.

The DJ slips on his ‘Now That’s What I Call Music 79’ CD on at the break. I saunter up the hill towards the end BPA will attack as I expect them to push on. Both sets of fans swap ends. There’s no animosity or insults – it’s the beauty of the Non League.

Kidsgrove take a liking to the slope in the early stages of the second half. Substitute Karl Charlton sees a header cleared off the line by BPA skipper Rob O’Brien.

BPA have flung on substitute Jimmy Beadle who has just come back from a spell in Scandinavian football. He heads home a Duckworth corner with half an hour remaining, to send the large away following into raptures. He puts the tie beyond doubt five minutes from time flicking a ball up before cleverly lobbing Kidsgrove ‘keeper Hodgson.

Earlier Andy Kinsey had somehow hit the base of the post with the goal at his mercy following excellent work by the industrious Walker.

I’m stood next to an 80 year old BPA supporter. He’s travelled on the train from Huddersfield to Manchester and then onto Kidsgrove. He says he won’t be home until 7pm. He warms my heart with his next statement: “I never eat my tea and sleep fitfully when ‘The Avenue’ gets beat.”

It’s the West Yorkshire side that will go into the 1st round draw. They have the best two players on view today in centre back Amjad Iqbal and left back Martin Drury.

Man of the Match: Martin Drury

Attendance 1140

Heather St John's 3 Dunkirk 4

2011-10-22T18:21:00.006+01:00

Mrs P’s name is flashing up on my mobile phone. It’s unusual for her to ring me at work. “A bit of good news”, she chuckles down the phone, “I’ve got promotion at work and the boss has thrown in a company car, you can get rid of that scrap heap of a vehicle of yours.”

I hit the red button. I stare into space, dazed, totally dazed. How dare she talk about ‘Sally Gunnell’ like that. A tear rolls down my cheek. I know it’s the end of the road of our beautiful relationship. She scraped through the MOT by the skin of her teeth in August – the car not Mrs P.

I think about our groundhopping trips together. Not once has she let me down on my six year pursuit of non-league football. ‘For Sale, white Citroen Saxo, 1100cc, 66k on the clock, 10 months MOT and three months road tax. £300 ONO.’

It’s another miserable Friday evening as a beleaguered Lincoln City lose at Cambridge United’s Abbey Stadium 2-0. I’m cheered by the news that my boy Curtis Thompson has been loaned to the Imps by the Pies. He makes his debut on 88 minutes.

‘Don’t Drink On Three Days A Week To Avoid Liver Disease’ is splashed all over the Daily Mail on Saturday morning. I really must apply for a job as a sub editor at this ridiculous newspaper. It would be money for old rope.

Sticky jnr went to a team-bonding carvery at Shepherds in Stragglethorpe last night. Then it was straight up Buzz Fitness for Sizzers 16th birthday party. He’s fagged out and having a lie-in. I’ve done his round again.

I arrive back home and switch on Five Live’s breakfast news. A reporter from the World Service is peering down at the body of Colonel Gaddafi in a refrigerated storeroom. He describes bullet wounds to the head and chest. “Apart from that he looks fairly healthy”, claims the journalist. “But the bloke is dead, you fool”, shouts out Sticky Palms.

I do some research on the local youth leagues. There’s some clattering and banging about in the garage. A plumber is installing a new boiler. Finley is complaining about the din. How can he concentrate on his crap score predictions? Dunkirk are amongst his favourite teams. He tips the Boatmen for a 3-0 away win.

I nip down the tip in West Bridgford to dispose of an old dishwasher. I view a game of football at the Becket School on Wilford Lane. Mrs P’s Godson is playing.

It’s then straight down to Keyworth United’s Platt Lane HQ for a 12.30pm kick-off. It’s déjà vu as Arnold Town are once again the visitors. Last week they knocked us out of the cup on sudden death penalties.

We’re 1-0 down at half-time, unluckily in my opinion. I notice a tall guy out of the corner of my eye mingling with the home supporters. I don’t recognise him. He’s carrying a folder. I won’t be too chuffed if he turns out to be a scout, as he hasn’t had the courtesy to call me or introduce himself to me.

I challenge him. “Are you a scout mate?” “No” comes the reply. “Are you with Arnold then?” “No. I’ll tell you after the match who I am.” Oh bloody hell; it’s only another inspection by the Nottinghamshire FA. I complain after our draw that I was assessed two weeks ago at Hyson Green. He turns out to be a rather nice fella after all.

I throw all the bibs, cones and balls into the back of the ‘Rolls Royce’ and shoot off up the A606 and down the A46. ‘Gangsta’s’ team, Wolverhampton Wanderers have clawed back two goals in an exciting lunchtime kick-off at Molineux versus Swansea City on Five Live.

I head towards Coalville on the A50 and drive through the old north-west Leicestershire coalfields. After cruising through Ellistown and Ibstock I sweep down a steep hill and finally stumble upon the village of Heather. I love my village signposts and just can’t resist taking a quick snap of one.

I drive into a busy car park and position the Rolls Royce in an overflow area. A stray football comes flying over the hedge and lands in a nearby field. I squeeze through a gap and retrieve the ball. I hurl it back to one of the Heather players and cheekily enquire if it was one of their strikers who booted the ball.

The excellent PA announcer is reading out the teams as I pay my £5 and grab a cracking programme for a further £1. An elderly gentleman pounces on me as I queue for a cup of tea and tray of chips (no it’s not ‘Uppo’). He asks if I would like a go on the football scratchcard. I tempt fate and pick Wolves, even though I’ve never won a raffle or golden goal ticket in six years of groundhopping.

St John’s Park is a snorter of a ground. It has neatly trimmed conifers around the perimeter of the stadium. The playing surface is lush and even. It’s another beautiful late autumn afternoon.

I feel a dig in the ribs. It’s none another than blog legend Ian Upton, the joint manager of Dunkirk. Due to a misdemeanour on the banks of the River Trent, at the back end of last season, the wee man is serving a 10 match touchline ban.

He’s dressed in a grey sweater, striped Polo shirt, blue denim jeans and a pair of brown loafers. His sideburns are distinctive, like Amos Brearley’s on Emmerdale Farm.

I’m excited when I see former Ipswich Town and Nottingham Forest striker David Johnson trotting out for The Boatmen. He’s a pale shadow of his former self. Ravaged by injuries to his back and knee, these days he can barely run. His brain is fully engaged though.

Uppo says a lot of the old crazy gang have returned to the fold. I think he fancies their chances of some silverware this season, if they can keep their cool.

Craig Meakin fires them into an early lead, racing onto through-ball and finishing clinically. Dunkirk are on fire. Anthony ‘Chink’ Gregory is immense on his return from Eastwood Town. He clips a ball over the top of the defence, Lee Day steadies himself and puts Dunkirk two to the good.

Uppo can’t stop chuckling. The linesman on our side is struggling to see because of the sun. Uppo offers him a pair of Foster Grant sunglasses from out of his glove compartment in his car.

‘Jonno’ holds a ball up in the right hand corner and waits for support. Darren Garmston waltzes his way through the defence and smashes a shot in off the post. “Gammo” shouts Uppo, “you should be on Strictly Come Dancing with them quick feet.”

Credit to the Heather St John’s young guns they stick to their task. Twice efforts are cleared off the line, as alarm bells begin to ring in the Dunkirk defence. “We’re papering over the cracks” roars Uppo as the referee blows for half-time.

I take a wander around this beautiful ground, walking past the Main Stand on the far touchline. The PA guy is the best ever, despite playing Queen’s greatest hits. He shouts out the Premier League scores, even broadcasting the goal-scorers. He even dips his toe into the Conference.

Suddenly my ears prick up: “the winning team of the scratchcard is Wolves. Can a Nick Palmer please report to the bar to collect his £10 winnings.” After 6 years I’ve finally done it. I clench my fist and do a little celebratory jig. “You beauty Sticky.”

‘Jonno’ has come off at the break and has joined ‘Uppo’ on the sidelines. I’m impressed that he still has an enthusiasm and passion for the game. I’m amused that Uppo has coached the former £3 million striker in the first 45 minutes.

‘Chink’ puts the result beyond doubt with a far post finish. He looks like Roland Gift, the lead singer of 80s band Fine Young Cannibals. I ask Uppo for a victory salute photo. He wisely declines.

The Saints score what appears to be a scant consolation goal. A mix up in the Boatmen defence gifts them another. Troy Wallen bags his second of the day right on the stroke of full-time. The PA guy plays ‘Tom Hark’ and a James Brown song after each Heather goal. What a class act.

Uppo shoots off. “Need to have a word with someone” he mumbles as I bid him farewell.

Attendance: 56

Man of the Match: PA Announcer (Sorry Chink)

Hathern 2 FC Khalsa 3

2011-10-15T08:53:00.007+01:00

It’s October 2002. Sunderland have just sacked their manager Peter Reid. 75 miles away a school teacher, at the exclusive £14,500 per year Bootham School, in York, is about to take an A-Level history lesson. One of his pupils is the daughter of Sunderland Chairman Bob Murray.

The teacher is a huge football fan. He cheekily enquires with Murray’s daughter on who the next manager of the Black Cats is going to be. “It will be Howard Wilkinson, Sir”, replies Murray’s daughter. The teacher checks the odds with a local bookie; Wilkinson is an astonishing 66/1.

He tips a colleague off. They both place a £100 in a flurry of 100 small bets on ‘Wilko’being the next Gaffer. It’s money for old rope. They scoop £13,200 between them. Poor old Bob Murray is left to explain the ‘inside information’ to the Press.

It’s a quiet week on the groundhopping front. No game has caught my eye or tickled my fancy. The biggest of big girls blouses - John Barnes - is evicted for the second time on the worst programme ever to be broadcast on ITV (and that takes some doing) 71 Degrees North. Barnes was the first professional footballer I remember wearing gloves. So why on earth he volunteered to go to Norway and appear on this crock of shit, God only knows.

It’s Friday evening and I’m frantically tidying up. The Skipper’s German exchange student is due in at 7.30pm. I hide my 1966 World Cup final DVD, my Vera Lynn Greatest Hits album and the Dads Army box set. The boy is here for 10 days. He arrives bang on time; well after all he is German. We make him feel very welcome, he looks terrified.

Friday night finishes on a sour note with a 3-1 thumping for managerless Lincoln City, dished out by Fleetwood Town, the home of the Fisherman’s Friend. Shortly before retiring to bed Barthez and Sticky Palms have some banter with Grimsby Town goal-scoring sensation Liam Hearn on Twitter. Hearn is destined for a bigger and brighter stage than Blundell Park.

‘Fox Has No Friends’ shout out the Saturday morning papers. Finley, our rabbit, will agree with that statement. I try to explain to my furry friend that they are talking about former Secretary of State for Defence, Dr Liam Fox and not the bushy-tailed omnivorous mammal that circles his cage on occasions.

Finley predicts a 4-0 thumping for FC Khalsa at Hathern. His score predictions in Leicestershire are notoriously wide of the mark (crap). I stroke him on top of his head and humour him for five minutes, before heading off to the land of fur coats and no knickers (West Bridgford).

I’ve been tipped a lad to watch today. Sadly it’s not to be for the youngster, but a boy on the opposing team looks the business. I’ll take another view in a few weeks time.

I dash back to Keyworth. It’s over a year since new Nottingham Forest Chairman Frank Clark opened the plush Clubhouse. The Skipper’s team have a lunchtime kick-off against Arnold Town in the YEL Cup. It’s a pulsating game of football. We absolute batter the opposition in the first half. If we’d been 5-0 up at the break it wouldn’t have been an injustice.

Inevitably the visitors take the lead in the second half. We equalise with thirty seconds remaining. We score in the early stages of extra-time. ‘The Skipper’ tragically turns a cross into his own net with five minutes remaining. The whistle goes for full time. It’s penalties.

I ask for volunteers. Only five raise their hands. Maybe I can smuggle the German kid on; they’re normally good at spot kicks. It’s 3-3 after five penalties each. We lose on sudden death penalties 6-5. The boys are distraught.

I debrief the boys and try and raise their spirits. I leave them in the Clubhouse tucking into chips. I drive down the A60, turn right at Rempstone and head down the old Ashby Road. I switch the radio on. Liverpool are pummelling Manchester Utd at Anfield. £20 million pound signing Jordan Henderson spurns a chance late on in the game.

I’m crawling down the Main Street in Hathern. I wind the window down and ask a guy on an afternoon stroll where the ground is. He kindly points me in the right direction I quickly see a sign for Pastures Lane.

Hathern is a village in the Charnwood area of Leicestershire. It has a population just shy of 2000. It has a sock factory and the Wicked Hathern Brewery. There’s no time for a real ale today. It’s two minutes before kick-off; I’ve a Leicestershire Senior Division One game to watch, and more importantly a new ground to chalk off.

This is the lowest level of football I’ve watched this season. As I saunter towards the ground I notice the cricket ground to my right and some more football pitches. There’s no admission and sadly no programme. Twenty two people (head count) bask in the late autumnal sunshine. The players exit a building that resembles a Swedish sauna room.

I lean on the rail as the teams toss up. I’m joined by the father of the FC Khalsa centre half. A spectator asks the full back where ‘Grifter’ is. “He’s gone to Oman for three weeks”, replies the 2 jacket.

Both teams lie in mid-table. Hathern have only lost once, the visitors have played five more games. Within three minutes the visitors take the lead. A ball is swung in from the right and is headed home at the far post by the centre forward.

The Hathern goalkeeper chirps away at his defence.. Remarkably FC Khalsa fall out with one another. They squabble, bicker and bitch. Never in eight years of groundhopping have I seen such disharmony and anger amongst team-mates.

Also I have never seen a goal like Khalsa’s second of the afternoon. McCabe, the chief protagonist in the finger-wagging and teeth-sucking, picks the ball up in his own half, about 60 yards from goal. The centre forward makes a run, but is in an offside position. McCabe draws back his left foot and clips the ball goal wards. It sails up into the sea blue sky and over the head of a gobsmacked ‘keeper.

Khalsa turn on the style. 'Zico' is running the show with his quick feet and electric pace.

Hathern are absolutely awful. They pass it around in their own half but are clueless in the final third. Khalsa are comfortable with their two goal half-time lead.

I nip up to the Village Store during the break, having realised that I’ve not eaten since my two slices of toast earlier in the day. One or two of the 22 strong crowd are in the shop. I snaffle up a scotch egg from behind the counter.

I sit in the car scoffing my snack listening to the radio. The reporter on Five Live at Middlesbrough’s Riverside Stadium comes up with an amazing stat. The goalkeeper and four defenders starting today’s game against Millwall have all come through their Academy.

I catch the news before returning to the game. Leicester-born actress Betty Driver, famous for playing Rovers Return barmaid ‘Betty Turpin’ has passed away at the age of 91.

Hathern rediscover their zest for the game as Khalsa commit hari-kari in the second period. Khalsa have lived a charmed life well before the son of the bloke next to me gives away a needless penalty, which is easily converted.

The home team pour forward and lay siege to the Khalsa goal. They fail to clear a corner, the ball falls to Hathern’s number four who fires a shot into the back of the net. Khalsa are proper flapping now and haven’t got time to fall out.

With minutes remaining, McCabe pounces onto an under-cooked header. He’s the only player on the pitch you would put your house on scoring a goal in a one-on-one situation. He duly obliges, giving the away team a deserved three points.

Man of the Match: McCabe

Attendance: 22

Hyde 1 Nuneaton 1

2011-10-08T19:27:00.003+01:00

It’s Thursday evening. I’m sat behind the goal at Loughborough Dynamo’s Nanpantan Sports Ground. I’m watching Gormhead’s lad playing in the FA Youth Cup 2nd qualifying round. It’s bucketing it down with rain.

Arnold are coasting, totally bossing the game. They are 3-1 up with 7 minutes to go. They can afford the luxury of a few substitutions. The final few minutes is the craziest I’ve seen in 40 years of football. Proper Keystone Cops defending. The Dynamo substitute rips the Eagles to shreds. He bags two and creates another. Arnold go down 4-3.

I’m gutted for Gormhead and his 17 year old son. No words can console him in the clubhouse after. I’m cheesed-off too. Arnold had drawn Brighouse Town up in West Yorkshire in the next round. It would have been an unexpected midweek chalk-off for Sticky Palms. Never mind, looks like I’ll opt for a night in with Mrs P and her hectic TV schedule.

Gormhead isn’t at work on Friday. Good job really as I’d have avoided him like the plague. It’ll take some getting over, conceding three goals in the final few minutes.

I’m scouring the Interweb for a few interesting news stories. Apparently Kieron Dyer has slipped on some bear shit in the woods and will be out until Christmas. Rochdale Council has proposed that they will name their new Sports Centre after former Liberal MP Cyril Smith, who weighed in at 29 stone. Apparently Smith still holds the record for the number of excuse notes written by a parent for ducking out of PE.

It’s Saturday morning. Yeah, you’ve guessed it, I’m sharing paper round duties with Sticky junior. The Daily Express, played out with Princess Diana conspiracy theories, lead instead with warnings of arctic conditions to sweep into Britain in the next few weeks. Bore off.

I valet the car before heading up to ‘Trumpy Towers’ on the Bronx. Rolf Harris is special guest on the Danny Baker Show. He tells an amusing anecdote involving former Beatle John Lennon. I pass White Van Man’s house. The curtains are shut; there’s no sign of life.

Trumpy’s not in the best of moods after England’s dismal showing in the Rugby World Cup quarter final. It’s no good moaning to me about it, as I don’t do ‘funny ball.’

We pick Dringy up in Compton Acres. It’s his first time out at groundhopping. Trumpy hasn’t seen him in 15 years. Dringy breaks the ice, and some packaging, by offering us all a chocolate brownie. We’re soon all chattering away.

Trumpy has already had two cans of McEwans and a bottle of Magners cider. He’s lined-up a pub in Cutthorpe near Chesterfield. For any new readers his sole mission in life is to make a financial transaction in every city, town and village in England, Scotland and Wales (shakes head in disbelief). It’s a hobby he has pursued for the last 25 years.

The pub in Cutthorpe isn’t open yet. We drop in at the four star Cavendish Hotel in Baslow. I make a few calls whilst Trumpy shouts them up. The hotel is located on the Chatsworth Estate. It’s like something out of the cult ITV period drama Downton Abbey.

Trumpy is lording it in a high-backed chair as a wedding party arrive in their Armani suits and Karen Millen dresses. We blend in well with our Topman jeans and JD Sports trackie bottoms. A waiter offers us champagne. We politely decline.

Trumpy nearly chokes on his bottled beer when he is charged £13 for three drinks by a smirking Notts County supporting barman. “Good health Trumpy.”

We drop into The George in Tideswell for a swift one. Well, it would have been a swift one, but Dringy and Sticky re-enact a Crucible quarter final frame between Terry Griffiths and Cliff Thornburn on the pool table. Trumpy is disgusted and orders another cider.

Lunch is instantly forgettable. We’re holed up in a Brewers Fayre about a mile from the ground. I have a chewy steak baguette; the boys prefer a more stable sausage and mash.

We park up on street just yards from the ground. A guy comes out of his house and warns us its residents parking only. He kindly lets us park up outside his drive. He’s a former groundsman at Ewen Fields.

Hyde is a town in the Metropolitan Borough of Tameside. It has a population of over 30,000 people. Famous folk from these parts include: the boxer Ricky ‘The Hitman’ Hatton, ex Man Utd winger Lee Martin and BAFTA winning screenwriter Danny Brocklehurst, whose dramas include: Clocking Off, Shameless and The Street.

During the 1960s Myra Hindley and Ian Brady were arrested in their home in Hyde, following the discovery of the body of 17 year old Edward Evans. Serial killer Dr Harold Shipman had a surgery in the town. He murdered several hundred of his patients.

Hyde FC play at Ewen Fields. It is also the home of Manchester City Reserves. The Glenn Hoddle Academy provides a pipeline of talent to the Club. The Tigers hold the record for the heaviest defeat in English professional football history. In 1887 Preston North End beat Hyde 26 (twenty six) 0 in an FA Cup match. The Club President is Sir Geoff Hurst.

One of Hyde’s managing directors is East Midlands record dealer John Manship, who is based in Melton Mowbray in Leicestershire. ‘Shifty Edwards’ has taken a particular interest in this, as John wheels and deals in rare soul vinyl.

In 2009 the Club was wound up in the High Court. The decision was reversed following frantic fundraising, including a bucket collection at Manchester City FC.

It’s £10 on the gate or £5 if you are a season ticket holder at a Premiership or Championship club. The programme is £2 and is just about one of the best programmes I’ve ever read. It’s up there with Rushall Olympic. The best quiz question in it is: Out of the 92 clubs which are the only two Wigan Athletic have never beaten?

The ground is everything I expected. A true classic. Trumpy and Dringy dive into the Tigers Social Club. I take a shufty at Ewen Fields. Manchester City’s major sponsors have advertising boards splattered all around the perimeter of the ground. Abu Dhabi and Etihad feature heavily. The Tigers shirt sponsor is City in the Community.

There is cover on all four sides of the ground. The pitch is immaculate. It’s rained all morning. It will be great to see the ball zip all over the park. The DJ bizarrely plays ‘United’ by Judas Priest, followed by ‘Tiger Feet’ by 70s glam rock band Mud.

Hyde are in red, whilst Nuneaton play in blue and white stripes. I’m stood in the ‘Boro.’ end. They have brought near on 200 fans with them, and are making one hell of a racket. I immediately spot Nuneaton’s Number 7. His left foot sticks out like a sore thumb. It turns out to be former Coventry City and Northampton Town midfielder Kevin Thornton.

He’s tidy in possession and decisive with his passing. I enquire with a few fans about his history. They say he got dismissed at Coventry for non-related football matters. He looks a tad heavy, but boy can he play.

Those pair of clowns (Trumpy and Dringy) come waltzing out the Social Club. It takes them five minutes to work out that Hyde are playing in red.

The game is high on quality. Both teams like to get the ball down, particularly Nuneaton. Thornton opens proceedings on 25 minutes. He pounces onto a threaded pass, rounds the ‘keeper and rolls the ball into an empty net. They’ve deserved it.Trumpy is jumping up and down with the Boro fans. He’s chanting, clapping and singing. “Well they are from the Midlands” he remarks.

Hyde restore parity against the run of play. Collett blocks bravely from the initial shot, but Ryan Crowther smartly tucks away the rebound. Game on.

We’re back in the bar at the break. Dringy buys a double round, just a 4% Stella for Sticky. I scan the half-times. Lincoln are already loosing at Tamworth. It’s last orders for Steve Tilson.

We stand with the Tigers’ fans for the second half as they roar their team on. They all seem to be necking cans of Red Stripe lager.

Gary Lowe must have given his team a right royal bollocking because they have come out all guns blazing. They pepper the Boro goal with some long-range shooting.

One of the Tigers fans clearly worse for wear from his Red Stripe bonanza has stripped bollock naked. He fails to negotiate the advertising hoarding and collapses on the floor. He finally gets his leg over and runs onto the pitch with the crowd in hysterics.

There’s not a Plod or steward in sight. He has his Andy Warhol moment and returns to his mates to a round of applause. He looks like Bez from the Happy Mondays.

Five minutes later a little boy is red carded by an overzealous steward for riding his bike up and down the concourse. The boy stares at the steward in disbelief. Honestly, local lad Danny Brocklehurst couldn’t write this script. I love the North.

Hyde have a late rally as Nuneaton shut up shop, content with a point. Spencer, Berkeley and Crowther all go close.

The final whistle goes. Hyde’s unbeaten run continues. It’s the best game I’ve seen in ages. We’ve one more trip up here this season. Hopefully it will be to Altrincham’s Moss Lane.

Man of the Match: Kevin Thornton

Attendance 652

Quiz answer: Man Utd and Nottm Forest.

Anstey Nomads 2 Bardon Hill 1

2011-09-27T12:04:00.006+01:00

It’s the 17th September 1999. I’m sat in the Jongleurs Comedy Club by the Canal Side in Nottingham. A large group of us are out celebrating Mrs P’s 30th birthday. The good lady waves away a waiter, who is offering her a food menu. She’s on a mission tonight to have a few bevies, and why not, you’re only 30 once.

A comedian is on stage. I haven’t laughed once, and neither has Mrs P or her buddies. We’re only an hour into the evening and already they have demolished three bottles of wine. They start to heckle the comedian. Bloody hell, I really wish she’d opted for chicken and chips in a basket, to line her stomach.

I glance over towards their table. It’s absolute carnage, total car crash material. Trumpy Bolton has less empties in his garage.

I order a Coke (the drink, not the white powder), it’s going to be a long night. We can’t get the good lady off the dance floor. She’s bumping into folk and dancing outrageously. You can’t drink wine like water, readers.

The inevitable dash to the toilet (stagger) occurs well before time added on. I’m stood near the bar; stone cold sober, plotting how I can convince a taxi driver to take us home. I feel a tap on my shoulder; it’s a Jongleurs security guard.

“Your name Nick?” “Yeah” I reply. “I’m sorry sir, but your wife has been ill in the corridor, we’ve had to ask her to leave the premises.”

I slip a taxi driver £25 in an attempt to get us both home. “Drive steady mate and keep an eye out for any potholes”, I advise him, as Mrs P falls into a coma on the back seat. We negotiate a couple of pit stops at Trent Bridge and Edwalton. There’s a gush of wind as all four windows are wound down.

We arrive home safely. As I said to Mrs Palmer the following morning, as she crammed her mouth full of paracetamol: “You were a good act, but on far too long.”

It’s a beautiful autumnal Sunday morning. I’m stood on the balcony at the Brian Wakefield Memorial Ground on Lenton Lane, the home of Bilborough Pelican. I’m chatting shit with BPFC big cheeses, ‘Swifty’ and ‘Big Glenn.’

BPFC have joined the newly-formed Central Midlands Division One South League. I miss Big Glenn’s pissed-up rants after a Saturday night bender, on what was once known as the World’s best message board (NSL Forum).

Swifty is full of beans. He had his photo taken with the FA Cup the other week, to complete the full set. He makes me a tea ‘on the house.’ His first effort is piss poor and is left to stew in a polystyrene cup on the bar. His re-brew is presented in a ceramic mug, but I refuse to mark it out of ten as it wasn’t made in a pot.

I head off home and find Mrs P halfway up a tree on an unsteady ladder. I act the perfect gentleman and lean against the ladder, whilst making a few phones calls, as Mrs P chops and saws.

Finley Palmer, Keyworth’s Number One rabbit, beckons me over to his cage. The little monkey has ripped up all his newspaper bedding up and back-heeled all his sawdust into his living quarters. He gets a proper bollocking off Groundhopper, the scruffy little sod. He says he prefers the Non League Paper to sleep on, rather than the Nottingham Topper.

I enter the garage. It’s time for my Sunday constitutional. I pull a can of Stella from out of the bottom rack of the fridge. I flick on the excellent John Murray, who is commentating at QPR’s Loftus Road. Boring hell, Alex McLeish’s Aston Villa are in London town. ‘Super Sunday?’ More like ‘Super Snooze Day.’

It’s Tuesday afternoon, the day of the game. ‘Shifty Edwards’ and ‘Sticky’ are listening to the latest offering from music producer ‘Lack of Afro.’ We discuss rumours of cuts to BBC Local Radio sport. I mention that I’d be gutted if veteran radio commentator Colin Slater was a victim of the cuts. Shifty quotes a line from a James Brown song: “Talking Aloud and Saying Nothing.” He’s not a big fan of ‘Uncle Colin.’

Rammers picks me up in The Fairway public house car park. We haven’t seen one another in ages. He’s coached in the USA for most of the summer and is currently manager of Shepshed Dynamo.

We drive through Barrow upon-Soar and Cropston. We came to a game at Nomads back in January of this year. It’s a neat and tidy set-up. It’s £4 each on the gate and £1 for a programme, which is a fair effort. Tonight is a Leicestershire Senior Cup tie.

Rammers blags a team sheet from an Anstey official. I have a browse around the Clubhouse. I notice a memorial plaque hung up in the corner of the room. It’s in memory of two players who lost their lives during the Second World War. A small boy shuffles on the sofa, furiously pressing buttons on his Nintendo DS.

Anstey is a village north west of Leicester, with a population of 6000 people. It is known as the Gateway to Charnwood Forest. Whilst developing a site for the new Co-op store in 2002 remains were found, which according to archaeologists dated back to the 12th Century (that one’s for you Swifty).

Ned Ludd, from whom the industrial revolutionists The Luddites took their name from, was born in the village. In 1779 in a ‘fit of passion’ he smashed up two knitting frames.

The players seem relaxed. Rammers notices there is acres of space not being closed down. Bardon Hill play the football, but have no cutting edge. Their forwards lack desire and look lethargic.

Anstey take the lead on 14 minutes with young Wes York drilling a shot home from 20 yards. The visitors restore parity with a Karl Demidh penalty, following pushing or shirt-pulling.

There are about 20 teenage boys and girls stood adjacent to us, quietly socialising. There no bother, maybe the lads form part of the under 18 side. The lads play it cool as the girls surround them like bees round a honey pot.

It’s all square at the break. My phone suddenly goes off. Trumpy Bolton’s name lights up on the console. He’s roaring down the phone like ‘The Banker’ off Deal or No Deal (Mrs P’s fave programme). The Clarets of Burnley are giving the Tricky Trees of Nottingham a good tonking. Trumpy is loving it.

We firm up a few details of our forthcoming trip to Hyde. We pencil a few dates in for Ashton Town and Louth Town.

Anstey push on in the second period and look the likely winner. Darren Taylor has been unlucky with two previous efforts but is more fortunate with his third. He seizes upon a ball over the top and finishes with aplomb. He celebrates in style sliding towards the corner flag.

It says in the programme mini profiles that he scores important goals at important times. The one tonight could be worth a few bob.

At the back of the far goal two blokes are fishing a ball out of the river with a net. It must have been another effort gone skew-wiff from Bardon Hill as their front men continue to misfire.

Both teams hit the crossbar as the entertainment value increases. On 80 minutes there’s the sickening noise of burning rubber on tarmac as two cars collide on the nearby Cropston Road. The ‘Anstey Baby Squad’ sprint to the entrance to discover two cars written off in a road traffic accident. Thankfully nobody is injured.

The final whistle goes, Anstey deserve their victory. We celebrate in style with two pints of Everards, well actually Rammers had a pint of Pride of Pendle from Burnley, (no pun intended Forest fans), in the Soar Bridge Inn in Barrow upon-Soar.

Attendance:76

Man of the Match: Bardon Hill ‘keeper.

Barrow Town 3 Thurnby Nirvana 1

2011-09-20T23:32:00.005+01:00

It’s August 1990. Sticky Palms is in northern Spain, exact location, San Sebastian, in the Bay of Biscay. I’m with ‘Ackers’, ‘Oggy’, ‘Gambers’ & ‘Neavie.’ The latter is marrying a local Basque girl tomorrow.

It’s the mother of all stag weeks. I’ve drank heavily for four days. I’ve been to three firework Fiestas in a row. My liver and kidneys are on the verge of malfunctioning. We’re already on the sauce as the church bells chime 12 o’clock (midday)

‘Ackers’ is missing in action. He was last seen wandering into a fruit shop to buy a lemon to suck on. We’ve sent out the search party. Black clouds surround the bay. The wind whips up, as the storm clouds begin to gather.

There’s the sound of smashing glass as outside bar tables blow onto the cobbled streets. The heavens open as we sprint across a bridge to seek refuge. San Sebastian is not on the English tourist radar. There are no tacky bars or bare-chested youths wearing Union Jack shorts on the prowl. Nobody speaks English in these parts.

I clock a bloke on the bridge scurrying in the opposite direction. I recognise him instantly. He plays football for the local team, Real Sociedad, who he joined in a £1 million deal from Liverpool last summer. He’s just returned from a successful World Cup campaign in Italy with the Republic of Ireland. His name is John Aldridge and Sticky doesn’t like him.

The boys are sucking up to him “Eh up John.” “Great World Cup, John.” I only have one question for the smug Scouser: “Why did you ruffle the hair of Brian Laws and laugh in his face?” (after he scored that own goal at Old Trafford in the replayed FA Cup semi-final following the Hillsborough Disaster).

‘Aldo’ just smirks and runs off into the distance. It’s another disappointing encounter with a professional footballer.

We’re on our way back from Bedworth. Two floodlight pylons blew up on 43 minutes. A groundhopper I was stood with from Milton Keynes said that this does not constitute a tick-off. Had it got to half-time he’d have counted it as a ground completed. Sod that for a game of soldiers. I’ve seen a match played and won’t be coming back – well not for a night game at least.

We snuck into the Plough at Normanton-on-the-Wolds. Bass is the guest ale. The Taxman admires the décor and architecture. He is the Michelangelo of Nottinghamshire.

It’s Friday evening and I’m hot-footing it around West Bridgford. I need my barnet shearing, but more importantly have some flowers to collect from Slades on Melton Road. I dash into Boots to buy some perfume. You’ve guessed it – Mrs P is forty something tomorrow.

I race across to Clifton to collect some ID cards for my football team. I’m in and out the house and driving down to Plumtree Cricket Club for the Junior Presentation Night. I relax with a couple of pints of Black Sheep as Gangsta and my Godson, Will, mop up the awards.

Saturday is a crazy day. I’m out scouting for most of the morning, covering three games in a two mile radius. The afternoon is spent in my favourite part of Nottingham. ‘The Skipper’s’ team are playing Hyson Green Cavaliers, at the Forest Recreation Ground, in Carrington (Goose Fair site). It’s an interesting, multi-cultural epicentre of our city.

I fear the worst when I spot four lads playing for them who have recently been released by Notts County’s Centre of Excellence. Their pace and power prove too much for the farmer’s boys. We are walloped 7-2. Two games, two losses. I don’t know who will get sacked first: Steve McClaren, who has just lost a lunchtime kick-off against bitter local rivals D***y County or Sticky Palms.

Gangsta and the gang are around ours at night to celebrate Mrs P’s birthday. Fifteen of us play bingo, with yours truly shouting out the numbers. I ask if Finley can join in the celebrations. I receive the same icy glare that I’ve come to recognise over the last 23 years. That’ll be a NO then.

‘Will’ gets two consecutive full houses. Gangsta jumps into his arms to celebrate the £4 win, only because he wants half the winnings.

It’s Monday evening and I’m down the Notts County Centre of Excellence at Dayncourt School in Radcliffe-on-Trent. Pies manager Martin Allen has dropped in to watch the boys training. He organises a photo-shoot with all the kids. It’s a magic moment, and a true measure of the man.

It’s Tuesday afternoon and I’m all excited about tonight’s game. I’ve hooked up for half a shift with warehousing legend ‘Shifty Edwards.’ He casually remarks that he’s watching the new series of ‘Made in Chelsea’ on ITV. I’m shocked and repulsed. Not a word passes our lips for the remainder of the working day.

I arrive home and tend to the two biggest loves of my life: Sally Gunnell is treated to a litre of engine oil, whilst Finley gets a stroke on his forehead. I ask him for one of his infamous crap score predictions. He shakes his head firmly. He explains that he doesn’t like teams from Leicestershire as that’s where his arch enemy the fox is from.

I have a scroll through Twitter. BBC football correspondent Nigel Adderley has tweeted that Shrewsbury Town skipper Ruben Hazell, and his two boys, are on the Emirates Stadium season ticket waiting list. Shrewsbury take on ‘The Arsenal’ tonight.

Mrs P is doing her fortnightly online shop at Tesco’s. “Can you believe that people eat lemon and coriander cashew nuts”, the good lady pipes up. After that stunning piece of trivia, it’s time to depart, readers.

The Taxman rolls up at 7.10pm. He’s had a change of heart and ditched the Forest v Newcastle League Cup tie.

We’re driving through Bunny when a Rozzer accelerates past us and blocks off the A60 at the East Leake turning. Another Plod comes flying around the corner and heads off towards British Gypsum. There’s no explanation from ‘Harry Hopper’, let’s face it they’re whack at PR.

We take a detour through Wysall, Thorpe-in-the-Glebe and Wymeswold and re-join the A60 in Rempstone. The teams are tossing up as The Taxman negotiates the tight left hand turn into Riverside Park.

It’s my third blog at this ground. After last week’s debacle in Bedworth, neither of us fancied travelling far tonight. A juicy FA Cup replay was always high on the agenda.

The coldest I have ever felt at a football game was at Barrow Town in January 2009 when Heanor Town were the visitors.

It’s £4 each on the gate. The programmes have sold out due to a small print run. Over 100 have squeezed through the turnstile. The pitch looks greasy but immaculate.

A last gasp long range shot from Thurnby Nirvana on Saturday has forced a replay. I make no secret that Nirvana are amongst my favourite teams. Their Grand Fromage, Jordan Smith has moved onto the Steelmen of Corby. There’s also no sign of crowd favourite Nijah Frank.

Both teams lie in mid-table in the East Midlands Counties League, with plenty of games in hand. The weather is fairly unpleasant. We’re stood in the ‘away end’ with about 15 Nirvana fans.

Nirvana keep the ball and play some nice football in the early stages without really threatening goal.

Barrow open the scoring on fifteen minutes, with former Loughborough Dynamo midfielder Karl Noble forcing the ball home after a couple of earlier attempts were blocked.

Against the run of play, following a Nirvana corner, Barrow further increase their lead. Nirvana are caught short at the back in a two on two situation. Carl Adams rolls a ball into the path of Phil Miller who converts from close range.

The referee has received three minutes treatment for an unspecified injury. I was hoping for a change as all he has done is blow his bloody whistle all night. The game re-starts. I shout out to the ref that he has to leave the field of play and we’ll all wave him back on. After another petty decision a Nirvana fan cruelly asks whether the physio applied some Deep Heat to the ref’s eyes.

The second half is pretty dire. Nirvana will never score in a month of Sunday’s. Barrow play with heart, drive and purpose. They want the game more; it’s as simple as that. Substitute Connor Hardy puts the game to bed with the ball ricocheting off him from the ‘keeper’s clearance. Barrow even manage to strike the woodwork twice.

We’ve hooked up with a Leicestershire groundhopper that I bump into now and again. He’s a closet Red Dog. The Taxman and ‘Red Dog’ moan and groan about NFFC’s current plight for the entire second half. It’s worse than anything you’ll hear on ‘Matchtalk’ on Monday night on ‘Radio Red.’

The highlight of the second half is a sublime first touch and pass from The Taxman following an ale house clearance from the Thurnby centre half.

Man of the Match: Phil Miller

Attendance: 113

Bedworth United A Woodford United A

2011-09-13T23:10:00.005+01:00

I’m sat at a sun-soaked Plumtree Cricket Ground on a balmy Sunday afternoon. Sticky Junior and ‘The Skipper’ are pitting their wits against a bunch of oiks from out Newark way.

Their behaviour in the field is sub-standard. They set no example to our junior section. They swear, belch and disrespect our young guns. It’s Division 4 of the Newark League. Plumtree CC choose to blood their youngsters. Winning is not the be-all and end-all.

They’ve rocked-up at Bradmore Lane with their overseas professional. He is their safety valve. He bowls a hostile opening spell. His run-up is longer than Darren Pattinson’s. Thankfully his services are no longer required.

Sticky Jnr and ‘The Skipper’ bat at 10 and 11. Our middle to lower order capitulate, there’s a flurry of wickets. My boys are now at the batting crease. The South African peels off his sweater to bowl at the death. Is it really necessary? He begins to mark out his run-up. Thankfully it’s only three paces. I breathe a huge sigh of relief. Let’s face it ‘The Skipper’ is only 13.

The Redneck Newark captain orders the Pro to bowl off a full run-up. Makhaia Ntini steams in to bowl at my youngest lad. Butterflies float around the pit of my stomach. ‘The Skipper’ gets in line and strokes it to cover. No run. Next thing, the Pro follows through his run-up, and eyeballs ‘The Skipper.’

Two deliveries later he sends Sticky Junior’s off stump cart-wheeling to slip. I’m stood on the pavilion steps ready to have a word. I’m not clapping in these morons. One of our lads beats me to it. He lets fly at the Pro with a verbal volley. Their Captain offers him outside. I step in with a few well chosen words. The captain disappears into the changing room.

The South African boy re-emerges and hunts me down to apologise for his behaviour. Village cricket, it’s not how I remember it when I played regularly 15 years ago.

I’ve kept my head down for most of the week, after our four day soiree in Abersoch. Everyone is bored now with my Michael Owen anecdote (I bumped into him last Sunday in the High Street).

My under fourteen team have played a couple of friendly games during the week. We’re spot on for our first League game on Saturday. I receive the bad news by text that two of my stronger squad members are unavailable to play. It’s going to be a long and gruelling season.

Saturday is a mad-cap day. I spend the morning with Notts County Head of Youth, Mick Leonard, down at the University Playing Fields in Nottingham. We view some trial games and jot a few names down in the notebook to follow up.

I make my coaching debut for the season down at Keyworth United’s Platt Lane HQ at 1pm. The boys put in a spirited performance against a team that banged six goals past us twice last season. A 20mph wind doesn’t help matters, as we always like to try and play it out from the back. We suffer a two nil reverse.

Sticky jnr is warming up for his 3pm kick-off. We exchange some banter. I advise him to keep his cool. They’re playing Hyson Green under 18s. Junior’s team are under 16s. They play two years up.

The game is open and enthralling. Junior has a couple of great efforts on target. They go two down against of run of play but pull it back to two a piece. I shoot off down Meadow Lane at 5pm to pick up a trialist I’m looking after.

Saturday night is a TV disaster. ‘Strictly’, X-Factor and Red or Black put me in a dark place. I announce on Twitter that I may have to turn to God.

I watch an under 16 player in Nottingham on Sunday morning. He’s a left-footed defender, who scores a 25 yard rasping drive with his right peg. I’ll keep an eye on him, but it just might be a little bit late in the day to bring him in now. Scholarships are awarded in six months time.

Mrs P and Groundhopper spend their wedding anniversary in the afternoon watching our lads play their final cricket game of the season. I had been selected, but managed to wheedle my way out of it.

It’s Tuesday evening, 5pm. I am lying on the dentist’s chair. He’s prodding around my mouth with a scalpel. I get a clean bill of health and dash home. I bolt some tea down, very kindly prepared by Mrs P. I gather my belongings and head towards The Taxman’s crib.

He flies out the gate quicker than Irish legendary greyhound Ballyregan Bob. As per usual he has brought about four coats. I ask him if he is auditioning for the crap ITV programme 71 Degrees North.

The next half an hour is spent talking about his kitchen refurbishment. He mentions screening, painting, tiling, plastering and touching-up. I might as well have stopped at home with Mrs P and watched Nick Knowles on DIY SOS.

Lee Dixon is on Five Live at the Borussia Dortmund versus ‘The Arsenal’ game. I once bumped into him in a Hertfordshire beer garden with a sozzled Trumpy Bolton in toe. The guy was first-class (Dixon, not Bolton).

We hit the A46, M1, M69 & M6. We’re on the Coventry Road in Bedworth town centre within 45 minutes. The Taxman is driving shotgun and has been told to keep an eye out for the ground. He’s that busy looking out for B&Q’s and Do It All’s that he’s missed the turning for The Oval.

Bedworth is a market town in Warwickshire, close to Coventry and Nuneaton. It has a population of over 30,000. Primarily it was well known for its coal-mining. The last pit closed in 1994. The Bedworth water Tower is the most notable feature in the town centre.

The show-jumper Nick Skelton was born in the town, as was Hinckley United manager Dean Thomas, who once plied his trade on the left hand side of midfield for Notts County.

It’s £7 each on the gate. The programme is £1.50 and an excellent read. The ground is a gem. On the far side is a large, steep green-painted brick stand. As you turn left and walk in a clock-wise direction there’s covered standing and a two-tiered Social Club, where you can view the game from the second floor.

The Oval is tree-lined, surrounded with housing and has open ends behind both goals. I remark to a bald-headed chap, as we saunter around to the main stand, what a fantastic place The Oval is. He turns out to be a groundhopper from Milton Keynes, by the name of ‘Jimmy Jazz.’

We take a pew on the very back row, to hide from the gusty conditions. The DJ plays The Damned and Big Country. The players are greeted onto the field of play by schoolgirl cheerleaders.

The pitch looks immaculate. You could play crown green bowling on it. It’s right up there with the New Manor Ground and the Pirelli Stadium.

I saw Bedworth last season, they were bloody awful. A new manager (Steve Farmer) has been drafted in from nearby Nuneaton Griff. He has brought some talented players with him.

The game is open. Bedworth look dangerous on either flank. There’s a black guy on the right wing with pace to burn.

The Greenbacks captain is Ian Roper, who made over 300 appearances for Walsall. He just manages to fit into his shirt. The infamous faggot and peas on offer at the Tea Bar look to be a favourite delicacy of the defender.

He balloons a pass into touch when a team-mate has requested a ball to feet and is often beaten in the air by the Woodford centre forward.

The game has a flow to it and the visitors belie their lowly league position. Their Number 11 stings the hands of the home ‘keeper with a blistering shot from the edge of the area.

Bedworth have a goal ruled out for offside and go close with two further efforts. All the game needs is a goal.

It’s five minutes to half-time. The Taxman and I trudge down the stairs to discover the ‘Under the Stand Tea Bar.’ A little old lady is pottering around tidying up. I immediately notice her filling up a teapot with a woollen tea cosy covering it. She tells me a 90 year old lady knitted it.

The brew is tremendous and is marked by the judges with a 9.6. Only Clipstone Welfare can better it this season. It’s the highlight of the evening.

Talking of lights, and with two minutes to go before half-time, the far corner of the ground is plunged into darkness. Two floodlight pylons have decided to have an early night.

They manage to get one to boot up, but the other is having none of it. I’ve having a scroll through my Tweets when my night suddenly brightens up (unlike The Oval). Sheffield Wednesday are losing 4-0 at Stevenage. International Chewing Gum Champion of the Year, Gary Megson, will be kicking-off big style.

.

CPD Pwllheli 2 Llanrwst United 1

2011-09-06T22:04:00.017+01:00

Tomorrow I am going away for a long weekend with White Van Man’s pals to north Wales. I’m nervous, really nervous. Last year we all went to Whitby. We played the Arnold Palmer Crazy Golf on the seafront. I carded a course record 20. I was high-fiving the crowd on the West Cliff top. The Cava was on ice. Victory was all but mine.

There was only Sandra left on the course. Bless her; I bet she had a few double bogeys and fresh air shots in her round. It was a drop your bacon sandwich moment when the Whitby R&A official announced her as the winner. I smelt a rat. I still do. I won’t be speaking to her tomorrow. I’m still haunted and scarred by events on that horrible day.

White Van Man phones up first thing Friday morning. He wants a cup of Rosy Lee, before the long trip north west. He’s frothing at the mouth when he finds out Mrs P is in the shower. “Rowdy” he roars down the phone. I warn the good lady to be on her guard.

Chris Moyles is playing Jamiroquai and The Bluetones on Radio 1’s Golden Hour. I have a stab at 1997. I’m ten pence short. There’s mayhem at the Silverdale roundabout. A lorry stacked with hay has shed its load. WVM taps the dashboard in frustration.

We meet up with the gang in Clifton and head up the A50 and M6 towards Colwyn Bay, where Team Leader, Piers (Harry Enfield dead ringer) has booked lunch at the Pen-Y-Bryn.

I’m straight on the Snowdonia Ale. It’s 3.6ABV and a good session beer. Sticky Palms necks a couple, washing down his Cajun chicken ciabatta. I’ve clocked Sandra sitting at our table. I sensibly decide to blank her. We’ll have our showdown later this weekend.

There’s almost an international incident en-route to Abersoch. Those two pints of real ale have done for me. I’m bursting readers. I’m crossing my legs, trying not to look at rivers, streams or the Irish Sea. I hope Radio 1 don’t play The Water Boys or ‘Waterfall’ by The Stone Roses.

WVM reluctantly pulls in for a pit stop. I dash across the road and balance perilously halfway down a steep grass bank. Two police cars hare down the road with sirens blaring out. Oh no, please, God, no. It’s a near miss. WVM is roaring with laughter.

We pull up the drive of the delightful 100 year old Halfruyn House. It’s perched on top of a cliff overlooking Abersoch Beach. The gardens are breathtaking, the views stunning.

A few hours later we’re all bevied up in the Hong Kong Harbour restaurant. WVM has his knuckles rapped by a feisty, flame-haired Leeds Utd supporter for tucking into the crispy duck before the pancakes arrive. He’s proper got the monk on and face on.

He’s back on form on Saturday morning. He has his chef’s hat on as rustles up fried bacon cobs for the gang. Piers has organised a trip to a slate mine up at Blaenau Ffestiniog, the birthplace of former Lincoln City goalkeeping legend David Felgate.

We wave the troops off. WVM and Groundhopper miss the team bus, we have an agenda of our own. Our destination is CPD Pwllheli.

I suddenly hear the theme tune of Emmerdale coming from the living room. WVM is catching up with Friday’s episode on Sky mobile. He boasts he hasn’t missed an episode in nine years. He’s unmoved and dead pan faced, when I ask if Amos Brearley and Mr Wilkes still run the Woolpack.

I take a stroll down to Abersoch harbour. I get chin-wagging to a guy fishing. He says he caught a couple of sea bass last night which he ate for tea. I ask him where’s he from. “D***y” he replies. It kills the conversation stone dead.

It’s teeming down with rain as we make the short 7 mile journey to the seaside resort of Pwllheli. We track down the Mooch fancy dress shop. I purchase a 70s moustache and some glitter for the ‘Abba Gala Night’ Piers has organised. We all have to wear white socks (Abersoch ... get it?)

I treat WVM to fish and chips in a sit down eatery. It’s full of noisy bikers sheltering from the pouring rain.

We’re parked up at ‘The Rec’ at just before 2pm. I’ve been whittling all morning whether the game will survive the inclement weather. I leave WVM fiddling with his iPhone and have a potter around the ground.

No-one is around. It’s half an hour before kick-off. We have no plan b. The pitch looks fine though. There’s a guy standing alone under covering, sheltering from the pouring rain. He’s wearing a black Berghaus bomber jacket, denim jeans and black hush puppy shoes. He has a thick Liverpudlian accent. His features remind me of the late, great Mancunian singer Ian Curtis from Joy Division.

His face lights up when he sees me ambling towards him. We strike up a conversation. He confirms the game is on. It turns out that he travels a solo 200 mile round trip from his Bootle home each weekend to watch the Lilywhites. He even went to an away midweek fixture at Conway last Wednesday.

I’m captivated by this guy already. In seven years of groundhopping I’ve never met someone with so much passion and commitment at this level.

I jog back to the car and give WVM the thumbs up. We pay £2.50 each on the gate and a further £1 for a programme. I tell WVM excitedly about my new mate. We’re immediately reunited. Perhaps he and WVM can catch up on old Brookside episodes on UK Gold at half time on Sky Mobile.

It’s still siling it down with rain as the players emerge from the nearby leisure centre. The pitch has held up superbly. There are tennis courts behind one goal, with housing backing onto the far touchline. ‘Scouse’ says it never gets waterlogged due to the sandstone base.

I would put the standard as being around Step 5. Llanrwst have a couple of old heads surrounded by youngsters. The front pairing look no older than 18 years of age.

CPD Pwllheli top the table with a 100% record. I’d love to position myself behind the dugout to hear the managers but would risk a drenching and a possible language barrier.

The visitors are out the blocks quickly. Elliot Llewellyn has guile and pace in abundance. A supporter tells me he is only 17 years old. He causes mayhem but can’t pop a shot off.

Pwllheli are more direct and not shy of shooting. They have a headed goal chalked off for offside. In an entertaining first half the home team take the lead on the stroke of half time. Ben Chippendale bundles the ball into the back of the onion bag following a cross from the right. Chippendale surprisingly doesn’t remove his shirt to celebrate.

WVM has fetched the teas. We can’t mark it out of ten because no proper mashing technique was used (no teapot). ‘Scouse’ turns a beverage down. He has a heavy night scheduled in Liverpool city centre.

The second half is less entertaining but by now I only have eyes for ‘Scouse.’ We chat about the eccentricities of David Felgate and share anecdotes about Cammell Laird and Marine. Oh man, I love this guy.

Pwllheli score another scruffy goal after a ‘Beadle Hands’ moment from the visiting ‘keeper. It’s the fag end of the game. Pwllheli look comfortable. Suddenly a clumsy home defender gives away a penalty, which is converted by 9 Jacket.

‘Scouse’ turns a whiter shade of pale as five minutes ‘mystery time’ is played. The final whistle goes and ‘Scouse’ clenches his fist in victory (a bit like Sandra did at Whitby). We shake hands and bid a fond farewell. The guy should win Supporter of the Year.

Footnote: It’s the morning after the night before. WVM and I hit the sack at 2.30am. The rest of the posse partied long and hard into the night. It was a scene of utter devastation in the conservatory, as they hosted their own karaoke.

That bloody ‘Barbara Streisand’ song by Duck Sauce was my final recollection of the night. That toon has scrambled my brain through the early hours.

WVM is sat up in bed scrolling through his timeline on Twitter. Michael Owen has tweeted that he is in Abersoch for the weekend. I have a quick shave and leave WVM watching Ant and Dec’s latest piss poor effort of a game show on his Sky mobile.

I walk onto the high street and head towards to the harbour. A young couple are heading in my direction with two small children. No-one else is in sight. The man lifts his daughter above his head and plants her on his shoulder.

We pass one another and exchange a “good morning.” For once in his life Sticky Palms is lost for words. The man was Michael Owen. I can’t half pick em readers.

Attendance: 30

Man of the Match: “Scouse” (sorry Sandra).

Clipstone Welfare 1 Yorkshire Main 2

2011-08-27T09:00:00.007+01:00

We’re walking hand in hand around the streets of Paris. The pavements are sun-kissed and romance is in the air. I’m sick of football, groundhopping, scouting, coaching and work. It’s been a gruelling, punishing season I (we) need a break.

We scale the Eiffel Tower and have a Champagne cruise down the River Seine. We drink Muscadet and devour moules mariniere. The hotel is par excellence.. We adore the cafe culture and the slow pace of the city.

We’re back in the room resting before evening dinner. JK has recommended a rustic eatery just around the corner in St Michael’s Square. I foolishly turn my phone on and immediately hear the message alert tone. I click the button. My weekend is in tatters, ruined. I want to go home.

The text is from Gangsta’s Dad. New readers let me explain. Gangsta is my Godson’s little bro. We’ve had him at the Notts County’s u7s development group for six months now. He is showing promise and is like shit off a shovel.

Today he has been playing in the Cotgrave Tournament. The text says he has been invited in to our bitter rivals from across the water. Their scouts have missed him time and time again. He’s been spotted by a proper scout. A man who worked for Brian Clough for many years.

Oh well, I’m not bitter. I won’t take it personally. I haven’t spoken to Gangsta since ‘that text’, it’s nothing personal. I hope his team, Wolverhampton Wanderers, are relegated this season. That’ll teach the cheeky Red Dog a harsh lesson.

I’m in the Warehouse at Ergo Computing, a company I’ve worked at for 12 years now. ‘Goods In’ legend ‘Shifty Edwards’ is spitting feathers. He’s booting cardboard boxes about the place and sulking more than Forest’s Lewis McGugan.

I ask him what the matter is. He says he doesn’t want to talk about it. I dig a bit deeper and find out the real reason. Apparently he is unable to ‘listen again’ to the Steve White Northern Soul and Motown Show on Radio Sheffield because it got cancelled, so they could broadcast live from Goodison Park for the Everton v Blades League Cup tie. “Man up, Shifty lad.”

It’s Friday evening. I was hoping for an early drink with Mrs P and a quiet night in with a few Stellas and a bottle of wine. I’ve completely forgot that I’m due at the Tropeiro Brazilian restaurant on King Street in Nottingham. It’s housed in the old Hard Rock Cafe building.

I really have to crank myself up for going out. I’m not feeling it folks. I have a couple of Sagres beers and enjoy the experience of the rodizio (continuous service). You are given a beer mat with a red and green side. If you leave the green side up the waiter will continue to serve you. If you leave it on red it means you are stuffed.

I decline a drink after the meal and walk off my churrasco (barbecue). It’s siling down with rain as I walk alone down London Road and onto Trent Bridge. The floodlights shine brightly at Meadow Lane. Nottingham Rugby Club must be at home.

It’s 3am. I’ve woken up with a raging thirst. Those bloody Brazilians. How the hell does that Anderson bloke cover every blade of grass at Old Trafford, after going to one of them Brazilian barbeques?

I’m helping Sticky jnr on that damn paper-round again. He flicks on 96.2 Capital Radio, a station I despise. It's a bit early for 'Down With the Trumpets' by the Rizzle Kicks.

The newspaper headlines are depressing. Four English children are orphaned on a family holiday in Morocco after both parents are found dead in separate incidents, report the Daily Mail.

I’m driving up to the bottle bank, Mrs P’s empties (bottles of Pinot Grigio) need disposing off. I hope I’m not behind Trumpy Bolton in the queue.

‘Fighting Talk’, hosted by the distinctly average Gabby Yorath, is on Five Live. They’re talking about famous footballers who have disappeared off the celebrity radar. John Fashanu’s name crops up. I remember him arriving at Lincoln City from Norwich City for £15,000 in the early Eighties. It transpires that he now hosts the Nigerian version of Deal or No Deal.

I’m sat on the sofa waiting for White Van Man to pick us up. ‘The Skipper’ is joining us on ‘The Hop’ today. We’re watching Aston Villa versus Wolverhampton Wanderers in the ‘most exciting league in the world.’ It’s 0-0. If Alex McLeish gave a free coaching lesson on our back lawn, I’d shut the curtains.

We’re travelling executive style today. White Van Man is already trying to wind me up. He’s got Absolute 80s on the radio. Some awful UB40 track filters out the sound system.

WVM is piloting towards Cotgrave, ‘The Skipper’ tells him he’s missed the turn for Clipstone. Bless him, he thought we were going to Clipston near Tollerton. He’s proper got the face on.

Next weekend about 20 of us are off to North Wales for a long weekend. We’ve hired a big house on the cliff top in Abersoch. WVM reminds me that we’ve got an ‘Abba Gala Night.’ I must buy some white socks and a false beard.

As we’re driving up the A614 Absolute 80s comes up trumps with the Talk Talk’s classic 1986 hit ‘Life’s What You Make It.’

We finally reach the old mining village of Clipstone. ‘The Skipper’ asks what the two big towers are in the sky. They are of course the distinctive winding gear that took the miners up and down the shaft. It’s a fantastic sight and pleasing that they’ve been left as a lasting memory.

It’s £3 entry for WVM and I. I presume that kids are free. I snap up a programme for £1. It’s a really good effort for this level.

Clipstone Welfare seems a really friendly club. They are managed by former Mansfield Town midfielder Gary Castledine.

‘Shifty’ would be pleased, the Clipstone PA guy has slung on a Motown CD. The Supremes ‘You Keep Me Hanging On’ is the pick of the bunch. We take a pew in a stand that runs along the half-way line to the left of the clubhouse.

The Lido Ground looks out towards, what probably is, the old Colliery spoil heap. Today is a top of the table clash.WVM predicts a draw, ‘The Skipper’ says 2-1 to the visitors, whilst earlier in the day, Finley (our rabbit) had shouted out from under the shed that it would be 2-2.

The teams march out to a little medley the PA man has put together. Sadly and comically the CD keeps sticking. I notice that 18 year old Harry Hawkins is refereeing today’s game. My information is that the Nottinghamshire FA are fast-tracking this lad.

Clipstone are wearing a replica Newcastle United strip. It even has the Northern Rock sponsorship splashed across the front of the shirt. Maybe there is a story behind that.

It doesn’t take long for the visitors to take the lead. ‘Ryan’ pounces onto an under-cooked back-pass and knocks the ball past a startled goalkeeper.

Clipstone play the better football, ‘Cass’ and Danny Tighe control the midfield, but they tend to overdo it and have no end product. Things have been brewing up for a while, like they do when Notts and Yorkshire do battle. Main win a free-kick but their 6 jacket retaliates and kicks out. After consultation with his assistant ‘Young Harry’ sends him off.

Yorkshire Main increase their lead on the half hour, despite being one player light. ‘Ryan’ heads home a corner unchallenged.

The highlight of the day is at half-time. I poke my head through the tea bar and notice a sprightly young girl filling up a teapot with boiling hot water. All three of us have a brew. It’s marked with a 9.8 and will take some beating.

I check my phone for a few scores. My good friend Rammers’ team Shepshed are behind at Stamford. ‘The Skipper’ is spitting feathers; he’s missed out on winning the raffle by one number.

The second half is delayed whilst referee Harry Hawkins completes his evening paper-round.

We’re walking at the back of the goal towards the dugouts when Clipstone’s Number Three commits a horror two-footed tackle on a Main player. It’s in front of my 13 year old son, who is visibly shaken. I shout to ‘Young Harry’ that the challenge is ‘appalling.’ The full back is correctly shown Red.

Moments later Tighe fires a wicked free kick in from the left, the Clipstone centre half heads the ball into the roof of the net. Clipstone have a real go and pile on the pressure. Young Scully brilliantly tips an effort onto the bar.

There’s five minutes left on the clock. The young Yorkshire Main forward scurries away onto a through ball, he is completely wiped-out by one of the worse challenges you’ll ever see by the Clippo goalkeeper. Referee Hawkins allows the offender to escape with a yellow despite it being serious foul play (Law 12)

The goalkeeper shows no remorse at all. There’s no apology, a pat on the head or any sign of concern. The boy lays on the floor motionless. They put a blanket on him. It looks bad. ‘The Skipper’ is upset and asks if we can go home. It’s a very sad and tragic end to the day.

NB: Curtis Walker suffered a double-leg break. He will probably lose his job.

Man of the Match: Liam Scully.

Wycombe Wanderers 1 Nottingham Forest 4

2011-08-24T22:09:00.013+01:00

I’m walking at the rear of the Brian Clough Stand. JK is away for the weekend and has very kindly lent me his season ticket. Hordes of Leicester City fans mob the car park. There are obscene chants from a minority about Brian Clough that make my stomach turn.

The game is awful, absolutely dreadful. There’s no pattern, no quality. McGugan sulks like a small child out on the left wing. His shoulders are drooped and his hands are on his hips. Forest gift the Foxes two goals.

My phone has packed up; I can’t even text my frustration to anybody. God, I wish I’d gone to a non league game somewhere.

Manchester born Ishmael Miller provides some muscle, passion and desire in the second period. Leicester City’s time-wasting tactics are embarrassing. They roll around as if been shot by a sniper. They boot the ball away at every opportunity.

A chink of light appears from the bench, like he did at Liberty Way in Swansea back in May. Raddy Majewski breathes fresh life into a fatigued Nottingham Forest. He has the balance and movement of a ballerina. He wriggles in and out of tight areas. He’s light on his feet and torments the over-rated Leicester left back Paul Konchesky.

Forest win a penalty, following a brilliantly-given advantage by the referee, with a ridiculous and unnecessary hand-ball. The biggest clown on the pitch, Kasper Schmeichel, grabs the ball from the spot, in an attempt to unsettle a smirking McGugan, the penalty-taker. He’s cautioned for ungentlemanly conduct.

The penalty is coolly tucked away into the bottom left hand corner. Schemeichel crazily hurls the ball into the crowd in a fit of pique, and is shown his second yellow card. He’s berated by his own team-mates. Moments later George Boateng throws his tiring, aching body at a Chris Cohen cross, to bundle the ball into the net. There’s utter pandemonium.

I’m strolling out of the Brian Clough car park. Those silly Foxes aren’t singing anymore. Police Alsatian dogs are making more of a racket.

A Leicester City fan sidles up alongside me. He has a face like thunder. “Cheer up mate”, I cheekily grin at him. “F**k off” he replies. For good measure Sticky jnr kisses the two stars on his Forest shirt. It’s the perfect end to the day.

It’s Tuesday afternoon. We’re cruising down the M1 in JK’s 2 litre Audi automatic. Jeremy Vine is playing Gloria Gaynor’s 1975 hit ‘Never Can Say Goodbye’ on his lunchtime phone-in. Cricketing guru, Josh (JK’s lad) is mumbling to himself on the back seat.

He recently left the thrilling 3rd Test match at Trent Bridge at lunch on Day 5 against India, missing a two session 10 wicket collapse by the tourists, just so he could watch a repeat of ‘Celebrity Come Dine With Me’, for the record Christopher Biggins won it.

His brother Lewis is an even bigger muppet. Whilst local hero Stuart Broad was taking centre stage with a hat-trick in the same game, Lewis opted for a ‘spot of tea’ at McDonalds on the Radcliffe Road.

We have a few quiz questions in the car like: Which former Nottingham Forest player has also managed Wycombe?

We stop off at Moto services on the M40. JK has a latte accompanied by a blueberry muffin. It’s like having a business meeting with Alan Partridge.

Sticky jnr has his mobile glued to his ear. He brokers a deal on Gumtree to sell a moped to some chav in Lincoln.

JK has to pop in to see a customer 15 miles outside Wycombe. The boys play football in a farmer’s field whilst I listen to the amusing Hawksbee and Jacobs.

We drive past the impressive ASM Stadium, home to Uhlsport Hellenic League team Thame United.

The route to Adams Park is well signposted. We’re greeted by a friendly steward. JK is still suited and booted and is mistaken by the guy as a member of the Nottingham Forest Board of Directors. We ask the fluorescent-coated official to recommend a food establishment. He says ‘Linda’s Burger Van’ is Egon Ronay rated. Where’s Heston Blumenthal when you need him? Probably in Udinese.

High Wycombe is a town in Buckinghamshire with a population of 90,000. It was once famous for making furniture; hence Wycombe’s nickname is the Chairboys.

Celebrity chef and the owner of 3 Michelin star restaurant The Fat Duck in Berkshire, Heston Blumenthal, was born in the town. Somewhat bizarrely he supports ‘The Arsenal’ – Lee Dixon is a business partner.

Wycombe Wanderers Football Club were founded in 1887. Notable former managers include: Martin O’Neill, Tony Adams, Lawrie Sanchez, John Gorman and Paul Lambert. Players to have played for both Wycombe and Forest include: Nathan Tyson and Neil Lennon.

Record transfer fee paid is £200,000 to Barnet for Sean Devine. Record fee received is £675,000 from Nottingham Forest for Nathan Tyson. London Wasps rugby union team also play at Adams Park.

We’re a half an hour walk from the town centre. The pubs near the ground are either dingy, up for lease or unsuitable for kids. We chance upon a chippy. I have the worst beef and onion Pukka pie in living memory. The guy just warms it through in a microwave.

We’re back up the ground again as the vibe begins to kick-in. The players have arrived by coach. New cult hero Ishmael Miller kindly poses for a photo with an excited Sticky junior.

I bag a programme for a bargain £2. Later, on inspection, it proves to be thin on content. The ground is in a gorgeous setting. To the rear of the home terracing is woodland, with panoramic views of the Buckinghamshire green belt area.

The away end is filling up nicely. The top deck of the two-tier stand to our left has been closed for the evening. The DJ plays one or two trendy indie tunes and throws in the Stereo MC’s ‘Step it Up’ for good measure.

I notice on the ‘big screen’, when the teams are read out, that Sky football commentator Alan Parry, a huge Chairboys fan, sponsors the playing kit of full back Marvin McCoy.

Tonight marks referee Danny McDermid’s final fixture for a while. He is a Major in the British Army and is being deployed to serve in Afghanistan for six months in the morning.

I’m disappointed that my all-time hero Gareth ‘Wild Thing’ Ainsworth is not in the squad tonight. I used to worship this man when he donned the red and white stripes of Lincoln City. Bought for £20,000 and sold for over half a million – we can’t half pick em.

Another good un Lincoln bought from Wycombe was midfield play-maker Graham Bressington. He used to whistle as he waltzed his way through opposing defences.

Forest soon find there rhythm. Majewski makes an immediate impact, threading a ball through to Miller, who opens his account for the Reds. After 6 minutes McGugan makes it 2-0 from the spot after Wycombe ‘keeper Nikki Bull taps Miller’s ankles.

The Chairboys are in shock at their horror-show start and so are the local partridges who have descended on Adams Park from the nearby woodland. Three or four of them have positioned themselves up front, as manager Gary Waddock changes to an attacking 4-4-6 formation. The remaining two or three stray birds nose-dive into the away support like a Japanese kamikaze pilot. The Forest fans are lapping it all up.

Bull keeps Wycombe in the game with a string of fine saves from Miller, McGugan and Majewski. Wycombe also play a fast passing game. Former Jamaican U20 international Joel Grant, a recent signing from Crewe Alexandra is particularly impressive.

The teams come out for the second half to Dario G’s 1998 hit ‘Carnival de Paris.’ The game is once again open. Wycombe press Forest as the visitors choose to counter-attack. Benyon hits the base of the post for the Chairboys.

Majewski gets on the ball, plays a one two with a partridge and sets up USA international Robbie Findley, who finds the corner of the net with a shot off the outside of his boot.

Wycombe are immediately awarded a penalty as I Tweet the 3-0 scoreline on my new HTC phone to my followers. Camp is sent the wrong way by Elliot Benyon. I edit my Tweet.

I immediately get a text to tell me ‘Katy Perry has put Lincoln two up at AFC Telford. Wycombe substitute Kadeem Harris looks a handful and is one for the notebook. He made his debut at just 16 years old and is attracting plenty of interest.

McClaren throws on Tudgay, Garner and Kieron Freeman for the final 20 minutes. A resurgent Joe Garner unselfishly rolls the ball across the face of goal, allowing Majewski the opportunity for a deserved tap-in to cap a fine performance.

Put your house on him starting against the Iron on Sunday.

Attendance: 2866

Man of the Match: Raddy Majewski.

South Normanton Athletic 3 Real United 2

2011-08-16T16:01:00.006+01:00

The Boeing 737 taxis the runway at Ibiza Airport. Sticky Palms breathes a huge sigh of relief. It’s the start of a ten day break with my madcap family.

A Spanish taxi driver waves a placard in the air with our name on it, as we lug our cases through arrivals. Within 25 minutes we are wheeling our luggage through reception of the Tropic Apartments, on the edge of the eastern resort of Santa Eulalia.

We are met by a stony-faced receptionist (Russian). She delivers the sombre news with a deadpan face – the hotel is overbooked – there is no room at the inn, well, at least not until tomorrow.

I turn to look at Mrs P’s reaction. It’s a face I’ve seen pulled a million times readers, like when I announce I’m off to Manchester for the day with Trumpy Bolton or that there’s extra-time at a FA Cup extra preliminary round 100 miles away.

We’re offered two days all-inclusive as compensation. I snap their hand off and we make hay over the long weekend.

Five days later I’m dashing around the marina on a sultry Tuesday evening, like a man possessed, trying to find out the latest score in the local derby between Forest and the Pies. Mrs P was hoping to enjoy a romantic table for two at a little Italian restaurant close to the water’s edge.

My phone starts buzzing; Craig Westcarr has scored a late equaliser. The game has gone into extra-time.

I deliver the news to the kids when I arrive back at the hotel. There’s a vibration in my pocket, ‘Hughsey’ has made it 3-2. I’m doing the ‘The Hughsey’ on the marble floor of the hotel. I throw my arms backwards and shuffle my feet; it must look like a Michael Jackson Moonwalk. Sticky jnr has proper got the monk-on.

My phone goes off again; it’ll be the final score. I feel for my glasses in my shorts pocket. I read the text with disbelief: ”Wes Morgan scored a 122nd minute wonder-goal, NFFC go through on sudden-death penalties.”

I neck my Bacardi and coke, bid farewell to any stragglers still drinking in the hotel bar and collapse in a heap on the bed. I couldn’t have felt any more exhausted than if I had played in the damned game myself.

I park my backside pool-side for the remaining 8 days of the holiday and bury my head in two delightful books: ‘Changing Ends’ by Mike Bayley and ‘92 Pies’ by Tom Dickinson. Only a boat load of mosquito bites dampen my spirits.

It’s Saturday lunchtime; we’re touching down at East Midlands Airport. It’s been a hot and sticky old ten days. I selfishly leave Mrs P to unpack the cases and head down to Meadow Lane. I’m still sulking that I missed an epic at The City Ground last Tuesday evening.

I sit high up at the back of the Derek Pavis Stand. Notts are short of energy and ideas. It looks as if they gave their all across the water a few days ago. Charlton aren’t much better but are gifted two goals.

West Ham’s on-loan Colombian forward Cristian Montano pulls a goal back for the Pies, but if anything it will be the Addicks that are disappointed that their win was not more convincing. Bradley Wright-Phillips is the arch villain, missing three gilt-edged chances to put the game beyond reach.

I have a fairly lazy day on Sunday. Notts County under 10s have a tournament in the morning at Radcliffe on-Trent. I spend the afternoon fleetingly watching Manchester Utd and Chelsea on Sky – both look impressive. I particularly like the look of the Chelsea full back Jose Boswinga, who rips the Stoke left back to shreds.

It’s Tuesday tea-time. I’m down at Finley’s yard. His score predictions have been ultra impressive this season. “5-3 to South Normanton” he whispers in my ear.

I waltz through the back door. Mrs P is preparing meat balls with spaghetti in chilli sauce. A sheepish Sticky junior slopes into the kitchen; his face looks disfigured. “Have you heard Dad?” “Flipping heck,” says Groundhopper, “you look like you’ve had 30 seconds in the ring with Carl Froch.”

Turns out that a wasp landed in his mouth, junior mistook it for food and now has a fat lip. Moments later he’s writhing around on the floor in pain, the chilli sauce has seeped its way into the wound.

I hear the loud sound of a car horn; must be ‘The Taxman’ right on cue. He’s spent the last week in Cornwall; not that it stops him from having a right old moan about the petulant behaviour of Junior Tax Kid.

The ring road is clear, as is the M1. We’re soon pulling off Junction 28. ‘The Taxman’ is ribbing me about the Tricky Trees penalty-fluke win over the Pies. He confesses to leaving early and missing all the drama.

We can see the floodlights to our left as we enter the town centre. South Normanton is an old mining village two miles outside Alfreton (who incidentally are entertaining Southport tonight in the Conference Premier). It has a population of 8000 people.

Notts County’s Centre of Excellence recruit quite heavily in this area. They breed them rough and tough in these parts. My main man in Mansfield is a top-drawer scout. I’ve spent many a wet and windy morning with him watching games at the nearby Frederick Gent School.

The main industries of the town were framework knitting and coal mining. They were known as Shiners due to the state of their trouser pants after a 14 hour shift sitting down. South Normanton Colliery closed down in 1952.

South Normanton Athletic are nicknamed the Shiners. They were re-formed in 2009 after folding a year previously. They play at the Exchem Sports Arena on Lees Lane.

I manage to pinch a Werthers Original out of ‘The Taxman’s’ glove compartment. I make a hasty exit out of the car, as John McGovern’s monotone voice has been driving me potty on Radio Nottingham.

We walk through a narrow, dark passageway. It’s £3 admission. No programme is issued tonight. I’m immediately attracted to the ground. It’s decked out in blue. There’s a blue concrete perimeter fence and hard-standing all the way round the ground.

A cold breeze wind blows down the ground. There are outstanding views out into the Derbyshire hills.

The first person I stumble upon is Real United head honcho Roger Henry. We shake hands and I introduce him to ‘The Taxman.’ It’s a community football club formed in 2008. It was primarily set up to discourage substance abuse and criminal activity amongst young people in Nottingham.

As a club we (Notts County) have donated kit to both the first team and a junior team during my time as a scout. I have a lot of time and respect for Roger. Former Notts County, Birmingham City and D***y County defender Michael Johnson is Real United President.

We stand to the left of the Real dugout. Former Mansfield Town defender Mark Clifford is Roger’s coach. The Nottingham team make a lively start. Young ‘Scratchy’ on the right wing has caught our eye. He goes close with a header. Clifford remarks: “he would have scored that if he chopped off his pig tails."

”

Diminutive forward Danny Briscoe bagged a hat-trick on Saturday for the Shiners; he’s already proving a handful for the visitors defence. He opens the scoring by rolling the ball into an empty net.

Real United are pinned back in their own half as South Normanton raise the bar. Against the run of play former Stags trainee Curtis Shaw rattles the woodwork from 25yards out on the left.

There’s a commotion in the Refreshment Bar at half-time, deadly rivals Pinxton FC are a goal down to the Notts Police, who this time last week would have probably struggled to raise a 5 a-side team due to the riots.

There’s plenty on offer on the snap front. Pies, peas, burgers and hot dogs are snaffled up. I can’t see a tea pot, so ‘The Taxman’ and I elect for a coffee.

Real United struggle with the pace of the game they quickly go two and then three down. Their players and coaching staff are a credit to the game. They cajole and encourage one another.

They pull a late goal back with a cracking effort following a cross by ‘Scratchy.’ With five minutes remaining ‘Scratchy’ blasts the ball into the roof of the net following a raking pass by the sublime 6 jacket.

Time has run out in an enthralling game which the hosts deserve to win. I’ve fell in love with Real United and will keep a close eye on when their next away fixture is.

The night gets even better with wins for Forest and U Pies. A pint of Thieving Magpie ends a perfect evening.

Man of the Match: Danny Briscoe.

Daventry Town 2 Enfield Town 0

2011-07-30T09:37:00.005+01:00

It was around 3pm when I heard the news that she would have to be kept in overnight. They said she was comfortable and were hopeful of performing surgery sometime the following morning. It’s a restless night for Sticky Palms; nights apart have been rare during our long and loving relationship.

I get the call at midday that the operation has been a complete success. The necessary paperwork has been signed, the management have released her, I’m told I can collect her at 5pm.

It’s a tearful reunion. I cling tightly to her body, particularly where the new welding has taken place, not ever wanting to let her go. £137 to get her battered body back on the road for another year: well done ‘Sally Gunnell.’

It’s Sunday morning, I’m sat on the patio eating breakfast, watching the boys play cricket in the back garden. Sticky jnr bowls a half volley, ‘The Skipper’ is onto it like a flash, dispatching it through the covers for four. It ricochets off the wheelbarrow, loops up in the air and drops over the fence into our next door neighbour’s garden.

They are not just any old neighbour, it’s ‘George and Mildred’ – who regular readers will know that Sticky Palms has had his run-ins with in the past. ‘The Skipper’ is inconsolable with grief. He has just lost our one and only brand new Incrediball.

I climb onto the step ladders and peer over the fence. I spot the ball nestled at the bottom of a raspberry bush. I ask Finley, our rabbit, if he fancies digging a tunnel from his cage under the fence to retrieve the ball. He says today is Sunday and his day of rest. I reply that he’ll never land the part as an extra in Watership Down.

Six hours later Sticky jnr plucks up the courage to knock on ‘George and Mildred’s’ door. He talks like Inspector Blakey off On the Buses; she looks like Olive, Arthur’s wife. The ball has mysteriously disappeared. They claim they have never seen it. The bastards have confiscated it. I call Sticky jnr back home.

I’ve had a couple of Stellas and I’m about to lose my temper with them. I shout over the fence that they must have more balls in their house than JJB Sports. I’m flipping fuming readers.

Half an hour later Mrs P walks into the lounge with an orange ball in her hand, it had been left in the porch by an anonymous person. They have been shamed into returning it back. I click open another Stella in celebration.

It’s Friday evening. Taggart and I are being driven into Nottingham city centre by a very attractive South African lady. We walk past the 4500 miles from Delhi restaurant on Maid Marian Way, across the road is the Park Plaza hotel. A handful of Indian cricket supporters are milling around the entrance waiting for the Indian team bus to arrive from Trent Bridge.

I have a few beers at the Castle Inn and Fat Cat, but I’m not in the mood and feel dog tired. I’ve been on the phone for 20 minutes sorting out a problem at the Pies. I’m tucked up in bed before midnight.

Sticky jnr needs a hand with his papers; he has the biggest round in Keyworth. According to the headlines the Tax Office is in ‘chaos’ and Cheryl Cole is returning to X-Factor.

The lads are playing a Test match in the back garden. Finley takes one for the team at extra cover. He’s injured his left front paw, a little bit like ‘Swanny’ did yesterday for England. I ask him for a score prediction, he replies he’s wounded, and can I ask him later.

I drive down to Highfields Hockey Centre on University Boulevard. Notts County Youth are entertaining Cheltenham Town. We could be three up in the first 90 seconds. We give away a soft goal and never really get going.

I drop the boys off at Plumtree for cricket. Mrs P has made me a chicken and cheese baguette for lunch. I watch a bit of cricket as India appear to take control of the 2nd Test at Trent Bridge.

The Nuclear Scientist arrives on cue. We drive down the A46 and onto the M1 southbound, leaving at Junction 18. Jonathan Agnew keeps us entertained on Test Match Special.

Daventry is a market town in Northamptonshire with a population of over 20,000. Due to its good transport links the town has become a major warehousing and manufacturing centre. Daventry International Railfreight Terminal is a major terminal for freight change between road and rail.

We pass one after another of huge industrial estates. Eddie Stobart and Wetherspoons are just two of the major players. ‘Dog Attacks on the Rise’ is the headline splashed on the front page of the Daventry Express.

I’ve not bothered bringing the Sat Nav as I perversely enjoy the challenge of finding a ground. After crossing more roundabouts than can be found in nearby Milton Keynes we finally stumble across Communications Park.

It’s £5 entry but sadly no programme issued for today’s friendly game. We’re both dying of thirst, so snuck into the plush clubhouse. NS has a shandy whilst Sticky Palms raises the bar with a pint of San Miguel. It’s a kind of dummy run for my 10 days in Ibiza.

We get chatting with the friendly bar staff. They recommend viewing the game from the balcony on the second floor.

We climb the stairs and position ourselves smack bang on the half way line. It’s a pleasant enough ground. Trees are behind one goal with some scrubland across the far side.

Daventry Town are managed by former Republic of Ireland and Aston Villa midfielder Mark Kinsella. The chairman has made a few wonga from the mobile phone industry. He has certainly splashed out a few bob on this fine-looking clubhouse.

Enfield Town, from the Ryman League Division One North, are today’s visitors. It’s my first view of a London non-league side in ages. Well known footballers born in Enfield include: Michael Duberry, Henri Lansbury and Steve Morison.

Enfield are sporting a ghastly red and gold striped kit. Their helpful secretary, who we’ve been chatting with for the last hour informs me the new kit will have the same colours but with hoops.

The visitors look the more accomplished team in the opening half an hour. They have pace down both flanks. Both their forwards are always on the move.

News arrives by text from Mrs P that Cotgrave already have seven men back in the hutch. Sticky jnr has bagged 5 wkts, while ‘The Skipper’ has weighed in with the other two. It’s a bitter sweet moment for me as I really ought to be there. What sort of Dad am I?

Twice Enfield spurn chances, blazing over the bar when in good positions. Daventry begin to gain confidence. Former Yeovil and Peterborough United striker Howard Forinton leads their line. He was banned from the game for four months last season, after being found guilty of betting on a game he was playing in (Redditch v Stalybridge Celtic).

Daventry finish the half with the upper hand. I particularly like the flashes of brilliance from 21 year old Romanian playmaker Claudia Hoban, who I first spotted playing for Blackstones last season.

We’re back in the upstairs bar again. NS opts for shandy again; Sticky Palms plays it safe with a Diet Pepsi.

The sun is beating down and the pitch is already beginning to look a little worn. Daventry play a higher tempo game in the second period. Enfield have thrown on a few second string and trialists.

Daventry’s exciting young winger, Casimir Pangne, plays a give and go, he bursts into the box and pokes the ball into the corner of the net. The goal is met with silence from the charming Enfield secretary.

Daventry double their lead later in the half with a header from Scott Cross following a sublime ball in from ‘Claudia.’

Enfield have run out of steam and ideas. Their second string have made little impression. We jump into the car and tune into Radio 4 LW, just in time to hear Stuart Broad take a hat-trick in one of the most eventful tests at Trent Bridge in living memory.

Man of the Match: Sticky jnr (Sorry Broady)

St Neots Town 3 Peterborough United 7

2011-07-23T06:38:00.005+01:00

It’s Wednesday evening. It’s drizzling rain out of the slate-grey skies. I’m stood on the Victoria Embankment watching sixteen boys playing football with jumpers for goalposts. They’re laughing and joking.

There are acres and acres of land on this flood plain. Apart from a few dog walkers there’s no-one in sight. A short chip and run away is the notorious Meadows Estate in Nottingham. It’s been a breeding ground for footballers. Well known include: Jermaine Pennant, Julian Bennett, Wes Morgan and Kelvin Wilson.

The Meadows is an architectural disaster. It has endless snickets and an ugly design. Nottinghamshire Police used to patrol it on bicycles. It’s a place where I like to scout for young footballers, lads that are looking for a pathway to escape.

The boys have finished their match; the score is 17-16. They head back up to Trent Bridge after a debrief from their coach. It’s been a team-bonding exercise. There are high jinks and frolics as the lads walk along the banks of the Trent.

They all disappear into McDonalds on the Radcliffe Road. They re-emerge half an hour later with stomachs full and aching limbs. They are a smashing set of lads, no trouble whatsoever. They’re respectful, polite and well-brought up. And another thing; I’m proud to be their football coach.

We’ve survived relegation by the skin of our teeth. Next season we will once again play top-flight football in our County. I’ve strengthened the team, but it remains full of local lads. I could trawl Nottingham recruiting players like other sad managers do in our league. But they are all missing the point. Football is about playing with your mates, building relationships and having memories.

Bring on the season. I won’t be bullied out of the ‘job’ like I was four seasons ago. I will be running the side NOT the parents. We won’t be arguing with referees or querying decisions. We’ll be respectful to our opponents. Any child protection issues will be dealt with swiftly and not swept under the carpet like they were four years ago.

I’ll still groundhop with Trumpy Bolton now and again, but Saturday’s this season will be mainly taken up watching these boys playing the beautiful game.

I’ve already racked up 20 pre-season goals. I saw Arnold Town and Boston United share six goals, Lincoln City thump four past Ilkeston and Crewe’s Shaun Miller bag five in a 9-1 romp at Quorn.

I rise at 5.30am. That bottle of Red has done for me. I begin to write this blog, pausing occasionally to slurp a much-needed cup of Alta Rica coffee. I might as well deliver Sticky Jnr’s papers. The tabloids are filled with sickening images from Norway, as news emerges that a madman has gone on the rampage killing over 80 teenagers at a youth camp on Utoeya Island.

Sticky jnr has emerged from his slumber. We jump in ‘Sally Gunnell’ and head down to the Munch Box in Ruddington for breakfast. We both wolf down a full English cob.

I’m having a potter around the garden. I lift Finley out of his cage and ask him for another of his infamous crap football predictions. He says that St Neots will ‘get a good hiding.’

Mrs P asks me what contribution, if any, I’ve made to household this morning. I reply that I’ve dead-headed the hanging baskets – if looks could kill readers.

The Sat Nav can’t find the Hunts Post Community Stadium. Sod it, I’ll find it easy peasy; I mean come on, have I ever got lost on my travels before?

An hour and twenty minutes later I’m stuck in a bottle-neck in the picturesque market town of St Neots. The ‘Rolls Royce’ hasn’t moved in ten minutes. There are hundreds of Posh fans milling around, there’s a fun day at St Neots Rugby Club and it’s Regatta Weekend at St Neots Rowing Club.

Bloody hell, it’s gridlock folks, and you’ve guessed it: I’m lost. I phone Ackers, a childhood friend, we’re hooking up today. He’s also lost. I dump the ‘Rolls Royce’ the wrong side of town. I jog (come on Sticky, don’t you means walk briskly) onto the High Street.

I recognise a black Range Rover cruising down the road; it’s the legend Ackers. We’re soon at the ground.

St Neots is a market town that lies on the River Great Ouse and has a population of 26,000. The town is named after the Cornish monk St Neot whose remains were stolen from the village of St Neot on Bodmin Moor and concealed in the nearby priory of the same name.

John Bellingham, the only man to have ever assassinated a British Prime Minster (Spencer Perceval in 1812) was born in the town. Apparently he was none too chuffed to find out he was unable to claim compensation for being unfairly imprisoned in Russia.

Former Rock Folly and Coronation Street actress Rula Lenska was born in St Neots. She was once married to Dennis Waterman: would love to see Dennis and Trumpy Bolton on the sauce together.

It’s £5 on the gate (Cheers Ack). Fair play to the Saints, they could have made a killing, bearing in mind that Darren Ferguson has brought along his first team squad. The programmes have sold out. Shame that, quite enjoy reading the collection I’ve amassed over the last five years.

We head straight for the bar. Ackers has a lager shandy, whilst Sticky opts for an orange Lucozade – that ‘jog’ has got me in all of lather. Ackers bumps into a work colleague. He has a mate who is pished already. The man tells boring after boring anecdotes. I’m wearing a Notts County polo shirt, the bore asks me if I support Leeds Utd. I make my excuses and exit the bar.

The ground is top notch. It’s an out-of-town stadia, to the rear of a new housing development. A lot of thought has gone into design though. There’s a brick Clubhouse and also a separate bar at the far end of the ground.

St Neots Town are owned by a successful retired businessman and have not been shy in splashing the cash. I was sent on a spying mission by Sven Goran Eriksson’s Chief Scout at Notts County, Graham Carr, a few years back, during the Munto Finance saga. The Saints were playing at Northampton Spencer. St Neots manager was former Northern Ireland midfielder Steve Lomas, his assistant was Michael Hughes. Ex Fulham star Sylvain Legwinski was also on the coaching staff.

I find the perfect view and perch myself up the top of a bank behind Darren Ferguson’s dugout. Posh are already one to the good.

Paul Taylor has hit the onion bag. I remember this lad when he was at Vauxhall Motors. He has a good change of gear. He scored on trial for Nottingham Forest reserves after only 60 seconds. Sadly he was banned from the game for six months after failing a drugs test. It’s good to see him back.

Ackers has managed to give the resident drunk the slip. We catch up on the gossip. The Saints equalise on 30 minutes following a sustained spell of pressure by Posh, with defender Chris Hope hitting a stunning, curling effort into the top corner of the net.

St Neots Junior Konuda has been running rings around the Posh. The ball sticks to his feet like glue. He can pick a pass and run with the ball. He puts the Saints 2-1 up with a delightful finish. It was only a few years ago that he was playing parks football. He had a year with John Still at Dagenham & Redbridge but suffered a broken leg.

Posh immediately counter-attack. Big cheese George Boyd, who couldn’t quite cut the mustard at The City Ground, restores parity.

Moments later Peterborough take the lead through Boyd once again, following a fine passing move. I’ve been studying Darren Ferguson and he strikes me as being a bit of a miserable so and so – must run in the family.

Daddy’s helped him out though. Three have come in from Old Trafford on loan, whilst striker Nicky Ajose has signed a four year contract for an ‘undisclosed’ fee. Ferguson takes his players through a brief coaching session at the break. St Neots show off their pop up water sprinklers.

I’ve perked up now my two favourite players have emerged from the bench. Lee Frecklington and Lee Tomlin begin to boss the game. Both end up on the score sheet. Frecklington has recently come off the transfer list; there were strong rumours that Notts County were in for him. He scores from close range, only for St Neots substitute Lewis Hilliard to race down the other end, round the ‘keeper and squeeze the ball home.

We’ve seen enough and exit early to beat the rush. Now where the hell have I parked my car?

Summer Holidays

2011-06-05T10:41:00.002+01:00

Back on Saturday July 23rd with the White Van Man. Happy days.

The Groundhopper Awards 2010/2011

2011-05-27T13:12:00.011+01:00

Goal of the Season: Darren Garmston's 30 yard dipper for Dunkirk at Stratford Town. Special mention for Jordan Smith's volley for Thurnby Nirvana at Ellistown. Town.

Favourite Team: Thurnby Nirvana, Dunkirk and Staveley MW.

Best Team Performance: Eastwood Town beating Alfreton Town 4-2.

Worst Game: Rugby Town v Bedworth United

Best Pub: Pack Horse Inn at New Mills

Best Cup of Tea: Keyworth United 10/10. Special Mentions for Thurnby Nirvana, Wollaton and Radcliffe Olympic.

Best Playing Surface: Swansea City

Most Welcoming Club: Staveley MW and Rugby Town.

Best Programme: Radford FC

Norman Hunter Services to Foul Play Award: Mossley (3 red cards v Darlo in the FA Cup)

Favourite Clubhouse: Lincoln Moorlands

Best New Ground Visited: Mossley AFC

Best New Pro Ground Visited: Swansea City

Best Pro Player: Leon Britton, Swansea City

Best Non League Player: Jordan Smith, Thurnby Nirvana

Favourite League: East Midlands Counties League

Best DJ/PA Announcer: Bloke at Mossley made national headlines for barracking the ref.

Favourite Blog: Where's The Tea Hut by Uwdi Krugg. A quality non league blog.

Favourite Character: Ian Upton of Dunkirk FC is a legend.

Johan Cruyff Total Football: Bridlington Town AFC

Most Picturesque Ground: Stourbridge

Hardest Ground to Find: Coleshill Town

Best Supporters: Nuneaton Town, cracking turn out for FA Cup at Brigg Town.

Best Message Board in the World: Notts Senior League.

Man of the Match: Trumpy Bolton.

All Star X1

Elliot Shillam Hinckley FC

Nijah Frank Thurnby Nirvana

Anthony Gregory Dunkirk

Jake Richardson Clifton FC

Keith Briggs Kidderminster Harriers

Mickey Lyons Gresley

Ricky Greening Pickering Town

Kyle Storer Nuneaton Town

Brian Woodall Gresley (now at Dagenham and Redbridge)

Liam Hearn Alfreton Town

Jordan Smith Thurnby Nirvana

Swansea City 3 Nottingham Forest 1

2011-05-15T08:31:00.010+01:00

I’m sat in the Derek Pavis Stand at Meadow Lane. Notts County have just played League One champions Brighton Hove Albion off the park. The Great Escape is complete. The Pies captain Neil Bishop has been outstanding. What a crucial signing he has been for the Club.

Both sets of fans are singing. The atmosphere is jovial. My attentions turn to other matters. My thoughts darken. I feel a vibrating sensation in my trouser pocket. My hand begins to tremble. This text is going to either break me or make my day.

It’s from Sticky junior. It’s short and to the point. Five words: ‘Lincoln City have been relegated.’ I feel anger and rage as I walk across Trent Bridge. But then it suddenly dawns on me, I’m a part-time non league groundhopper. Hey, I’ll be able to watch my team a lot more next season.

It’s Friday morning. The previous evening I’d watch aghast on TV as Swansea rang rings around a clueless Tricky Trees. Surely they can’t play that badly again. I casually mention to a work colleague that I might make the 400 mile round trip to South Wales on Monday.

Interest heightens within the company. I make a few calls, snap up some tickets and book us on a supporters coach. £42 is a steal for what is effectively a cup semi-final.

Oh dear, there is one slight hurdle to overcome and her name is Mrs P. I duck the issue on Friday evening – I don’t want to wreck the weekend. I tell a few close friends, they are called Twitter.

On Saturday night I’m at a presentation evening and let it slip to a few more friends. It seems the only person not know of my soiree at Swansea is my wife of 17 years.

It’s Sunday morning and the moment of truth has arrived. Mrs P is never at her best first thing in the morning. I unwisely break the news at 9am. It’s without doubt the longest and loneliest day of the season. At least Finley, my rabbit, is up for a chinwag.

I watch my boys make their Sunday League Men’s debut for Plumtree Cricket Club in the afternoon. Joe clean bowls three of their middle order, Sticky jnr sends a tail ender back first ball, with the off stump cart-wheeling towards first slip.

Mrs P is not making much of an effort (can’t say I blame her). I have two glasses of Red and head for bed. I’m wide awake at 4.30am, excited and anxious about the trip to Wales.

Homebird has grabbed a last remaining ticket. The game is a sell-out. We exit the works’ car park at midday. The Reaper slings his car in the Brian Clough car park. There’s time for a couple of beers in the nearby Larwood and Voce.

Everyone is upbeat and confident that King Billy can find the right blend and formula to beat this exciting young Swansea side.

The bus departs at smack on 1.30pm. It’s the first time I’ve caught a supporters coach since the opening day of the 1986 season when two Kevin Sheedy goals done for Forest at Goodison Park.

We drive down the A453 onto the M42 and M5. I’ve already enjoyed an hour’s people watching on the bus. The bloke behind us is proper old school. He wears a Henri Lloyd sweatshirt and has a shaven head. He has amusing anecdotes from the Clough era. He brags how he and his lad have been on the lash in town since early doors. He has the weakest bladder since Norris Cole off Coronation Street.

A guy shuffles his way down the aisle with his recorder on his camera, interviewing supporters. The one lass on our bus is from New Zealand. It’s her first ever football match.

My play-off form does not inspire confidence. I’ve seen Lincoln lose four years in a row and Forest go down 4-3 at Bramall Lane. I’m no lucky charm.

We have a 40 minute break at Ross on Wye service station. The place is mobbed with Forest fans. They are impeccably behaved. Elderly couples on coach trips to the Cotswolds looked miffed with the sea of red.

As we approach the stadium our man behind me gesticulates at some Swans’ fans drinking outside a few bars. He says that Port Talbot, Neath and Llanelli are all shitholes. I ask him where he’s from: “Somercotes” he replies.

The bus to a man sings “Sheep, sheep, sheep shaggers.” “I suppose you’re used to that song love” our man remarks to the girl from New Zealand.

Swansea is a coastal city and county in Wales with a population of 170,000. It was once the key centre for the world copper industry. Swansea born and bred include: Harry Secombe, Dylan Thomas, Rob Brydon, John Charles, Robert Croft, John Hartson, Ian Hislop, Dean Saunders, Catherine Zeta Jones and Michael Heseltine.

Swansea City were formed in 1912 and previously played at Vetch Field before moving to Liberty Way in 2005. I once did a trip of all the League grounds in five days for charity. The Jacks were superb, giving us a signed ball and a ground tour.

The highest transfer fee the club has paid is £1 million for striker Scott Sinclair. Highest fee received is £2 million from Wigan Athletic for Jason Scotland.

Well known previous managers include: John Toshack, Terry Yorath, Jan Molby, Roberto Martinez and Paulo Sousa.

Players to have worn the colours of both clubs include: Dean Saunders, Christian Edwards, Lee Chapman, Paul Anderson and Des Lyttle.

BBC East Midlands Today are filming and interviewing the fans as we get off the coach
The ground is situated slightly out of town. It’s of a similar ilk to Pride Park and the Ricoh Arena, with its Harvester pub and Frankie and Benny’s close by.

Both sets of fans mingle outside the pub. I shout up four Stella’s. I’ve caught up with Piers who came with us to Millwall. Their bus has had a spot of bother with the long arm of the law.

The ambience is terrific. A Swansea fan says all away fans are made welcome apart from ‘them lot down the road.’

The Reaper spots that part-time footballer Michael Owen has predicted a 2-1 win to the Swans on Twitter. He immediately sends him an offensive Tweet that will have the Twitter Police on edge.

I’ve paid £25 for my match ticket. I bag a programme for £3 and take my seat behind the goal with the tunnel to my right.

The ground is packed to the rafters, and boy can their fans sing, although not as well as Ian Curtis does on ‘Love Will Tear Us Apart' which blasts out the speakers, drowning out the Welsh choir.

It’s ridiculous that I feel nervous; after all I work across the other side of the Trent and support Lincoln City. But I’m desperate for a Forest win, so I can take my two boys to Wembley. It’s an opportunity that never came its way for my father. He sadly passed away a year before Lincoln reached the play-off final.

The game is played at furious pace. Nathan Tyson hares away down the right wing, scampering past the full back. He intelligently holds the ball up as he waits for support; he plays in David McGoldrick who smacks a left foot shot against the crossbar.

Swansea come charging forward, Leon Britton tightens his grip on the game. He slips in on loan Chelsea striker Fabio Borini, the Italian turns Wes Morgan only to see his effort come crashing back off the woodwork.

The game is pulsating. My heart begins to beat faster and faster. The Swans fans raise the bar, their singing is immense, and, as you would expect, in tune.

They have more reason to celebrate on 25 minutes. Forest switch off from a short corner, the excellent Britton wriggles away from the hapless Tudgay, and curls a left-footed shot into Camp’s top right hand corner.

The decibels reach fever pitch five minutes later when Dobbie dances his way through the Reds’ defence and plants a shot into the corner of the net.

Billy Davies’s young braves badly need half-time; they’re like a battered and bruised boxer on the ropes.

Remarkably Davies sends out the same starting eleven in the second period. Tudgay’s miserable night continues when he blazes over the bar from close range. McGugan rattles the bar with a thunderbolt of a free kick.

Back come Swansea as Forest also live a charmed life. There are glaring misses by Sinclair and Borini.

Changes are made as the game reaches a crescendo. Raddy Majewski is pleasing on the eye. His movement is light and his passing pinpoint. His slide rule ball sends Earnshaw scampering away, his finish is clinical.

We’re jumping up and down and cheering the boys on. The game is crazy, manic and mad. Forest swarm all over the Swans. There’s a huge shout for handball as referee Andre Marriner continues to give NFFC nowt. Earnshaw pulls the trigger again only to be denied by the base of the post.

Sticky jnr texts me with minutes to go “Dad stop biting your nails you’re on TV LMAO” A corner comes in from the left, Forest ‘keeper Lee Camp is in the box, it finally falls to McGugan who has given every ounce of energy and is out on his feet, he trips over the ball, it’s cleared to Darren Pratley, a player King Billy has pursued for over a year now, he a fires a shot goal wards from 55 yards. It’s game, set and match to Swansea.

A few youngsters shed tears on the bus. We sleep most of the way home. Billy Davies is waiting for the convoy of coaches that pull into the Club car park at 2am. He shakes hands with supporters and thanks them all. A big hat tip to you Billy, it was an honour to see that game.

Attendance: 19,816

Man of the Match: Mrs P

Wakefield 0 Curzon Ashton 1

2011-04-29T07:50:00.006+01:00

I’m sitting on the patio with the sun beating down on me. My best friend in the world, Finley Palmer, is laid under my chair pondering his next crap score prediction. Mrs P is sipping on a Pimms and lemonade, whilst reading Alan Sugar’s autobiography. “Where do you fancy going Friday?” says Sticky Palms, suddenly realising we can spend a rare day together.

“I could drive out to “Carsington Water, we could have a pleasant stroll, and then maybe grab some lunch up in the Peaks?” “No thanks”, replies Mrs P. “Eh? You’re turning down a romantic day out with your husband.” “Yeah, that’s right; I’m off to a Royal Wedding party at my sister’s house.”

I lift myself out the chair, scamper into the house and fly up the stairs. The Non League Paper catches my eye on the bedside table. I lick my index finger and flick the pages towards Friday’s fixture list. Evostik Division One North: Wakefield v Curzon Ashton at College Grove, ‘Wakey’s’ final ever game at this venue, 3pm kick off.

I fumble in my pocket for my mobile phone. I hastily scroll through my contacts, frantically looking for the letter ‘T’. I press the green button. A man answers. He sounds like he’s in a public house. I can hear the till ringing, glasses chinking and music in the background.

The man’s voice is like music to my ears. “Trumpy, are you watching the Wedding on Friday?” “What wedding?” “I’ll pick you up at 11.30am on the dot.”

I saunter back onto the patio with the smuggest of looks. I’m putting my tracksuit top on and my Notts County baseball cap. “Where you going?” says Mrs P poking her head over her book. “I’m nipping down Clifton to watch Boots clinch the NSL championship.”

I pull into Green Lane. It’s a blustery old evening, but a cracking turnout for a school night. Clifton have a wind-assisted first half. They lead by a goal at the break. In all honesty it should be two or three nil.

There’s no sign of Boots legendary secretary Dick Durrant. I give him a call. Apparently he considers himself a bad omen for midweek fixtures. He’s holed up around the corner, awaiting the final whistle and hopefully a draw or win.

Boots grab an equaliser and bag the title. Big D appears on the scene. He’s armed with Cava. It’s sprayed and wasted as this great club celebrate. I like them a lot, as I do Clifton. I leave them to it.

It’s Friday morning. I’m full of cold and have a hacking cough. I’m a man of honour and won’t let Trumpy down. I nip down Bradmore Lane to the picturesque setting of Plumtree Cricket Club, who play at the back of the Griffin Inn.

‘The Skipper’ is playing against Unity Casuals, who were once a nursery club for Nottinghamshire County Cricket Club. Mick Newell, Andy Pick and former England off spinner Peter Such have all played for Unity.

I shoot up back to Keyworth to pick up the Legend. He just has a large bottle of Gaymer’s cider for company today.

We’re both hopping mad. Ken Bruce’s Pop Master has been cancelled for the day because of that bloody wedding. We’re channel hopping on the radio. The only station with music on is Capital. Not on your Nelly are we having that on. We have a chat instead.

Trumpy can’t remember leaving the kids birthday party last week. He was like a Charlie Chalk celebrity with the children. ‘The Skipper’ and Sticky jnr are always hounding him for an autograph.

He’s making final preparations for his Sun Holiday in North Wales next week. He has a string of pubs lined-up. Headquarters is a caravan on a cliff top in Abersoch.

Trumpy has little recollection of a birthday party he went to in Blaby in Leicester on Saturday. Although he does recall having a conversation with Kasabian lead singer Tom Meighan. I would have paid to listen to that little chat.

The motorway is empty. After a stop for petrol, we’re soon rolling into the car park of the Catchpenny, in the village of Fitzwilliam in Yorkshire. Cricketer and radio pundit Geoffrey Boycott was born in the village.

We’re greeted by a buxom auburn-haired barmaid with an orange glow. Trumpy has a cider and I have a Diet Coke. The bar food is simple, unpretentious and great value. I have hot dog, onions and chips for £3.

Trumpy and the rest of the bar are captivated by the Royal Wedding. There’s a huge cheer when the Royal Couple kiss. I’m too busy on the phone addressing issues at Notts County to bother about all this tosh.

Trumpy waves goodbye to the Yorkshire-tanned barmaid. We’re soon in the town centre of Wakefield and parked up right outside the turnstile at College Grove.

Wakefield is a city in West Yorkshire, on the edge of the eastern Pennines. It has a population of over 70,000 people. It was once famous for glass, textiles and coal mining. It’s an area once again decimated by the Conservative Party’s pit closure programme.

The city is known as the European capital of the Rhubarb Triangle. Notable people born in the area include: Coronation Street actress Helen Worth, actor Reece Dinsdale, footballer Chris Greenacre, former Doncaster Rovers manager Dave Penney, heavyweight boxer Paul Sykes, scientist John Radcliffe, ‘singer’ Jayne McDonald and indie band The Cribs.

There’s a bit of a commotion at the turnstile. The guy on the gate has run out of fifty pences and is well stressed. He’s not enjoying Trumpy’s humour. I’m not happy either. It’s 2.15pm and they have already run out of programmes. Entry is rather pricey £7.50.

I’m immediately taken aback with the huge slope on the College Grove ground. Behind the nearest goal are the club offices and bar. Trumpy is straight in for a pint of John Smiths which has him pulling a face, like he’s sucking on a lemon.

The legend immediately goes into one, ranting that his pet hates in life are: Sarah Cox, Peter Tatchell and Alex Salmond.

There’s a large stand running along one side of the ground, which has yellow tip up seats. We stand on the concrete steps above the Curzon Ashton dugout. Their manager is decked out in a club tracksuit but strangely chooses to sports a pair of black shoes.

I’ve never seen either team play before. I do remember Brian Clough signing tricky winger Steve Wigley from Curzon Ashton. He became big pals with Stuart Pearce. He’s currently assistant manager at Bristol City.

The pitch is one huge dustbowl. Everytime someone is tackled a huge cloud of dust appears, as if Starsky and Hutch or The Sweeney have pulled into the car park. The game is dire. I enquire if Curzon have rested a few for their play-off game on May Day Bank Holiday.

Nobody appears to be in a particular good mood, me included, with my runny nose and irritating cough. One solitary fan stands behind the goal. I sarcastically ask him if this is the ‘Away End.’ “Not a clue youth”, is his reply.

I meet a groundhopper from York, who is taking photos from the most elevated view in the ground. I engage in conversation, but I’m quite clearly boring the bloke to death and interrupting his passion for photography.

The one moment of quality happens on 40 minutes. A quick free kick finds Curzon forward Daniel Broadbent in space. He allows the ball to bounce once before thumping a shot over Czech ‘keeper Jan Zolna and into the net.

I stop a chap with an AFC Bournemouth replica shirt on and ask him what the heck he is doing here. He’s on his way to Hartlepool v the Cherries, which is being played tomorrow. The guy’s a proper hopper and has a series of games lined-up this weekend. He intends stopping at his stepsister’s in South Shields for a few nights.

Trumpy is opened-mouthed and aghast with the list of games the guy intends to go to. West Yorkshire cup ties, Level 7 fixtures in the north east. “It’s only like that stupid pub ticking-off game that you play” I remark to the Legend.

Plumstead rapper Tiny Tempah is on in the bar, obviously not live, just one of his daft toons. Trumpy downs another bitter. Sticky Palms is that racked off even he drowns his sorrows with a pint of Stella.

You can’t blame the two teams; it’s the pitch that is beating them. Wakefield’s Number 7 shows flashes of brilliance, but nobody really catches the eye apart from Broadbent’s brilliant first touch and movement.

Trumpy has got his eye on Wakefield’s physio ‘Carol.’ She has blonde hair and is extremely attractive. “I’d be going down with a groin strain every five minutes if I was a player”, remarks Bolton.

We stand near the exit as the game peters out. A couple of groundhoppers are comparing notes of stadia in the Manchester area. It’s all too much for Trumpy. I can’t half pick em readers.

Attendance: 208

Man of the Match: Bournemouth Groundhopper.

Notts County 1 Brentford 1

2011-04-26T22:06:00.006+01:00

We’re walking out of Bury’s Gigg Lane. Police surround a coach that has had a window put in. The coach is from Bootle on Merseyside. An Irish team were paraded around the ground earlier today; I hope it’s not their bus.

Trumpy Bolton has had one hell of a day. He’s downed near on a gallon of ale and has met Chris Hughton and Five Live reporter Peter Slater.

We jump in the Rolls Royce and head out of Bury. I try to put Lincoln’s defeat to the back of my mind. But I can smell the fear of relegation. They lack experience and have people playing out of position. We badly need the return of leading scorer Ashley Grimes, who is on loan from Millwall.

A ray of sunshine appears from over the Pennines in Leeds. Nottinghamshire County Cricket Club have rolled over the Tykes for 86. We’ve been outplayed for the best part of two days, but Chris Read’s men never know when they are beaten.

As we near home I tune into ‘Radio Red’ (Radio Nottingham). The Tricky Trees are playing the Foxes of Leicester (Trumpy’s team). Chris Weale has thrown a Paul McKenna shot into his own net. ‘U Reds’ are 3-2 up. Trumpy requests that the radio is switched off. He sulks over another alcoholic beverage in the Three Ponds in Watnall.

We both bizarrely spend the rest of the evening at a girl’s thirteenth birthday party in our village. After all that driving over the hills of Derbyshire and Lancashire, I retire to bed after a limp effort of just two bottles of Peroni.

Domestic chores dominate the weekend. It’s now the fag end of the season and I’m looking forward to a footballing bonanza in the next fortnight or so. I nip into the inner city to watch a player on Saturday lunchtime. The tip is that he’s playing a year up. Sadly, he’s not on the team bus today.

I call in at Clifton All Whites Green Lane HQ. Their Reserves are up against Boots Athletic. Big D, Barthez and Yogi are viewing the game. Goals are scored in the 118th and 119th minute. Clifton win 4-3 on penalties.

I snatch glimpses of the Old Firm game on Sunday. Neil Lennon cups his hands over his ears and gestures towards the Ibrox crowd on his way to tunnel. It is alleged that Glasgow Rangers handed out over 40,000 Union Jack flags to their supporters.

On Sunday evening we all watch the excellent BBC drama ‘United’, starring David Tennant, who plays Matt Busby’s assistant Jimmy Murphy. It’s a story I’m interested in, as my father was a rookie reporter on the Daily Express in Manchester in 1958.

The Munich Air Disaster was his first big story. He spoke to Matt Busby and Bobby Charlton by telephone, as they lay in their hospital beds. I still have the cutting of his front page splash in my loft.

Both my lads are touched and moved by the drama. They are visibly upset when it is announced that Duncan Edwards has passed away.

It’s Monday morning. The Pies have a ‘two for one offer’ on today, if you can manage to get down to the Ticket Office before 1pm. The Nuclear Scientist is up for the game, and so are my lads.

We park up on Iremonger Road, and stroll up to the ground, passing Mower World. I notice that the Trent Navigation is up for lease again. It has had more owners than Portsmouth FC.

We return four hours later and park on Daleside Road. Martin Allen has put a smile back on the faces of the World’s oldest Football League club. He’s a people’s person. He writes off-the-wall statements on the Club website, and has already struck up a fantastic rapport with ‘Uncle Colin’ on Radio Nottingham.

He joshed with Slater after a recent win at Tranmere Rovers about his tweed jacket and brogues. I am hoping with the belief in his company Pro FC that he might bring in one or two rough diamonds from the Non League scene in the summer.

I read his ‘Sunday Sermon’ this morning. He wrote a gripping and thoughtful piece about his feelings and emotions from The County Ground at Swindon on Saturday. He described the disgraceful actions of some Robins’ supporters, whose treatment of Paul Hart (another proper football bloke) was disgusting and vile.

We walk at the back of the Derek Pavis Stand. Mr and Mrs Magpie give us all a high five. We take a pew up in the heavens smack opposite the 18 yard line, to the Kop side of the ground.

The Bees have brought a couple of coach loads, which is more than can be said of the Imps at Bury on Friday. Martin Allen took Brentford to the play-offs twice between 2004-2006.

Brentford is a suburb in west London in the London Borough of Hounslow. Well known people born in Brentford include the actor John Bardon who plays soap character Jim Branning in EastEnders and former Crystal Palace and Coventry City footballer Richard Shaw.

The Pies are on the back of two away wins at Tranmere and Swindon. Lee Hughes and Alan Judge are back to full fitness and will start the game today.

The atmospheric ‘Air That I Breathe’ by Manchester 60’s pop group The Hollies blasts out from the speakers. The players march out to the theme tune from the Great Escape. Girls from Hooters Bar, dressed in skimpy orange outfits, act as cheerleaders.

Allen is dressed in a white shirt and navy blue tank-top. He looks like 70’s golfer Seve Ballesteros when he won the British Open. He prefers an elevated view of the game. He leans on the back of the dugout.

Notts begin the game brightly. Pearce and Edwards are reunited in the centre of defence. Judge pairs up with Stockton-on-Tees born midfielder Neal Bishop. There’s no ‘Rocky Ravenhill’ today. He’s lived up to his nickname – 11 yellows and two reds have done for him.

Karl Hawley appears to have had his confidence restored as he continues to win his battle with the boo boys. I saw him destroy D***y County in an FA Cup game a few years back when he was with Preston North End. He was man of the match by a country mile that day. Hawley has two strikes on goal in the opening 20 minutes.

The Bees have pride and position to play for. They look relaxed and play with confidence, particularly with the speed of their counter-attack.

Brentford have the best chance of the first half. Robbie Simpson plays in Lewis Grabban on the left hand side, he pops a shot off which is blocked by the legs of County ‘keeper Stuart Nelson. The rebound is fired wide of the right hand post.

Craig Westcarr replaces a hobbling former Manchester United trainee Febian Brandy. The first half peters out and becomes very scrappy, with very little goal-mouth action.

I look up towards the commentary box. I can see the legend that is Colin Slater, dressed in his Sherlock Holmes outfit. Behind him Dean Yates chats to former Pies’ ‘keeper Steve Cherry.

Sticky jnr texts in, he’s been chatting to the Hooters girls and has been trying to get their mobile numbers: that’s my boy. Keyworth Utd Reserve team manager Alan Jackson is sat in Block B in the Pavis Stand. He’s probably at the back of stand smoking his second packet of Hamlet.

The Pies again start well. The impressive Judge fires over. But Brentford are rapid on the break. German striker Jeffrey Schlupp, on loan from Leicester City, forces a near post save from Nelson, having just been introduced to the game.

Dangerous winger and ex Pie Myles Weston, booed with his every touch, floats a cross in from the right, which Marcus Bean fails to convert.

The game opens up as both teams search for a winner. Martin Allen is getting hot and sweaty; he peels off his tank-top and tucks in his shirt.

Westcarr smacks a shot from 25 yards out, it hits the defender full on and pole-axes him to the floor. The linesman incredibly awards a penalty. There’s a long delay while Osborne receives treatment. Weston winds up penalty-taker Craig Westcarr. The spot kick is brilliantly saved by Moore.

Moments later the Magpies are awarded another penalty for handball. Lee Hughes successfully converts, despite scuffing the ball.

Mad Dog is sent to the stands by the man in the middle for allegedly kicking the ball away. He’s sat with the crowd and directs traffic from the stand, as the game reaches a crescendo.

The fourth official indicates an agonising six minutes added time. Brentford look fagged out but are awarded a free kick. The ball is cleared to Sam Saunders, who threads a ball through to Schlupp, who is allowed to turn by Sam Sodje and get a shot off that Nelson can only help into the corner of the net.

The goal is scored 30 seconds from time. The hush and silence is frightening. There's no anger, just disbelief.

Attendance: 6879

Man of the Match: Neal Bishop

Thanks to Ralph Shepherd and John Sumpter for allowing me to reproduce some action photos from the game.

Bury 1 Lincoln City 0

2011-04-22T08:19:00.004+01:00

It’s a Bank Holiday Monday in May 1988. The team I have followed all over the country since the age of six are on the verge of the greatest comeback since Lazarus.

Twelve months ago, whilst fielding at the long on boundary at Bottesford Cricket Club, I heard the crushing and devastating news that Lincoln City had been relegated to the GMVC (the Conference). Torquay United had scored in added time, caused by a police dog biting a player.

Colin Murphy has been reappointed as manager. He’s assembled a team of street fighters. Three points today against Wycombe Wanderers mean that the Imps will be crowned as champions, and will return to the Football League.

I don’t sleep. I can’t sleep. There’s no pot of tea or hearty breakfast. My stomach’s churning, and I’m deathly pale.

‘Keebo’ picks me up at 1pm. We head down the Fosse Way in his white 1100cc Mini Metro. His girlfriend is with us, and so is mine.

There’s no time for a visit to the grandparents or a saunter around the city centre. It seems awfully quiet outside Sincil Bank, there’s still half an hour to go before kick off. I can hear ‘Perfect’ by Fairground Attraction on the crackly PA system.

The home turnstiles are shut – it’s a sell out. Nearly 10,000 people have rolled up. We have to stand with ‘The Choirboys’ in the ‘Away End.’

My guts are aching and my sugar levels are low. Barry Fry’s Barnet have led the table all season, but are being pegged back in the final furlong. Fry says to “stick your mortgage on the Bees.”

Mark Sertori settles my nerves with a first half goal. The tigerish Phil Brown blasts home the winner, with minutes remaining. I weep tears of joy. We celebrate at Reno’s on Alfreton Road, in Nottingham. It’s the greatest day of my football-watching career.

It’s Tuesday evening. I’ve just arrived home after watching ‘The Skipper’s’ side take a second half mauling. We’re short of personnel. It’s round pegs in square holes. The victorious team are criticised and vilified by their coaching staff. His half-time team talk (they were only 2-1 up) beggars belief. They play with fear and without enjoyment.

Despite an 8-1 victory their parents on the sideline bitch and moan about their sons’ playing time. I know who I would rather play for.

I switch the radio on and try and erase that image out of my mind. The greatest radio commentator in living memory, Colin Slater, is live and exclusive at a packed Prenton Park for the Tranmere v Notts County six pointer relegation showdown.

Martin ’Mad Dog’ Allen is the latest manager to be appointed ‘down the lane.’ He is like a breath of fresh air and an interviewers’ dream. He gives Slater 10 minutes of his time at the end of the game. It is pure radio gold.

I break up on Wednesday for nearly a fortnight. It’s a gorgeous sun-drenched morning on Thursday. Mrs P and I head out to the picturesque setting of Bradgate Park in Leicestershire. The place is mobbed.

We have an ice cream and watch the world go by. A grass snake slithers out the undergrowth and wriggles its way towards the Deer Park.

We wine and dine at the Badgers Sett in Cropston. It’s only a few miles away from the village of Rothley, where missing child Madeleine McCann is from. Former England cricket captain Mike Gatting once got himself in a spot of bother with a chambermaid at the Rothley Court Hotel, many moons ago.

It’s Friday morning and Sooty has just made a pot of tea. I’m listening to Radio Nottingham. Former Notts County Executive Chairman Peter ‘Teflon’ Trembling is being interviewed about the fallout from the Panorama documentary on Munto Finance. The DJ cheekily plays ‘Fantasy’ by Earth Wind and Fire.

Finley’s cage is bedecked in Nottingham Forest regalia. Finley is a Red and tonight his team are playing his biggest nemesis – the Foxes of Leicester. He’s a stubborn little bugger; he turns down a Foxes glacier mint and a Foxes custard cream.

I’m in debt to Mrs P for the pass out; after all it is Good Friday. Trumpy Bolton waltzes round the corner with his St Georges t-shirt on. He’s tooled up with his litre of cider. He’s already had a tin of McEwans and blue WKD vodka.

We’ve got Pop Master on Radio 2 as we sail up an empty M1. Trumpy claims to have bagged 39 points on one occasion. He racks up 30 points today, and is way too sharp for Sticky Palms.

It’s the normal route, off at Junction 29, through Chesterfield and up into the Peak District. The roads are as dead as a door nail.

First port of call is a relatively new Marston’s establishment called the Fallow Deer, which is situated on the edge of Chapel en-le-Frith.

As we drive into Cheshire, Trumpy becomes frustrated, as a lot of hostelries aren’t open until midday.

Trumpy has a big bash on in Blaby, in Leicestershire tomorrow evening. Two members of Leicester indie band Kasabian are expected to attend. I’m sure the Legend will introduce himself.

We’re now in Denton and sat in the Lowes Arms on the main drag. I’m enjoying a pint of Captain Reckless from the Hornbeam Brewery, in Denton. I order a steak baguette covered in Stilton cheese and onions. The dreadful Michael Buble is on the pub sound system.

We finally rock up at Gigg Lane a full one hour before kick off. I collect some tickets and snap up, for £3, what must be one of the best programmes I’ve ever read. It has 80 pages packed with information.

Bury is a town in Greater Manchester with a population of 60,000. It lies on the River Irwell. Bury emerged during the Industrial Revolution as a mill town centred on manufacturing textiles.

Famous folk born or raised in Bury include: former Prime Minister and founder of the Metropolitan Police, Sir Robert Peel, comedian Victoria Wood, singer and Emmerdale actress Suzanne Shaw, Manchester United Sky TV pundit, Gary Neville, his brother Philip Neville, (think mum Jill is Shakers General Manager), goalkeeper Andy Goram, actress and serial pie-eater Lisa Riley, Cherie Blair and Vicky Binns (Molly Dobbs off ‘Coro’ – the one Kevin Webster has been servicing).

Bury are nicknamed the Shakers, a name which was bestowed up on them by a former chairman, who was an industrialist and ironmonger.

In May 2005 Bury became the first club to score 1000 goals in each of the top four tiers in the Football League.

In November 2005 they became the first club ever to be thrown out of the FA Cup for fielding an illegible player.

Well known former managers include: Bob Stokoe, Stan Ternent and Neil Warnock. Record transfer fee received was £1.1 million from Ipswich Town for striker David Johnson. Highest transfer fee paid was £200,000 for Chris Swailes from Ipswich Town in 1997.

We dive into the Social Club. It’s a Thwaites for Trumpy and a Guinness for Sticky. A friendly Leeds-based Shakers’ fan strikes up a conversation. He’s a mine of information. His mate has flown in from Norway for today’s game. He and Trumpy have a conversation in Norwegian. The guy is going to Hull v Middlesboro tomorrow and Chesterfield v Bury on Monday.

We’re sat among the press pack. There are a few old boy scouts scattered about. Surely they haven’t come to watch ‘The Lincoln?’ The ground is pretty much bog standard post Taylor Report.

Trumpy has clocked former Newcastle United manager Chris Hughton. He’s suited and booted and here to watch his son Cian, who plays right full back for the Imps. Three seats to our right is Five Live North West correspondent Peter Slater. I just know that Trumpy will want to introduce himself.

Bury start like Brazil. Kyle Bennett wriggles his way through a flat-footed Lincoln defence, he plays in Manchester United loanee Nicky Ajose, who screws his shot horribly wide.

The first half is woefully short on creativity or ideas. Maybe it’s the heat or maybe it’s the pressure. Lincoln play two banks of four, with their best player, the Ghanaian Ali Fuseini squeezed inbetween the defence and midfield. He breaks up the play and keeps possession. He’s way too good for us.

Peter Slater has yawned his way through the first half. He’s scribbled down a few notes, god knows what about. Trumpy claims he is playing a game of Sudoku.

Trumpy makes his way down the aisle and has a ten minute chat with Slater. They share a passion for motorsport. But Trumpy has one probing question for him: “Why is Sheila Fogarty leaving the Breakfast Show?”

Peter puts Trumpy’s fears to rest and explains that Sheila will be doing the phone-in at lunchtime. The Legend disappears downstairs for another cold beverage. He reappears, pogoing up the stairs to The Cult’s ‘She Sells Sanctuary.’

“Pleased to meet you Chris” he says to Hughton, as the two shake hands, “and you” says the charming Chris Hughton. What a day Trumpy is having.

There’s a slight improvement in the second period as the Shakers up the tempo. The Lincoln defence switch off from a corner, 20 year old on loan Leeds defender, Tom Lees sends a header crashing into the roof of the net.

Tilson refuses to change a tired-looking formation. Former Arnold Town striker Ben Hutchinson ploughs a lone furrow, with little support. In a rare attack ‘we’ hit the post but it’s flagged offside.

Bury try to put the game to bed but their sharp-shooters are off radar today. They certainly look better value than a negative Lincoln, who are clearly set up for a point, but have no Plan B.

Tilson throws on Drewe Broughton and Scott Spencer in a desperate attempt to snatch an undeserved point. If I’m honest, Trumpy looks more match-fit than these pair.

Chris Hughton departs without saying goodbye, Trumpy is deeply offended. Hughton’s lad looks a cracking prospect, and will no doubt leave for pastures new.

Bury run the clock down as we head down the gangway. Trumpy and Peter Slater say a tearful goodbye. On this evidence, it could be a while before I see Lincoln play in the Football League again.

Attendance: 4248

Man of the Match: Trumpy Bolton

Eastwood Town 4 Alfreton Town 2

2011-04-12T13:53:00.005+01:00

It’s the 18th December 1982. Sticky Palms is loved up to the eyeballs. The Steward’s daughter, at my local golf club, has caught my eye in the 19th hole. She is a lovely little birdie. A romance blossoms, football is put on the back burner.

I enjoy late night drinking sessions with her father in the bar. Her mother is on hand to rustle up pie, chips, peas and gravy from the golf club kitchen. Life is a bed of roses.

The time has come though, to introduce her to my first real love: Lincoln City Football Club. I hoodwink her into a Christmas shopping trip around Lincoln City centre. I wine and dine her at the famous Wig and Mitre public house, in the charming historic Steep Hill area of the city. We stroll together around the Castle grounds.

We drop into Grandma and Granddads and Nana’s on the High Street. “Well blow me down”, says Sticky browsing through the Lincolnshire Echo, “Lincoln City are at home this afternoon.”

“Why don’t we go and watch them?” says my new love. We walk hand in hand down Shakespeare Street. I pay her in on the turnstile and treat her to a steaming hot cup of Bovril. The Salvation Army brass band play Christmas carols on the pitch.

We lean together on a red-painted crash barrier on the Sincil Bank terrace. Here I am with my two big loves. Does it get any better than this? You old romantic Sticky.

Bournemouth are today’s visitors. They are managed by a virtual unknown called Harry Redknapp. It’s his first taste of management and his first game at the helm.

Colin Murphy’s Lincoln are in a rich vein of form. Our strike force is frightening – Derek Bell and Gordon Hobson are backed up by free-scoring midfield general, Glenn Cockerill.

Lincoln win the game 9-0. It could have been 20-0 but for the brilliance of Cherries’ ‘keeper Kenny Allen.

It inspires me to follow the Imps home and away again. The romance fades. I’m finally and unceremoniously dumped. Lincoln City is all I have left. I wonder what happened to that Redknapp fellow? He’s probably the sponge-man at Poole Town by now.

I spend Tuesday night in the delightful surroundings of Gedling Miners’ Welfare’s Plains Road ground. It’s an entertaining 2-2 draw, in what I have to say is my favourite League of the season (EMCL). Heanor Town are the visitors.

I bump into ‘Beardy Malc’ and ‘Daft Lad Kev’ from the On the Road blog. I also spend the second half in the company of Welfare official and Web Master, Tony Hay.

It’s Friday evening. I’ve mowed both the front and back lawns. It’s like a bowling green, readers. You could play a frame of snooker on it. I’m sat on the patio necking a pint of Stella, feeling pretty pleased with myself.

He’s trying to catch my eye. His ears prick up. He’s on all-fours, showing his sad eyes.I ring up the Rabbit FA. They confirm his six month garden hopping ban and shed hiding ban is at an end.

I put on my i-Pod, The Beloved’s ‘The Sun is Rising’ is on ‘shuffle.’ I lift him out the cage and place him on the top step. Finley Palmer is back in action. He scurries straight down the garden and shoots under the shed.

It’s Saturday morning. There’s an awful start to the day. My boss (Mick) from Notts County phones me ‘early doors.’ The reception is poor. I walk into the garden with my slippers on. There’s a heavy dew on the freshly cut lawn.

Twenty minutes later there’s a huge squeal. Somebody has traipsed mud all over the cream coloured lounge carpet. Forensics on my footwear are the perfect match. Oh bollocks, I’m in massive trouble.

It’s a packed footballing schedule. Sticky junior and his pals cadge a lift to the Cattle Market on Meadow Lane. The biggest wheeler and dealer in Keyworth is spending the morning at Arthur Johnson’s auctions.

I roll up in the car park of the World’s oldest Football League club. I nip into the Club Shop. The forecast is for a warm and sunny day. I bag a Magpies baseball cap and then head off to the Munch Box in Ruddington for a breakfast cob.

Forest are snooping about at the game I scout at. He doesn’t hang around for long though, he’s probably shooting off home to watch James Martin’s Saturday Kitchen.

I help coach ‘The Skipper’s team in the afternoon. We don’t do enough to win. but are gracious in defeat. Our opponents have no discipline and are unsporting. Their time-wasting tactics are an embarrassment and their manager is unpleasant. They question every decision. Never at anytime do they appear to be enjoying the beautiful game, like we do.

I enjoy a tea-time real ale with Mrs P at a countryside pub in the affluent village of Wysall. Chick flick Mamma Mia is on the box at night. I bury my head into a Non League publication.

It’s Tuesday evening. I’ve just left ‘The Skipper’s training session early. We have practised set pieces on the playing field in Tollerton. Notts County’s new incumbent, Martin Allen, also tried this earlier in the day, in a field off the M5, near a service station, on the way to Yeovil Town’s Huish Park.

Peter Allen and Anita Anand keep me amused on the short 25 minute journey north. I turn left just past the now derelict Man in Space pub. A flustered steward waves me away. I end up parking on a grass verge.

It’s 40 minutes until kick off but people are pouring down Chewton Street. There’s a bright, beautiful evening sunset over D H Lawrence country.

Alfreton lead the Conference North league by a country mile. Eastwood have one loss in the last 18 games. The televised Champions League game at Old Trafford and vital Npower Championship games at The City Ground and Pride Park will have a bearing on tonight’s attendance.

I’ve been itching to watch this reverse fixture, as the 2-2 draw at the Impact Arena on New Year’s Day was full of thrills and spills.

I take a stroll around Coronation Park. It has bags of character. The Clubhouse is raised above the ground. Two stands run along both sides of the halfway line. There is covered terracing behind both goals.

The PA guy is playing The Damned’s 1986 hit ‘Eloise, as I take a pew in the small stand on the far side of the ground.

I bump into Danny Boyes from Dunkirk FC, who I used to work with. I think The Boatmen are due to play The Badgers in the next round of the Notts Senior Cup – he is clearly here on a spying mission.

The teams enter the field of play. The Eastwood backline are huge. At least three must be over 6’ 4”. The biggest guy on the pitch must be referee Mr C Grundy of Sheffield. He must play rugby or be a policeman.

I’ve had a quick scout around for Parker and Walters, who I said I would hook up with. But a majority of the crowd (1112) have an Eastwood haircut (skinhead). It’s like being in the moshpit at a Bad Manners gig.

The game lives up to its billing and keeps me on the edge of my seat. Alfreton kick down the slope. The blue-booted, Nottingham born striker, Liam Hearn, shows a nice turn of foot. The 24 year old has already bagged 25 goals this season.

There has been chances and hesitancy from both goalkeepers, when the Badgers take the lead on 9 minutes. Lindon Meikle outstrips the full back and fires a cross in, Chris Shaw thumps a shot that hits the bar, big Matt Rhead heads home the rebound.

Two minutes later and Alfreton are level. The ever alert Hearn taps home a rebound after a fumble by Eastwood ‘keeper Danby. A Badger’s fan next to me is so furious he boots his Thermos flask and spills its contents.

Hearn is pulling the home defence all over the pitch. He wins a penalty moments later, Josh Law (son of Alfreton manager Nicky Law) sees his spot kick brilliantly saved by Danby.

You just don’t want the half to end. More and more chances are created at both ends. The football is exciting, fast and has an end product. I’m mystified why Hearn, and on this performance, Meikle, ply their trade at this level.

On 27th minutes Michael Simpson puts the Badgers’ noses back in front with a clinical finish after a poor clearance by the Reds.

Danny has been making notes on his scouting mission. Dunkirk are going to have to build a brick wall to keep Eastwood out in their forthcoming cup game.

The second half is as equally entertaining. Nathan Arnold wastes a glorious chance straight from kick off. Minutes later Dan Haggerty gives Eastwood a two goal cushion.

Twenty two goal leading scorer, Lee Stevenson makes a couple of lung-bursting runs, but lacks the composure in front of goal.

Texts are flying in from Big D. The Tricky Trees are one up and the Pies are on their way to a record eighth consecutive defeat.

Alfreton pour up the hill like an advancing army, as the chances come thick and fast. Hearn and Clayton just can’t find their radar.

With eight minutes remaining former Nottingham Forest trainee Andy Todd puts the game to bed, walloping a shot into the roof of the net from 12 yards.

The Reds pull back a late goal. What an advert this has been for Non League football.

Attendance: 1112

Men of the Match: Meikle and Hearn.

Staveley MW 2 Louth Town 2

2011-04-02T07:56:00.005+01:00

It’s a gorgeous, beautiful sun drenched Sunday morning. I’m stood at Ravenshead Leisure Centre in picturesque north Nottinghamshire. My mood is good. Yesterday, in the Nottinghamshire Young Elizabethan League Division One, our village U13 team, full of local lads, beat our relegation rivals, convincingly, away from home. The clean sheet has me beaming from ear to ear.

Today ‘The Skipper’ is playing for Clifton All Whites. Former Nottingham Forest and England international Des Walker is amongst our crowd on the touchline, watching his lad play.

I like the manager at Clifton. He is in it for all the right reasons. The boys respect him. His team have had a wretched run and are winless in their last seven outings. ‘The Skipper’ comes off the bench with 25 minutes to go.

He’s somewhat of a lucky charm. He’s already bagged six goals this season from full back and right midfield. He takes his position in the penalty box as Clifton are awarded a corner. We are one nil down and chasing the game.

The corner is whipped in from the right, a white shirted, unmarked player, rises like a salmon between two defenders and plants a firm header into the roof of the net. I’m asking whose scored. Is it Blair or Nick? And then I see that familiar cheesy grin. It’s goal number seven for my lad.

‘The Taxman’ and I drive out to Arnold Town’s Eagle Valley ground on Tuesday evening. There is a heavy and prolonged spell of rain which lasts over half an hour. On arrival I say a quick hello to Eagles’ manager Chris Freestone, who once appeared in an FA Cup semi-final at Old Trafford for Middlesbrough.

Next thing I know is some big fat hairy-arsed South Yorkshire centre half has sent a clearance sailing over my head and into a farmer’s field. I decide to fetch the ball. I stumble into a five foot deep ditch. I’m soaked to the skin and covered in mud.

In the distance is the sound of gunshot fire. Am I the intended target? Bloody hell, I was only retrieving a football. I return to my spot, damp and soiled. How the hell am I going to explain to Mrs P about the state of my clothes and footwear?

It’s Friday evening. I’m in Nottingham, at a real ale house called Fellows Morton’s & Claytons. My old boss is retiring. He is legendary within our Company. ‘Shifty Edwards’ has cried off last minute with a feeble excuse. The turnout is excellent though, better than the warm ale that’s served up.

I finish off the evening by having two pints of the Portuguese lager, Sagres, in the Canal House. Before slipping away and catching the 11.30pm bus home. I’ve a busy un scheduled for tomorrow.

Sticky jnr and his mate ‘Chicken George have to be at The City Ground for 9am. They’re off to ‘Dirty Dirty Leeds.’ I ask Mrs P if she fancies a stroll around West Bridgford. The good lady has never turned down a shopping trip in her life.

We nip into Central News on The Avenue. It’s a paper shop that’s owned by Brian Clough’s son. You’d often find old Cloughie sat on a stool behind the counter, charming all the customers.

The skies suddenly darken and there is a heavy downpour of rain. I only came for the Farmers’ Market, but it appears we are a week too late. I bump into ‘Fletch’ in Marks and Spencer’s. We have a quick catch-up; I’ve not seen him in years.

I’ve got to be at Calverton for 11am; it’s Finals Day. I go plain clothed. I’ve one specific target and don’t want people knowing I’m here. Forest scouts strut around in their Tricky Tree tracksuits, with initials on their tops. I make sure they don’t spot me and keep my distance. I watch a cracking game of football. It’s cost me £2, I could have flashed my scouting pass but I like to contribute towards the upkeep of the Notts FA.

I drive back home. It’s all kicking off at the cricket in Mumbai. They’ve had to toss the coin twice as the match referee Jeff Crowe didn’t hear the captain call because of all the hullabaloo. Boycott and Vaughan are having a field day about it on Five Live.

I have some mushroom soup with bread and cheese. I catch the first half of Leeds v Forest. Mum is whittling. Junior had phoned in earlier to tell her he was walking around Leeds city centre with his pal. Bloody hell, I thought official supporters’ coaches ferried fans straight to the ground. Oh well, he should be OK, he’s not badged up or anything. “What’s he wearing love?” asks Sticky. “His Nottingham NG1 fleece.” She replies. Oooh heck, I hope he’s got his trainers on.

Forest control the game until Chris Cohen commits hari-kari with a desperate, unnecessary lunge on the half-way line. It looks a shocker on real time TV. Slow-motions are more forgiving. It’s a match defining moment. Cohen is shown a red card.

Billy Krankie gestures to the away following to increase the volume. Sticky jnr does his bit by text. I will have to check the Urban Dictionary for his lyrics on referee Mark Halsey. They are often heard on programmes such as Shameless and The Only Way Is Essex.

Is that a car horn I can hear? The ‘Blue Rocket’ is purring outside my drive. The White Van Man is furious about the Cohen sending off. A leggy, long-haired blonde, strolling down the street, soon has a calming and soothing effect on the Big Man.

Forest leak four goals whilst we are on the M1 and so do West Ham. We pull into the Inkersall Road car park 15 minutes before kick off. We came here 18 months ago and were treated like royalty by Staveley Chairman, Terry Damms.

I first viewed Staveley MW a few seasons ago at Borrowash Victoria. Lee Gregory led the line that day. He’s banging goals in right, left and centre for The Shaymen of FC Halifax. I’m convinced that he’ll one day play in the Football League.

It’s £4 on the gate and £1 for an excellent programme. Terry is delighted to see us and lines up the drinks. Top Tweeter, Daisy Bruce, is in the bar too, I introduce myself to her.

Staveley are runaway leaders of the NCEL Division One. They require just a point from today’s game to clinch the Championship.

The new Clubhouse is first class. The attention to detail is incredible. There are four flat screen TVs on the wall, trophies sit on the bar and the walls are filled with memorabilia. I notice a signed photo of World Cup final referee – Rotherham born Howard Webb.

Daisy’s Mum asks if I want to pick a Golden Goal time. I fancy an early goal and plump for three minutes.

Staveley MW are awarded a penalty after three minutes, sadly for Sticky it takes an age to take; I just miss out on the jackpot. Ryan Damms (Terry’s lad) sends the Louth ‘keeper the wrong way.

Ten minutes later Jordan Eagers is unfortunate to hit the upright, as Louth begin the game tentatively.

Staveley left winger Chris Coy goes on a mazy Ronaldo type run, amazingly his close range shot is superbly turned onto the post by the pink-shirted ‘keeper.

Louth weather the storm and gain confidence. Daniel Pawson converts a flick on from a corner to restore parity. The game is nearly as entertaining as Sticky junior’s texts. I can’t be held responsible for any Facebook status or insulting Tweets he’ll be sending on his Blackberry from the NFFC supporters’ coach.

I upgrade to a Stella at the break, WVM stays loyal to his Diet Coke. The Big Man has his eyes on a bowl of Roses chocolates that sit on the bar. They are meant to be for the kids. His shovel size hands scoop up four or five sweets. Terry will have to nip out to the Staveley Co-op to buy another tin.

Terry’s got a bad feeling about the game and appears nervous. Daisy is biting her nails and looking stressed. Me, I’m just enjoying the people watching.

The champions elect, assisted by the wind begin to pepper their opponents goal. We’re stood on the balcony outside the Clubhouse. WVM brilliantly catches a stray Staveley shot. He hurls it back to the Right Said Fred lookalike goalkeeper.

Staveley strike the woodwork for a third time. Twenty minutes from time Terry’s lad (Ryan) scores his 100th goal for the Club, nodding home at the far post.

The White Wolves don’t know when they are beaten. The Staveley ‘keeper is cleaning windows as a corner comes sailing in, Martin pounces on a loose ball to smash home the equaliser.

The game is in its dying embers when another excellent Louth corner sees a Carl Martin header crash off the underside of the bar. For once the woodwork helps and doesn’t hinder.

Terry dashes onto the pitch with bottles of Champagne. The League Chairman presents the Staveley skipper with the trophy. We quietly slip away before Terry notices that White Van Man has mopped up all the Roses chocolates.

Attendance: 123

Man of the Match: Sticky junior.

Shepshed Dynamo 0 Lincoln United 2

2011-03-25T23:07:00.004Z

We’re ambling along the bottom of the Main Stand at Hinckley’s Greene King Stadium. Gresley have conceded a 95th minute equalizer. One or two Moatmen supporters shower abuse on the referee. Their coaching staff are waiting for a quiet word with the man in black about the amount of added time.

Some guy has phoned his missus up to complain about the injustice of it all. I bet she’s holding the phone away from her ear whilst she watches those two clowns off Masterchef.

I’m anxious to know the score from the Withdean Stadium. Table-topping Brighton Hove Albion are entertaining Notts County. I fire up the ‘Rolls Royce’ and switch on the radio. Mark Chapman is presenting a show all about ‘Dirty Dirty Don Revie.’

Five Live wheel out a few of Revie’s foot soldiers - Eddie Gray and Peter Lorimer sing his praises. They talk about the team spirit, the bingo, the crazy golf and carpet bowls. They don’t mention the bribes and the match-fixing allegations. We finish the night off with a pint of London Pride at the Plough Inn at Normanton on the Wolds. The Pies come back from Brighton empty-handed.

I spend an hour on Thursday evening sitting in the White Horse at Ruddington, whilst ‘The Skipper’ runs his butt off at training for Clifton All Whites. I’m reading the 2009 William Hill Sports Book of the Year. It’s a biography of Bodyline Test bowler Harold Larwood, superbly written by former Nottingham Evening Post journalist Duncan Hamilton.

Hamilton grew up to in our village and was the son of a coal miner, as was Larwood. My father taught him shorthand. He’s probably the best sports-writing author in the business right now.

He tells a story of how Larwood walked 14 miles to Trent Bridge one day, just so he could see his hero Jack Hobbs. He paid his money at the gate, and took his seat in the Parr Stand. Hobbs was out first ball. He walked the 14 miles back home to Kirkby in Ashfield.

It’s Friday, and I excitedly wait for my first trip to The Dovecote this season. I spend a few hours in our Warehouse at work with Ergo legend ‘Shifty Edwards.’ It’s ‘Funky Friday’ and he’s spinning a few Northern Soul classics. He comes over all emotional when I present him with some marble cake I’ve bought from a bakery in Ruddington.

I’m back in the White Horse again at lunchtime. ‘The Reaper’s dog, Betty slurps half a pint of real ale down her neck. She’s zonked out in the back of the car for the rest of the afternoon.

New Zealand are through to the Cricket World Cup semi-finals. South Africa have choked more times than White Van Man has on a beef and onion Pukka Pie.

I enjoy the cycle home from work, despite the unforgiving steep hill into Keyworth. I’m buzzing, and so is Mrs P; she’s having a night out in D***y with all her friends she used to work with at the Equitable Life Assurance. I was hoping Sticky junior and ‘The Skipper’ would join us at The Dovecote, but they’ve about as much interest in Non League football as David Cameron has in the Public Sector.

Sticky jnr has nipped into town to collect some tickets to watch Plumstead rapper Tinie Tempah in concert at the Capital FM Arena. All his mates are coming round ours tonight. Bloody hell, I best hide all my beer away or they’ll trash the joint.

I don’t bother asking Finley for a score prediction, after his pathetic attempt at the Stalybridge v Hinckley game. Anyway, he despises teams from Leicestershire, because that is where lots of foxes live.

White Van Man arrives executive style. I throw my gear in the back. We head up to Selby Lane to pick Screats’ Dad up. His lad, Iain Screaton, is Shepshed captain and a close friend of WVM. He’s a cracking lad.

WVM has got Gem/Heart FM on. He shouts out “Toon” as Leicester bad boy Mark Morrison’s ‘Return of the Mack’ blasts out the speaker. It’s a short 20 minute drive through the rolling Leicestershire countryside.

It’s £7 on the gate and £1.50 for a disappointing programme that’s half-full of adverts. I shell out £1 for a Golden Goal ticket. You’re guaranteed to hear the ball rattle the net at The Dovecote. It’s normally the opposition that score though.

Shepshed have had an annus horribilis. Money has been tight and there has been a management merry- go- round. Dave Frecklington (brother of Lee) has just been relieved of his duties. At the minute, I think the Secretary is in temporary charge.

Was not Was is on the PA system. I notice that top woman referee Sian Massey is taking charge tonight. I double- check the programme to see if Keys and Gray are her assistants. “Do me a favour love.”

I saw Sian, notice how we’re on first name terms, have a cracking game at Rugby v Bedworth back in the autumn. She and Screats have previous. I’ve had a soft £5 at Corals that Screats will get booked. He doesn’t normally let me down.

The first half is an open and entertaining affair. I’m stood with Big Darrell. We’re laughing about our trip to Market Drayton last season, when the referee sent three players off.

Shepshed give a good account of themselves. Brewer screws a shot horribly wide when it looks easier to score. Hodgson forces a good save from Turner, whilst Sam Carter fires an effort inches over the bar.

Lincoln take the lead on 20 minutes (I’m ten minutes out on the Golden Goal ticket). Scott Coupland beautifully threads a ball through to an unmarked Jack McGovern, who dispatches a shot into the bottom left hand corner of the net.

I’m taking a stroll round this wonderful old ground. The air is still and the church bells are chiming. Leylandii tower above both goals. Huge nets are erected behind each goal to stop stray balls from leaving the ground. White Van Man has missed out on a viewing of the Shepshed WAGS.

I have a chat with a few disillusioned supporters, who are hurt by the perilous position the Club is in. I used to enjoy the message board that Andy Mac ran, but a few idiots from other clubs ruined that too.

Screats has clattered into the back of someone and has given away a needless free kick. McGovern bags his second of the evening, lifting the ball over the wall and into the top right hand corner of the net.

I find White Van Man sitting in the corner of the Social Club drinking a can of Diet Coke. Coronation Street is on the box. Top trainspotter Roy Cropper makes a welcome return to action. I notice a chap dressed in a green crocodile suit queuing at the bar. He’ll probably just want a snack.

Sticky jnr texts in asking if he can open a bottle of beer he’s discovered in the kitchen. For any policeman or social services people who read this blog, I reply with a firm NO. He’s a good lad. I know he won’t try it on.

I leave WVM to watch part two of Coro. The Shepshed DJ is playing the dreadful ‘Every Loser Wins’ by Nick Berry. He should be lined-up for the firing squad, not the Shepshed strikers though, as tonight they couldn’t hit a cows backside with a banjo.

The second half is as bad as the first half was good. Neither team makes any impression. Lincoln don’t need to as they are condemning Dynamo to their seventh consecutive defeat.

The moment I have waited for arrives on 80 minutes. Screats has clattered another opposing player and Sian has had enough. After being grassed up by the Referee’s Assistant, Sian invites Screats into the office. She correctly waves a yellow card. I’m laughing my head off.

We finish the night having a couple of jars in the Club. Screats joins us. He’s always got a smile on his face, even in defeat.

The Lincoln players drink in a large group. Former Lincoln City legend Terry Fleming is amongst them. He was a crowd favourite at Sincil Bank because of his never-say-die attitude. He’s manager now, but still turns out at full back at the age of 38.

Attendance: 146
Man of the Match : Sian Massey

Hinckley FC 1 Gresley FC 1

2011-03-22T23:30:00.003Z

It’s a Monday evening in autumn 2002. Sky Sports cameras are at Nottingham Greyhound Stadium in Colwick Park. Smooth operator Jeff Stelling is presenting the show. I have a vested interest in tonight’s proceedings; I’ve bought the back leg of a greyhound for £200, plus monthly training fees.

The dog is called Prince Red Inca. It’s a play on words for a ‘red inker’, in cricketing terms (not out*). ‘The Prince’, if he gets a good start, is like shit off a shovel. It’s Finals Night; the prize money is £1500.

All the lads are trackside. Sticky is laid up on the sofa, streaming with cold. The trainer has told us we’ve got ‘Bob Hope’ of winning the race. Our dog is priced at 16/1, the rank outsider.

The owner of the track has a dog running in our race, he’s a firm favourite. He patronises the boys during his interview with Sky. “Yeah, they’re a bunch of locals who are just having a bit of fun”, he remarks about our syndicate.

It’s time for the feature race and the hare is running, ‘The Prince’ flies out the traps and hits the first bend in front. I take a sip from my hot toddy and begin to focus on the TV set.

Prince Red Inca is on full power. He’s still in the lead on the second circuit as he approaches the final straight. I’m now jumping up and down, Mrs P is doing a Highland fling and the kids are bouncing off the walls.

He’s under pressure from the favourite just metres from the finishing line. ‘The Prince’ and his opponent cross the line neck and neck. It’s too close to call. It’s a photo finish. Mrs P is all over me like a rash, the kids are telling me they love me.

The stadium announcer declares the result as a dead heat. They’ll still be paying out on odds of 8/1. “How much Dad? How much have we won?” shouts Sticky junior. “Erm, erm, nothing, the trainer said not to bother putting a bet on.” It’s three days before anybody bothers speaking to me again.

The weekend is a football fiesta. I spend Saturday morning in the company of former Notts County forward Iain McCulloch; he is proper funny. He tells me a few anecdotes from the Jimmy Sirrell era, as we view a schoolboy tournament at Highfields Sports Fields, in Nottingham.

The Notts County Youth Team, coached by former Pie legend Michael Johnson, are playing at the training ground, just a five minute stroll away. We take in the second half. Our youngsters are fortunate to come away with a 1-0 victory.

I help coach ‘The Skipper’s’ team in the afternoon as they pick up a valuable point in their fight against relegation.

The highlight of the day is a curry and a good film on Saturday evening. Taggart has recommended I watch ‘In Bruges’ on Film Four. It’s a black comedy directed and written by the Irishman. Martin McDonagh. You have to cusp your ear to catch the softly spoken Irish accent of Colin Farrell.

I manage to see Sticky jnr and his box of tricks on Sunday. He performs a couple of nutmegs and deals with a wind-up merchant in a street-wise kind of way. The talented head-strong teenager is booked in for his first Tricky Tree solo mission. It’s a rather low-key affair at ‘Dirty Dirty Leeds’ on April 2nd. His mum will be having kittens.

It’s Tuesday, the day of the game. I’m having a running battle with a supplier at work and have just about reached the end of my tether. I’m on Day 6 of cycling to work. The ride home is relaxing. I shower, shave and feel fully refreshed.

Mrs P has cooked us up some meat balls and spaghetti in tomatoes and chilli. We mop it up with garlic bread. The good lady is not best pleased, Sticky jnr’s team are down on the rota to clean out the KUCFC Clubhouse and changing rooms. It’ll be the same old people turning up, with the shirkers shirking.

‘The Skipper’ and I jump in the ‘Rolls Royce’ and head up to the ‘astro’ at Keyworth Leisure Centre for his team’s training session. Snooksey and ‘The Skipper’ are made to run two circuits of the pitch for fooling around.

I slip away at 6.45pm to pick up ‘The Taxman.’ Within minutes we are heading down the A46, onto the M1 and along the M69 towards Hinckley.

‘The Taxman’ has been toiling away all day at his art class. His latest effort is a painting of the picturesque North Devon fishing village of Clovelly.

Barking born John George Terry (a player Chelsea nicked from the West Ham Academy) is on Five Live, trying to justify his reappointment as England skipper.

The Tom Tom has a bit of a wobble as we approach Hinckley, but we finally find the Leicester Road ground after mistakenly pulling into the Rugby Ground.

Hinckley is a town in the south west Leicestershire, with a population of 43,000. It’s well known for its history of making hosiery and stockings. Castle Street is the first known location of ‘Luddism’, where disgruntled workers took sledgehammers to their machines. The Ashby Canal passes through the town.

Notable people born or have lived in the area include: Human League front man Philip Oakey, actress and dancer Una Stubbs and Coronation Street fruit-cake John Stape (Graham Hawley).

Hinckley FC (previously Hinckley Downes), ground share with Blue Square Conference North team Hinckley United (who I recently saw share the spoils at Stalybridge), at the Greene King Stadium.

It’s a top class venue where Aston Villa and Leicester City's second string play their reserve games. We enter from behind the goal, where there is covered terracing. It’s £5 on the turnstile. To our left is a large main stand, whilst another covered terrace runs along the opposite touchline. The far end is open; making it to all attempts and purposes a three-sided stadia.

Both teams appear to be shelling out some dough and are in a rich vein of form. It’s a game for the football purist. Hinckley have already had Julian Joachim and Tony Thorpe turn out for them this season.

I’m stressed out readers; my new camera is playing up. Or should I say the buffoon who attempts to take the photos has pressed the wrong button and can’t get the viewfinder to boot up.

Gresley FC, attack our end and are already pleasing on the eye. Their Number 10, Brian Woodall has impressed ‘The Taxman.’ I make some discreet enquiries with some neighbouring Gresley supporters. It appears the young man has bagged a deal with top talent spotter John Still at League One’s Dagenham and Redbridge.

Hinckley keeper’ and skipper, Elliot Shillam, is a busy bee in the first period. He might have a voice like a foghorn and appeared to have enjoyed ‘National Pie Week’, but he’s no mug in the nets. He saves bravely at the feet of Spencer. Shilliam also has a kick like a mule; it’s something I remember about him from his previous clubs Kirby Muxloe and Anstey Nomads, as well as his constant droning.

The home team have a golden chance to take the lead, totally against the run of play. Jermain Gordon pounces onto a through ball but is wiped out by Gresley stand-in keeper’ Darren Keeling, with two Gresley defenders protecting the goal.

Keeling is correctly shown a yellow card by referee Kevin Allen and saves a poorly struck penalty.

Shortly before half-time, with ‘The Taxman’ poised for a trip to the tea bar, Gresley take the lead with a beautifully executed free kick, curled over the wall by Dagenham bound Woodall.

We can’t mark the tea as it’s a DIY effort. If any non league club, within reasonable distance of Nottingham, would like my services, free of charge, so I can show you how to make endless pots of piping hot tea, then please leave me a message on my blog and I’ll draw one out a hat.

We’re perched up high in the stand. The winning programme (I use that word loosely) number has been shouted out. My five year barren run continues; I’m seven off the winning prize.

Gresley have to clear off the line as Hinckley press for an equaliser. Gaps in the midfield encourage Gresley to return to their fluent passing game. Brian Woodall nonchantly flicks a cross in with the outside of his boot, Spencer’s downward header bounces up onto the underside of the bar.

The visitors waste endless time. They disrupt play with substitutions. The player coming off takes an age to trudge to the bench.

Rob Spencer shows all his studs in challenging the Hinckley 5 jacket, who retaliates by shoving the forward in the chest with both hands raised. Both are cautioned, the latter’s a lucky lad.

Gresley are desperately running the clock down when the 5 jacket heads home an injury (added on) time equaliser right at the death.

A small, unsavoury element of away fans, abuse the referee. The blame lies squarely at the feet of their team, who have missed enough chances to win a hat-trick of games.

Attendance: 100

Man of the Match: Rob Spencer (despite poor finishing).

Stalybridge Celtic 1 Hinckley United 1

2011-03-13T09:47:00.005Z

Mr and Mrs Trumpy Bolton are travelling back from Reading after a romantic weekend in Berkshire. The legend is in fine fettle after chalking off a few new pubs. New readers may not know that his sole mission in life is to make a financial transaction in every village or town in England.

They pull into the Lamb Inn, in Oxfordshire, for some Sunday lunch. The pub is nothing out of the ordinary; the food is plain, unimaginative and overpriced.

After swilling a few real ales and a pint of cider Trumpy peruses the bill and spots a service charge of £3.95. He’s having none of that. The landlady is called over to his table. “Scrub that off the bill love, I could have fetched my own food from the kitchen if you’d asked” says Trumpy.

There’s a standoff at the bar as his credit card goes through the machine, minus the service charge. Trumpy has a final pop at mein host as he heads out of the pub door. He turns to all the remaining diners and shouts at the top of his voice: “make sure you’re not screwed for £3.95 as a service charge.”

He is escorted off the premises. It’s the first time in 35 years of professional drinking that he has been asked to leave a hostelry. Good on yer Trumpy lad.

It’s 4.20pm on Friday evening. I’m racing out the Ergo Computing car park. I’ve a hot date with Mrs P at the Apple Tree. The England v Bangladesh game, in the most exciting Cricket World Cup in ages, is reaching a crescendo.

Despite the array of real ales on show Sticky plumps for a pint of Stella, Mrs P has a medium glass of dry white wine. She pulls a face at every sip. Sticky’s face is also screwed up: one, there is no cricket on the TV and two that clown Ollie Murs is on the jukebox. ‘The Skipper’ saves my bacon by texting in: England have lost by two wickets.

I’m on the paper round again. I enjoy it in a perverse sort of way. The biggest earthquake in Japan, since records began, dominates the front pages. I’m just delivering my final paper, when the front door viciously swings open. The paper is snatched out of my hand: “better late than never”, smirks the customer. It’s typical behaviour of a Daily Mail reader.

It’s a rare day off from scouting for youth. Before my pass out is rubber stamped by Mrs P I’ve a few chores to do. Finley’s cage requires a spring clean. He has a little ball that he plays with (humps). He rolls onto his back and does a few keepy-uppies. He has more tricks in his locker than Nani. It bad news for Hinckley Utd fans though, Finley predicts a 4-0 drubbing.

Mrs P has very kindly knocked me up a bacon and sausage sandwich. I wash it down with an award-winning pot of Yorkshire tea.

Trumpy is just screwing the top on his faithful plastic bottle, which is filled to the brim with Bulmers Pear Cider. He has a couple of pubs lined-up for us in High Peak, Derbyshire.

I switch on the Graham Norton Show on Radio 2. I find the Irishman amusing. Trumpy is not a fan. Although as quick as a flash he identifies the song Norton is playing as “Bridge to Your Heart” by Wax from 1987.

We drive through Chesterfield and up through the Peak District. We discuss the Council cuts and the new levy on recycling green bins. Trumpy’s blue bin (cans and plastic bottles) tends to gets more hammer than his green one.

The first pub we rock up at is The Vine near to New Mills. Trumpy is flapping that they don’t do credit card transactions: he’s right on the money, they don’t. It’s a relief as it felt like we’d walked into God’s waiting room.

The second pub, called the Pack Horse Inn, is situated on top of a hill. It has spectacular views over the rolling countryside. There are four different ales on draught, we plump for a pint of Pirate’s Gold from the Wooden Hand Brewery in Truro.

The legend has a cider to accompany his chicken baguette. The Stowford Press cider is from Much Marcle in Herefordshire, the birthplace of serial killer Fred West.

The pub has a plethora of antiques and nick-nacks hanging from the varnished wooden beams. I ask Trumpy if he knows what they are: “I’m not David Dickinson” is his reply.

By now we are in the third pub of the day – the Moorfield Arms - Trumpy is giving the attractive, curly-haired blonde barmaid some of his best lyrics (sorry Mrs Trumpy).

The highlight of the day is when we finally hit the town of Stalybridge. We park at the train station and head up to the world renowned Stalybridge Buffet Bar, which is situated on the station platform.

We sample a pint of First Light from the York Brewery. The place is mobbed out with Man Utd fans waiting for the train. A group of Scousers are in a huddle, doing what they do best, chatting. Trumpy says they are the Liverpool Branch of the Manchester United Supporters’ Club.

En-route to the ground we pass the Stalybridge Labour Club. I ask the legend if he fancies popping in for a swift one. He declines the offer, he’s a true Blue. We park the ‘Rolls Royce’ on a cul-de-sac, a mere five minute stroll from the Bower Field ground.

Stalybridge is a town in the Metropolitan Borough of Tameside. It has a population of just over 20,000 and lies 9 miles to the east of Manchester.

During the Industrial Revolution the town was at the centre of textile manufacturing. According to Wikipedia (not always the most reliable of sources) the song “It’s a Long Way to Tipperary” was created in the town’s Newmarket Tavern by Jack Judge.

Stalybridge has a public house with the longest name in Britain: The Old Thirteenth Cheshire Astley Volunteer Rifleman Corps Inn – I wouldn’t fancy waiting for Trumpy to write out a cheque in there after his liquid lunch.

The film Yanks, starring Hollywood actor Richard Gere, was shot in the town in 1978.

It’s £10 on the turnstile. Trumpy snaps me up a programme for £2. I’m disappointed there are no pen pictures or career statistics for either team.

The DJ is playing Now 23. Rick Astley, Chesney Hawkes and a cheesy Iron Maiden toon blares out from the speakers, whilst Trumpy downs a pint of Thwaites bitter in the Social Club.

The ground would pass Football League standard, it’s an absolute beauty. Two big stands run along the touchline, with covered terracing behind both goals. The pitch looks in fine fettle after a harsh winter.

The teams walk out to the New Order anthem, ‘Blue Monday’, a song I’ve not heard in ages. I lean on a blue-painted crash barrier. Next to me a young woman rolls up a cigarette and tries to spark up, a slight breeze keeps blowing out her lighter.

Celtic look to play it out from the back. In contrast the Knitters ping the ball forward towards their giant orange-booted journeyman Gary Ricketts. (Trumpy calls him Pierre Van Hooijdonk).

There’s absolutely nothing doing. Trumpy has been booted out another bar; they’re not open again until half-time. We’re both chuckling about the young lady who’s now trying to light up a nub end.

The game livens up on 24 minutes with the opening goal. Ricketts finds Sam Belcher in space on the edge of the area. Despite not connecting properly with it Stalybridge ‘keeper Jan Budtz (who looks like Van der Saar) can only help the ball into the net.

The game really is dire. Trumpy is happy enough that his adopted county are one to the good. He waltzes off to the Social Club to join the orderly queue that is waiting for the shutters to come up.

Celtic spurn a couple of decent chances before the break. I’ve noticed that former Nottingham Forest player James Reid is playing for the Knitters. He was often talked up whilst I worked at the Academy, but I often questioned his fitness and engine. The game passes him by today.

Leicester, Lincoln and the Pies are all one to the good at the break. It will be a particularly sweet moment for Lincoln’s manager, Steve Tilson, whose side are playing Southend United, a club he was sacked at, and not fully compensated.

Trumpy strikes up a conversation with an elderly lady who is tapping away on her laptop. She explains that Jim Harvey’s young charges have only lost once in their last ten outings. She expects a marked improvement when they kick down the slope.

The legend enquires how old Celtic’s bald headed 11 jacket is. He remarks that the poor fellow looked fagged out after 15 minutes.

The DJ is thankfully fading out the dreadful ’Uptown Girl’ by Billy Joel, as I return to my spot to view proceedings.

Stalybridge dump their passing game. They shove a big fellow (Hobson) upfront and go route one. It’s ugly and unproductive until the 56th minute, when another long ball is headed home, following hesitation by the Hinckley goalkeeper, by 34 year old silver haired striker Lee Elam.

Celtic increase the tempo, with 21 goal leading scorer Phil Marsh looking dangerous. He darts in from the left and fires shot inches over the bar.

Remarkably one or two Celtic fans begin to leave the ground as the home side begin to turn the screw. “We can see you sneaking out” sings T Bolton, who is now making enquiries about a Hinckley Utd season ticket.

There’s still time for Trumpy to dish out a bollocking to the young Hinckley stopper who stupidly fires the ball twice at Hobson’s back whilst twice trying to clear the ball.

Attendance: 448

Man of the Match: Cyrus Christie