The Groundhopper Awards 2012/13

Goal of the Season: Dean Wells (Braintree Town) 60 yards

Favourtite Team: Runcorn Town

Best Team Performance: Braintree Town (away at Nuneaton)

Worst Game: Liversedge v Parkgate

Best Pub: Brewers Pride in Ossett

Brew of the Year: Selston 10/10

Best Playing Surface: Fleetwood Town

Most Welcoming Club: Llanrug United

Best Programme: Llanrug United

Foul Play: Liversedge

Best Terrace: Gornal Athletic

Best Clubhouse: Guiseley

Best Game: Hemsworth MW 3-4 Rossington Main

Best New Ground Visited: Liversedge

Best Pro Ground: Estadio Algarve nr Faro

Best Pro Player: Fabricio Collocini

Best Non League Player: Scott Burton (Runcorn Town)

Favourite League: Northern Counties East Div One

Best PA Guy: Athersley Recreation

Favourite Blog: Where's the Tea Hut

Favourite Character: Red Onion from Llangefni Town

Picturesque Ground: Llanrug Town

Best Supporters: Kings Lynn

Louth Town 2-0 Dinnington Town

I climb out of the car after another miserable week at work. It’ll be nice to unwind with a few beers, whilst listening to the radio and reading the Nottingham Post. I unlock the back door and step into the kitchen. There’s one of hell of a commotion in the lounge. Murphy Palmer, Keyworth’s No.1 budgie, is squawking and screeching.

I dart into the lounge to investigate the goings on. Murphy is perched on top of the TV set. Circling and dive-bombing him at every opportunity is an angry wasp. I rummage around in the magazine rack and unearth an old copy of When Saturday Comes. I waft the magazine aimlessly at the striped insect.

Bloody hell, it’s turned on me now. I scarper upstairs to fetch re-enforcements. Sticky jnr doesn’t faff about. One whack on the head with a copy of Nuts has done for him –the wasp not junior. Murphy sticks the beak in, just for good measure.

The football season is finally winding down. I’ve only managed 20 odd new grounds this season. I make a couple of re-visits during the week. I see a nine goal thriller between Ruddington and Attenborough at a glorious sun-kissed Elms Park on Tuesday evening, with the Boys Brigade band belting out some marching tunes. Sticky junior turns on the style at Tollerton’s Open Space on Thursday. The village idiots are out in force.

I can’t wait for the summer break. I’m footballed-out folks. Next season could be even worse, with the possibility of running two sides. I chillax on the sofa on Friday night with a bottle of Cote Du Rhone for company, watching the fag end of Sheffield Utd v Yeovil in the League One play-off. Mrs P is in ‘Bread and Lard Island’ with the girls.

It’s a wasted Saturday morning. I nip to a nearby old pit village to view a game, but the ground is deserted. I cruise down to West Bridgford’s Regatta Way complex. The A52 is backing up to the island at Gamston. In two hours time Forest and Leicester will be locking horns at The City Ground.

Danny Baker tells an interesting tale on his radio show on why flawed genius Paul Gascoigne chose Tottenham Hotspur over Everton in 1988. Apparently Spurs promised to buy his Mum and Dad a property in the affluent Newcastle suburb of Jesmond. Geordie comedian Ross Noble is Baker’s studio guest. He mentions how he’s sick and tired with folk confusing him for Neil Oliver, the presenter of the BBC2 programme Coast.

The A46 to Lincoln is a breeze these days, particularly since the opening of the new section from Widmerpool to Newark. Long gone are the one hour journeys to Sincil Bank in my Vauxhall Viva.

I have a little chuckle on the way. I managed to upset Pontefract Collieries again the other week. An official from the Club called me a “tossa” on their Facebook page. They’re a great set of lads up there; salt of the earth. I can’t wait for my undercover visit to the White Rose Stadium.

I skirt round the edge of Lincoln city centre, past endless, soulless industrial estates, with their Frankie and Benny’s and child-friendly pubs. I avoid the NFFC game on the radio like the plague. Junior has already texted in to say Simon Cox has bagged an early goal.

The Rolls Royce chugs into Westgate, surrounded by its 17th Century brick buildings. The skyline is dominated by St James Church; the spire is 295 feet tall. Louth is a market town within the East Lindsey district of Lincolnshire. It is known as ‘the capital of the Lincolnshire Wolds.’ On May 29th 1920 a flood in the town caused 23 deaths. Cadwell Park motor racing circuit is four miles south of the town.

In 1969 Tory candidate Jeffrey Archer was elected MP for the constituency of Louth. The Poet Laureate, Alfred Lord Tennyson was born in nearby Somersby. Comedian Roy ‘Chubby’ Brown and actor Jim Broadbent are said to live in properties close to the town.

I clock the Wheatsheaf pub that I’d earlier pencilled in whilst flicking through the Good Pub Guide. The place is snided out with folk. It has three low-beamed rooms with wooden dining tables at the rear of the pub. I shout up a pint of Tom Wood’s Bomber County real ale. I’m told there’s a half an hour wait for food. I’m Hank Marvin folks, a bacon and brie baguette will go down a treat. An hour later, and despite several polite requests, there’s bugger all sign of the snap. An angry Groundhopper has a few waitresses scattering for the kitchen.

I take a few snaps of the towering church spire, much to the amusement of the pub customers who bask in the lunchtime sunshine. A heavy, sharp, short shower disperses the punters.

Within minutes I’m pulling up a tight, narrow driveway, with my vehicle coming to rest in a pea-gravelled car park. It’s £4 on the turnstile and £1 for a programme. I buy a strip of raffle tickets.

Running along the nearest touchline is the Bingo and Social Club. If you can be bothered to climb the stairs you are able to watch the football from behind the glass windows. Below the Club are five concrete steps where you can view the game. The other three sides of Park Avenue are open, with picket fencing erected around three quarters of the ground.

That Tom Wood’s Bomber ale has proper done for me folks. I was going nip behind some nettles to the rear of the training ground for a pee, but a couple of kids scupper any chance of that as they start playing three-and-in. A friendly official lets me use a Ladies toilet on the far side of the ground.

A groundhopper in full ‘hopper’ regalia tucks into some homemade sandwiches from out of a Tupperware box. A guy from Holland, who talks like Martin Jol, strikes up a conversation.

The White Wolves play in a Real Madrid replica strip, with the visitors from South Yorkshire sporting a similar kit to the Tigers of Hull. Louth have been playing catch-up recently. They rest a few weary legs for their League Cup final to be held in a few days time. Former Grimsby Town, Burton Albion and Boston United striker Daryl Clare is manager of Louth. The linesman calls a wrong decision on 5 minutes. He feels the full wrath of Clare’s tongue: “You might be on your jollies lino, but we’re not.” You have to admire his professionalism, with just third place to play for.

Carl Martin had earlier given Louth the lead on three minutes, finishing from close range. The visitors offer very little. One or two of their players have a turn of pace, but their decision-making is poor.

Sticky junior has phoned-in; he’s disappointed with the Tricky Trees 3-2 reverse. He claims to have hooked up with the Forest Executive Crew, who are en-route up London Road to Nottingham train station to wave off the Baby Squad from Leicester. Uncle Trumpy Bolton has also been in touch from Chepstow, where he’s celebrating a Foxes win with a skinful of cider. The raffle numbers are announced. I’m three off a win.

The second half follows a familiar pattern with Louth well on top. Young Nick Manders spins his marker and plays in substitute Jonathan Walters, who finishes with a low drilled drive into the bottom corner of the net.

It all has an end of season feel about it; a bit like this blog. See you all in July folks.

Attendance: 106

Athersley Recreation 0-1 Pontefract Collieries

It’s Sunday evening. I decide to burn off my Sunday roast dinner and Stella Artois. I stroll down the jitty, past Sainsbury’s and up Nottingham Road. To my left are black railings leading to the Keyworth Rectory Playing Fields. I glance at the War Memorial as I sidle up to the entrance.

It’s a venue where I’ve chugged up that unforgiving bloody hill and bowled over after over of long hops for nearly 20 years. I stare towards the playing square. The Club is two hundred years old in 2015. They’ve upped sticks and moved to a safer environment on the edge of the village. The wires have been removed and the wicket is grassed over. I feel sad and emotional as I think about the fun I’ve had up here over the years. Maybe my two boys can rediscover their zest for the game and play for the Club that their Dad is so proud to be associated with.

There’s a pleasant start to the weekend with a couple of pints of the guest ale at The Plough in Normanton-on-the-Wolds. I follow the Midland Youth Cup final with interest. My boss at Notts County, Mick Leonard, is taking the team this evening. I scour my Twitter timeline for the latest score. We go on to lose 4-2 after extra time, having played a lengthy spell with ten men. I note that 16 year old Gino Kelleher is the Pies star man.

I sleep soundly thanks to a couple of large glasses of Rioja reserve. Mrs P makes a startling admission at the breakfast table. As an eight year old, she once wrote to Jimmy Savile to see if he could fix it for her to be on the Krypton Factor assault course. It’s a skeleton that she has kept in the cupboard for over 35 years.

I check the headlines on the BBC Football website. News is emerging that Hereford United’s players have been told by text that there’ll be no pay packet for April. Murphy Palmer, my green and canary budgie doesn’t seem too concerned. He sinks his beak Suarez style into my ear lobe. He’s odds-on favourite for Gold at the Budgie Pecking Event in Rio 2016.

I drive up to the village. Sandie Shaw’s 1965 hit ‘Always Something There to Remind Me’ is being played on Radio Nottingham. I grab a bacon and egg baguette at Canterbury’s deli on Main Street. It’s no Roy and Hayley’s Cafe – it serves posh nosh and is the real deal.

I head down to the Lenton Lane area of Nottingham to view a game with my boss Mick, who appears pretty chipper despite the cup loss. Two of the top sides at under 15 level in the Midlands battle it out in a cup tie. We’re approached by a dead ringer for Terry Hurlock, to ask if we have permission to be on the ground. He appears miffed that we’ve actually been invited down by the manager of the home team.

I bump into Nottingham Forest diehard fan Jitz Jani. We discuss the opening day of the Nottinghamshire Cricket Premier League season, as hailstones fall from the darkening skies. It’s time to head up to South Yorkshire. I cruise up the M1. I slip on a CD. It’s the 1982 album ‘New Gold Dream’ by Simple Minds. ‘Someone, Somewhere in Summertime’ is the stand-out track.

Expectant Hull City fans congregate in pub car parks all over the town, before their big clash at Oakwell. Police keep a watchful eye on the ‘Hull City Ultras.’ I stumble across a Hungry Horse pub on the outskirts of Barnsley town centre, next to an Aldi supermarket and car dealership.

I have a chuckle at the advertisement for the Michael Jackson tribute act that was on the previous evening. Two old lasses are shuffling towards the door: “Did you go to the ‘Michael Jackson’ concert last night ladies?” enquires The Groundhopper. “Nay lad” remarks one, as they Moonwalk their way to the bar.

I settle for a pint of Stella and a southern fried chicken sandwich. World Championship snooker is on the pub TV sets. The Sat Nav has had a wobble in the middle of what was once a National Coal Board pit estate. A young girl waves her arms in the general direction of Sheerien Park on Ollerton Road.

I clock a sign for ‘The Rec’ and turn right up a narrow driveway. It’s £4 on the gate. The programme is £1.50 and good value. I’m gobsmacked to read that former WBA and Birmingham City forward, Geoff Horsfield has bought the 60 year lease to the ground. What a top lad. It’s just about the most heart-warming football story I’ve read this season. It’s allowed a community to have a hub for their society.

The DJ reels off three records in a row from Cornershop, Erasure and The Cult. I’ve already fell in love with the place. The ground is fully railed with wooden panels round three sides of the ground, with metal fencing at the far end of the ground. There are two stands, one of which has black, white & brown tip-up seats.

There’s a Club Shop, Social Club and Snack Bar. I stick my head into where the PA man is spinning his toons to congratulate him on his choice of music. He’s dressed up in a penguin suit.

The teams, somewhat bizarrely walk out to the theme tune from ITV’s The Bill. Athersley, sporting Newcastle and Notts County colours, require just one point to gain promotion to the NCEL Premier League.

Pontefract Collieries and Sticky Palms have previous. Their ‘Management’ behaved appallingly following a 3-0 drubbing at Worsbrough Bridge. Six ‘penguins’ are stood behind the goal Athersley are attacking. They are banging two sets of drums. Ringo Starr won’t be having any sleepless nights. I take a gentle stroll around the ground. There are 14 hoodies, 12 flat cappers and 10 bobble hat-wearers.

A ball is launched out of play, Sticky Palms outstretched foot cushions the ball; it’s flicked into the welcoming arms of a youngster close by. A better first touch you won’t see today. Collieries play with a lot more heart than on my last viewing. They have a goal chalked off for a foul on the ‘keeper.

The game is nervous, fraught and tense. Athersley play without fluidity. They have a succession of corners and have a stonewall penalty turned down. It’s 0-0 at the break with little sign of a goal. Regular readers will know that Sticky doesn’t do 0-0s.

‘The Rec’ DJ continues his good form at the break. ‘All Together Now’ by The Farm and ‘Hush’ by Kula Shaker, comfortably win this guy Non League DJ of the Year. There’s a notice in the wooden green-painted ‘Gents’ of the consequences of taking and dealing drugs. I grab a coffee and position myself next the ‘Ponte Carlo’ dugout to see if them pair are misbehaving. It’s not long before they are haranguing the officials. The ref is “weak” They chew on the lino’s ear more than Murphy the budgie does on mine.

Thankfully, Collieries impress. They are quick on the break and not short on ideas. With 18 minutes remaining they are awarded a controversial penalty on the linesman’s say so. It’s comfortably dispatched by Andy Catton. A guy behind the goal in a copper-coloured hoodie has lost the plot. His cheeks are the colour of his top. I seriously worry about the health and sanity of the Athersley manager, who is still spitting feathers following the spot kick.

Athersley huff and puff but can find no way past impressive Ponte ‘keeper Sam Andrew. The day ends happily though with rivals Cleethorpes slipping up at Clipstone MW.

Attendance: 171

Man of the Match: Sam Andrew

Selston 2-2 Wollaton

I’m striding across the turf at Arnold Town’s Eagle Valley ground, towards the dressing room. My little team have just conceded a sloppy goal on the stroke of half time in the Nottinghamshire County Cup final. People shout encouragement to me from the stands. I have to choose my words carefully in the changing room.

We’re 2-0 down against a team (Underwood Villa) with a 100% record. No shame in that. We’ve played with nerves and created very little. Two goals have come from sucker punch long throw-ins. My centre-half has fresh-aired a clearance and my ‘keeper has been rooted to his line. I tell them to remember the 99 things they’ve done well and not the one mistake they have made.

I jab each player in the chest and tell them how magnificent they have been for us this season. I shake each players hand as we exit the changing room and wish them good luck. We play a beautiful game in the second period, pinning back our opponents. These boys have never let the club down. Their hearts are massive, as big as a bucket.

Adam gives us hope with a stunning executed free-kick, ten minutes from time. We pepper their goal, but it’s not to be. The occasion has been fantastic. Not one bad tackle, no bad-mouthing, respect for one another. The referee is outstanding. He congratulates my boys on their behaviour. What a day out we have had.

I settle down on Friday evening to a bottle of Red and the desperately sad tale of flawed footballer Justin Fashanu on my Kindle. Mrs P is watching worst ITV drama in history. It’s called the Ice Cream Girls and composes of a script I could have written in my lunch break.

It’s 9 am on Saturday morning, the console on my mobile is flashing. The team we’re meant to be playing today can’t raise a side I’m not happy; it’s too short notice to whizz down the M1 to watch the final ever game at Barnet’s Underhill ground. It’ll be a sell-out crowd.

Murphy is whistling his little green and canary head off to ‘Love Cats’ by The Cure, as I gaze out the kitchen window at the clear blue sky and the blossoming Magnolia tree that has finally sprung into life after a month of frosty mornings.

I polish off a raspberry and custard lattice bar and wash it down with an award-winning pot of Yorkshire Tea for one. I glance at the front page of the Nottingham Post, former Tricky Trees defender Wesley Morgan is up in court for a driving misdemeanour.

The Notts Senior League Groundhop began yesterday evening. Five games are to be played in 24 hours. 246 of those carrier bag holding hoppers rolled up at Magdala’s ROKO ground on Friday evening.

I jump in the Rolls Royce and head up the Nottingham ring road towards the M1. Danny Baker is commenting on Conference North team Hinckley United and there appalling goal difference of minus 99.

An eagle-eyed caller phones in to say his local side Woodford United have a deficit of minus 154. Baker laughs out loud like a madman. I exit at Junction 27 and drive through the village of Underwood, home to the Notts County Cup u15 Champions. There’s a Scarecrow Festival about to start.

I chug along the main drag in Selston, making a right turn at a petrol station before being stopped in my tracks by a couple of officials in high visibility coats. It’s £3 on the gate. I park up between the roped-off cricket square and the football pitch.

Selston is a hilltop village and civil parish in the district of Ashfield, on the Notts/Derbyshire border, with a population of 12,000. I have no recollection of ever playing football or cricket at their Parish Hall Ground. Some people would say they have no recollection of me ever playing football or cricket.

The place is already a hive of activity. There are bloody hoppers all over the place. Mind you Trumpy Bolton would be proud of them, as one or two tuck into a few alcoholic beverages. A special ale has been brewed called ‘Game Over’ to commemorate the Groundhop.

A marquee has been erected, where there are one or two charity stalls. Trestles have been laid out where eager hoppers can snap up badges and old football programmes. It’s not for Sticky, but each to their own.

There’s the sound and smell of bacon and sausage sizzling from the kitchen as Sticky shouts up a brew for Big D, who I’ve found milling amongst the NSL dignitaries. I enquire if they use a teapot. “You’re that Sticky bloke aren’t you?” chuckles a lady pouring out the tea. “That’s correct love, I’m Sticky Palms, Non League Tea Inspector, and you’ll be pleased to know that your tea is the best I’ve supped this season.”

The ground is right up there with the NSL greats. There’s a brick-built clubhouse and the covered George Elliot Stand to the far side of the ground. There’s a narrow concrete raised path that takes you around the perimeter of the ground, at the back of the nearest goal.

One of Nottinghamshire’s great characters is officiating the game. Cigar-smoking whistler Andy Rolph is Sticky’s favourite ref. Give him grief at your peril. He’s known on the local scene as Mohammed Al Fayed or Tom O’Connor.

The game begins in chaos. Selston give away possession, Wollaton storm forward and thump a shot against the bar following a wonderful save from the impressive Luke Wigley.

All these hoppers are as happy as Larry. They're either cooing and caressing their new badges or clutching hold of that sought after programme from a non league game in 1967. Three or four of them adjacent to us discuss the appalling gun culture in the USA.

Big D is holding court. He reels off a string of rib-tickling anecdotes. We witness Selston take the lead and also hit the woodwork before taking a position up behind the nearest goal for the second period.

Wollaton come out all guns blazing and equalise through Dane Rawson. Referee Rolph loves being the centre of attention He blows that bloody whistle more than a Bow Street Runner. Player after player is bollocked up hill and down dale. He dishes out more cards than Postman Pat. Former Grantham Town manager Wayne Hallcro receives a yellow one after a tasty challenge as a bit of ‘violence’ creeps into the game.

Former Lincoln United player Richard Ranshaw looks to have wrapped up the game for Wollaton with a rasping drive into the corner of the onion bag. But they have not allowed for what Dick calls ‘Rolphy Time.’

A corner comes in from the right with, seconds remaining ,and is cleared off the line for another corner. Another one is whipped in. It’s like the end of the Benny Hill Show. Stanhope, the visiting keeper is cleaning windows. The home ‘keeper, who has scampered up the pitch at the death, gets a touch on it, the ball falls to Tim Moore who calmly back heels the ball into the back of the net. There isn’t even time for the re-start. What a magnificent end to a brilliant morning’s entertainment.


Man of the Match: Hop Organiser, Rob Hornby

Attendance: 358

Colchester United 0-1 Bournemouth

Brian Clough anecdote by Archie Gemmill “In September 1970 I was playing for Preston North End when my manager, Alan Ball [father of the World Cup winner] told me Derby were interested in signing me. Ball and I, Brian Clough, his assistant manager Peter Taylor and the Derby secretary Stuart Webb all met at the Pack Horse Hotel in Bolton. There was no doubt who was in charge from the moment he swept into the lounge bar. Clough dominated the room, deciding exactly how he wanted the bar staff to arrange the table for our negotiations.

Brash, big-headed, just as he had appeared to me on television, Brian had everyone running around after him. There was another offer from Everton, but Clough was determined to sign me. After the hotel, he came back to my house. I said: 'I’m away to my bed. I’m signing nothing tonight.’ With that, Clough plonked himself down on the fireside rug, took off his shoes and announced he would sleep there for the night.

In the morning, Betty [Gemmill’s wife] was preparing breakfast when she heard someone come into the kitchen. Clough was standing there rubbing his hands together, dressed in no more than his boxer shorts. He ate a hearty breakfast and then, before I had a chance to put my last forkful into my mouth, he dragged me into the sitting room to finalise our negotiations and sign all the papers.”

It’s a quick getaway for Trumpy and Sticky from Warrington Town’s Cantilever Park. Trumpy is crying his eyes out into his empty one litre plastic bottle, which only hours ago was full of cider. Two pieces of bad news have just been relayed to the legend: Lewis McGugan has notched a late winner for the Tricky Trees, a team Trumpy despises and his beloved Foxes from Leicester are 2-0 down at Pride Park.

We agree on a 9.30 am meet for our trip to Colchester on Good Friday. “Don’t come any earlier, as the pubs aren’t open till midday”, remarks a sulking Bolton.

It’s been a miserable, tiring week at work. We settle around the TV on Tuesday evening and watch a performance with blood, guts, courage and spirit; sadly it’s in the operating theatre of Holby City and not England on the pitch in Montenegro.

I quaff a pint of Sanctuary from the Blue Monkey Brewery on Thursday lunchtime in the picture postcard village of Wysall, as we bid farewell to my old boss, who is moving to pastures new.

I pull up the blinds in the kitchen on Friday morning to be greeted with blue-painted skies. I pour myself a strong cup of coffee and rustle up a couple of poached eggs. New York indie rock band Yeah Yeah Yeahs are belting out their new single on 6Music.

I notice on the Colchester United message board that a very friendly U’s official has kindly offered to usher Trumpy and I pitch-side for a few photo opportunities before the game. It’s a lovely touch.

BBC Five Live’s northern football reporter, Peter Slater, has invited me to link in with him on LinkedIn. Trumpy and I met Peter a few seasons ago at Bury’s Gigg Lane. Perhaps he’ll offer Trumpy a job fetching beer and sandwiches from the corporate hospitality suite.

I’m outside Bolton’s house at 9.30 am on the dot. His set doesn’t look too good folks. The ‘Primarni’ shirt hangs below his charity shop blue jacket. He swings his East Midlands Airport carrier bag, where a bottle of Bulmer’s pear cider is buried at the bottom.

A cheese onion toasty has already been washed down with a bottle of Tanglefoot ale. As we pull on the A1 southbound, Ken Bruce’s Pop Master is about to start on Radio 2. Sticky storms into a healthy lead in the first round; Trumpy is aghast. There’s a Montenegro type comeback from Bolton in the second round, as honours end even.

Trumpy tells an extraordinary tale from last Saturday. He nipped into town (Nottingham) at 10 am and was back home for 4 pm. In that time he downed pints at the following watering holes: The Roebuck, Joseph Else, Coach & Horses, Yates’ Wine Lodge, The Bank, the Bell Inn, the Canal House, the Monkey Tree and finally the Stratford Haven. It’s a session that Best, Reed, Katona and Denise Welch would have struggled to live with.

We cruise past the sugar beet factory at Bury St Edmunds and chug down the bustling high street of Long Melford, where Bolton brags how he downed a pint in all eight pubs in a lunchtime session.

First port of call today is a Chef & Brewer establishment in the village of Great Horkesley. Trumpy shouts up two pints of Asphall Cyder and a pint of Adnams Southwold. Yes readers, he always drinks 2 pints to my every one. Scampi, chips and mushy peas are a steal at £4.95.

Next stop is the Three Horseshoes in Fordham. The landlady queries why I’m taking photos of the joint. She’s well tidy and makes a real fuss of Trumpy, who has bought 2 pints for himself, a Pepsi for me and a take-out bottle of raspberry and lime Kopparberg cider.There’s a Brat Pack evening in the pub tonight. Trumpy remarks that his uncle does a Frank Sinatra tribute act. “Both are shite”, he remarks.

The Weston Homes Stadium is plonked in the middle of nowhere. It’s the completely different experience to my usual non-league soiree. We have to part with £6 to park the car on an industrial estate, a 15 minute walk away from the ground.

Bolton requires a hip replacement and is none too chuffed with the hike to the ground. He has a drunken rant about Mark McGhee, Steve Wright, Adrian Durham and Sarah Cox It brightens up the day.

Colchester is a historic town in the county of Essex with a population of 100,000. It claims to be the oldest Roman town in Britain. Brit Pop duo Damon Albarn and Graham Coxon met at Stanway School, in the town, to form the band Blur.

Other notable personalities from Colchester include: ‘and in no particular order’ Dermot O’Leary, cricketers Neil Foster & Graham Napier, love rat Darren Day, and snooker player Ali Carter.

Colchester United were formed in 1937 and are nicknamed The U’s. I nipped into their old Layer Road ground on my charity tour of 108 grounds back in 2000. Capacity at their new ground is 10,000. Record signing is Steven Gillespie £400,000 from Cheltenham. Record fee received is £2,500,000 for Nottingham Forest cult hero Greg Halford from Reading.

Former Republic of Ireland international and Charlton Athletic midfielder Mark Kinsella is the Joe Dunne’s assistant manager at Colchester United.

I’ve arranged for a couple of tickets to be left on, unfortunately there appears to have been as they say on Fawlty Towers ‘a bit of a cock-up on the catering front.’

After queuing for an eternity we finally bag two tickets for the South Stand at £20 a piece. The programme is £3 and is a good read. The teams are just kicking off as we take our seat behind the goal the Cherries of Bournemouth will be attacking.

There’s an icy blast blowing down the ground. It’s not long before Trumpy is shivering. We’ve both under clubbed on the amount of clobber we are wearing.

Bournemouth soon find their groove after a bright opening by The U’s. League One Player of the Year, Matt Ritchie is tormenting the Colchester defence. He has a low sense of gravity and a beautiful touch. He always wants the ball and is rarely wasteful in possession. Ritchie shows the full back a clean pair of heels on 18 minutes; his cross is bundled into the back of the net by Brett Pitman.

Poor old Colchester, not sure if the wind is playing a factor, but I can’t see them scoring in a month of Sundays. The Cherries are wasteful in front of goal. No-one is more guilty than former Brentford and Rotherham striker Lewis Grabban. He misses a hatful of chances as on loan Chelsea ‘keeper Sam Walker single-handedly keeps his side in the game.

We both dive down to the soulless concrete concourse for a warm. There’s no cosy-carpeted clubhouse with character like you get in the Non League. ‘Jerk it Out’ by Swedish rock band Caesars blasts out the ground’s speakers, as we view the half time scores.

Colchester look hungrier with the wind at their backs, but take an age to deliver the ball into the box. On the hour journeyman striker Clinton Morrison is removed from the attack; we didn’t even notice he was playing.

The Cherries are dangerous on the counter-attack. Harry Arter forces Walker into action on two separate occasions. Colchester’s Billy Clifford clips the ball from the edge of the box; it curls agonisingly the wrong side of the post with the ‘keeper beaten.

We don’t hang around for injury time; there’s plenty of that due to Bournemouth’s time-wasting tactics and play-acting dramatics. Bolton endures a 15 minute hobble back to the car.

Attendance: 4727

Man of the Match: Sam Walker (Colchester)

Warrington Town 2-1 Salford City

It’s Saturday March 2nd and Sticky Palms is pacing up and down the touchline at Keyworth United’s Platt Lane complex. The reason my groundhopping has tailed off is because I coach ‘The Skipper’s’ team. We are drawing 2-2 in the Nottinghamshire County Cup semi-final. The final minutes of the game are ticking away. Dunkirk are our opponents. They are revered and feared in junior football.

The Skipper’ hits a slide-rule pass to a boy that’s been with us since he was eight. Adam scurries away from a tiring defender. He holds his nerve and blasts the ball into the back of the net. I can’t look at his Dad because I know I’ll burst into tears. What a journey we have had. I will make sure we enjoy the final at Arnold Town’s Eagle Valley ground on April 13th.

It’s Friday evening and I’m mooching about in the wine section at our local Sainsbury’s. That blooming 12% rocket fuel Rioja, that did for me the other week, is on offer again. I give it the swerve and plump for a bottle of Hardy’s Stamp. Mrs P has fallen victim to the dreaded lurgy. It means we can tuck into a fish n chip supper.

I’m down in the kitchen for 7.30 am on Saturday. I put my headphones on and do some research on the Cheshire town of Warrington, whilst listening to ‘Gravel Pit’ by American East Coast hip hop group Wu-Tang Clan. I was reminded of the song yesterday on 6 Music’s Radcliffe and Maconie show.

Twitter is reporting on the death of ‘faulty microphone’ comedian Norman Collier. The north west’s top blogger, Uwdi Krugg, tweets that the ‘Samba Boys’ of Runcorn have landed in Manchester for the NWCL top of the table clash with Maine Road.

We have royalty travelling in the ‘Rolls Royce’ today. Mr Trumpy Bolton is aboard the team bus, following a three month spell on the sidelines. The upholstery is treated to some lemon fresh spray that will hopefully overpower the cider fumes from his trusty litre plastic bottle of Bulmer’s.

Mrs T is giving ‘Trumpy Towers’ a lick of paint. “Get me out of here” says Bolton, “and if you get the chance love, the lawns need cutting." He slams the door and makes a hasty getaway. The legend has had two rounds of pate on toast for breakfast, washed down with a tin of McEwans.

He confesses to having successfully completed the ‘Dryathon’ in January. A stone has been shed and a penchant for green tea has been discovered. He claims that a sniff of the barmaid’s apron today may have him doing hand-stands, following a week off the sauce.

Warrington and Runcorn fans please remain seated while I reveal that Trumpy Bolton’s sole mission in life is to complete a financial transaction, usually involving a pint of cider, in every village, town and city in England, Wales and Scotland. He has a dog-eared, crumpled old atlas with each place visited highlighted off.

He has rediscovered his zest for the Foxes of Leicester. Recent away trips have doubled-up into binge-drinking weekends away in Ipswich, Blackpool and Huddersfield. He even bagged two tickets in Suffolk to see cheery Cockney duo Chas n Dave.

There’s almost a multiple pile-up on the A50 when the legend announces he is getting wed next year. Plans are afoot for a stag weekend in the Isle of Man – I’ll be checking out the local non-league scene in Douglas.

I chuckle at a tourist sign in Stoke that says Cultural Quarter.Ironically it’s close to Stoke City’s Britannia Stadium.

First port of call is the Queens Arms, a Wetherspoons in the town of Winsford. We park in a ropey area of the town. A battle-scarred youth passes us on a dodgy back street. It’s only midday and trade is already brisk. Trumpy shouts up a pint of cider and two pints of Oracle from the Salopian Brewery in Shropshire.

He sits gooey-eyed, in silence, admiring the drinking prowess of a young girl, who effortlessly downs 3 bottles of WKD in the space of half an hour. I wolf down a chicken and bacon salad before departing to our next watering hole.

I flick the radio on to hear Darren Fletcher describe the opening goal for Wigan-born Everton midfielder Leon Osman against Man City. David Platt has missed it; he’s preparing the oranges in the away dressing room.

Trumpy has sniffed out a Marston new build in the middle of nowhere. It’s a soulless joint. Sticky’s on Coca Cola now as Bolton ups it a gear in the drinking stakes. I’d put him in the same bracket as Best, Burton and Reed.

We hit the town of Warrington, on the banks of the River Mersey, at 2.15pm. The town embraced the industrial revolution and exploited the nearby Manchester Ship Canal, close to where the local football is situated. Back in the day, steel-making, brewing and textiles were the biggest employers in the area. IKEA opened its first store in Britain in Warrington.

On March 20th 1993 the IRA detonated two bombs on Bridge Street, in the town, the day before Mother’s Day. Two young boys tragically lost their lives. 56 people were injured, 4 seriously.

A list of notable people from Warrington include: Stones Roses lead singer Ian Brown, the recently deceased actor Pete Postlewhaite, Brookside’s Sue Johnston, Radio 2 breakfast DJ Chris Evans, Kerry Katona, BGT winner George Sampson, ex-England cricketer Neil Fairbrother, flat race jockey Paul Hanagan and former News of the World editor Rebekah Brooks.

 We cross over the Cantilever Bridge and park the Rolls Royce outside the Latchford Baptist Church. A group of lads point Trumpy in the general direction of another hostelry. Steely Dan is blasting out the juke box of the Cheshire Cheese as the legend necks another.

What a pair of buffoons we are, a wrong turning out of the pub door causes a 20 minute diversion. I pay my £7 on the gate and £2 for an informative programme. I notice an excellent stat in the programme. Two European Cup winning captains went to the same school: Phil Thompson (Liverpool) and Dennis Mortimer (Aston Villa).

We all stand in silence to remember those that lost their lives or were seriously injured 20 years ago. It’s a moving and special moment.

Warrington Town is a lovely club. They have Ollie the Owl as a mascot and attract loads of kids in club colours. The ground is neat and tidy. There’s a club shop and a modern brick-built clubhouse. There are seated areas on both sides of the ground.

Bolton checks out the opening hours in the Social Club, while I take my customary stroll around the ground. The home fans are in good voice. Lyrics are used to the tunes of Coronation St, The Beatles, Bananarama and Depeche Mode.

I find Trumpy slumped in a seat on the back row of the stand, stuffing his face with a steak and kidney pie. The game is nothing much to write home about. All the action seems to take place off the field of play.

I’ve clocked former Barnsley and Wigan midfielder Darren Sheridan to my left. The woman in front of him has stood up. Sheridan politely asks her to sit down as she is blocking his view. Unpleasantries are exchanged. The woman storms off eventually. Trumpy is captivated by it all.

The Warrington left winger skins a defender and pops a shot off. The ‘keeper can only push it out to former Bury and Morecambe striker, John Newby, who stabs the ball home for the opening goal.

Darren Sheridan’s mood hasn’t improved much. He’s fished a few betting slips out of his pocket and has got Sticky on the phone checking the latest scores. He takes the news badly that Liverpool, Villa and Alfreton are all behind. He scrunches up his coupons.

Bolton has purchased another pint and half from behind the bar. It could be a no-show in the second from him as Italy entertain Ireland in the Six Nations. I have a quick chat with the ‘Salford Three’ behind the goal. Apparently the team are in transition.

I also bump into Jon Newby’s father who is distraught that his lad has been subbed off. He proudly tells me how his lad scored Morecambe’s first ever League goal. His other son, a marketing manager at Chelsea, has just phoned in from Cowdenbeath where he is groundhopping.

I find Trumpy studiously looking up and down at Warrington’s manager, Shaun Reid (brother of Peter). Reid’s face is twisted and contorted. At no time does he appear to enjoy the game.

Warrington are 2-0 up by now. A nervy last 15 minutes are endured after Adrian Bellamy pulls a goal back for the visitors.

Attendance: 190

Man of the Match: Salford ‘Keeper

Charlton Athletic 0 Nottingham Forest 2

It’s May 1st 1993. Sticky Palms has fielded for 40 overs in baking heat in the village of Aslockton, in south Notts. Ten miles down the road the greatest manager of all-time is counting down the clock, as the final few minutes of his illustrious career ticks away.

Nottingham Forest are about to be relegated from top flight football. Here is an anecdote from the best ever football book written, by Duncan Hamilton, a journalist from my village, which is titled ‘Provided You Don’t Kiss Me.’

‘During his last match in charge, Clough stood straight-backed outside the dugout like a captain determined to be on the bridge when the ship went down. After the final whistle, the crowd spilled on to the pitch. In one photograph, Clough, on the verge of tears, appears in the centre of the passionate thousands who were determined not to let him go. Afterwards, he accepted a flower from a young girl, as distraught as a mourner at a funeral. He looked at her, his head on one side, and said tenderly, 'Hey beauty, no tears today, please.’

'Can I have a word from you, Brian,’ asked a television interviewer outside the ground. 'Of course,’ said Clough, walking away. 'Goodbye.’

It’s Tuesday evening and I’m sat in the notorious and infamous ‘A’ Block. The Glaswegian, William McIntosh Davies (in real money ‘King Billy’) is back in town. There have been casualties, paths have been crossed and old scores have been settled. The media have a huddle on twitter; two of their own have been shown the door. King Billy refuses to talk to local BBC station ‘Radio Red.’

The Terriers of Huddersfield are up against the Red Dogs of Nottingham It’s one-sided in the first 15 minutes. The visitors bag one; but it really should be two. Ironically, Mark Robins is the newly appointed Huddersfield manager. It was at this very ground in 1990 that he saved Alex Ferguson’s job in an FA Cup tie.

Out of the blue Forest have an half an hour spell of mesmerising champagne football that I haven’t witnessed since the 5-1 mauling of Leicester City back in 2009. It has whetted my appetite. The Charlton tickets have been bagged. We’re off to stop at the Mayor of London’s pad in Putney Heath for the weekend.

I toss a few clothes into an overnight bag. Murphy, my budgie, sheds a few tears; he doesn’t like his Dad being away. White Van Man is revving up the car. We’ve allowed the Friday night rush-hour traffic to die down. We pick up ‘Dafty’ and the ‘Mayor of London, who is on a whistle stop tour of Nottingham. We’re soon roaring down the M1.

It’s just gone 9 pm when we rock up outside the Mayor’s swanky penthouse pad on Putney Heath. We throw our bags in and hit the town; well actually Roehampton and the swish surroundings of the recently refurbished King’s Head.

We can’t get a late beer for love or money down Wimbledon village. Much to Sticky’s disgust, we’re charged on the door at Hemmingway’s wine bar. You can’t even shout up a beer. The Mayor orders a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc for £21. It tastes revolting.

I recall New Zealand being 11-3 when I finally hit the sack. I find a twitchy and nervy White Van Man frantically scouring Ticketmaster in the morning. Beyonce tickets are up for grabs at 9 am. I casually ask how much they cost. £95 is the reply. Bloody hell, I could nigh on watch 20 non league games for that price.

We’re striding out towards Putney high street. Destination is a tidy little greasy spoon called Cappuccino. White Van Man falls in love with a rowdy Russian waitress. Egg yolk dribbles down his chin as the Bond girl brings out a production line of fry-ups. Dusty Springfield’s 1966 hit ‘You Don’t Have to Say You Love Me’ adds to the atmosphere. It’s the best £4.95 we’ll spend today.

The Mayor queues for train tickets at Putney Station whilst Sticky is accosted by an Irish ticket tout. We alight at London Bridge. Sticky has sorted out a cosy little boozer tucked away in a back street. I ignore the moans and groans of WVM as we pass the soulless chain pub All Bar One.

‘Brownie’ and a few of his pals hook up with us at the Royal Oak, an old-fashioned corner house in the London Bridge Quarter. I enjoy a pint of Harvey’s Kiss. WVM has a face like a smacked arse. The Mayor says he expects Nicholas Lyndhurst to pop in from the BBC series ‘Goodnight Sweetheart.’

We’re soon back on the overhead line and pulling into Charlton. Sticky jnr (my lad) has already tipped us the wink on an away supporters pub. A friendly policeman points us in the right direction. Young junior has been on the sauce; he fleeces ‘Hopper’ for a tenner and gets his mates a round in.

We guzzle a few 1664s and watch Jonathan Walters do what he does best. He fluffs a penalty and in general is ‘Having a Walters.’ Sticky jnr and his muppet mates lead the chanting as we amble down Valley Grove.

Charlton is a district in south-east London and part of the Borough of Greenwich. Charlton Athletic were founded in 1905 and are nicknamed the Addicks. Record goal-scorer is Derek Hales, who in 1979 was sensationally sent off for a punch-up along with his own team-mate, Mike Flanagan, by referee Brian Martin, who lived in my village.

The youngest player ever to have appeared for Charlton is Jonjo Shelvey, who was only 16 years of age. Record transfer fee paid is £4,750,000 for Jason Euell. Record transfer fee received is £16,500,000 from Tottenham Hotspur for Darren Bent.

It’s £30 for my ticket and £3 for a 60 page programme. We’ve a prime spot in the South Stand. The Charlton DJ ups the stakes with ‘London’s Calling’ by The Clash and ‘Can’t Stand Me Now’ by The Libertines featuring ex QPR programme seller Pete Doherty.

It’s an impressive stadium that has kept its looks despite the Club’s fall from grace. A huge block of high-rise flats is situated in the corner of the ground. I like Charlton Athletic. They once bought a couple of good uns from my old team – Lincoln City – Steve Thompson and George Shipley were bargain buys.

The teams walk out onto the ugly-looking playing surface. The travelling support has swelled to 3000. They salute King Billy, who is bursting with pride. It’s all Forest from the word go. It’s a return to the diamond formation that was so successful in the Paul Hart era. Ironically, Hart watches from the stands as Charlton’s Academy Director.

For all Forest’s possession they barely fashion a chance in the opening quarter. The game-changer happens on 35 minutes. Greg Halford outmuscles Yan Kermogant and ushers the ball out of play. The Frenchman has a Cantona-like moment of madness, kicking out at the Forest defender. After consulting with his assistant referee Madley waves a red card.

There’s controversial news coming from the Mayor’s twitter feed at the break. Former Charlton legend Paul Elliott has resigned from his post as FA anti-racism campaigner, following an ‘inappropriate text’ to former colleague Richard Rufus.

Forest have the momentum and turn on the style. Charlton can’t cope with their ex skipper Andy Reid. His give and go’s, marauding runs and defence-splitting passing are worth the £30 alone. He plays in ‘The Pole’ Raddy Majewski, who stays on his feet and toe pokes the ball home.

The Tricky Trees are rampant and the second one is not long in coming. Simon Cox’s shot from the right is spilt by ‘keeper Hamer, who has had a dreadful afternoon, former Gunner Henri Lansbury blasts home from close range.

The Mayor of London is delirious. He’s backed Raddy and NFFC 2-0 at 115/1. Forest look good for more though. Ward scorpion kicks one onto the post, whilst the impressive Darius Henderson sees an effort thump back off the woodwork.

Johnnie Jackson shows some quality for the Addicks. His set pieces are deadly. He had a spell at the Pies during the Munto era, but soon scarpered home when the money dried up.

The whistle goes, the Mayor’s bet has come up trumps. We sink a few more pints at a pub down the road. We’re late for the train and sprint down the steps. Some Charlton fans tease us from above a bridge I engage in banter but fall spectacularly like Devon Loch in the Grand National. Charlton station is filled with laughter. I bury my head in my hands and sit sheepishly on the train. I can’t arf pick em!

Man of the Match: Andy Reid

Attendance: 18,697