Liversedge 1 Parkgate 1

It’s January 5th 2002. Ten of us are holed-up in a back street boozer about 20 minutes away from Sheffield United’s Bramall Lane ground. The pub doors suddenly burst open and in march the notorious South Yorkshire Police Force. We’re told to sup up and leave. We’re frog-marched to the ground.

I’m livid, raging. We stop at another hostelry, where more Forest fans are turfed out onto the streets. I’m giving a copper on horse-back a hard time. I question their motives and reasons for this aggressive behaviour. “Have any lessons been learnt from Hillsborough?” I enquire.

The idiot is not interested with anything I have to say. The game is awful; Paul Hart’s team fail to put a shift in. We have a restricted view; it’s probably for the best. Forest are dumped out of the FA Cup. Oh well, at least we’ll get an escort back to the train station by the boys in blue.

There’s not a copper in sight. We’re left to fend for ourselves. All the Blades’ ‘spotters’ are out in force. It’s an intimidating trawl across wasteland and through a subway. We’re greeted by 30 or 40 riot police at the railway station entrance. Helmets hide their faces; their batons are raised, shields are at the ready. “Do you think I’m going to bash you on the head with my programme?”

I’m still fuming as I down a few more pints in Fellows, Morton and Clayton, on Canal Street in Nottingham, before jumping on a Barton’s bus back home. Mrs P asks if I’ve had a nice time, as I boot up the desktop computer in our hallway. “Not particularly love”, as I Google the South Yorkshire Police.

I send a ranting email in my drunken stupor. “No wonder it took you 8 years to catch the Yorkshire Ripper” was one of the lines I recall. I mention the Hillsborough Disaster and the Miners’ Strike before hitting the ‘send’ button.

I wake up at 3am in a fever-type sweat. I’m waiting for the inevitable knock at the door from Plod. I re-read the email. Oooh heck readers, I could be in trouble here. The following day Cardiff and Leeds fans clash at Ninian Park. On the Monday I receive a three page reply from the Matchday Inspector of South Yorks Police. He apologises for their heavy-handed tactics and then quotes events from the Cardiff game the day before. Phew, it’s a close shave. At least they had the courtesy to reply.

I think of that day as I drive passed the ‘Steel City’ on my way to Liversedge FC. I’ve spent the morning with Mrs P in ‘Bread and Lard Island’ – West Bridgford. We nip into the travel agents to pick up some holiday brochures. Mrs P fancies a dabble at a Greek Island, Sticky prefers mainland Spain. It’s looking like Puerto Pollensa in Majorca folks.

I flick my way through the Backpass football magazine, in Central News, whilst Mrs P picks up a couple of birthday cards. Brian Clough’s son owns the shop. He is a very polite young man. ‘Cloughie’ often used to serve behind the counter. There’s time for a quick Americano at the snug Copper cafe bar, before hitting the M1 North.

Danny Baker has just finished his radio show. He plugged his book ‘Going to Sea in a Sieve’ last night on the One Show. Britain’s first Million pound footballer, Trevor Francis, was the guest on his ‘Sausage Sandwich Game’ this morning.

Sat Nav takes me down the M62 off Junction 42, when AA route planner had indicated that Junction 40 was an alternative route. I had earmarked the Gray Ox at Hartshead, but plump instead for the New Pack Horse in Cleckheaton.

Smooth FM is being piped through the flat screen TV as I order a pint of Saltaire Blonde with a Cajun chicken sandwich for company. The barmaid is chatty; I’m pretty much the only customer in this recently refurbished pub. McFadden & Whitehead and Chaka Khan ensure an early exit for The Groundhopper.

Liversedge’s Quaker Lane ground is a ¼ mile down the road. Cleckheaton is an old mill town in the Metropolitan Borough of Kirklees, with a population of 15,000. In 1903 Lion Confectionary made a fruit sweet called the Midget Gem. When I was a kid I used to buy a 1/4lb bag of them every Saturday from my local sweet shop, before watching Noel Edmonds on Multi-Coloured Swap Shop.

Mr Men and Little Missy author, Roger Hargreaves was born in the town, as was former Everton centre forward Danny Cadamarteri. Yorkshire CC captain, Andrew Gale, used to play for Cleckheaton Cricket Club.

I squeeze the car down a tight private road and park up in the ground. I can hear Carly Simon’s ‘Nobody Does it Better’ on the Clayborn sound system as I part with £5 entrance fee and £1.50 for a programme.

The ground is a belter. Uwdi Krugg, from my favourite ever football blog, Where’s the Tea Hut, tipped me the wink on this one. The clubhouse is perched on top of a bank to the left of the nearest goal. The Stuart Silverwood Stand runs along one side of the ground. The far end is open. On the opposite touchline are the dugouts. A brick-built terrace with a wooden roof is behind the nearest goal.

I take a seat on one of the many benches situated near the changing rooms and look out at the sweeping views of Dewsbury in the distance. My oh my, what a ground we have here. It goes straight into the top ten.

The cotton wool coloured clouds and biting wind are replaced with glorious blue skies and bright sunshine as these two mid-table sides emerge from the dressing rooms. The pitch looks a tad heavy. Liversedge and Heanor Town played out a thrilling 4-4 draw last Tuesday evening.

The visitors have a couple of plodders up top; they’re more like Grand National runners than 6 furlong sprinters. Both can hold the ball up though. On 11 minutes Outram is played in on the right hand side, he makes no mistake, to put the visitors one to the good.

I grab a cup of coffee (£1) from the ‘Half Timers’ tea hut. The mushy peas and mint sauce is very tempting. A chocolate-coloured Labrador is on his tod in the queue. He’s licking his lips and eyeing up the hot dogs. His sad eyes secure a free sausage. Two bites and its gone.

On the half hour Liversedge restore parity. Left back James Rothel drives forward and strikes a shot which bounces awkwardly in front of the ‘keeper who can only watch the ball loop up over him and into the net. It doesn’t help matters that he’s chosen not to don a cap, with the sun shining directly into his eyes.

Players from both sides are dropping like flies; I thought they were as hard as nails up here. There are a few stoppages and enforced substitutions.

I’m cheered up by a joke from The Comedian at the break. “I woke up with a big smile on my face this morning, thanks to my girlfriend. She just loves those felt tips I bought her.”

I check the latest scores and note that former Tricky Tree, Marlon Harewood, has bagged for Barnsley just down the road against his old employers. Forest are 3-1 up.

The second half is awful, with neither side looking like gaining an advantage. One thing that the Liversedge players are brilliant at, though, is swearing, and so are their management team. The referee receives dog’s abuse. He’s called “an embarrassment”, “a joke” and “a disgrace.” It transmits to the players.

There’s a flurry of yellow cards. The management are fortunate not to be sent to the stands. Their behaviour is unnecessary and unacceptable.


Attendance: 92

Man of the Match: The Labrador

Blackpool 2 Nottingham Forest 2

1974-2012. Aged 38. Its death has been the talk of Twitter. My old faithful friend Ceefax was finally laid to rest this week. My favourite pages included 302 (Football) 312 (Football in Brief) and 390 (Regional Sport). I used to spend Saturday afternoons, when the kids were bairns, slouched on the sofa repeatedly pressing the latest score buttons on my TV remote console.

Soccer Saturday, the internet and social networking have contributed towards its demise. My father, shortly before his death, became particularly bad-tempered one day, when punching in 199 for the sports headlines, the numbers just kept looping around and around. It took a phone-call to the BBC complaints department to resolve the issue.

It was on the coach journey back from Fleetwood that I noticed that Forest were to travel to the north-west again during the October half-term. Sticky jnr didn’t need asking twice. He’s well and truly hooked on watching Nottingham Forest FC. Blackpool’s Bloomfield Road ground is on my to-do list, as I home-in on completing ‘the 92.’

It’s Tuesday morning, the day of the game. Mrs P has gone swanning off shopping to Meadowhall, in Sheffield. I’m left to rustle up one of my legendary fry-ups for the kids. I crack the eggs into a sizzling pan. The fat is spitting more viciously than Leeds United’s El Hadji Diouf.

Fully fed and watered, I bundle Sticky jnr and ‘Chambo’ into the car and head off to Tollerton to pick up ‘Lil Louis.’ His Dad, JK, is away on business; I’ve promised to look after the wee man. We leave the ‘Rolls Royce’ in the Brian Clough car park and hop onto the No.2 supporters’ coach.

I’m comfortably the oldest person on here. It’s like spending the night at Bulwell Youth Club. Two seats are spare to the rear. A gang of 16 year old lads from Top Valley are bossing it on the back seat. There are reports circulating of lingering fog in the Blackpool area. Bloody hell, that mist is going to be hard to shift, if it rolls in from the Irish Sea.

Despite the average age of the bus being about 18, the coach driver decides to stick on Gem 106. It’s one shit song after another. Bill Medley and Jennifer Warnes, Westlife and Phil Collins have the coach passengers keeping an eye on Sticky Palms for any suicidal tendencies. There’s a huge cheer in Stoke when we lose reception.

Sticky jnr is sat with his headphones on. He’s wolfed down a family-sized pack of Rowntree’s wine gums and is now flicking through the pictures in The Sun. There’s a brief toilet stop at Knutsford Services, so all the kids can re-fuel on testosterone.

The coach driver has been fiddling about with his radio again. Blackpool-born singer-guitarist, Robert Smith, of The Cure is belting out his 1983 hit ‘Love Cats.’ We pull into the car park at Bloomfield Road at just before 5pm.

Sticky jnr and’Chambo’ are let loose on this historical seaside resort, which in its heyday was visited by over 17 million holiday-makers each year. Blackpool has a population of 140,000. It is well known for its Tower and Illuminations.

‘Lil Louis’ and Groundhopper head towards Blackpool Tower. This iconic attraction is nearly 120 years old and stands at 518 feet high. Its building was inspired by the Eiffel Tower in Paris. The list of well known celebrity born in Blackpool include: Zoe Ball, Robert Smith (The Cure), Cynthia Lennon (ex-wife of Beatle, John), Syd Little, Chris Lowe (Pet Shop Boys), Dave Ball (Soft Cell) and Ricky Tomlinson.

A few little-known facts about Blackpool include: In 1964, following a riot at a concert at the Empress Ballroom, the Rolling Stones were banned from playing in the town. This ban was not lifted until 44 years later in 2008.

Former England cricketer, ‘Bodyline’ fast bowler, Harold Larwood, ran a sweet shop in Caunce Street in the town from 1946-1949, before emigrating to Australia.

We stroll a mile or so down the seafront, passed the Central Pier, Madame Tussauds, Coral Island, Yates’s Wine Lodge, North Pier, the Bier Keller and the Albert and Lion Wetherspoons pub. The sea is 40 metres out. Seagulls wade in the pools of water left by the tide. Apart from the Tower, it’s a fairly unremarkable and characterless place. Everyone looks so miserable and downcast. Mind you, two wins in the last eight games; I can hardly blame them.

We dive into the Captain’s Table for a fish n chip tea. The cod melts in your mouth. We bump into Sticky jnr opposite the Central Pier. He says he wants to live here, loves the place. I ask him if he’s been having a sniff of the barmaid’s apron. I watch the illuminations spring into action, before heading back up to the ground for the 8pm kick off.

The away turnstile is tucked away in the corner of the ground. There’s no body search or aggressive stewardings; the welcome is warm, friendly and northern. It’s £25 for my match ticket and £3 for a glossy 80 page programme. We’re told we can take a pew wherever we want.

Blackpool were founded in 1887 and are nicknamed The Seasiders or The Tangerines. Recent well-known managers include: Stan Ternent, Simon Grayson, Sam Allardyce, Colin Hendry & Steve McMahon. Largest transfer paid is: £1,250,000 for DJ Campbell from Leicester City. Record transfer fee received is £7 million for Charlie Adam from Liverpool. Most League appearances made is by Jimmy Armfield (569).

Forest fans are pouring through the turnstile as Dave Clark Five’s 1964 hit ‘Glad it’s all Over’ rings around the ground. The teams emerge from the tunnel to Zoe Ball’s husband’s ‘Right Here, Right Now.’

The kids are holed up at the back of the stand with the ‘Singing Section.’ It means I can enjoy the game in peace. Blackpool nearly upset the apple cart in the opening moments. Former Leeds and Southampton defender, Stephen Crainey, plays a give-and-go and thumps a shot that smacks off the upright.

Forest pour forward in an exciting start to the game, Cohen is hauled the ground, with both officials waving away claims for a penalty. The Tricky Trees enjoy a golden spell of possession football, played at a furious pace. Both Cox and the industrious Sharp waste gilt-edged chances.

Sharp gets a second bite of the cherry in the 25th minute, steering a shot into the net following a corner. He peels away to celebrate with the travelling faithful, appearing to take a bite of a supporter’s hot dog.

The Seasiders have pace to burn down the wings, with Phillips and Ince keeping Harding and Halford busy. Crosses aren’t converted, often nobody will have a pop at goal, as they overdo the passing. Ince reminds me of his dad, Paul, with his constant bleating and appealing.

I was hoping for a game of bingo at the break. The PA man could shout out to the crowd the numbers. We are treated to 10 minutes of keepy-uppies by the Blackpool Centre of Excellence lads. Paul Hart is wheeled out the Hospitality Suite to perform the half-time draw He receives a standing ovation from both sets of supporters.

Forest replace the out-of-sorts Ayala, who has struggled in possession, with the Irishman, Brendan Moloney. Halford slots in to partner the excellent former Vauxhall Motors and Chester City defender, Danny Collins.

The visitors sit back and allow The Tangerines to come onto them. The Tricky Trees appear to be coping. Simon Gillet is ratting, but the front two can’t get on the ball. Holloway throws on Grandin, Dicko and Nathan Delfouneso. They have the pace of the Jamaican relay team and rattle the Reds immediately.

Phillips whips a ball in from the right, Camp’s decision-making is appalling, no-one picks up the runner, and Grandin heads the ball into the roof of the net. Minutes later, Gary Taylor-Fletcher, a player lifted from Leyton Orient Reserves by Keith Alexander many moons ago, scuffs a shot into Camp’s bottom right corner, with the unsighted ‘keeper going down in instalments.

The visiting support is stunned into silence. They’re not asking ‘Campy’ “what’s the score?”, anymore. The Blackpool fans are though. O’Driscoll plays his trump card. Prodigal son Jermaine Jenas enters the field of play. His fifteen minutes of footwork, dazzlery and passing are worth the £25 admission.

He bamboozles, wrong-foots and leaves the Blackpool midfield for dead. The man is a genius. Camp thumps a clearance downfield, Blackstock flicks it on, only for Billy Sharp to slice horribly wide.

I feel sick to the stomach that Forest won’t take anything from this. Suddenly former Blackpool loanee, Andy Reid, produces some wizardry out on the left, leaving Dexter Blackstock the chance to equalise seconds from time.

There’s utter pandemonium in the away end. I look up towards the back. Sticky jnr is uncontrollable with his wild celebrations. I just hope he hasn’t lost his ‘I am a T**t’ lighter that he bought earlier in the day.

Attendance: 13,228

Man of the Match: Danny Collins

Rainworth MW 2 Kings Lynn Town 2

It’s late on Friday night in December 1975. Young Sticky Palms is fast-off in bed. I can hear the landline ringing out and my father fumbling around in the adjacent bedroom for the light switch. He stumbles towards his office; he is the East Midlands correspondent for the Daily Mirror.

It’s the biggest breaking-news story of the year and right on my Dad’s patch. The Daily Mirror news desk are reporting that fugitive, multiple murderer and armed robber, Donald Neilson, aka the ‘Black Panther’ has been arrested in the village of Rainworth in north Notts.

Neilson had kidnapped two policemen in their patrol car but had lost control of the vehicle outside The Junction Chip Shop in Rainworth. Unfortunately for Neilson, the afternoon shift of the local colliery had just swilled down a few pints at last orders in the Welfare, and were queuing up for a fish supper at the chippy. They had a mass pile-on the ‘Black Panther’, making it the most famous citizen’s arrest of all-time.

I walk passed the boardroom and head down the stairs towards the staff canteen. I’ve a pen and pencil on my person. I’m shitting bricks readers. For the last three weeks my life has been on hold. Sticky has been back to school.

In five minutes time I’ll be taking my PRINCE 2 project work examination. I’ve revised solidly day and night. I open up the paper and I’m horrified to see that the questions are written slightly differently to the exam simulator that I’ve been smashing over the last few days.

I’m invited into the boardroom, later in the day, to be informed by a senior manager that I’ve achieved a comfortable pass. I’m euphoric. It’s the first exam I’ve taken since I passed my referee’s paper 25 years ago.

I’ve missed out on groundhopping the last few weekends to concentrate on coaching ‘The Skipper’s’ team. We’re performing above expectation in the Notts Youth League under 15 Division One. Every game is a cup final. Rival managers tap up players behind your back; some even inbox lads on Facebook, an action in my eyes that should receive a lifetime ban.

Today (Saturday) we are playing a local derby four miles away in an old coal mining village. The team in question have thumped us over the last two seasons. My lads rise to the occasion and play a beautiful game. We’re 4-3 down with time running out. We go 3-4-3 as a last throw of the dice.

The ball is played out to the left, our winger cuts inside and delivers a cross which evades all and sundry, with the ball finally nestling into the corner of the net. It’s a sweet moment for us all, as we grab a deserved point, in an epic game of football.

It’s Tuesday lunchtime, the day of the game. I check-in with ‘The Taxman’ to firm-up travelling arrangements for this evening. The big girls’ blouse has a runny nose and cries off. He’ll be sneaking a view of Poland v England in the World Cup qualifier.

Mrs P has prepared a lamb hotpot – it knocks spots off Betty Turpin’s in the Rovers Return. There’s ample time to feed Murphy the budgie a sprig of millet, before wrapping myself up in four layers of clothing and heading north on my own, with just a bag of mixed fruit pastilles for company.

I switch Five Live on. They are interviewing some bleating ex US Defence General about the decision by the government not to extradite Scottish computer hacker Gary McKinnon. Suddenly it’s straight over to Alastair Bruce-Ball in Serbia who is covering the England Under 21 game.

The match has ended in turmoil, with violent scenes. Stuart Pearce’s assistant, Steve Wigley, has been hauled to the ground and assaulted, while Danny Rose has been subjected to racial abuse. Bruce-Ball reports that Rose has mimicked the actions of a monkey to the crowd.

I’ve got raging toothache – actually my gums ache. I had two teeth extracted last week, and that area of my mouth is still heavily infected. The penicillin is kicking in. I could have tossed it off and stopped in to watch the match, but I really enjoy watching Kings Lynn Town.

Their owner, Buster Chapman, issued a rallying call to the town recently to get behind the Club, or face the consequences of budget cuts. Over a thousand folk turned up for the following game against bitter rivals Coalville Town.

Tensions were still simmering between the two clubs following a heated FA Vase semi-final a few years ago. Twenty Coalville fans were refused entry at the turnstile during the league game, with reports of punches thrown and a police presence in the tunnel. An enquiry is currently taking place.

I park the car on one of the old pit estates across the road from the Kirklington Road ground. There’s little time for a pint in the Welfare. It’s £7 to gain entry and £1 for an absolute corker of a programme, with a free team-sheet inserted.

There’s a Sportsman’s Evening being advertised, with John Aldridge appearing at Rainworth Miners’ Welfare in November. There is nothing sporting about this individual, as supporters of Nottingham Forest will testify, when Aldridge mocked Brian Laws after the Forest defender scored an own goal in an FA Cup semi-final in 1989.

Two big lads from Norfolk are holding court with some other visiting fans. It’s like watching an episode of Ruth Rendell’s Inspector Wexford. I can’t understand a bloody word they are saying.

I position myself to the left of the Rainworth dugout. ‘Black Heart’ by London RnB band Stooshe is booming out the ground PA system. A text alert goes off. It’s a joke from The Comedian ‘The new Bond theme is being performed by Adele, a rare occasion when something starts when the fat lady sings.’

Apparently it’s teeming down with rain in Warsaw, with the game in serious doubt of being played. I have a little Muttley like snigger at the folk who have mocked me for venturing out this evening.

It’s a cracking game of football in the first period, with a good tempo and players efforts worthy of a goal or two. Rainworth play a neat and tidy game which belittles their lowly League position. The Linnets are more direct, knocking balls into the channels or targeting their big striker Russell Dunkley. Regular front man, Jason Turner is on his honeymoon.

The visitors are thwarted by impressive Wrens’ ‘keeper Joe McCormack, who also has a kick like a mule. Flicking through the programme and looking at the player profiles, Kings Lynn seem to have had an overall of their squad, since I last viewed them at Newport Pagnell. They have successfully raided Long Buckby’s UCL team from Northants.

I expect The Linnets to push on in the second half, but Rainworth have also been wasteful in front of goal. The Rainworth PA man is having a bit of a ‘Weston.’ He’s only gone and stuck on Tina Turner’s Greatest Hits – bloody hell Gordon. I think Alvin Stardust is No.1 in the charts in Mansfield.

Sticky Palms loves Linnets’ winger Steve Spriggs The wee man is off colour tonight; he’s not getting a sniff. There’s no marauding runs or whipped-in balls.

The second half is a classic, with four goals flying in during a 16 minute spell. Jared Holmes curls one in from the edge of the area. Kings Lynn reply through a deft header by Dan Quigley. Minutes later they take the lead with a thunderbolt from full back Jordan Yong. Karl Slack ensures honours are even with a smart finish on 69 minutes.

I’ve had a nice little natter with a group of Linnets’ fans I can understand. One travels to all the games from his home in Stafford. They admit their team aren’t on song this evening and that Rainworth are well worth the point.

Man of the Match: Joe McCormack

Attendance: 141

Ossett Town 1 Ashton United 0

The BMI flight from Faro to East Midlands Airport is taxing the runway. I’ve buried my head into my Kindle for the entire trip, only resurfacing for a cheeky GnT. A small bald-headed fellow, sitting next to me, is reaching up to the overhead luggage compartment. We have not uttered a single word to each other on the entire journey.

I ask him if he has far to go. “Not far lad, Pontefract.” I explain that I intend to visit the West Yorkshire town later this year as part of my groundhopping fix. The guy says I would be made welcome and that he used to be chairman there.

He doesn’t go to watch so much now as he follows his lad, Anthony Lloyd, (ex Huddersfield Town, 43 appearances) who has just signed for Ossett Town. Their ground has been on mine and Trumpy’s radar for some time now. We bid farewell, with a promise from me to catch up with him later in the season.

A pleasurable hour, on Friday evening, is spent holed up in the Lounge of the Plough Inn at Normanton-on-the-Wolds with Mrs P. Mark, the landlord (or ‘Bum’ as we used to call him at school) has the best guest beer on ever. It’s called ‘Hood’ and is from the Lincoln Green brewery.

Later in the evening, following a bottle of Red, I’m sprawled out on the sofa watching Tiger Woods hunched over a putt on the 18th green to halve the match in the Ryder Cup. Murphy is on my shoulder squawking, tweeting and singing in an attempt to put Woods off. It does the trick as Tiger lips out. “Well done Murphy”, I whisper in his ear as I put the wee lad to bed.

I rustle up poached eggs on toast in the morning whilst listening to an old Daft Punk single on Ramone’s 6Music breakfast show. I mull over Friday night’s football scores; one sticks out like a sore thumb: Forest Green Rovers 3 Lincoln City 0. The Club are in a complete and utter mess. There’s even talk of them leaving Sincil Bank. My father will be turning in his grave.

I run a few errands before picking Trumpy up. Murphy needs some sand sheets and Finley requires topping up with hay and sawdust. Finley predicts a 3-1 win to Ashton, with Murphy calling a 1-1 score draw. I spot former European Cup winner Frank Clark popping into Bob Green’s the butcher in our village.

I leave Mrs P ironing whilst watching James Martin Saturday Kitchen and head off up through ‘the Bronx.’ Legend is often an overused word, but Trumpy is right up there with the likes of Cantona and more applicably George Best. He struts down the drive like Miss World on the catwalk. Actually, I’m lying; he’s limping quite badly.

We shake hands and wish each other a ‘Happy New Year’ – I’ve not seen him since March. He rummages around in his Jersey Airport carrier bag for his litre bottle of Bulmers cider. It’s 10.30am and the great man is up and running.

Once again, to explain to any astonished and disbelieving readers, Trumpy’s sole reason for living is to make a financial transaction in every village, town and city in England, Wales and Scotland. Sorry if you have just fainted.

Trips he has made since we last met include: Whitby, Filey, Exmouth and the Scottish Isles. He’s well chuffed to report that he’s visited the remotest pub in Scotland, off Skye. It was a £40 return, 15 mile boat ride.

I’ve accidentally tooned into the Sara Cox show on Radio One; Trumpy despises her, along with Rita Chakrabartri, Graham Norton and Alex Salmond. A car is on fire on the A610 as we approach the M1 North, passing a new Co-op distribution centre at Junction 28.

Trumpy is thumbing his way through the Good Pub Guide. First stop is the Silkstone Lodge Country Inn close to Barnsley. The great man tucks into a pint of bitter, while poor old Sticky settles for a Diet Coke. The barman is a die-hard Barnsley fan who knows his football inside out. He’s impressed how Nottingham-born serial prankster Jacob Mellis is settling in at Oakwell. It’s time to depart when ‘Endless Love’ by Diana Ross and Lionel Ritchie comes on the jukebox. These Yorkshire lads aren’t arf a load of big soppy apaths.

@BigBearBaker has tipped us the wink on a nice little eatery in Ossett. A feisty Irish barmaid pours the legend real ale at The Mews. I remark that a James Morrison song is being played. Trumpy says that he used to play for Millwall. He’s mixed him up with Steve Morison, bless him. The Irish lass and T Bolton are getting on like a house on fire. She’s asks him what brings him to these parts. He replies: “I’ve come to see you darling.”

We’re directed to the pub of the day called the Brewers Pride on the outskirts of the town, adjacent to the Ossett Brewery. It’s packed to the rafters and has nine real ales on the go. Barmaids serve strawberry beer and chocolate stout. We opt for two pints of Dorothy Goodbody’s from the Wye Valley brewery.

Trumpy has had a few by now and claims to have spotted a chap sat in the corner with a purple beard; he must be hallucinating. My God, the bloke actually has a purple beard.

Ossett Town’s Stade France - Ingfield ground is only just around the corner. Ossett is a market town in the metropolitan district of Wakefield in West Yorkshire, with a population of just over 20,000.

The town is mentioned in the song ‘It’s Grim up North’ by cult alternative techno group KLF. Famous folk from the Ossett include: Stan Barstow, Black Lace, Helen Worth (Gail off Corro), referee, Bobby Madley, who is to take charge of the Forest v Derby clash tomorrow and the novelist David Peace of the Damned United fame.

There’s bugger all where to park. We sling the ‘Rolls Royce’ in a pay and display, opposite the ground, to the rear of some dingy flats and dodgy take-aways. The legend waltzes into the Social Club, whilst Groundhopper takes a few snaps. It’s £7 on the door and £1.50 for a glossy programme. A friendly official thrusts a team sheet into my hand.

It’s a given where Trumpy will be. He’s already shouted me up a pint of lager. It’s as dead as a doornail in the club. Russian TV are about to show the Fulham v Man City game. Trumpy is already looking cosy, although he complains about being able to see the build-up play from the clubhouse window, but not the goals from where he’s sat.

There’s quite a stiff breeze, but sunny conditions, as the teams swap ends and the whistler blows for the start of the game. Ashton United play a league above but it doesn’t show in the early stages of this FA Trophy tie. Trumpy enquires whether I’ll be asking Ashton’s Oscar-winning actor, Warren Beattie, to sign my programme.

I take my customary stroll around this neat and tidy ground which backs onto housing and a main road. I catch up with Jez the official Ashton United photographer. We have a little chinwag about our pal Smiffy from the award-winning blog Six Tame Sides.

I’m desperately disappointed with the visitors; they don’t seem to have any fire in their bellies. Ossett on the other hand are the spirited underdog. After a spell off pressure they take the lead with a neatly worked goal by Shane Kelsey.

Ashton are absolutely awful in the final third, with impressive Ossett stopper Wesley Milne having a cigar on. Trumpy makes another trip to the bar while I field a few calls. Mrs P texts to tell me that ‘The Skipper’ has headed one in from a corner.

The swirling wind spoils the second half. Ossett look comfortable with their lead and have further chances to increase it. Former Huddersfield Town and Notts County winger Simon Baldry still looks the business at the age of 38.

I manage to catch a word with Anthony Lloyd’s dad, the guy who I met on the BMI flight. His son is having a fine game at full back.

Things begin to warm up a bit when a couple of Ossett Town wags roll up ten minutes from time. I stand with the 20 or so Ashton fans behind the goal for the final few moments. The Ossett keeper’s net is never threatened.

There’s a little dance and jig on the way to the car when Mrs Trumpy phones her beloved to confirm an away win for the Foxes up at Middlesbrough.

Attendance: 88

Man of the Match: Wesley Milne

Askern Villa 1 AFC Liverpool 3

It’s 1.45pm on the 15th April 1989. I’m stood on the Kop at Hillsborough in Sheffield. Nottingham Forest and Liverpool are set to cross swords in their second consecutive FA Cup semi-final. I stare out towards the Leppings Lane end. The central pens are packed to the rafters, whilst there are huge gaps in the side pens.

Four minutes into the game Peter Beardsley thumps a shot that cannons back off the woodwork. There’s a surge in the central pens. Fans begin to clamber over the ten foot high spiked fences. Nottingham Forest fans start to boo and jeer; suspecting it to be a pitch invasion.

Supporters are being winched up to the upper tier. Something has gone badly wrong. Referee, Ray Lewis, on police advice, stops the game at 3.06pm. The PA system asks for any doctors or paramedics in the ground to make themselves known.

Liverpool fans are applauded by the Forest fans as they break up advertising hoardings to use as makeshift stretchers. The walk back to the car is in silence. We all fear the worst. People crowd around transistor radios in an attempt to gather more information. We stop off at Woodall Services on the M1 and join the huge queue of people phoning home their loved ones.

The Football Association had allowed over 50,000 people to be shoe-horned into a stadium whose safety certificate had expired. Margaret Thatcher and her vile Minister for Sport, Colin Moynihan, played their part in a huge cover up. I still have my “F**k off Moynihan” T-shirt in the loft. Football fans in the Eighties were tarred with the same brush and treated like second class citizens.

Twenty three years later and the truth is out. An independent report has revealed that 41 people had the “potential to survive” after the 3.15pm cut-off time. Evidence was also uncovered of a massive police cover-up. 116 out of 164 police statements were allegedly altered to change comments criticising the South Yorkshire Police.

96 innocent people lost their lives in the Hillsborough Disaster due to a catalogue of errors. It’s a victory for the tireless campaigners and relatives of the deceased. Hopefully the people accountable for that wretched day can be brought before the courts.

Respected journalist and Hillsborough campaigner, David Conn, recently tweeted: “Reading the Hillsborough Independent Panel report in detail. Construction of the Leppings Lane “pens” 1981-1987 reads like building a prison.” Any comment Mr Moynihan?

It’s Friday lunchtime. I’ve abandoned the ‘Rolls Royce’ on Farmer Street in the village of Bradmore, in South Notts. I spot a red Number 9 Premier bus in the distance. I hop on and pay my £4 return fare to Loughborough. It’s Part Three of the ‘Real Ale Trail.’

Seven hours later I’m staggering through the gates of Plumtree Cricket Club for ‘The Skipper’s Presentation Evening. We’ve pounded the streets of Loughborough and drank the town dry. The Swan and Rushes and the newly opened Blue Monkey pub, the Organ Grinder, are the pick of the pubs. I manage a Diet Coke and a few slurred conversations with folk. I recall a pot of tea for one accompanied by the Million Pound Drop before hitting the sack.

I’ve a big day out planned today. My junior football team have no game and I intend to make hay. Mrs P kindly drops me off in Bradmore to collect my car. I shoot into West Bridgford to pick a few presents up for Mrs P’s birthday.

Radio 5 are reporting that Manchester United’s Scottish international Darren Fletcher may play his first game for over 9 months following his battle with colitis. Sadder news on the horizon though is that it’s the final ever ‘Sausage Sandwich’ game on the Danny Baker Show.

I hit the A60 and head up towards Mansfield. I’m hooking up with my man in the North, Mickey Gould. I’ve arranged to meet him at the John Fretwell Centre, close to the old mining village of Warsop. The reception on Five Live is bloody awful. I tune into Radio Nottingham. It’s a big mistake readers; they’re playing the awful ‘What a Feeling’ by Irene Cara.

I spend an hour viewing a game with Mickey. The tight sod hasn’t brought any ‘tuffees’ with him. I treat the owd codger to a cup of coffee in the plush clubhouse. It’s just gone 11am and already a young couple are tucking into a couple of pints of lager. I say cheerio to Mickey and drive towards the A1, ironically passing through the village of Spion Kop. I notice a few billboard posters advertising that 70s punk band Sham 69 are to play in the area.

The traffic on the A1 is horrendous. There are lengthy queues between Junction 35 and 38. I’m going to miss my lunchtime pint at this rate. A wooden sign in a field off the hard shoulder says ‘Prepare to Meet God.’ I could do with him right now, to disperse all this traffic.

I finally chance upon a decent boozer in the village of Owton. I find a vacant picnic table in the sun-drenched beer garden and wash down a cheese and pickle sandwich with a pint of Kronenbourg 1664.

I pull into Welfare car park of Askern Villa FC shortly before 3pm. Askern is a village in the Metropolitan Borough of Doncaster with a population of over 5000. It was a victim of the Conservative Party’s vendetta against the mining community. The coal mine closed in 1991. Askern’s Sports Ground has been vandalised four times in the last 12 months. Copper piping has been ripped out and the kitchen burnt down. Over £40,000 damage has been caused. It breaks your heart.

A group of young lads wearing Doncaster Rovers and a Wales strip are playing three-and-in outside the Welfare. I walk past what must be the final cricket game of the season. I pay £4 on the gate. Unfortunately they’ve run out of programmes.

The ground is railed or fenced off on all four sides. The nearest touchline to the entrance has a small seated stand. A covered terrace on the opposite side splits the two dug outs. The pitch looks in very good condition.

AFC Liverpool was formed in 2008 by fans disillusioned with the Premiership ticket pricing structure and the so-called ‘39th game’, in which Premier League games would be played in different parts of the world. The Club adopt the same colours as Liverpool FC and play in the NWCL Premier Division.

I stand on the furthest side of the ground. Each Liverpool player has the number 96 printed below the back collar with 15.04.89. After 6 minutes of frenetic action their supporters burst into two minute applause. The visitors are well on top and attack with pace and speed. The Villa ‘keeper is kept a busy bee. Totally against the run of play Askern take the lead through Jay Rollins, after some poor defending.

I’ve serious concerns for the health and well-being of Liverpool manager Paul Moore and particularly his assistant Stuart Humphreys. They are both at bursting point. James Buckley increases their blood pressure by thumping an effort that bounces back off the foot of the post.

Parity is restored on 20 minutes. The impressive former Liverpool Academy player, John Lawless, wriggles his way down the left hand side before brilliantly crossing the ball to the back stick to leave Ryan Wilkinson the simple task of heading home.

The guy in the Askern nets is having a torrid time; he couldn’t catch a cold today. He fumbles, parries and drops the ball from numerous attempts on goal. Liverpool’s Francis Barry smashes a shot off the upright as the visitors go in at half time wondering how this FA Vase tie has not been put to bed.

The cricketers have gone in for tea, so I decide to take a mosey around this old pit village. I’m chased out the ground by the raffle ticket seller who asks me for my numbers. After rifling through my pockets in a desperate attempt to find the winning strip I find that I’m one number out.

I amble past a guy sporting a black eye, sparking up a cigarette. I nip into the Welfare for a nosey. One or two blokes are propping up the bar as the half-times come rolling in. Mad Dog’s Gillingham have started like a house on fire against the Pirates of Bristol. The main room in the Welfare has two full sized snooker tables, a pool table and some gaming machines.

I look up the road towards the local Londis. I think I’ll give it the swerve, as a huge gang is congregated outside the shop. I get chatting to the guy with the black eye, on the way back into the ground. Turns out he’s the first choice ‘keeper who suffered an eye injury during a game in midweek. He’s an affable chap, who very kindly walks back to the changing room to pick me up a programme that’s lying around.

AFC Liverpool soon take the lead. The Askern ‘keeper is cleaning windows as a corner comes sailing in; their huge Number 4 Anthony Brown smashes home a loose ball into the roof of the net. Askern have an effort cleared off the line and also strike the woodwork.

John Lawless wraps up the game with a coolly taken spot kick on 84 mins.

 “L-I-V-E-R-P-O-O-L    A-F-C” sing the amusing away supporters.

Man of the Match: John Lawless

Attendance: 72

Llanrug United 4 Llangefni Town 1

I’m stood out on the patio in the gorgeous, manicured, established gardens of the listed Grade 2 stone built Halfryn House, in Abersoch. I’m with the Crazy Gang on our second tour of duty. It’s been a long, dark harrowing night.

I was awoken at 3am with a loud rumble. The foundations of the 100 year old house were shaking. Jesus Christ, Abersoch (or more importantly our bedroom) appears to be the epicentre of an earthquake. I roll out of bed and fumble for the light switch. It’s then that I notice him, sprawled out in his pit, with his Notts County shorts on, snoring his blooming head off. I shout at White Van Man to roll onto his side.

I punch out Mrs P’s telephone number and yawn out loudly, as I admire the breath-taking view of boats bobbing in the Irish Sea, early on Saturday morning. I break down in a flood of tears as Mrs P answers the call. “Are you missing me darling?” she enquires. “It’s not that love, I can hear Murphy (my budgie) tweeting and chirping in the background, can you put him on the phone for a quick chat?” Oh dear, the line’s gone dead. My signal appears fine. There must be a problem at Mrs P’s end.

I walk back in the house. Half full cans of Stella 4% are strewn all over the lounge. That shirker, ‘Bruiser’ has never been a drinker readers. White Van Man is rustling up a full English breakfast for our group. He’s cheered up having caught up on Emmerdale on his iPad. Holly, ‘H’ from Steps and Nick arrive back at the house after their early morning swim.

I think back to yesterday. White Van Man hared up the M6, M56 & and the North Wales Expressway into Snowdonia National Park. Bruiser was on the money during the ‘Golden Hour.’ I washed down a succulent, locally-produced gammon with Snowdonia real ales at the Groes Inn.

We were fleeced for £8 at the Conwy Valley Garden Maze. Farmer Jones must have seen us coming a mile off. It’s no Hampton Court readers. We didn’t even get lost. Its outstanding feature is the waterfall. Pete tells his girlfriend, Charlotte, that they turn it off at dusk. Bless her; she falls for it hook, line and sinker.

I’m still recovering from the previous night’s news that the best ever concert WVM has seen was Lionel Ritchie. I nearly choked on my burger and blue cheese when the big man dropped that little gem out at the Zinc Bar in town.

We nipped into St Tudwals Inn for a pint of Robinson’s ‘Dizzy Blonde.’ Michael Owen was dining in here last year with his family. I hope he didn’t stub his toe on a stone on the beach. Perhaps he’ll pop back for chicken in a basket to celebrate his proposed move to the Potteries.

Saturday morning is spent in the bustling market town of Caernarfon. I notice on a newspaper stand that The Sun’s front page splash is reporting the earth shattering news that ‘Caribbean Queen’, Rihanna has smashed a table in a London restaurant. We explore Caernarfon Castle. Prince Charles investiture took place in the castle grounds on July 1st 1969.

The group splits at lunchtime. The majority head towards the island of Anglesey for a pre-booked ‘Rib Ride’ around the bay. ‘Bruiser’, WVM and Sticky barge our way through the door of Joe Corals and soon fritter away £20 in bets.

If they handed out Gold Medals for sniffing out chip shops then WVM would have accumulated Olympic world records. He weighs in with a tray piled high with fishcake, chips and curry sauce. A blackcurrant and soda is thrown down his hatch at a chain pub close to the castle.

West Ham United are dishing out a 3-0 thumping to Fulham. Llanrug is a short five mile drive away. Those pair of Muppets are threatening to make me walk home if the game ends 0-0. Regular readers know that ‘Hopper’ doesn’t do no score draws. I keep an eye out for suitable bed and breakfasts, just in case, as we cruise around the village.

We’re redirected back up the hill to the car park of the Glyntwrog. WVM has a power nap. Sticky and Bruiser have another pre-match pint, eventually, after an unnecessary five minute wait. I have my first Hoegaarden Belgian wheat beer in donkey’s years.

We chance upon an Everton fan who points us in the general direction of the ground. WVM skilfully jay-walks over the A4086 as if he is negotiating traffic on Nottingham’s Upper Parliament Street.

The views looking out to the Snowdonia National Park are jaw-dropping. I must have visited over 500 grounds but nothing can compare with the backdrop that Eithin Duon offers. It’s a ridiculous £3 on the gate. I snap up the last programme. What a labour of love programme editor Gareth Hughes has produced. It’s stuffed with over 70 pages of facts, figures and news: a massive hat-tip to you Sir.

Pierluigi Collina has come out of retirement for the day as Llanrug elect to kick with the wind. The first moment of controversy comes after two minutes when I happen to put my foot through a bunch of thistles, much to the amusement of my pals.

‘Bruiser’ is already giving me grief, so I decide to take my customary stroll around the ground. Dugouts are unusually on both sides of the ground. The changing rooms are at the far end. Stone walls are a wonderful and usual feature at a non league ground.

I bump into a guy who’s wearing a bandana and sunglasses. It turns out to be the coach driver of Llangefni Town, who goes by the name from his CB radio days of ‘Red Onion.’ What an engaging chap ‘Onion’ turns out to be. He talks about the demise of the team and even digs out a couple of programmes for me from out of his rucksack.

Suddenly my phone goes off. Perhaps Mrs P has her signal back. Oh bloody hell it’s WVM, what the heck does he want. He’s roaring down the phone that there is a piece in the programme about our visit today. What a lovely touch.

I’m jumping up and down and waving across the pitch at those two clowns when Llanrug open the scoring on 14 minutes through Ian Burgees – no relation to The Charlatans lead singer Tim Burgess. The gulf in class is evident by half time as the visitors struggle to cope with the stiff breeze and sloping pitch.

Their heads are bowed as they troop off to the dressing room 3-0 down. I bump into ‘Bruiser’ in the toilets (this is not a usual occurrence). He shares out his Kit Kat bar (not in the toilet). I introduce myself to the Club officials at the green-painted wooden tea hut.

What a charming and engaging bunch of chaps they are. They treat me to tea and a complimentary tray of chips. I promise to file my match report later in the week. I stand with the lads for the final twenty minutes. A ball catches the wind and heads towards WVM. He sticks out his Winfield trainers from Woolworths, the ball cannons off his foot and hits a lady official straight in her chest. That’s going to hurt in the morning.

Llanrug score the goal of the game on 72 minutes through Gareth Eiffon Jones. The visitors deservedly score a late consolation goal three minutes from time. WVM is crying like a baby that Collina has played 4 minutes injury-time; he knows ‘Hopper’ won’t leave until the final whistle.

I take one final look at that stunning view. WVM tells tales, on the journey home, of getting whiplash in Riga from looking at all the totty and how he once applied for a job as a window cleaner in Amsterdam.

The night is spent on Abersoch Beach. We set up our own disco and are joined by vodka swilling underage drinkers from Pwlhelli. It’s not a pretty sight watching ‘Hopper’ dancing to ‘Crank That’ by Soulja Boy. I turn in for bed at 2.30am; tonight I’m the one snoring.

Sunday is spent on an all day bender under sun drenched blue skies. On Monday we visit the delightful surroundings of Harlech Castle and the quaint little seaside town of Barmouth.

Piers Allen: “you can’t half pick em son."

Attendance: 110

Man of the Match: Leroy Rosenior (private joke)