It's Sunday morning. I roll out of bed at 8.30 a.m. I shower up and have a shave. I run down the stairs and head into the kitchen. I flick the kettle on as I need a strong Nescafe Alta Rica coffee - on offer at £3 a jar at Netherfield Co-op. I'd hurry up, as Ms Moon and I have mopped up.
I beat a couple of eggs in a Pyrex jug, add a knob of butter, a tablespoon of milk and some salt and pepper. I power up the microwave as I haven't time to put it in a pan on the hob. I wolf down my scrambled egg on toast before sliding open the French window door and scurrying down the passageway in the direction of Carlton Road. I hop on and hop off the No.26 bus, alighting opposite the Motorpoint Arena.
The skies are clear blue and the sun shimmers off the canal still waters, as I stroll up the towpath. Anglers dangle their poles and rods into the water, hoping and praying that they catch a whopper of a carp, that lurk in the reeds beneath the surface.
I catch up with Dafty, one of my best friends. He's brought his close companion, Mabel, an 18 month old black Labrador. We wander up the Trent towards Wilford Suspension Bridge. A tram rattles by, heading towards the Meadows and the city of Nottingham. We continue our stroll up Victoria Embankment, over Trent Bridge and past the world-famous City Ground. There will be some sore heads this morning, following a dramatic added time winner for the Tricky Trees by the 'Sniffer' Lewis Grabban, against his old club Millwall, at the New Den.
We pass Holme Road, where Notts County train these days. The Magpies are in a rich vein of form. I'm looking forward to watching them on Friday evening versus Barnet. It's a tribute night to the late, great local radio commentator, Colin Slater, who passed away last week. Neil Warnock is travelling up from his Cornwall home to pay his respects.
I say cheerio to Dafty, on The Avenue, a strip that is stacked out with chain restaurants that lack any character or imagination. I take a left turn onto Stratford Road, where one of Nottinghamshire County Cricket Club's finest ever captains lived at house No.246. How do I know that C.E.B Rice lived there? Because it was listed in the Notts phone directory.
It's just gone midday and my thirst needs quenching after that cheeky 6 mile walk. I open the door of the Stratford Haven, a Castle Rock real ale and craft ale back street boozer. I sink a few ales and catch up with an old schoolmate 'Tich Colman' who has a season ticket in here. As chance would have it Ms Moon is in the vicinity. The skies are slate grey and rain is falling, a few hours later, when the disgraced groundhopper (4 match ban) very kindly picks me up.
There's no midweek football action again for Sticky. I suffer in silence as Cain Dingle throws his weight about on Emmerdale Farm. He'll probably win the TV Times award for skulking, sulking and threatening folk - the Mitchell brothers won't be happy.
Another episode of 'Celebrity' Coach Trip tips me over the edge and puts me on the brink of phoning up the Samaritans. I seek refuge upstairs, listening to wonderful anecdotes from former Manchester United goalkeeper Peter Schmeichel and the BBC Pointless question master, Richard Osman, who are guests on Radio 4's Desert Island Discs. The only other highlight to report this week is that I had tea with my two lads 'The Keyworth Georgie Best' and 'Our Joe.' We dined at the Waterside Bar on Trent Bridge - the artist formally known as Southbank Bar.
It's midday on Friday and I'm buzzing for the weekend. I get a message off Tony Mac to say he'll meet me for a swift drink in Junkyard at 5 p.m. That's a bit odd as he was meant to be looking after his daughter, as his wife, Jo, works at Notts County. A quick check of twitter confirms the game is OFF as Barnet can't field a side, due to you know what and injuries. I blow a gasket and shout out a stream of obscenities.
It's the usual drill on Friday evening, despite me still chewing on a brick, thanks to the incompetency of those Herberts at the National League. I'm consoled by North Brew, Leeds, who have a tap takeover at Junkyard, We're holed up in there for 90 minutes before the usual rat run of Bunkers Hill, Fox and Grapes, Partizan Tavern and crowd favourite 'The Rap Tap', who have a couple of killer craft ales on. I'm ashamed to say it's a small doner meat and chips for the second consecutive week.
You can hear a pin drop at Chez Palms on Saturday morning. I'm on my lonesome. Ms Moon, and daughter Becky, are in my old ends, in Lincoln, on a girly night. I stroll down Hockley. Nottingham is a hive of activity and it's only 9 a.m. Forest v The Sheep is a 12.30 p.m kick off. I hope Rams supporters remember to wipe their feet when they cross the cattle grid before entering the 'Queen of the Midlands.'
I enjoy breakfast at an independent cafe called YOLK on Goose Gate. The guy who runs it is such a friendly chap, and he plays cool music on a Spotify playlist. It's carnage in town. The queues at 'Spoons, Pop World and Lloyds stretch longer than they would do in an evening. Everyone wants to be there when U Reds hammer the final nail in D***y Clownty's coffin.
The Number 1 bus drops me off at Trent Bridge. Match day traffic is already building up on another gorgeous day. I've agreed to meet the 'Big Man' in the Ferry Inn car park, on the banks of the Trent, in the village of Wilford, Sat Nav is sending us down the A50 so it will save him some time. I phone him up, as his close neighbour, Trumpy Bolton, (once of this parish) knocks on his door. There's some bleating that he hasn't been invited, so we pencil Feb 12th into our diaries for a trip to the north east.
Adrian is making his groundhopping debut today. I met him in Tenerife for the first time at Christmas. His property is situated in a gated community with grounds bigger than Home Farm Estate, in Emmerdale. He's fully integrated himself into the groundhopping fraternity. He has a rucksack and has made his own sandwiches. Sadly they are wrapped in tin foil and not packed into a Tupperware container, like proper hoppers do.
The Big Man must have played Grand Theft Auto 5 on Friday evening as he smokes off a number of 'weekend drivers' on the A50 towards Stoke. A pale-faced 'The Taxman' was so shocked by a 'Death Ride' to Hednesford, Staffs, back in 2009, that he announced, after, that he wouldn't set foot in the 'Big Man's' car ever again. True to his word, he hasn't.
We roll into the Trafford FC car park with two hours spare, after a couple of Wacky Races moments on the M6. Adrian is already tucking into his tuna sandwiches. The plan was to go for a walk in a nearby park. This was until we chanced upon the Bird I'th Hand Pub, which I'd been tipped off about by the Trafford FC Supporters Club on twitter. I'm disappointed that it claims to be Cask Marque and yet has no real ales on draught. I settle for a couple of pints of Guinness.
The Big Man is watching NFFC v The Sheep on his phone. He fails to notice that Forest are 1-0 up until the 75th minute (they scored in the 49th minute). Brennan Johnson puts the game to bed on 82 minutes.
Trafford FC were founded in 1990 and play their football at the Shawe View Stadium, in Urmston. Famous people to come from the area include: weather presenter Suzanne Charlton (daughter of Bobby), entertainer and actor Matthew Kelly, Open All Hours actress Lynda Baron and the former Manchester City footballers David White and Michael Johnson.
It's a very reasonable £8 on the gate. The ground is tree-lined and has character. Everyone is dead friendly. I buy a programme for a couple of quid and we all have a punt on a golden goal ticket. Adrian heads straight to the food bar to grab a cheeseburger. We stand on the far side of the ground, where the touchline is nearer, as my eyesight isn't the best these days.
The Trafford 6 jacket makes an impressive start. He's a proper old-fashioned defender who heads and kicks it. I strike up a conversation with his Scouse father, who is passionate about the game. He calls his lad 'Dope on a Rope.' or 'soft lad.'
It's a lively enough start but soon turns into mediocrity. Trafford, for all their efforts, can't string two passes together in the opposition's half. City of Liverpool, on the other hand, look sharper and full of ideas. Their Number 10 glides across the surface, as well as having a deft touch and footballing brain. They should be three to the good at the break, had it not been for stoic defending and bodies thrown on the line by Trafford's defenders.
The volunteers in the tea bar are different class. An army of staff are well drilled. Queues are dealt with swiftly. I graze on a hot dog as Adrian gnaws his way through a Kit Kat bar. The game looks destined for a 0-0 draw, a score I can't abide. Thankfully the visitors convert a penalty and could easily have added to their tally on another day. Trafford, on the other hand, barely fashion a chance. Great club though.
Attendance: 432
Man of the Match: 10 Jacket for City of Liverpool
No comments:
Post a Comment