Barwell 2 Coventry Sphinx 1

Juan comes up to the Mexican border on his bicycle. He's got two large bags over his shoulders. The guard stops him and says, "What's in the bags?" "Sand," answered Juan. The guard says, "We'll just see about that. Get off the bike." The guard detains Juan overnight and has the sand analyzed, only to discover that there is nothing but pure sand in the bags. He releases Juan and lets him cross the border.

A week later, the same thing happens. The guard asks, "What's in the bags?" "Sand," says Juan. The guard does his thorough examination and discovers that the bags contain nothing but sand. He gives the sand back to Juan, and Juan crosses the border on his bicycle.

This sequence of events is repeated every day for three years. Finally, Juan doesn't show up one day and the guard meets him in a Cantina in Mexico. "Hey, Buddy," says the guard, "I know you are smuggling something. It's driving me crazy. It's all I think about...Just between you and me, what are you smuggling?" Juan sips his beer and says, "Bicycles."



I feel a bit rough this morning, and by my standards have a lie in. The kids and Mrs P went to the school disco last night. I foolishly went round to The Nuclear Scientist’s for a game of table tennis. The Canadian beat me again. He got me drinking Hoegarden. I was Kerry Katonaed by 11.30pm.

I’m on a week’s leave from work and boy do I need a break. Mrs P has a list of jobs as long as Lincoln City’s current unbeaten run. I’m in the garden chopping and scything down bushes faster than Forest full back Julian Bennett clatters into wingers.

‘The Skipper’ has no game today and I’ve took the weekend off from scouting. He announces he wants to go down The City Ground to watch Nottingham Forest versus Cardiff. I race down the ground and get him a ticket next to where The Nuclear Scientist sits.



I’m on Selby Lane in my village; there are some glorious houses down here. I turn right into Stanton -on-the- Wolds. The properties here have long gravelled driveways. I pass the golf club and think of the happy times I spent up there as a youngster.

I hit the A46 to Leicester; it’s the most unexciting road in the world. I’ve been singing along to a CD them fools have left in my car: it’s Girls Aloud, I Don’t Speak French.

Former Radio Trent and Century FM reporter Darren Fletcher is commentating on the Everton v Manchester United game at Goodison Park, for Five Live. It sounds an entertaining match. Rooney is winding up all the ‘calm down’ Scousers by kissing the club badge on his shirt. Ferguson whisks him off.



Everton’s James Vaughan comes off the substitute bench. He is still the youngest player ever to have scored in the Premiership.

It’s straight over to the Stadium of Light where Newcastle’s Liverpudlian serial coward, Joey Barton, is also partaking in a spot of badge kissing. Bottles rain down from the stand towards his direction. I hope they are made of glass and smash.

I drive past a huge Co-op in Leicester Forest East; that gets Sticky’s juices flowing. I’m now in the historic town of Earl Shilton. The traffic is heavy, but not for long, as they are soon to open a by-pass.

I finally reach the destination of Barwell. I’ve sussed out where the Kirkby Road Sports Ground is, so park up a side street and have an amble around the village. It’s a busy old spot. It also has the ugliest Co-op Shop I’ve ever seen. It sits beneath one of those concrete tower blocks they used to erect in the 1960s.

I’m standing in the centre of the village admiring an old public house. Close by is a fish bar that sells Pukka pies; poor old White Van Man has missed out again.

Barwell has a population of over 6000 people. It lies close to the town of Hinckley. Wigan stopper Chris Kirkland was born in the village. The area was once famous for shoe production.

Barwell was the victim of a meteor impact on Christmas Eve night in 1965. The village was showered with fragments. When put together, they were the size of a Christmas turkey.

Barwell FC were formed in 1992 and play in the Midland Football Alliance at Step 5 level. They are on a nice little unbeaten run and sit in 5th place in the table.



Coventry Sphinx were formed in 1946 and are currently in second place; chasing the leaders Market Drayton. Last season they reached the quarter finals of the FA Vase; bowing out to eventual winners Kirkham & Wesham (now AFC Fylde) in a replay at Sphinx Drive.

I park in the huge, impressive sports complex. They have an indoor bowling centre and cricket club. It’s £5 at the gate and £1 for a programme that has more adverts in it than ITV.

I’m feeling the after effects of my Thai red curry and that bloody Hoegarden; I settle for ‘The Bearded Wonder’s' favourite tipple: Vimto. The lady at the tea bar is very chatty and makes me feel welcome. She’ll have it all on today, as she’s on her own and Sphinx have brought a few.



I take a pew in the stunning cantilever stand that was opened by local boy makes good, Chris Kirkland. I’m surrounded by WAGS and players’ mums. They’re playing the superb Stop Me by Mark Ronson featuring Daniel Merriweather on the PA system.

The Canaries are Sphinx’s bogey team; they’ve already dumped them out the FA Cup. The home team elect to kick up the slope and into the swirling wind. The referee awards a free kick after two seconds; I’m not feeling the love between these two opponents.

Thacker and Murdoch look lively for the visitors; the latter has only recently been plucked from the relative obscurity of the Coventry Sunday Morning League. But he has strength and pace and holds the ball up well.



Sphinx take the lead on 12 minutes. McAteer finds the ball at his feet in acres of space on the edge of the area; he steadies himself, gets his body shape right, and blasts the ball into the roof of the net.

The tackles are flying in now and it’s not long before the young referee, Richard Cooper, of Whititwick , under the watchful eye of an FA assessor, is brandishing yellow cards.

By now I’m at the back of the goal chatting to a lovely guy who turns out to be Barwell chairman Dave Laing. He takes the time out to tell me a bit of club history and the ambitions and aspirations of Barwell FC. It’s whilst we’re stood there that Barwell deservedly restore parity, with a far post finish from Jouel Potter, that goes in off the post.



Moments later the game takes a turn for the worse. The Sphinx number five goes through the back of Potter. A melee ensues. Punches are thrown. The game is stopped for five minutes. Both linesmen are consulted. More yellows are dished out. Potter is lucky; he threw a couple of punches.

Potter looks a fine player; but moments later seeks revenge on the Sphinx five jacket. He slings out an elbow and is shown a straight red. There are no complaints. It’s the most incident packed 45 minutes I’ve seen this season.

A Barwell committee member is baiting the visiting goalkeeper. He calls him a midget and is roaring with laughter. He proudly boasts he’s going round the back of the goal in the second half to wind him up further. Is this really necessary?



Barwell’s right winger is Ryan Amoo. This guy somehow blagged himself a two year contract at my team: Lincoln City. As I‘ve said in a previous blog, there’s an 88 year old great granny up our street , who moves quicker across the ground, with her shopping trolley, than Amoo does. He misses an open goal from eight yards out. Nigel Julian also spurns a chance from point blank range, producing a fine save from the visiting ‘keeper. We all catch our breath at the break.

Amoo doesn’t show up in the second half. He comes walking round the pitch and leans on the dugout, eating a sandwich. He’s wearing a leather bomber jacket, designer jeans and shiny white trainers. He looks like ‘The Fonz.’

Why is that ten men play like eleven? Barwell are par excellence in the second half. The Sphinx spend most of it on the back foot; their defending is woeful. Second place; you are having a laugh.



The Canaries are coached splendidly by former Sphinx and Quorn manager Marcus Law. He has words of encouragement, and makes valid coaching points at crucial times.

The winner comes midway through the half. Man of the match Scott Lower goes on a long mazy run; he plays the ball across to the guy who replaced Amoo. He drills in an unstoppable left foot drive into the left hand corner of the goal. I find myself clapping, justice has been done.

Coventry Sphinx are awful. Apart from the last few minutes, when they throw bodies forward and go close twice, they’ve rarely troubled the ‘keeper.

I dash across the car park and jump into my motor. Sports Report is on. There’s more doom and gloom at Forest. But Lincoln make it four wins on the spin.

Forest Town 0 Calverton Miners' Welfare 0

It’s Friday night and I’m flicking my way through the Nottingham Evening Post’s Essential Guide. I notice that chirpy Cockney geezers Chas & Dave are playing a gig at The Maze, on Mansfield Road, in Nottingham. Now, The Auctioneer and I often sing along in unison to some of Chas & Dave’s greatest hits, during tedious moments in the working day. Who could ever forget: Rabbit, Margate or Snooker Loopy?

I fire a text off to The Auctioneer to see if he is up for the gig. Imagine my surprise, when checking on ticket prices, I find it’s £36 to sit down and nearly eighteen squid to stand up. Cor blimey guvnor, ur avin a giraffe. I’ll stop in, instead, and watch an episode of EastEnders on UK Gold, with Arthur Fowler in the Queen Vic, on ‘the old Joanna ‘giving all those cheerful (?) East End folk a good old fashioned knees up. It’ll be a darn sight cheaper.



I avoid scouting City Boys or South Notts Boys today; it’s been doing my duck in. I’m as busy as a beaver on household chores, to earn the pass out. I’m departing for Mansfield at 12.30pm, but I’ve not told Mrs P yet.

The Dentist phoned me last night, coincidentally, his son is playing up at Forest Town at lunchtime in a cup tie. We got to know each other when I worked for ‘The Pies.’ I arrange to see him up there.

There’s just enough time to make a couple of swaps in our Daily Telegraph Fantasy Football team. We bomb out Torres and the unfortunately named Shittu, and replace them with Santa Cruz and Michael Ball, the footballer, not the singer.



I grab a sandwich and watch Football Focus with ‘The Skipper.’ He’s hiding behind the settee, shaking like a leaf, and I don’t blame him. Martin Keown is on TV. He really shouldn’t be allowed on the box before the 9pm watershed!

I leave Mrs P peeling wallpaper off in our bedroom. I know it’s wrong, and I’m wracked with guilt. I’m on cooking duty tonight, to make up for it.

Four Tops lead singer Levi Stubbs died yesterday; they’re one of my fave bands. I’m playing Standing In The Shadows Of Love on the CD player. Next up is Mel and Kim’s That’s The Way It Is; I think Mrs P must have downloaded that one.



I’m on the pigging A60 again. The road is blocked in Daybrook; a Volvo has broken down. It takes an age to drive through this bottleneck.

I turn right before I hit Mansfield, on what appears to be a new road. Within ten minutes I’m in Forest Town. I clock some kids warming up on a pitch in the distance. I turn right at the Prince Charles pub and park up in the Welfare.

I decide to stretch my legs as I’ve time to spare. I walk back towards the pub and take a photo. I turn one hundred and eighty degrees, and woe and behold, there she is again, my knight in shining armour: the Forest Town Co-op Shop; chalk it off Sticky boy. Volvic lemon and lime water is on offer; I grab the last available bottle.



I stroll past the unmanned turnstile and walk across the first team ground and down a steep muddy bank, where I find an unassuming Dentist watching his lad play. The boys play an exciting game and keep the ball on the carpet. He calls his lad the ‘fox in the box’ and I can see why, when he poaches a brace. It’s not enough though, as they bow out the cup 4-2 aet.

It’s back up that muddy bank, Christ, I’ve put more miles in than Wainwright today. I’m back at the turnstile to pay my £3 and a further £1 for the programme. It’s an excellent publication; a total labour of love, it’s produced by Peter Craggs. He’s an engaging sort of chap and we natter for a few moments about local football, and the old Mansfield Colliery, which was situated close by.



Forest Town were formed in 1981 as a Sunday team, and were known back then as Village FC. They have also been called in their history, Smith Street FC and Mansfield Colliery FC.

They currently lie 5th in the Central Midlands Supreme Division and are managed by former Stags’ midfielder Gary Castledine.

Calverton Miners’ Welfare were formed in 1946. RJB Mining closed the colliery in 1999. Sticky Palms made his debut at the dole office.



Shane Meadows based his films Twenty Four Seven and A Room for Romeo Brass in the village. Olympic ice skating gold medallist and former PC Plod, Christopher Dean, was born in Calverton.

I’m chin wagging with Calverton coach Lol Boultby. He’s telling me that the oldest player in their team today is 24 years of age. It’s a brave and bold club policy that not many teams in the NSL would make, never mind this league.

Forest Town’s The Clod is a glorious ground. At first I’m disappointed with the view as a cycle track runs around the perimeter of the pitch. But there is a balcony that backs onto the Welfare. It has decking and tables and chairs out. Supporters bask in the autumnal sunshine, drinking coffee and beers.



The pitch took a pounding from the severe weather conditions on Tuesday night for the game against Blidworth. The ground is cut up badly and won’t suit a side that likes to keep the ball down.

White Van Man is a non attendee today; he’s playing darts at the Hubble Bubble Bar in West Bridgford. He’s to keep me posted on the latest scores.

The teams trot out to the cringe worthy track Angels by Stoke pub singer Robbie Williams. I’ve written better lyrics in my lunch hour.



Forest Town begin the game with a stiff breeze behind them. They are camped in the Calverton half for the first twenty minutes of the game and keep Calverton ‘keeper Lance Walker on his toes. They play with an urgency and have good ideas. Number six Danny Tighe bosses the game. He finds space, and uses the ball intelligently. McCann and Short go close.

Calverton weather the early storm and grow in confidence. They hit Forest Town on the break. They have pace and movement. Calverton striker Warren Hatfield has a good chance blocked by Forest Town stopper Jason Johnson.

On the stroke of half time, Calverton are awarded a free kick just outside the area. Craig Boulton curls it over the wall, Johnson goes down too early, and the ball hits a divot and bounces off the woodwork, with the ‘keeper still on all fours.



I grab a cup of tea and phone Jocky Wilson for the latest scores. I am joined in the stands by The Dentist. The ‘fox in the box’ is enjoying a tray of well earned chips.

I’m in good spirits, relaxed and ready for the next forty five minutes. I don’t deserve, nor does anybody else, what Forest Town FC inflict on us next: it’s the dreadful Hello by Lionel Ritchie.

Calverton play a quality game of football in the second half; as good as I’ve witnessed this season. They play with flair and imagination. They are all over the home team like a rash and run amok.

My mate at work, ‘Gormhead,’ has his nephew playing today for Calverton. He has a stormer in the second half and rips the full back to shreds; his final ball is not bad either.



Forwards Boulton and Hatfield prove a real handful for the home defence, particularly Boulton, with his silky skills and close control. They fashion chance after chance and waste them all. Both are guilty of spurning gilt edged opportunities. I lose count of the number of shots that trickle by the left hand post.

Westwood dominates the midfield, whilst Marsh and Corcoran are a rock at the back. Forest Town are beaten into submission. The old heads lose to the young guns If Calverton had won by three or four it would have been no more than they deserved. This game, to them, will feel like a loss.

They are my tip for a Champions League spot. And I will be at Newark Town’s ground on December 6th when they are the visitors.

Forest Town 0 Calverton MW 0

Attendance: ?

Man of the Match: Craig Boulton

Burton Albion 1 Mansfield Town 0

I’ve had nine days without a game and have enjoyed the break. I’ve concentrated, instead, on my scouting activities for the NFFC Academy. South Notts Boys, Ruddington Colts and Calverton MW have all had the pleasure of my company this weekend.

I did manage 45 minutes of the Nottinghamshire Senior League clash between Bilborough Pelican and Boots Athletic. The visitors snatched a late winner in an entertaining second half.



Pelican’s Jack of all trades, Neil Swift came swanning out the food bar with a huge chip cob in hand. I saw a ball bobble in the 79th minute, and mentioned it to Nottinghamshire’s numero uno groundsman, he wasn’t best pleased.

I’ve been relaxing with a good book by funny man Danny Wallace. And have scanned a bit of night time TV with Mrs P. We've sat on the sofa together and watched the brilliant Steve Coogan in the new BBC drama Sunshine. It’s co-written by the talented Craig Cash and Phil Mealey, who also wrote the cult BBC2 comedy Early Doors.

It’s my turn to pilot tonight; White Van Man is my wing man. The Taxman and The Architect complete the cast.



We’re in the Rolls Royce (Mondeo) I confess to not being the slickest of drivers. ‘Driving Miss Daisy’ is one of many nicknames. White Van Man had earlier sent me a text suggesting that he’d be bringing his pillow and sleeping bag for the ‘long journey’ – it’s only thirty miles.

It’s a smooth, incident free drive; I touch 61 mph at one stage and brag about it to WVM; he looks at me non-plussed. He’s too busy with his football trivia and tales of Eastern European lap dancing clubs.

There’s a build up of traffic as we approach the Pirelli Stadium car park. There’s a yelp of excitement from Sticky Palms; I’ve spotted the Burton Co-op Shop, it’s another one to chalk off.



We’re redirected to an overflow car park near the ground. WVM kindly pays the £2 parking fee.

Burton upon Trent is in Staffordshire and has a population of 60,000. It’s famous for brewing beer. It is said that the local water contains a high proportion of dissolved salts, caused by the gypsum in the hills around the town. Unfortunately Burton Albion FC choose to serve the appalling Coors lager in the ground, but then again, they are a major sponsor. There’s no sign of Sticky’s favourite, Bass bitter, on the premises.

The Marmite Food Extract Company was founded in the town in 1902. This by product came from the yeast at the nearby brewery. I often have marmite soldiers with a chucky egg on a Saturday morning.


Branston is a suburb of Burton and is where in 1922 The Branston Pickle Factory was founded.

The Peel family originate from Burton, and of course Peelers later formed the modern day police force. Personally I much prefer to call them plod, old Bill or rozzers.

The actor Paddy Considine was born in the town. He recently starred in The Bourne Ultimatum. I remember him in the dark and sinister Shane Meadows film Dead Man’s Shoes. I’ve hardly slept a wink since I watched that DVD.



It’s £12 to enter the stadium and £2.50 for a programme very kindly bought for me by The Architect. It has not improved one jot since my last visit. It has 25 pages of adverts and the articles are as a dull as dishwater.

I detest the bar and choose not to partake in an alcoholic beverage. I long for the old romantic social club, outside Eton Park, with its patterned carpet and smoke filled bar.

We settle for a cup of tea, generously bought by The Taxman. It’s rancid. It comes in a corporate, customised, PG Tips plastic cup. Yuk. The cup is covered in a plastic top. A tea bag floats on the surface. It does well to be marked five out of ten.



We take our place on the halfway line, a few steps down, close to the pitch. Discounting ‘The Tricky Trees’ Bilborough Pelican (eh Swifty) and my back lawn, is there a better playing surface in the East Midlands than ‘The Brewers have? I doubt it.

The Stags live life on a knife edge. I saw them pass Notts County to death last March. They still fell out the League Two trap door. They have fielded an ineligible player, believed to be Bulwell born Aaron O’Connor. It may cost them four or more points in the long run. Current form is poor; one win in the last six matches.

Daryl Clare and John Brayford have moved to pastures new, but the ‘The Young Man’ still has an eye for a player and has bought well.

The Burton Albion DJ warms up with a Ska track and Jeff Beck’s ‘Hi Ho We Hate Derby.’



Burton kick towards the vociferous 800 strong away following, who predictably heckle former captain Jake Buxton. It adds a bit of spice to this East Midlands encounter.

The game takes time to settle, there’s plenty of hustle and bustle. McEwan’s Mansfield play it cagey and nervously. They don’t want to come out and play.

Mansfield’s Paddy Gamble is the busier of the two ‘keepers. Twice he’s tested from distance by former Stoke City winger Marc Goodfellow. They are dealt with comfortably.

The Stags pick up the tempo and have a golden spell of intricate, exhibition passing. Naturally old ‘Pineapple Head’ Jason Lee is not involved, unless the lineman raises his flag for the half a dozen times he strays offside.



Jake Buxton doesn’t take long to make an impact, clattering into the back of D’Laryea to earn the game’s first caution.

The Brewers Andy ‘Ronnie’ Corbett normally saves his worst for us. Everything seems a huge effort for him, he lacks the basics. Mansfield’s nippy winger Nathan Arnold torments and teases him. Arnold puts his foot on the ball, his leg stretched out, inviting the challenge, when it comes, he just pokes the ball past Corbett, leaving him for dead. If only his delivery was as good.

Aaron O’Connor beats the offside trap and races clear. His first touch knocks the ball too wide. He gets in the shot, which Poole saves at the near post.



Burton take the lead on 43 minutes. The lively Goodfellow finds the industrious Irishman John McGrath on the edge of the area; he curls a shot into the bottom corner of the net. It’s slightly against the run of play, but Burton have worked the ‘keeper harder.

The Brewers Greg Pearson tops the Conference goal charts with nine. His first half performance is mediocre. In contrast his partner Lee Morris is just pleased to be out there following two serious knee injuries. He once fetched £3 Million when moving from Sheffield Utd to ‘The Sheep.’

Mansfield are shocking as a creative force in the second period and appear to be low on confidence. Their midfield does not have the killer ball in their locker. McEwan makes changes to no avail.

Between the 61st and 66th minute Mrs P and I have a text tiff about who’s on the rota for transport to football training tomorrow. I’m not impressed; you can tell that EastEnders and Coro have finished for the night.



Michael Simpson sees a speculative shot cannon of a defender for a corner when destined for the net, and there’s some desperate defending from former Man City trainee Jonathan D’Laryea.

Mansfield are camped inside the Burton half for the final quarter but offer little threat. Buxton wins countless headers from an aerial bombardment.

Two minutes from time Stags’ substitute Anthony Robinson drags a shot hopelessly wide from seven yards.

I’m disappointed with the quality served up, but both sides are organised and disciplined.

At least the local plod are on form. An Inspector Clouseau lookalike speedily waves us out of town, away from the gridlocked roads around the ground.

Burton 1 Mansfield 0

Attendance: 2871

Man of the Match: Darren Stride

Blidworth Welfare 2 Bilborough Pelican 1

On the BBC website, I read with interest, that some scientists in Australia have discovered the smallest fish known to exist. They’ve obviously never been to the Plumtree’s Fish and Chip Shop on Nottingham Road, Keyworth.

It’s a sad, sad, day today. As regular readers will know I have a fixation with the Co-op Shop. We’ve had one in our village for nearly 40 years, and today it closed its doors for the final time. I, of course, nipped up to pay my last respects, but the darn shutters were already down. I’d hoped to get a photo with one of the girls on the till. I could have perhaps draped my arm around her shoulder and consoled her in her hour of need. But no, everybody had already buggered off home.


Familiar patterns are emerging on my Saturday mornings. It’s raining, windy and cold; once again I’m watching Nottingham City Boys at Highfields. It’s a ‘show your face’ exercise. Scouts natter with one another, boring each other to death about how they’ve found the next Wayne Rooney. All this bollocks is not for Sticky Palms; I’d much prefer to be out in the sticks, watching unknowns, like I was last Sunday.


I arrive home for lunch. ‘The Skipper’ is lounging around on the sofa watching ‘The Crossbar Challenge’ on Soccer AM. Former Lincoln City striker Lee Thorpe hits the bar. It normally flew 5 yards over it when he played at Sincil Bank. Thorpe had an Andy Warhol moment last season, and hit the headline news. He broke his arm in three places whilst arm-wrestling on the team bus, en route to a crucial play-off semi-final.

Mrs P knocks up a French onion soup, with bread and cheese. ‘The Skipper’ is already dressed in his green football kit, excitingly waiting for his eagerly awaited clash against the once mighty Priory Celtic. I’m going to give it a miss today, although I predict an away win banker on the fixed odds coupon for the ‘Green Army.’



I’m on the Fosse Way and it’s starting to spit with rain. Birmingham are playing QPR and there’s match commentary on Five Live. It sounds an awful game. I change stations to ‘Radio Red.’ Midge Ure’s 1980’s hit ‘If I Was’ filters out the speakers. The Matchday programme begins. They’re chewing the fat over Forest’s dismal start to the season. I remember my final sentence in the Sunderland blog: ‘Where will all the goals come from?’ By 5pm tonight it will be over 400 minutes since they last hit the onion bag.

It’s the Notts Senior Cup again for me today and I’m looking for an upset.

I drive past Woodborough on the left and Epperstone on my right. I’m close to Calverton where I spent 15 happy working years of my life. I turn left off the A6097 and pass Oakmere Park Golf Club.



It must be 25 years since I’ve been to Blidworth. I used to enjoy a pint or two in The Bird In Hand public house. I drive past the war memorial and the ghastly Tesco’s (I pretend to spit) I’m looking for her, where is she? She’s got to be here somewhere. Oh yes, here she is: The Blidworth Co-op.

I stride through the double doors. I pick up strawberry flavoured Volvic water. I ask an assistant where the ground is. She’s proper grumpy. The girl on the till is more amenable. She points me in the direction of Blidworth Fire Station.

Blidworth is 5 miles east of Mansfield; it’s Robin Hood country. It’s allegedly the birthplace of Maid Marian. According to legend Will Scarlet is buried in the Church of St Mary of Purification. On the outskirts of the village lies the monument Druid Stone. It’s 14ft high and 84ft around the base.



Blidworth Colliery closed in 1989: good old Maggie. Two winding wheels act as a monument at the side of the road.

Blidworth Welfare were formed in 1926. They play in the Central Midlands Supreme League. Their manager has recently resigned to spend time looking after his brother who was tragically attacked by a gang of youths whilst holidaying in Crete.

Today’s visitors Bilborough Pelican are from Nottingham. They play in my favourite league: the NSL. The message forum is as busy as ever. Some of the NSL players have been big upping their league, saying it’s better than the Central Midlands.



Other news to report is that Kevin Waddley is already on his third club of the season, having left Pelican for Boots. At this rate he’ll be challenging all-time Nottinghamshire record breaker Anthony Shannon, who’s had more clubs than White Van man has wolfed Pukka Pies.

Award winning comedian, and writer Henry Normal, grew up in Bilborough. He co-wrote The Royle Family. Nottingham Forest midfielder Matt Thornhill was recruited from Pelican Colts at the age of 14.



I’m sat in the car and really don’t want to get out. It’s blowing a gale and the skies are grey. I field a few calls from disgruntled scouts. I phone up Mrs P, ’The Skipper’s’ team are already two to the good.

I stroll over the car park and walk across the cricket field. The wind is battering me. A guy is walking towards me with a black leather folder tucked under his arm. He has a bald head and a rugged look. He is a bigger legend in Nottingham than Robin Hood: his name is Neil Swift and he is the best groundsman in Nottingham. He says he’ll meet me by the tea bar

.

It’s £3 to get in and a £1 for the programme. I’m gobsmacked with the vista. The ground is stunning. The view from the tea bar is like standing on an old Spion Kop. In the distance is the old colliery spoil heap, now well and truly grassed over. At the bottom of the hill is the pitch.

Swifty shouts the tea up. It comes out of the pot and into a yellow ceramic mug. It’s easily the best of the season. I mark it 8.8.



Me and Swifty are getting on like a house on fire, it’s like I’ve known the guy all my life. I was warned, before I met him, not to mention grass cutting machines as he has an unhealthy passion for them like I do for the Co-op. It’s too late now though as he’s up and running. He’s already scrutinising the grass. He’s got 25 episodes of Gardeners’ World to watch on Sky Plus. He’s telling me charming anecdote after anecdote of how he bought his Ransome Mastiff 30” grass cutter. I’m loving it. What a character this guy is. Every club needs one ..... a Swifty, not a Ransome.



Swifty and some friends formed the original Pelican side twenty five years ago in the public bar of the Pelican pub in Bilborough. Who’d have guessed it, back then, it would now be one of the leading clubs in Notts.

We remain on the ‘Spion Kop’ as the game kicks off. Pelican are unrecognisable since I last saw them dump David Harbottle’s Dunkirk out the cup a year ago. Ian Barks, David Gunn, Roy Sharp and James Hendry have all departed.

Corey Bishop on the left wing is causing havoc in the early stages. He hits a cross shot that whistles past the post and curls a wicked free-kick past the upright.



Blidworth begin to inch their way into the game. They have a few half chances before finally a long ball is thumped in from the left hand side, Blidworth captain Liam Best peels off his defender and heads the ball into the top corner. Swifty is in silence and in shock.

We go our separate ways and I decide to shield myself from the biting wind, and take a pew in a rickety old wooden stand with a corrugated roof.

Blidworth are in the ascendency and pour forward at every opportunity. Seventeen year old Connor Hardy is caught in possession on the half way line; the Blidworth forward scampers away, but wastes a good opportunity.



It’s soon 2-0 when a right wing cross is bundled in at the far post. Liam Best misses a gilt edged chance to seal Pelican’s fate.

The half-time whistle can’t come quick enough for the visitors. After a bright start, they’ve been on the ropes for the last twenty minutes, and are fortunate to still be in the game.

I wouldn’t fancy falling foul of BP chairman Glenn Russell, he looks more than capable of dishing out a good old bollocking.



The hairdryer treatment works a treat. BPFC come out fighting. Hunt and Thompson chase, tackle and harry.

Manager Darren Saunders freshens things up, and shuffles his deck. The impact of all three subs is instantaneous. They’re running the legs off Blidworth.

Jason Russell picks the ball up 35 yards out; he pushes it out his feet, and fires a shot towards goal. The Blidworth ‘keeper has a ‘Beadle Hands’ moment, letting the ball slip from his grasp and roll over the line.



BPFC have their bit between the teeth. They are scrapping and battling for the ball. Eastwood fires straight at the keeper and forward Mark Gadsby snatches at a half chance.

I’m stood with Glenn and Swifty who are urging on the visitors. Swifty’s ‘Town Called Malice’ ringtone is constantly going off with people chasing updates. The ball just won’t go in. They’re not peppering the nervous Blidworth keeper’ with enough shots.

They’ve done the NSL proud but just fail at the final hurdle, through a lack of self belief. I will return to Lenton Lane on Wed Oct 15th when Keyworth United are the visitors.

Blidworth 2 Pelican 1
Attendance: not many.
Man of the Match: Liam Best
l

Teversal 1 Greenwood Meadows 1 ( GM won on pens)

There’s been little sign of White Van Man over recent weeks. I’ve missed his booming voice and big personality. He likes his midweek diet of Champions League football and buckets of popcorn. He works alternative weekends for the Tricky Trees. We’ve pencilled in, on Nov 1st, Spalding v Shepshed. I eagerly await this rendezvous; something will crack off that day, it always does.

The Taxman gets the green light at 6.30pm. He toots his horn, outside ours, ten minutes later. It’s like Oliver Hardy calling for Stan Laurel.



We’re on the bloomin Nottingham ring road again. We avoid the M1 like the Dubonic Plague. We turn left off the A60, just past the old Berni Inn, called The Hutt Restaurant.

It’s a filthy, cold, miserable old night. The rain pelts down, ricocheting off The Taxman’s windscreen. We pass Coxmoor Golf Club and the Sherwood Observatory. We have the interior light on as Sticky Palms squints at directions printed off the superlative Teversal FC website.

We drive up through Skegby and Stanton Hill, and down into Teversal village. We’re close to Silverhill Colliery, where I had an interview for a post over twenty years ago.



It’s £4 each entrance money. The programme is £1 and a brilliant effort. I’m already in love with this club and ground.

I bump into Tevie secretary Kev Newton. I scouted his son for ‘The Pies’ a few years ago. We exchange a few words and have a quick catch up. Kev is busy on the PA system. He invites us into the sponsors’ lounge for sandwiches and drinks at the break. It’s a wonderful touch.

We have a quick tour of the clubhouse and bar; there’s a nice feel to the place. There’s a team sheet pinned up on the wall, with tonight’s line-ups. Not many clubs do that! I scribble down the changes in the programme.



Some old boys sit in the corner; they’re cranking themselves up for the ‘thrilling’ encounter between Denmark’s Aalborg and ‘United.’

We walk around the back of the goal, through a posse of grumpy old men, and take our view from around the edge of the eighteen yard area. The rain drives down from the darkened skies. It’s a perfect night for the beautiful game.

Teversal FC play at Carnarvon Street and were originally formed in 1918. They play their football in the Northern Counties Eastern League Division One, and currently lie 7th.



Greenwood Meadows are from inner city Nottingham and currently top the newly formed East Midlands Counties League. Management pair, Mark Connors and Neville Silcock, know their onions and have recruited wisely. I saw them a year ago at Heanor Town; they were shambolic. I’ve always had a soft spot for them, and they wear a kit to die for. The squad that has been assembled is a mixture of experience and youth. Tonight I fancy their chances, and so do they.

The teams walk out to German dance music DJ Paul van Dyk.

Teversal begin the game the more confident. They look to find target man Andy Woodcock early. He’s well supported by the midfield. Greenwood get the ball into wide areas and deliver probing balls into the box, which nobody is on the end of.



I recognise the Greenwood sub warming up; it’s 17 year old Craig Meakin. Three years ago, whilst at ‘The Pies’ someone tipped me off about him. He was playing for a bunch of scallywags called Wilford Mavericks. I pursued him for three consecutive Saturday afternoons and finally plucked up the courage to bring him in on trial. He has a swagger about him. At Notts he used to have his collar up, shirt hanging out and socks rolled down: that’s what I liked about him. We have a chat whilst he warms up. He has the look of a footballer, and not a hair out of place.

Tevvy take the lead on 38 minutes. Atkins keep the ball in on the far touchline and floats a cross in from at tight angle, Woodcock rises above the defender and heads the ball back in the direction it came from. It loops over ‘keeper Preece and into the top corner of the goal.

Greenwood respond almost immediately. ‘Ladies man’ Ashley Miles drives forward with the ball and wins a throw in. Kieran Walker hurls a missile into the mixer, which Alan Corah gleefully heads home.



It’s my third year of groundhopping and I’ve yet to win a raffle; tonight I miss out by three numbers. Roland Gift ‘Drives Me Crazy’ during the break. We have a stroll around the ground; Tesco's have kindly donated a couple of old trolley stations that act as a cover from the rain.

Greenwood Meadows are full of beans and grab hold of the game in the second period. They play with pace and passion. Their coach Silcock is loving it and encouraging it, with valid coaching points. He has a mullet like Rod Stewart. If only they had a striker. ‘Fish’ is playing up front, but he couldn’t hit a cow’s arse with a banjo. He is more like a fish out of water. He bagged two at the weekend; it must have been a misprint. He’s taller than Peter Crouch and doesn’t win a header all night.

Meakin is finally sent on, and plays in an unfamiliar left hand side role. Meadows immediately score but Meakin is cruelly flagged. offside. Five minutes later he dances down the wing, mugging the full back, he now has his back to goal and spins the defender. He lays the ball back for ‘Fish’ who hits it out of the ground from all of seven yards. Doh!



Stephens and Corah have been magnificent for Greenwood. The former strikes the upright; the ball cruelly flashes across the goal. Corah is subbed after a dreadful challenge.

It’s extra time again; we’re going to miss out on a pint again, just like we did at Ollerton a few weeks ago.

Teversal are strong now. The Greenwood Meadows stronghold midfield has been disbanded. Dalton Stephens has run himself into the ground and is suffering from cramp. He’s dispatched onto the wing, out of the way, but the ball inevitably keeps following him.



Meadows ‘keeper Preece keeps his side in the game with a string of fine saves, safe handling and brave goalkeeping. Teversal finish as they started, the stronger.

It’s easy to tell who will win the shootout. Meadows sing, dance and cheer at every penalty. Tevie look nervous, almost disinterested.

Super sub Ashley Whitt drives home a deserved winner; there’s a massive pile on, the sort of thing you see in the school playground.

Greenwood play with a spirit and desire. Connors and Silcock have them organised. I wouldn’t have said that a year ago.

It’s 10.35pm as we traipse across the car park. I think we’ll hit the M1 on the way home

Teversal 1 Greenwood 1

Attendance: 70

Man of the Match: Josh Preece

Keith, thanks for the photos.