There's been a commotion during the Pompey v Cardiff City game across the far side of the ground from where I'm sitting. A home fan is reluctant to pass the ball back to Cardiff defender Krystian Bielik, who has hopped over an advertising hoarding to retrieve it. It's only when I'm grazing on a Southsea Brewing craft ale called X-Ray Spex, in the cosy Brewers Tap, that i earwig that there's been an altercation between fan and player. The local plod are investigating the incident (that will be on the back burner later in the week),
I'm as happy as Larry and have a spring in my step as I peg it around the pubs and bars in a residential, friendly area of Portsmouth called Eastney. I clock off at 10 pm with a two day total of 23 miles in the legs, 12x Good Beer Guide tick offs. 2x CAMRA Heritage pubs visited and 91 grounds out of 92 chalked off. Plans for a trip to Plymouth Argyle have already been mapped out.
I'm back in Nottingham early on Sunday afternoon. I set to work on my blog and publish it just after 8 pm. I'm fagged out and climbing the wooden hill by 9 pm. What a weekend I've had.
I wake up to news of violent, disorder in an area of Portsmouth I was drinking on Saturday evening. Several police, coastguard and border force vehicles were damaged as well as police officers receiving treatment for injuries. 200 anti-migration thugs were dispersed from the area in the early hours of Monday morning. I hope they found their way home okay and didn't end up in the sea on their way to France because they couldn't see out of their balaclavas.
The Radford physio, 'Shoey', pops in the shop most Monday afternoons to discuss the weekend's football scores and to share any gossip. The Pheasants have been defeated in their last five outings. I think it's time to pay a visit. Shoey begs to differ as I have built up the reputation of a Jonah on my jaunts to Selhurst Street. I contact The HoF (Head of Football) Big Glenn Russell to inform him of my impending visit. "NOOOO" is his reply.
It's a 75 minute walk from the shop to Radford's ground. I rest briefly in Woodthorpe Park, where I used to play pitch 'n putt (golf) as a kid. I continue my walk through Sherwood, a vibrant suburb of Nottingham, before taking a right hand turn onto Haydn Road. I notice a cricket ground at the top of the road. I feel sure I played at this venue as a kid, where a works' team called Bairnswear was located back in the early 80s. They were a large knitwear firm who were bought out by Courtaulds.
I'm greeted with the middle finger from Big Glenn as I enter the clubhouse - I think it's all in jest. There's plenty of banter flying around as 'ASBO' makes a pig's ear of the raffle. I agree to sponsor the match ball in a few weeks time.
I view the game with Danny Harkin, who is a groundhopper, fish and chip reviewer and a big Carlton Town fan too. His wife Lyndsey has captained Nottingham Forest and Wolves, as well as playing for Stoke. Danny is a great lad with a good knowledge of the local scene. The game ends 1-1. There's no questioning the effort levels but the game lacks any quality. Danny very kindly drops me off at home. Thank you pal.
The cricket season is drawing to a close and it appears that Super Notts are running out of steam. I sit with Drurs and Horsy as Australian-born batsman Jake Lehmann bravely scores a Ton in trying circumstances. His father is former Test player Darren Lehman, his uncle is former England and Yorkshire all-rounder Craig White. There's no time for a crafty pint or two with Faggsy as I'm up at stupid o'clock for work in the morning.
They've been playing up in Pompey again. A crowd of right wing thickos have stormed a Marriott hotel in the city centre and started knocking on doors of the occupants who are part of the Pakistan under 19 cricket team. They were 'mistakingly informed' that the cricketers were illegal immigrants. All 40 protesters also admitted to having applied online to be contestants on Tipping Point.
I'm sat in Junkyard on Thursday teatime drinking a splendid double Indian pale ale from DosKiwis, a Spanish brewery from Girona. As skies darken, wickets begin to tumble at Trent Bridge, as the game turns on its head. Hampshire finish on 68-7, having skittled out Notts for 104 earlier in the day.
Tony Mac and I are on the 7.45 am train to Manchester early on Friday. We're wandering around the Derbyshire town of Glossop by 10.30 am. Breakfast and a beer are taken at a 'Spoons. We sweat it off by sauntering up to the cricket club and football ground. The first black West Indian to have played county cricket also represented Glossop in the early 20th century. His name was Charles Augustus Ollivierre.
The football ground is magnificent. I saw a see-saw FA Vase tie here, in 2009, against Stewart and Lloyds from Corby with a great mate who has since passed. The club reached the final at Wembley that season. The best pub in the town is The Crown, a Samuel Smiths watering hole, where you are still NOT allowed to use mobile phones, laptops, nor bring in children or dogs. We enjoy some craic with an old boy who only ever drinks Alpine lager.
Another pint is enjoyed further up the train line at Broadbottom, before alighting at Newton for Hyde. It's a short stroll to The Sportsman where a young lass behind the bar has it all on pouring a pint of Rossendale cask ale as the gas has gone.
The town of Hyde is where the professional boxer Ricky 'Hitman' Hatton was from. He was also known as 'The Pride of Hyde' and 'The People's Champion.' He won 45 bouts out of 48 fights. His cause of death was 'suicide by hanging.' Thousands of people lined up the streets of Manchester to pay their respects on the day of his funeral.
We finish up the evening at our favourite spot on a seat outside Manchester Oxford Road Tap. The omnishambles of a company called EMR continue their miserable run of form by only putting on two carriages for the train home. The excuse is pitiful. The scaredy cat ticket inspector daren't show his face. I was fast off to be honest.
Lunch, on Saturday, is taken on the Notts/Derbys border in the village of Upper Langwith. I sniffed out a beauty called The Devonshire. I'm pleased to get out of the car to be honest as Sara Cox has been babbling on about Party in the Park in Stirling for close on an hour. True story here: if you're from Bolton you'll probably get a gig on Radio 2.
Lunch is sumptuous. I have pork and leek sausages with cheesy mash, whilst Ms Moon plumps for steak. There's time to nip into Ruby's News (it's no MSR folks .. lol) for chocolate and water. I bump into Scott Ward, Clippo matchday secretary. I always enjoy some craic with Wardy - he's had more tracksuits than Sports Direct.
Word up is that the Eastwood owner has asked to land his chopper next to the ground. Why can't he catch the number 16 Stagecoach bus like normal folk do? Eastwood are 1-0 up after a few minutes from the penalty spot. It's soon 2-0 with the game all over after a senseless Red card.
I notice Curtis Thompson warming up for the visitors. I call him over and ask him if he remembers his 6 week trial at Notts County when he was 12 years old when I spotted him playing on Keyworth Rec for Hyson Cavaliers. He did. I lost him to Leicester City for four years before getting him back down Meadow Lane. He made over 250 Football League appearances at Notts County, Wycombe, Grimsby and Cheltenham. I can't 'arf pick 'em.
Attendance: 128
Player/Match Day Secretary of the Match: Scott Ward, proper Non League Legend
Best Beer/Ale Supped This Week: Magic Number, DosKiwis, Girona, in Junkyard
Best Record Heard on the Radio This Week: Lyn Collins, Think (About It)
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