Ilkeston Town 1 Eastwood Town 0

It all got a bit ‘Lionel Messi’ after the Fulham game last Saturday. It was £6 a round in the scruffy Walkabout bar on Putney High Street. We got stuck into a few and ended up in some posh place on the banks of the River Thames.

Yes it’s true that I was hanging. I was spotted leaning over the railings of The Duke public house, talking to the ducks swimming down the river. But I categorically deny being Pat and Mick. I had a traditional KFC on the way home and managed to stagger out the shop without being stabbed.



White Van Man mopped up a ‘full English’ at a pub in Earls Court on our travels back. I forced a bacon and egg sandwich down the hatch. We were back in Nottingham for 2pm. Normal service has been resumed.

I watched both my boys play midweek games. ‘The Skipper’ and his team have taken a huge dip in form and were spanked in Gotham City. ‘Sticky junior’ bagged a brace and the man of the match trophy in a 4-3 win.



I went to a Nottinghamshire Senior League cup semi-final on Wednesday night. The game was played at Nottinghamshire’s Groundsman of the Year’s Step 7 pitch at Pelican FC (Swifty) I have to give him a mention or he starts crying.

It was football’s version of Beauty versus the Beast. Boots Athletic footballed Keyworth United off the park. Keyworth fluked a goal in the dying moments to take the tie to extra time. Boots’ goalkeeper Dean Bonsor pulled off a couple of great saves in the penalty shootout to put the Chemists into the final.



It’s Good Friday morning, the day of the big match; I’ve thought of nothing else all week. Sticky junior is on a sleepover and ‘The Skipper’ is on a Soccer Fun Day at our local club. Mrs P has decided to drag me round town.

It’s nice for the two of us to spend some time together. She gets a bit of a raw deal with all this football. We park in Fletcher Gate car park and we have a stroll around our fair city.



We’ve a table booked at Cafe Rouge on the corner of Bridlesmith Gate. There’s just time to nip into Sticky’s favourite shop H&M. Not only is this shop good for an Indie track or two on the PA system, but it’s also where I bought this year’s groundhopping coat for a bargain £34.99. I snaffle up a grey striped hoodie for £15. Don’t worry readers, I’ll make sure I’m wearing it at a pre-season friendly in July; White Van Man will take a snap of it.

We’re in Cafe Rouge, Mrs P is talking about the kids, work, Holby City; this and that, just general chit chat. But I can’t get tonight’s game out of my mind. I ask her whether she thinks Eastwood Town captain Anton Foster will be restored to the Badgers’ line-up tonight, following his one match suspension? She says she doesn’t give a toss. It kills the conversation stone dead.



White Van Man picks me up at 6.15pm. It’s going to be close on a full house at the New Manor Ground and we need to park the ‘Green Rocket’ in the secure car park. The Nuclear Scientist is a late withdrawal.

Predictably WVM is on the phone for the first ten minutes of the journey, setting up an all-dayer for Sunday. He’ll be drinking vodka and tonic in a round with Rita Fairclough and Emily Bishop. It’s not often I call him a lightweight.



We arrive at the NMG an hour before kick-off. WVM blags a prime car parking spot, claiming to the steward that I’m some sort of cripple. I notice a white police transit van parked up. The place is already buzzing.

We dawdle up to the Social Club. It’s heaving inside and about eight deep at the bar. The Groundhopper skilfully weaves his way through the mass of bodies, twisting and turning like Ilson silky winger Sam Duncum.



People are ordering doubles, lagers, bitters and Guinness. The guy in front of me shouts up eight pints of bitter. I’m dreading it when it’s my turn to order: “Can I have two halves of Pepsi please love?” You can hear a pin drop.

It’s red hot in the bar; we head outside to sip our Pepsi’s. I bump into the Keyworth United Under 16s Girls’ manager and the Kimberley MW U13s coach. Both are excited but nervous about tonight’s game.

Ilkeston in Derbyshire and Eastwood in Nottinghamshire are separated by five miles. They are two of Sticky’s favourite clubs. I hope the best team wins tonight (they do).



They are the home to two famous authors: From Eastwood we have D H Lawrence, who wrote such classics as Sons and Lovers and Lady Chatterley’s Lover, while from Ilkeston we have the actor William Roache (Ken Barlow ... Harry Hill yawn) who wrote the ‘critically acclaimed’ best seller (?) Soul on the Street. Apparently it sold five copies at the Poundstretchers shop on Ilkeston High Street.

I’m becoming seriously worried about the behaviour of the Ilkeston Town FC disc jockey; he’s going soft in his old age. He plays Duran Duran’s 1982 hit Save a Prayer. The guy is clearly hallucinating when he spins Bye Bye Baby by the Bay City Rollers. I collapse on the floor in the heap at his final choice: Neil Diamond’s Cracklin Rosie.



The DJ redeems himself as the players enter the field of play. His choice of tune will later prove to be extremely poignant; it’s Two Tribes by Frankie Goes to Hollywood.

We’ve had a steady stream of rain since midday; it makes the playing conditions near perfect. We’re stood opposite the club shop. To our right, behind the goal, both sets of fans trade insults. It’s already looking like a potential trouble spot.

It’s difficult to criticize Eastwood’s style of play, as they have topped the table for most of the season. To put it politely they are direct. Their forward Peter Knox is going to have to run his bollocks off tonight. The last time I saw him he was sent off after only 10 seconds for an awful challenge. Ever since then I’ve called him ‘The Beast’



22 year old former Rotherham winger Sam Duncun is already tormenting Badgers’ full back Alastair Asher. He floats a ball in from the left which is hooked over the bar by Ilson striker Jon Douglas.

Tempers have boiled over behind the goal. The ‘Two Can Van Damme’brigade are throwing punches and high kicks. The scenes are ugly and sickening. They don’t do handbags in this neck of the woods. There’s no sign of Plod; there probably in the van watching an episode of The Bill. Order is temporarily restored.

Duncum is running riot down the left. He’s dancing. shimmying and dropping his shoulder. Asher is mesmerised and has no answer to Duncum’s quick feet and electric pace. He cuts in from the left and smashes an unstoppable effort from 25 yards out. It cannons off the woodwork and is played back in by Ben Pringle for Marc Newsham to fire home from close range. Tensions, once again, rise behind the goal.



Friday night’s episode of The Bill has finished; the reinforcements appear on the scene. We are also, incredibly, joined by a police helicopter. Eastwood chairman, the delightful Robert Yong, is going to need a good night at the poker table to pay for this lot.

The police helicopter is nearly knocked out of the night time skies by one or two ale house clearances from Eastwood Town nightclub doorman Mark Hume.

The lights from the helicopter shine brightly on the troublemakers. The thermal image infra red camera is hard at work. Eastwood assistant manager John Ramshaw doesn’t need his photo taken by the police. He shines as brightly as the floodlight pylons. He has a season ticket for Sunset Tanning on Nottingham Road, Eastwood.



Eastwood’s Andy Todd goes on a 30yard meandering run before scuffing his shot wide of the post.

The disappointing Lindon Meikle makes way for the gigantic muscleman Mark Smith. Baton down the hatches, listen to the air raid sirens; route one will be with us shortly.

The second half is great for the neutral. The annoying, nuisance of a helicopter has cleared off. Eastwood improve. My man Anton starts to play. He puts two cracking crosses in from tight angles but no-one is able to get anything on them.



Ilkeston look more likely team to score. Deakin turns away a Church effort and Ben Chapman clears off the line. As the game ebbs and flows, ‘The Beast’ goes close for Eastwood and only a last ditch tackle by the excellent Simon Harrison, prevents record signing Danny Holland from restoring parity.

An astonishing 2288 people have gone through the gate tonight. No club official or police officer could have predicted that. The handful of scum behind the goal could of, perhaps in hindsight, been dealt with more swiftly.

Paul Robinson flashes a header wide of the post. The Badgers late flurry of activity comes to nothing. Yong, Cox and Ramshaw will all be hurting. It’s imperative that they start next season in the Blue Square Conference North.

Ilkeston have been sharper in every department. They’ve won countless second balls and have come out on top in most of their personal battles. Roll on Easter Monday.

Man of the Match: Referee A N Smith (North Yorkshire)

Fulham 0 Liverpool 1

I’ve never left a game with ten minutes to go and I rarely down copious amounts of alcohol at football either. I respect the game too much to break these golden rules; today’s an exception.

We’re walking to the pre-booked taxi to begin part two of Super Saturday. AFC Wimbledon fans are queuing in their droves for tickets for the crucial championship decider against Hampton and Richmond, which takes place in a fortnight.

We jump in the taxi before the ground empties and the streets become filled with joyous Dons fans. The taxi driver has got Radio 2 on. We’re not even going to find out if the mighty Lincoln City have beaten Accrington Stanley up in Lancashire.



My head’s throbbing and I feel dehydrated. It’s not the best preparation for a Premiership clash. I’ve not seen a top flight game since Blackburn v Chelsea back in October; boy did I enjoy that day.

The Mayor of London has given away his tickets. He insists we go at the expense of himself. What a fantastic gesture this is.

The taxi driver kicks us out on Putney High Street; the roads are gridlocked. We arrange to meet the Mayor of London later in the Walkabout Bar. It’s not one of Sticky’s favourite dives, but the prices are competitive.



We’re right on top of the Thames. It’s still a gorgeous, sunny day. We walk through a park en-route to Craven Cottage. Dads and lads play football, with jumpers for goalposts. Teenagers fling Frisbees to one another. Boys and girls hold hands. There’s a fantastic ambience about the place. It doesn’t feel as though we are on our way to a crucial game of football.

It’s a mad dash; we have to peg it to the ground. We just make it in time. You have to use a credit card to enter the ground; naturally I have mine upside down.

White Van Man and The Architect shoot up the stairs. I have a mosey around and take a few snaps.



I haven’t watched Liverpool live since the saddest day in my football life. I was with The Architect on April 15th 1989 at Sheffield Wednesday’s Hillsborough, in the Nottingham Forest end, to watch a game of football. My body goose pimps up just thinking about it. Nottingham Forest fans were a credit to our county that day.

South Yorkshire Police put in a woeful shift. I hope Chief Superintendant David Duckenfield suffers the same sleepless nights those poor relatives of the deceased must have had for the last twenty years. He showed no sign of remorse and accepted little responsibility.

As I walk up the steps to my seat I hear the Liverpool fans singing ‘You’ll Never Walk Alone’ and ‘Justice for the 96.’



Fulham is in south-west London in the borough of Hammersmith. During the 18th Century it had a reputation for debauchery and wealth. Gambling and prostitution were high on the agenda.

In September 2007 the average house price in Fulham was £700,000. Famous people born or raised in the area include: the longest ever serving female Member of Parliament, Gwyneth Dunwoody, actor/comedian, Jessica Martin and the first winner of the main prize on Who Wants to be a Millionaire, Judith Keppel.

Celebrity football fans of Fulham FC include: the toff Hugh Grant and Supernanny Jo Frost. The way Sticky junior is behaving at the moment I may well be calling on the services of Supernanny. I’m not complaining though as me and my mate at work, Shifty have a bit of a crush on her. I believe the old Radio One and Radio Two DJ David ‘Diddy’ Hamilton is the PA guy at the club.



White Van Man and The Architect are waving to me from their seats at the back of the stand. I love this old fashioned ground, with it’s unique cottage and tightness to the pitch.

I came here in 1982 with my team Lincoln City. We needed a win against Malcolm McDonald’s side to gain promotion to the old Division One. Fulham had some good players back then: Tony Gale, Ray Houghton and Gordon Davies, to name just a few.

Despite my drunken haze I’m taken aback by the occasion. I’ve watched my football for most of the season in front of just a few hundred, sometimes just one man and his dog.And yet here I am along with 25,000 energised souls watching a game in the ‘most exciting league in the world.’



Liverpool are pretty much ‘on it’ from the word go. They sweep forward at every opportunity. 20 year old Argentinean left back Emiliano Insua is playing a beautiful game of football and links up superbly with Andrea Dossena.

The Italian forces a smart save from Schwarzer. He hits a shot from the resulting corner which smashes against the crossbar.Liverpool are in full flow and The Groundhopper is loving it, despite a banging headache.



The Fulham fans are in good voice, but appear to barrack Barking born forward Bobby Zamora at every opportunity. The boy appears short on confidence and has the first touch of a baby elephant.

Alonso is delightful on the ball, he plays in Torres who forces a double save from an overworked Schwarzer. The Spaniard rattles the woodwork with a textbook volley, with Fulham once again not clearing their lines.

Moments later smart interplay between Gerrard and Torres sends the latter racing away. His shot also falls victim to the woodwork.



This passage of play is spellbinding. Liverpool end the half pretty much as they started it with Dossena’s diving header crashing against the crossbar. I applaud The Reds off.

I’m fully expecting an announcement over the PA system asking if someone can nip out to B&Q to fetch a tin of paint, to give the crossbar at the Liverpool fans’ end a fresh coat of paint. ‘Diddy’ David Hamilton treats us to Rock the Casbah and London’s Calling by The Clash. Thankfully we don’t partake in an alcoholic beverage at the break.



Liverpool play with less momentum in the second period. Hangeland and Hughes are resolute at the heart of the Fulham defence.

Benitez shuffles his pack. Dossena is sacrificed for Babbel and the ineffective Kuyt replaced by the Israeli Yossi Benayoun.

Fulham are unable to retain possession; their defending has become desperate. Babbel, Gerrard and Benayoun all spurn chances.



The clock’s ticking to 92 minutes when Gerrard finds the substitute Benayoun in space. He hammers the ball past a despairing Mark Schwarzer, to keep Liverpool in the title race. The visiting bench lose all sense of normality. The travelling support are delirious.

I’m digging White Van Man in the ribs; he's a big Man United fan. For the first time today his mile wide smile has disappeared from view. I can’t half pick em son!

Man of the Match: Mark Schwarzer

AFC Wimbledon 2 Team Bath 0

We’ve spoke about going down ‘the smoke’ for ages now. We decide to strike while the iron’s hot; AFC Wimbledon are having a wobble. Second placed Hampton and Borough are breathing down their necks. The Dons’’ crowds are immense. We take no chances and book tickets through the club.

It’s Friday night and I’m battering The Nuclear Scientist at table tennis. Mrs P has gone out for a meal with friends. NS tries to ply me with 6% real ale. I elect for an early night.



I’m up at 6am and pottering around the house. It’s like a kid on Christmas Day waiting for his parents to wake up so he can open his presents. I pick up No.2 Groundhopper, White Van Man, at 7.30am. He’s just putting on a few more splashes of Faberge’s Brut aftershave.

The Architect lives around the corner. I pop in to see my Godson and his little brother. They’re well hacked off that their dad is on the sauce with The Groundhopper for the weekend.



We’re on the A52 driving towards Grantham. White Van Man is chipping away at me and asking if I’m ever going to get out of second gear.

The train is on time. We arrive at Kings Cross station at just after 10am. We catch a tube up to Earls Court and another to East Putney. We jump on a London bus for the final journey to Putney Heath.

We drop off all our tackle at the Mayor of London’s penthouse suite and stroll through his manor, chancing upon a country pub. It’s not even midday yet and we’re already tucking into a few sherbets.



White Van Man is a big girls’ blouse; he drinks vodka and tonic like Rita and Emily off Coronation Street. The Architect selects maids’ water (Carling). Sticky tries a pint of Brakespeare’s Bitter; it’s 3.4ABV and revolting. There’s more chance of getting tipsy drinking Kaliber.

The Mayor of London comes marching through the front door; more alcohol is consumed and it's burgers all round. White Van Man is frothing at the mouth at the sight of his food coming out of the kitchen.



The Mayor of London has acquired some tickets for the Fulham v Liverpool game this evening. It will mean a mad dash from AFC’s game to get to Craven Cottage in time for kick-off.

I’m on the Guinness now and feeling as happy as Larry. Too Shy by Kajagoogoo is on the jukebox and racing from Aintree is on the TV. I heard Charlie Brooks on Five Live the other night tipping 66/1 shot Golden Flight to win in Liverpool. I have a huge £2 each way on it.

They’re all calling me Captain Slackbladder; a reference to my frequent visits to the toilet. WVM taunts me that I “broke the seal too early.”



We jump in a taxi towards Putney High Street. The taxi driver has the dreadful Heart FM on the radio, much to WVM’s amusement.

We’re now in The Fox. I’ve turned my attentions to Kronenberg 1664. Big Sam’s route one Blackburn are losing to Tottenham 1-0.

We’ve already drank enough to sink a battleship and arrive at Kingsmeadow in good time for the game. On alighting the taxi I notice a rather portly old chap miss the kerb. He stumbles and careers into The Groundhopper, ending up in a heap on the floor. I check that he’s ok. I thought I was the one who was drinking?



White Van Man has spent the entire morning on the phone; he’s fielded more calls than Harry Redknapp’s agent. One more beer is necked in the spacious clubhouse.

Wimbledon is in south-west London, in the borough of Merton. The area is well known for tennis, greyhound racing, speedway and stock car racing.

Famous people born in Wimbledon include Northern Ireland winger Glen Little, former West Ham and Charlton manager Alan Pardew and The Comedian and Trumpy Bolton’s all-time hero, Oliver Reed.



AFC Wimbledon currently holds the lease for the The Cherry Red Records Fans’ Stadium, situated in nearby Kingston-upon-Thames. The Dead Kennedys and the Macc Lads are two of the hundreds of bands and artists belonging to this record label. I guess at some stage the Dons will go home to roost.

AFC Wimbledon were formed in 2002 after the Football Association controversially gave Wimbledon FC permission to relocate to Milton Keynes in Buckinghamshire.



They are managed by former Aldershot gaffer Terry Brown. Their reserve team manager is former Dons’ striker Marcus Gayle. It is said that Gayle tells team members to write down their ambitions for each game on a chunk of balsa, which each player then punches, making the "breakthrough''.

I also notice, flicking through what must be one of the best programmes I’ve seen this season, that legendary goalkeeper Dickie Guy is the club president.

I visited the revered Plough Lane years ago with Nottingham Forest. John Fashanu knocked the Tricky Trees from pillar to post that day. 4-1 was the final score.



Team Bath is the collective name for the family of sport, leisure and health-related activities that take place at the University of Bath. It was formed in 2000 and plays its home games at Twerton Park. It will be a severe test of the Students’ nerve in front of a packed house today.

Admission is £10 and £2.50 for the programme.It’s difficult to find a good vantage point; there are over 3000 people here. There’s a carnival atmosphere. The supporters certainly aren’t as tense as the players.

The standard of football is disappointing; I’d expected better. There’s little craft or creativity. Bath’s right back and captain both look accomplished on the ball.



The two highlights of the first half are the Lord Mayor catching the match ball and Sticky meeting Haydon the Womble.

The Bath keeper turns a close range shot over the bar following good work down the left from Ibe.

The Dons right back hits a diagonal ball toward Ibe who jostles the defender off the ball but fails to lift his shot over the ‘keeper’s outstretched hands.



Team Bath have barely fashioned a worthwhile chance. The occasion appears too big for them. The youngsters look scared stiff.

We’re back at the bar again. WVM has shouted them up. I’m suspicious of his tipple though, as it’s served in a Coca Cola cup. He claims there’s a shot of vodka in it.

The Mayor of London is holding court with his tales from the corporate world and the occasional name drop. The anecdotes are interesting and amusing, a bit like the guy himself.



We’re late for the start of the second half. We’re walking around the corner into the stadium when there’s a huge cheer. The Architect is jumping up and down. The Dons have taken the lead. Ibe has bundled home a right wing cross. It’s the first goal I’ve missed since Corby versus Grimsby back in July.

The goal is a weight off everyone’s shoulders. Wimbledon start to knock it about. They get plenty of joy down the right hand side. Tom Davis, their Number 8 dictates the game.



Disaster strikes on 75 minutes. Mrs P texts in, the boiler has broken down and it’s going to cost £300 to fix it. To make matters worse Golden Flight has tipped its rider off at the first fence in the Grand National. A 100/1 shot wins the race. If I’d backed that it would have paid for the boiler.

Time’s running out for us now. We have a taxi booked at 4.45pm: destination Fulham. I never leave a game early. I’ve not seen a goal and I know I’ll miss another. The AFC experience has been fantastic. I wish I could have absorbed it more than the endless alcohol supply that has passed my lips today. But I’m on a day’s leave from home. ‘Taxi for Fulham?’

Man of the Match: Tom Davis

Attendance: 3290

England U21s 0 France U21s 2

I’m looking forward to a boys’ weekend in London. We’re off to watch AFC Wimbledon versus Team Bath. They’ve been runaway leaders of the Blue Square Conference South, for most of the season. They’re now doing a Devon Loch; Hampton and Richmond are on their shoulder.

We’re staying at the ‘Lord Mayor’ of London’s’ gaffe. He’s kindly blagged some tickets for the Barclays Premier League clash at Craven Cottage between Fulham and Liverpool. It’s another Super Saturday for The Architect, White Van Man and The Groundhopper.

It’s Sunday morning. Mrs P is off to Bagthorpe in north Notts to watch troubled teenager Sticky junior in YEL action. ‘The Skipper’ has had a sleepover in Chilwell. I’ve earmarked a trip into deepest, darkest Leicestershire.



I wave goodbye to Mrs P and hit the laborious Fosse Way. It’s a road that I’m to become familiar with in the next year or so, as I entice young footballers to come and learn their trade at the Notts County centre of excellence.

I pass the Everards Brewery; it’s way too early for a hair of the dog, besides I’m on duty. I drive onto the A6, past Oadby and head towards Market Harborough. I’m watching two of Leicestershire’s premier junior teams.

I pass through Kibworth, but I’m hopelessly lost, despite the best efforts of the Tom Tom. I notice two coppers tossing it off on a fundraising speed trap exercise. I pull over and jog up to their vehicle. I ask them if they know where the ground is; they haven’t got a blooming clue.



I phone the manager of the team; I’m a stone’s throw away from the ground. What do they say: ask a policeman for directions if you get lost?

The game is entertaining, but no-one catches Sticky’s eye. I feel unfulfilled. But I will return to this county again, again and again. There is untapped talent that the Foxes have missed.

JK bought twenty tickets for the England v France clash ages ago. I’ve paid a bargain £10 for the three of us. Nottingham Forest’s City Ground will host the game; we can be there in fifteen minutes.



Despite reaching our normal parking spot at West Bridgford Library, an hour before kick-off, it proves difficult to find a space. We finally settle for a spot at the back of Mrs P’s favourite establishment: Marks & Spencer Simply Food store.

‘Sticky junior’ and ‘The Skipper’ are having a good old moan that they’ve got a long hike to the ground (it’s a fifteen minute walk to the Trent End). We amble away from Central Avenue towards the Cricket ground. The Monkey Tree is buzzing, but the footballers’ wives haunt, Fire n Ice, is as dead as a dodo. The credit crunch has kicked in for the fur coat and no knickers brigade. These days their preferred tipple is the ghastly Lambrini.

We’ve a birds’ eye view from our front row seats in the Upper Trent End. The players are warming up. I’m proud to say, from this distance, that I can’t put a name to any of the faces smashing the ball at Manchester City ‘keeper Joe Hart. One thing I do notice, from directly behind the goal, is how viciously the ball dips and swerves when struck properly.



The French kick the ball into touch straight from kick-off; it’s just about the only time they give away possession in the first half. They have England on the back foot from the word go.

One or two of the kids we have brought with us complain of being bored. They’ve only come to watch England and are too young to appreciate the beauty of this team from across the English Channel.
France are tearing us to shreds, The young centre half from Manchester City hasn’t the speed, technique or intelligence to deal with Liverpool’s David N’Gog; luckily the boy can’t finish.

France’s right winger Gabriel Obertan is dazzling us all with his fast feet and trickery out on the wing. He puts the visitors in front with a low drive to Joe Hart’s right following poor defending.



Ten minutes later Sissoko makes it 2-0 with a cool finish, with once again schoolboy defending from our highly-rated defence.

England are an embarrassment. Is this the best our Academy system can throw up? Nottingham born Tom Huddlestone lumbers around the midfield. He’s overweight and overrated. There’s a little old lady up our road who’s 90 years old. She goes shopping to Somerfield every night. She pulls her shopping trolley past our house every night and covers the ground more gracefully than Huddlestone ever will.

They bang on and on about a boy at Chelsea called Michael Mancienne; he’s been farmed out to Wolves on loan and plays at the heart of defence. Pearce has a look at him as a defensive midfield player tonight. I don’t think he’ll be experimenting with this again.



The Forest DJ is sadly lacking in humour at the break and plays Girls Aloud ‘Sexy! No No No.’ surely the classic single ‘Can’t Speak French’ would have been more apt.

The French continue to play sexy football. All their players have frightening pace. It’s only with the the introduction of Fraizer Campbell and Danny Welbeck that England begin to make any impact. But it’s way too late. France’s best have long gone, and are relaxing in the Radox bath.

Man of the Match: France’s 5,7,8,9 or 10. Take your pick.

Boots Athletic 0 Kimberley Miners' Welfare 1

Boy am I frustrated with Sticky junior at the moment. He’s thirteen, going on fourteen, that dangerous age. We’re not hitting it off right now and he’s doing my duck in. It’s like walking on eggshells. Mrs P has a calmer manner in dealing with his wrongdoings. I’m a little more proactive.

I am awake on Saturday morning at the crack of dawn; it’s probably best that I’m on my own today. I’ve arranged to meet my boss at The Pies, Mick, at The Hemlock Stone in Wollaton Vale, to the west of Nottingham.

I make myself a brew. It’s poured from my china pot for one, and will be the best drink of the day; I’d give it a nine out of ten; I know I’m modest.



It’s 8.30am. I jump in the car and drive down to Ruddington. I park outside Murray’s Bar (the Bricklayers Arms). NSL players will have been propping the bar up last night, chewing over today’s fixtures.

I saunter across the road into The Munch Box and order a breakfast cob; it will probably be the last thing I devour before my meal tonight.

I’ve got a thick head. Too many Kronenberg 1664’s went down the hatch last night. The breakfast cob soaks up some of it. I go to the cashpoint machine; I’m going to need some money for my liquid lunch at the Victoria Hotel in Beeston. It’s in my top ten pubs in the county.



A paperboy whizzes by; he’s got a Notts County beanie hat on. They’re playing my team today, Lincoln City. It’s the first time in forty years that I’ll go a whole season without watching them play live.

I’m listening to the Five Live Breakfast Show. The traffic news is that there’s been accident on the Nottingham Knight Roundabout. I arrive there thirty seconds later to see a car upside down on the island, being winched up onto a lorry.

I drive up University Boulevard and onto Wollaton Vale. The road is dug up close to The Hemlock Stone, due to gasworks.



Mick arrives at bang on 9.30am, and we travel north up the M1, close to Mansfield. I have to keep locations a secret as The Sheep and Tricky Tree scouts come on here to see where I’ve been.

Mick has played over 200 games for Notts County and spent a further five years up at Saltergate. He’s recently come back from Dubai and Hong Kong, following playing and coaching stints.

We watch a low key junior game, but our intended targets perform very well. We arrange to get them in for training. I’m keen for lunch at ‘The Vic’ in Beeston but Mick has another game lined up on our way back home.



It’s tipping down with rain and begins to hail stone. The wind is whipping up into a frenzy. Typically the game goes to extra time. We do the business and head back to Wollaton to pick my car up.

It’s too late for lunch. I’ve looked forward to visiting the The Victoria for a real ale or two all week. I’m starving hungry. Mick bought me a manky sausage roll at the last game, but I’m White Van Man trained, and ate it in one bite.

I drive into Beeston and take a left hand turn south of the town centre. I drive over a hump-backed bridge. The Tom Tom is back home and I’m unsure where the ground is located.



I pull up outside the Jolly Angler and phone a mate from work, who guides me into Trent Vale Road.

Beeston is a town situated three miles to the south west of Nottingham city centre. It has a population of over 20,000 people. Famous folk either born in the town, or have lived there include: the bare- knuckled boxer William ‘Bendigo’ Thompson, fashion designer Sir Paul Smith, Soul singer Edwin Starr and Rising Damp actor Richard Beckinsdale.

The pharmaceutical and retail chemist group Boots has its headquarters on a campus 1 km south east of Beeston. Mrs P spends about £30 a week on cosmetics from the company. Sticky Palms always buys his Gillette Sensor blades from one of their outlets.



I park the car behind a fence, close to the goal Boots Athletic are kicking in against. Their shooting is wayward and skew wiff. I wisely reverse Sally Gunnell out (not much to look at but a bloody good runner) and park up the road, close to Beeston Marina.

I take a nosey around the marina. It’s a hive of activity. There’s a shop open selling tea and ice creams. Optimistically, tables and chairs are laid out for customers to sit down and admire the vista. It’s bloody freezing. I’ve got five layers of clothes on, my Thinsulate thermal gloves and my Next beanie hat.

I walk through the gate at the ground and straight towards a building that is in a state of disrepair. There are cracks to the windows and the wooden frames are rotting. Deb serves me tea with a smile, but minus a teapot; it only gets a six (maximum mark when not poured from the pot)



The pitches look a little rutted and worn. A guy sits alone shielded by some leylandii. We strike up a conversation. I thought he was a sad old ‘hopper’ like me, but it turns out he’s a referees’ assessor. I politely ask if he’s covering my game. Thankfully he’s not, but he does add that our ref, Colin White, is the best in the league.

The Boots boys are trekking their way back to the changing rooms. I manage a quick word with Alex ‘Penguin’ Bowles. We used to work together. He’s playing centre back today alongside ‘The Chief.’

Boots Athletic were formed in 1894. They used to play in the delightful surroundings of Lady Bay. I saw one hell of a Notts Senior Cup game there, a few years ago, when they beat Central Midlands team Clipstone Colliery in a seven goal thriller. The pavilion at Lady Bay was second to none.



I take my tea cup back to the tea room, but I’m prevented from entering as the referee and players are exiting the changing rooms.

I stand opposite the dugouts and cowshed stand. The gale blows behind me and across the pitch,

Colin White is indeed the referee; he was on top form a few weeks ago when I saw him whistle at Caribbean Cavaliers.

Kimberley are Boots’ bogey team; they rarely give ‘The Chemists’ a sniff. Nobody wants to win the NSL. The pressure is getting to a few. Boots are my dark horses. I saw them play a beautiful game on Swifty’s snooker table surface at Pelican.



The game is open and Kimberley are impressive. They win plenty of corners, which hold up in the wind and causes anxiety in the Boots defence.

Boots’ ‘keeper Dean Bonser is playing today despite the sad news that his mother passed away earlier in the week. What a brave man this guy must be, to still want to turn out with his mates, with the tragic events preying so heavily on his mind. He doesn’t want to let the side down and should be applauded for his bravery and courage.

Drama unfolds on the pitch behind us with news of an injury to 49 year old Reserve striker Paul ‘Wily’ Williams. It turns out to be the 29th broken bone in a long and illustrious career.



Despite the swirling wind, both teams try their upmost to keep it on the carpet and counter-attack with pace. Scott ‘Tripod’ Peach blasts the ball wide from a good position, without realising that he has more time on his hands.

Kimberley take the lead with Tony Hapgood smashing home a rebound from close in. Shortly after Boots scramble a shot off the line as Kimberley finish the half the stronger and more confident of the two teams.

I’ve spent the entire first half in the company of Boots secretary Big D, the vice chairman – who’s a little cockney geezer - and Boots legend Gareth Rees (Bradley Walsh lookalike). Rees, despite an impending knee operation, scurries after any stray ball that comes his way, off either pitch. He has just turned 40 years of age, has played over 500 games for The Chemists, but still retains an enormous enthusiasm and appetite for the game.



I bump into Kimberley MW secretary Steve Hobster at the break. He’s blowing a fuse as his missus has booked a Mexican in town for 5pm. He says he’s going to bolt his chicken fajitas and flee up to The Approach to watch the England game.

‘Tripod’ doesn’t show for the second half. Big D enquires with a member of the management team whether Peach is injured. “No he’s just s**t”, replies Miles.

Boots play with more purpose in the second forty five. Sticky’s favourite, Rich Saunders provides them width and balance. The fleet footed Greg ‘Kevin the Teenager’ Whatnall’ orchestrates things in the middle of the park. But he hasn’t the energy of his team mates Scot Boulter and Wayne Jones.



Kimberley are no mugs and are quite happy to let Boots play in two thirds of the pitch. There centre- halves are man mountains. One is the spitting image of Jesus Christ. They shut up shop and close ranks in the final third.

There’s pandemonium on the pitch behind us as Jon Jon Walton has put the Chemists’ Reserves one to the good, with 15 minutes to go.

Boots pepper the goal, but it’s mostly from distance. They have a final throw of the dice when Saunders escapes his marker, swings in a peach of a cross for Gareth Rees to agonisingly fail to get the slightest of touches to steer the ball into the net.



The brilliant referee Colin White ends proceedings, with his his final blow of the whistle. The players have made it easy for him to adjudicate today.

Fair play to Kimberley for their hard earned win. As for Boots, well, what a smashing club. It’s got that family feel about it, that I’ve not noticed in the NSL before.

Man of the Match: Either Kimberley centre back.