It's 1984 and I'm standing on the Sincil Bank open terrace with my dad, Frank, and best pal, Kev Flinton. Lincoln City are playing First Division West Ham United in a League Cup tie. Derek Bell equalised for the Imps in the 82nd minute. The ground is shaking in celebration. Dad slopes off to the chippy to get a fish supper, with five minutes remaining. Kev and I have the misfortune of bumping into a pretty cheesed off WHU Inter City Firm in the backstreets of Lincoln. Kev takes a punch to the nose as we both scarper up the High Street towards my nanna's house.
One week later and we are down 'the Smoke' for the replay. We do the usual tour of London including a few hours in Soho as they have clubs licensed to sell alcohol all day. We've just turned 18 years old. West Ham fans make a fuss of us in their social club and ply us with drinks. What we hadn't noticed, due to all the fun we were having, was that it's been hosing it down with rain all day. Fans are walking in a different direction to the ground. "Game OFF mate, waterlogged pitch", says a Cockney.
We return a week later to Upton Park, where we lose at the fag end of extra-time to a Ray Stewart spot kick. That bastard never missed a penno. The lovely, unhelpful Metropolitan Police, as usual, were on top form. We're forced to travel with the Lincoln convoy to Barking despite asking if it was okay to catch a train to St Pancras. I arrive home at 2.30 am, but I'm still at my desk at Linby Colliery maintenance office four hours later.
Fast forward almost 45 years and you could knock me down with a feather. Little old Lincoln are playing West Ham United in the Championship. I'd fancy giving them a game if it was 11 v 11. Unfortunately the Imps are down to nine men after just 15 minutes. Yep, we take a hammering. Those cheeky, chirpy away fans sing " Champions of Europe, you'll never sing that." 657 Squadron, in reply sang, "Champions of League One ... you'll never sing that."
On Tuesday evening I head into town straight from work. I've an hour to kill before Notts County play Nottingham Forest Under 21s in the English Football League Trophy - it's a night out innit. I've not been to my favourite independent pizza restaurant in ages.
Slice 'n Brew was born in lockdown in a backyard, in Sherwood, a suburb of Nottingham. It has created a unique blend of New York and Neapolitan pizzas. I plump for a Sopperassatta Salami accompanied with a truffle and Parmesan dip. It's yummy yummy.
I peg it through the Meadows to the game. A lot of fans oppose this competition and tonight they have clearly voted with their feet. Less than 2000 have showed up. It's literally men versus boys. I'm not sure what coaches at academies and 'B teams' are planning in their sessions, but heading and tackling should be a given. Forest are sub-standard at both. Nobody catches my eye for them.
The highlight of the evening is when the 'County' DJ plays How Soon is Now? By The Smiths. It's about Morrissey growing up and highlighting his struggles on coping with anxiety, shyness and awkwardness during adolescence.
Pies manager Martin Patterson is prowling in his technical area. We call him 'Fagin', from Oliver Twist, at the shop. He's giving 'Moneyball' signing, Luka Smyth, some tough love and is continually on his back. Smyth couldn't trap a beach ball in a telephone box tonight, but his key performance indicator is scoring goals; his stats suggest he will, once the big Australian settles in.
It's all kicking off in Emmerdale Farm. The recently deceased Jimmy King is about to be laid to rest, It emerges that the berk had got behind with his life insurance payments. The Hotten Building Society won't be coughing up or paying out any lolly. Add to this, his old flame (Patsy Kensit) has turned up on the scene. "She's had more blokes than I've had hot dinners" I remark from the sofa. Ms Moon says I'm not to confuse fact with fiction and that Kensit is only acting in the soap opera.
I have a siesta on Thursday afternoon after a ridiculously early start. I'm in my favourite craft ale bar in Nottingham by 4 pm. In Junkyard I enjoy a hazy pale ale from Polly's, a brewery from Mold, in North Wales. Tony Mac and I catch the train to Derby, just shy of 5 pm. It would have been quicker on the bus, as a slug must have been the Cross Country driver today - they are bottom of the league table for a reason folks.
GANS, a post-punk and industrialist-alternative duo from Birmingham and the Black Country are playing at the Hairy Dog in Derby this evening. We pot a few ales at The Alexandra, The Brunswick and Exeter Arms. They are playing some awful, loud death metal trash in the bar of the Hairy Dog before the lads come on. It's a blistering high energy set which also includes a musician who can play the flute and saxophone. I'm worn out just watching the set. I flop into bed at just after midnight.
I've a day off on Friday, but there's no rest for the wicked. I clean the house and mow the lawn. I can't put off the dreaded trip to Western Europe's Worst Supermarket. I'm usually wound up like a coiled spring before I walk through the front doors of Carlton Tesco. Radio CT is playing 'We Are Family' by Sister Sledge - MSR family yes, Tesco Fam ... nooooo .... never.
Whilst Ms Moon is still at work I take a bus journey into town. It's been an age since I visited the Canning Circus area of Nottingham. I enjoy a pint of Cinder Toffee at Blue Monkey's Organ Grinder. Just around the corner is Lincoln Green's Sir John Borlase Warren. I ask for a pint of Marion, one of their own brews. I'm charged £6.60. Jeepers creepers, I thought I was back in Soho for a moment circa 1982. It's homemade fillet o' fish burger for tea - I can't 'arf make 'em.
The Mighty Millers (Carlton Town) are away at Grantham Town today. The company will be great but the leisure centre ground is bloody awful. It's bad enough having one eye, but you need a pair of binoculars to see over the athletics track towards the pitch.
I'm aiming to write a book when I retire. It will include a visit to some of the great grounds or places of interest that I hold close to my heart. Ms Moon drops me off outside Lincoln Green's Station Hotel in the old mining town of Hucknall.
Lincoln Green have a silky smooth well-rounded chocolate and blackcurrant Porter called Tuck (£2.10 cheaper than last night). I graze on that whilst watching a friendly, grey pitbull terrier pup make a fuss of all the customers (except me). I walk up towards Hucknall High Street. I pay my respects at the mining memorials and flick the V's at a micro-pub called Byron's Rest, that's owned by a Reform councillor - potholes and boats are all those tossers talk about.
I tip up at the ground five minutes before kick off. The referee is having a strop. He's blown his whistle twice and knocked on the dressing room door, but Linby are slow in coming out to play. I've never come across the visitors Derby Gazers. They are lightning quick down the flanks and take a lead following a faux pas in defence.
The biting wind forces me into the clubhouse at the break. Lincoln surrendered a two goal lead at Millwall and played out the final 15 minutes with ten men. We'll take a point at the Lions' den after the 6-0 mauling on Wednesday. My brother and I are booked in for the Imps' visit to Loftus Road in early November.
Linby fight back in the second half. They deserve a point after scoring from a header following a corner. It's been a lovely afternoon and a trip down memory lane. I worked at Linby Colliery from 1982-1985 and forged some great friendships. I'll never forget the holidays in Ibiza, Corfu and Tenerife. I can't 'arf pick'em.
Attendance: Head Count - Over 60
Men of the Match GANS, in Derby
Best Beer Drank This Week: Tuck Porter, Lincoln Green
Pub of the Week: Station Hotel, Hucknall
Best Record Heard on the Radio: F.O.R.E.V.E.R. The Big Moon
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