Malvern Town 4-2 AFC Bridgnorth

I live across the road from Nottingham Racecourse and more importantly Colwick Country Park. We take in a lung-bursting walk on Sunday lunchtime around the perimeter of the racetrack and through the park, which is bathed in glorious sunshine. Our thirst is quenched in the Old Volunteer on Burton Road - the 'Best Newcomer' in the Great British Pub Awards in Notts 2015. Flipside Brewery have turned this Carlton pub on its head. I quaff a pint of chocolate orange stout called 'Half Time.' Ms Moon describes it as 'disgusting' as she knocks back a Diet Coke.

Ironically, I'm back in Carlton on Wednesday evening, as Carlton Town and Spalding United play out a dour 0-0 draw on a bone dry bumpy surface at Stoke Lane. I had hoped to catch in action the visitor's 16 year old forward Jonny Lockie, who recently spent time on trial at Everton, Leicester City and AFC Bournemouth. It's a no-show from the youngster, as he can't bunk-off from college in time for the trip over to Nottingham.

I've broken up for Easter early. I'm always at my most dangerous when I'm bored. I leg it into Nottingham on a solo mini pub crawl. The highlight of the tour is the re-opening of the Lord Roberts in Hockley - another shrewd acquisition by the Flipside Brewery.

We're met with sun-kissed skies on Good Friday. It's spent walking 14 km down the canal to The Victoria Inn in Beeston. We're too fagged out to peg it back, so hop on a tram into town. We drop into the Bell on Angel Row, just off Nottingham's Market Square. It must be over 20 years since I sunk a pint in this fine establishment. I shan't leave it so long next time.

We're up with the larks, with cases packed early, on Saturday morning, as we escape for the weekend to the sleepy market town of Ludlow in Shropshire. First port of call, though, is the spa town of Malvern in Worcestershire, where we'll be watching football later in the day.

Graham Norton plays possibly the worst record I have ever heard in my life - it's Yoko Ono singing 'Walking on Thin Ice.' I'm still recovering from the moment as we park up on the outskirts of Malvern town centre.

I have a moral dilemna. I've just spotted an old coaching inn that has been tastefully restored by the pub chain Wetherspoons, whose watering holes we're not a big fan of. We take the plunge to tick-off this Good Pub Guide entry. A cloudy pint of real ale is changed without fuss, their customer service response on Facebook is first-class.

A pleasant lunchtime is spent with Ms Moon's brother in-law at the glorious surroundings of the Nags Head. The pub frontage doesn't do it justice. There is a fine range of ales, a chatty atmosphere and two roaring open fires. Malvern Town's Hdanywhere Community Stadium is only a short drive away.

Malvern has a population of just over 30,000. The British composer Sir Edward Elgar spent much of his life in the area and is buried in Little Malvern cemetery. Other famous folk from this neck of the woods include: Charles Perrins (Lea and Perrins sauce), TV presenter Anne Diamond and the first female Home Secretary, Jacqui Smith.

We are greeted by two cheerful guys on the turnstile. It's £4 each and £1 for an excellent and well written programme. A jolly lady in the tea bar serves up a couple of hot drinks. Black clouds are rolling in from the Malvern Hills. The only real cover is the main stand on the near side of the ground. A football card is doing the rounds in the stands. We pay £1 each and scribble our names underneath 'Notts Forest' and Notts County - ironically D***y County is announced as the winner.

It's a second look at the West Midlands Regional League Premier Division and at AFC Bridgnorth too. I wasn't impressed with what was served up in their top of the table 0-0 bore draw with Shawbury United a few weeks ago -  nor with some of the comments coming out of the Shawbury dugout.

Malvern win a vital toss and choose to attack with the wind behind their backs. The visitors spurn a early chance which proves to be vital as Malvern put Bridgnorth's defence under constant pressure, using the swirling wind to their advantage. It's 3-0 before you know it.

At the break I take a peek at the newly refurbished clubhouse. I spot an old guy sporting a West Bromwich Albion beanie hat.  He has a dog for company that is the size of a drowned rat. I approach the gentleman to ask if it would be okay to take a photo of his mutt for the Non League Dogs twitter account and website. "No you can't, I don't want you to", the bloke replies. I'm taken aback. I about turn and come across Ms Moon outside as she stubs out a tab end. I'm not sure who looked more miserable, the dog owner or his forlorn looking mongrel. I've never liked WBA since they knocked 'The Lincoln' out of the FA Cup in 1976. I was spat on that day and had my scarf grabbed by a Baggie hooligan. Murphy the budgie and I will be following 'the Wolves' from now on. They remind me of Hugh Johns on Star Soccer with Derek Dougan and John Richards leading the line, back in the day.

A freak hailstorm batters the playing surface, making the centre circle a no-go zone. Bridgnorth pull a goal back, but the damage has already been done. 'Milky' plays a give and go with Luke Corbett before rifling home the winner. Bridgnorth's best player Kevin Buxton scores the goal of the game with a 30 yard delicate chip which catches the home 'keeper off his line.

Attendance: Not a Scooby

Man of the Match: Luke Corbett

Redditch United 1-0 Histon FC

On Sunday we take a ride out to Shipley Country Park in Heanor. It's the artist formerly known as the American Adventure Theme Park, which closed in 2007. Rumours are circulating that the place might re-open. I can't see it myself, it certainly won't be Merlin Entertainment ploughing their money into it following a monumental 'human error' cock-up with the 'Smiler' ride at Alton Towers.

We walk in beautiful surroundings, looking out towards 700 acres of landscape where D H Lawrence set many of his novels. There's time to drop into The Crown at Beeston, with it's 14 real ales and a plethora of nooks and crannies.

I'm reunited with The Taxman on Wednesday evening. We're driving up to the old mining town of Blidworth in north Notts, to watch a Central Midlands South fixture versus Bulwell. The tea hut is perched on top of a hill. I've forgotten how good the view is from up here. It's a lovely game of football, and a tremendous advert for this League. Blidworth run out winners 3-2. I bump into Mickey Gould, one of the best youth scouts that has ever worked for me. Mickey is always good for a tuffie. I fleece him of a few Cough Candies for most of the evening.

I've spent most of the week holed up in eastern England. Diss, Bury St Edmunds, Boston and Louth are all ticked off for business meetings. I've taken little interest in the Cheltenham Festival after spotting that Ryanair were sponsoring a few races; we have previous. It's a relief, on Friday evening, to sit in the comfy surroundings of the Crafty Crow on Friar Lane, opposite Nottingham Castle. I sup a couple of real ales, one of which is called 'Big Dipper' which has a salty caramel taste. Ms Moon and her daughter are sinking a bottle of Prosecco.

Sport Relief has a painful ending, the fishmonger's wife from Welwyn Garden City (Alesha Dixon) is comparing the fag end of the event - at least it reminds me to wash up.

Ms Moon makes me an Alta Rica coffee, as a bleary-eyed Sticky Palms makes his way down the stairs. She says that Murphy is enjoying the Brian Matthews radio show. How many more times do I need to explain it ? The legend's surname is Matthew, with no S in it. Golly gosh, Brian would be cross.

Brian is out of sorts today. I bang out a few tunes from my computer, one of which is Love Will Tear Us Apart by Joy Division. Ms Moon says she prefers the Paul Young version. It's a 'drop your bacon sandwich moment.' I feel a tear down roll down my cheek as she says it. Paul Young v Ian Curtis ?

I flick through the Nottingham Post and notice that Rushcliffe Borough Council have released their latest hygiene ratings for eating establishments in the area. They choose to slaughter a recently refurbished pub with a one star rating, when the real story is a one out of five score for the Good Pub Guide 'Nottinghamshire Dining Pub of the Year' - the Martins Arms in the picturesque village of Colston Bassett in the Vale of Belvoir, where Stilton cheese is made.

We leave Radio 2 on for Murphy the budgie. He's asking whether Tony Blackburn will back on the Pick of the Pops show this lunchtime after his 'holidays?'

First port of call is the picture postcard town of Henley-in-Arden in Warwickshire. The Bluebell pub is situated on the High Street; it has a lovely ambience around the place. I admire the timber-framed dining room as I shout up a pale ale. We enjoy a 'Dirty Burger' as Bow Wow Wow, Japan, Blancmange and a string of 80s hits are piped through the pub speaker system.

We have a mosey about the joint. Not too many chains are around here, apart from the standard Costa Coffee shop. The Valley ground at Redditch is smack in the middle of the town centre. Ms Moon shoe-horns the Insignia into the corner of a pot-holed car park.

Redditch is a town in north-east Worcestershire with a population of 84,000. In the 19th Century, it was the centre for the needle and fishing tackle industry. In the 1960s, it became the model for modern New Town planning. Automotive retailer Halfords and engineering giant GKN both have their HQ in the town.

Notable people from Redditch include: Led Zeppelin drummer John Bonham, who was found dead at the age of 32 after drinking the equivilant of 40 shots of vodka at 40% ABV. Also from the town are: actor Charles Dance, Huddersfield Town striker Joe Lolley, Black Sabbath frontman Tony Martin and One Direction 'singer' Harry Styles. Redditch is twinned with the French town Auxerre. Redditch United were founded in 1891. Notable former players include: Scott Dann, Kevin Francis, Lee Hendrie and Matt Smith.

It's £10 on the gate and £2 for a programme. I love the ground to bits. We pass the snack bar and walk towards the double decker main stand, with its corporate hospitality on the second tier. The far end is open with the dugouts opposite the main stand. Behind this are six concrete steps with a covered terrace. Finally, behind the nearest goal is a terrace with red crash barriers and plastic tip-up seats to the rear.

There's a real community feel about the place. The junior teams are involved. Some of the signs erected tingle the back of my spine. One says, 'never be afraid to get on the ball.' We grab a tea and coffee and position ourselves between the two dugouts. The pre-match music is bloody awful (sorry DJ). The teams walk out to 'Into the Valley' by The Skids (best toon by a mile).

The first half is tense. Redditch hit the upright of the post as the visitors defend the slope resolutely. I get gassing to a couple stood next to me. Their son is playing for Redditch after being recently released by WBA. He looks out of sorts and dwells on the ball too long. Academy football is played on snooker table surfaces, players are rarely pressed and are encouraged to express themselves.

Histon had a player called Isiah Brown who they sold on to WBA, he ended up at Chelsea, and is currently on loan at Vitesse Arnhem. He's part of the What's App group that the 34 on loan Chelsea players participate in.

Settle-born John Newman's latest single is blasting out the PA as I head towards the loo. I chance upon 'Holte' (Villa fan) a black labrador draped in a Redditch shirt. The second half is far more entertaining as the strong smell of cannabis drifts up the terrace. Histon are lightning quick on the break, but piss poor in the final third. They are deprived of a deserved point in the closing stages when a pinpoint cross is headed home by Redditch defender George Carline.

Man of the Match: Sam Ling (Histon)

Attendance: 452

AFC Bridgnorth 0-0 Shawbury United

We're heading out of Mickleover towards the village of Ticknall in Derbyshire. It's where the TV and radio personality Ted Moult used to farm. He was famous for the Everest Glazing adverts in the 80s. 'Fit the best, fit Everest"  - he committed suicide in 1986. Anyway, I digress, I need to tick-off the the Wheel Inn, which I mistakenly thought was set in the grounds of Calke Abbey, a grade one listed country house.

We're hurtling through the grounds of the Abbey. After two miles there's no sign of a pub. I grab the Good Pub Guide out of the glove compartment. You idiot Sticky, it's just around the corner from the Abbey.

I spin the car round and drive back the way I came in, ignoring all the 'No Exit' signs. Dog walkers, ramblers and car drivers frantically wave their arms and shake their fists in anger as they scatter in different directions. I know I'm going the wrong way, but I need to get to the pub. We feel like Bonnie and Clyde in the getaway car. If Alan Turner, the Estates Manager, catches me going the wrong way he might issue me a ticket, or a box set back catalogue of Emmerdale Farm DVDs. I neck a pint of Marston's at what turns out to be a bloody gastro pub - it shouldn't even be an entry in the Good Pub Guide.

I don't venture out much during the week. I have a business meeting in Shrewsbury, but that's about it, as I recover from my trip to Ireland. I watch a disturbing but brilliantly moving documentary on BBC2 to commemorate the 20th anniversary of the Dunblane School Massacre, where 15 pupils aged 5 years old and their teacher were gunned down by cold-blooded murderer Thomas Hamilton. The poor, haunted headmaster relives the day. How can he have continued to live a normal life? I'm not ashamed to admit to have shed a tear or two during the heartbreaking documentary.

My mood has lightened, it's Friday evening. Ms Moon and I share a few drinks and some chicken wings in the basement of Bunk, a cocktail bar, on Stoney Street, in the thriving Lace Market area in Nottingham city centre.

Murphy the budgie is in a sombre mood, sat on his perch listening to Space Oddity by David Bowie on the Brian Matthew's 60s show. I never quite get why Brian has to record the show. Surely the 87 year old veteran DJ gets up for a pee, like I do most mornings at 5am. All he has to do is jump in a chauffeur driven Limo to the studios of Radio 2.

I was all set for a trip to Scunthorpe with Trumpy Bolton to see Bottesford Town v Glasshoughton Welfare in the NCEL. Trumpy has to pull out on Thursday evening, as he has to pick up Mrs TB from the hospital. It's the stage of the season where you need to be watching tense promotion fixtures.

I spot a top of the table clash in the West Midlands Regional League Premier Division between Bridgnorth and Shawbury. Should be plenty of action in this one. We avoid the M6 like the plague, and drive down the A5 to Cannock, before picking up the M54 towards Telford. We're parked up in the High Town just after midday.

Bridgnorth is in a town situated on the Severn Valley, with a population of 12,000. It is said that papers found from 1941 suggested that had Adolf Hitler been successful in Germany's invasion of Great Britain in the Second World War, he would have made Bridgnorth his personal HQ.

I've heard the Old Castle can get busy. I get a tab going and order up a pint of HPA from the Wye Valley Brewery. This low-beamed and open plan bar is bustling with customers. The bar staff are already turning folk away. The Red Hot Chilli Peppers are on the i-Pod shuffle. Sticky opts for his old favourite of a Brie and bacon baguette.

We've plenty of time on our hands. We take a stroll through the castle grounds, admiring the War Memorial monument and the old Norman Tower, which leans to one side, as it does in Pisa. We jump on the funicular railway, and enjoy a stroll down the river bank.

Bridgnorth's Crown Meadow ground is only five minutes away. It's adjacent to a skate park and children's adventure playground. It's £4 on the gate and £1 for a programme, that's light on content.

Ms Moon dives in to what looks to be a relatively new clubhouse. I take a peek at the ground. A seated stand runs along the nearest touchline, the dug outs are to the far side, with a covered stand behind the nearest goal. I'm alarmed by the amount of litter and rubbish that is strewn amongst the undergrowth. There's polystyrene cups, cans, crisp packets and sweet wrappers piled up. It would be proactive, maybe, to organise a litter pick with some of the junior sides to smarten the place up a bit?

The pitch looks tired and battered from the recent elements. I flick through the programme and notice that former Wolves and Northern Ireland full back Mark Clyde is the manager at AFC Bridgnorth. They are chasing down today's visitors Shawbury United. The old Bridgnorth club was formed in 1949, but having been besieged by financial difficulties folded in 2013.

We stand on the far side between the two dugouts. Behind us are a row of bungalows. Neighbours are either chattering over the fence or pottering around the garden. An old guy leans on his fence drawing hard on a cigarette whilst the teams complete their warm-up.

The standard isn't great, I guess it's Step 6. A visiting substitute sparks up a cigarette as the referee whistles for kick-off.  The Shawbury dugout seem particularly tense and unpleasant. The players are high with testosterone. Bridgnorth's No.4 is cautioned by the entertaining Geordie referee for a late tackle. Some moron sat on the visitor's bench shouts out "Send the Gyppo off." They are reprimanded and warned about their conduct by the official. He won't tolerate racism.

There's no sign of a goal, although the forwards for both teams look lively. Lexie, a Siberian Husky dog has rocked up at the game. It's far more entertaining watching her rolling around in the grass and playing with the children. I scroll down the 'Live Scores' on my phone. It's another standard Saturday for the football-watching public of Nottingham. Both Forest and County are losing, and have failed to trouble the scorers.

The game is awful in the second half. No-one has the ability to drift past a player or put in a decent cross, corner or set-piece. I haven't done a 0-0 since Hinckley v Luton four years ago. That night a boy missed five gilt-edged chances, three of them ended up in the car park. Burnley ended up paying £6 million for him in the summer. He's already bagged 22 goals for Sean Dyche's Clarets this season.

There's no Andre Gray on show here though. Shawbury's No.7 who has been looking for trouble from the word go lunges in and reacts to some handbags. He is quite rightly sent off. Shawbury actually finish the stronger as Bridgnorth fail to capitalize on having the extra man.

Man of the Match: Lexie, the Siberian Husky

Attendance: 125 (Head-Count)

Mickleover RBL FC 2-4 Blidworth Welfare FC

We're stopping in the historical town of Lancaster for the night. The Morecambe FC experience has been wonderful. We sling the car overnight in the train station car park. We're booked in at the stone-walled Sun Inn on Church Street with its ten well-kept real ales. The Lancaster City FC bus drops off a youth in the town centre. They've nicked a point down at Ossett in West Yorkshire. I chastise the boy for sparking up a cigarette, as we exchange some banter.

An enjoyable evening is spent quaffing real ales and eating pasta at a local Italian restaurant. The skies are royal blue in the morning as we make the hard slog up to Williamson Park, where we visit the Ashton Memorial, enjoying the gorgeous views of the Lancashire coastline, whilst drinking coffee on a sun-kissed terrace.

I'm up and about at 3:30am on Tuesday morning, destination is Dublin Airport. I spend the rest of the week in Cavan, Limerick, Belfast and Longford. I pound the streets of Belfast in the pouring rain on Wednesday evening. The previous night Glentoran entertained Cliftonville. I fancied it, but was holed-up in the deep South.

I arrive back at East Midlands Airport late on Thursday evening, I'm dog tired folks. I catch up on work emails on Friday, whilst dipping in and out of meetings. I clock into the Cross Keys public house on Byard Lane in Nottingham city centre. I'm straight on the Silver King ale from the Ossett Brewery. Ms Moon joins me, as we crack open a bottle of Prosecco.

The weather dictates our travels on Saturday morning. I've had an urge to visit Mickleover Royal British Legion FC for some time now, having heard sound reports on their ground. Hanley Town, in Stoke is today's back-up game. Mickleover RBL give me the thumbs-up on their twitter account mid-morning.

I'm lozzing around on the sofa reading a really sad article on the BBC website about former Notts County legend Tommy Lawton. Somebody has paid £450 for a begging letter that he wrote to Lord Attenborough in 1970, asking for a loan of £250. To put this in context, this is a man who scored 231 goals in 390 appearances, as well as bagging 22 goals in 23 appearances for England. I remember my father interviewing him for the Daily Mirror when he was the landlord of the Magna Carta in Lowdham, when he was stony broke and destitute.

I nip down to Aldi to grab a few groceries, and drop into Costa Coffee to treat Ms Moon to a skinny latte. Orange Juice's 'Rip it Up' is on the dukey. Blog legend Trumpy Bolton has checked into a Wetherspoons near Watford. He must have overlaid as it's nearly 11:00am. He's making a welcome return to this blog next weekend, when we travel up to Bottesford Town near Scunthorpe.

I flick through the 2016 Good Pub Guide. The Dragon at Willington looks a good call for a spot of lunch. It's only a 30 minute run in the car. The pub backs on to the Trent and Mersey Canal. The car park is choc-a-bloc. I order up a pint of Clod Hopper, and find a cosy table in the corner of the pub. Repton School is just down the road. It's where disgraced bully-boy TV presenter Jeremy Clarkson was 'educated' as well as Sherlock Holmes actor Basil Rathbone.

Two youths are wrestling over the remote control, as Burnley v Blackburn and Spurs v Arsenal are both lunchtime kick offs. The constant changing of TV channels irritates me. We quickly mop up the deli and steak sandwich before heading towards the Derby suburb of Mickleover. We pass a huge Tesco in Mickleover; another small town has sold its soul to a corporation that has killed local trade.

The ground and new-build Legion is at the rear of a new housing estate. We park adjacent to a healthy looking bowling green. A guy is polishing his car whilst listening to the dying embers of the North London derby. There's nobody on the gate as we walk through; it appears they aren't charging today.

We wander over to the far side, the place is like a ghost town. The pitch looks to have been rolled and well prepared. I do a head-count of folk, it's 18, top whack. I think about all the preparation it has taken to put this game on: the kit wash, arranging and looking after match officials, making the food, the bar staff, the admin, the warm-up - things that players and supporters don't understand.

I notice a memorial bench tucked away in a corner with a wooden shelter. It's in honour of Stephen Astley, who I presume lost his life in the Forces.*I'm unable to find any further information on an Internet search.*

Mickleover RBL have already announced on social networks that six players are unavailable today. Blidworth take an early two goal lead, as the home defence are at sixes and sevens. We manage a touch of the match ball on 11 and 13 minutes.

Despite Blidworth's dominance the star player on the pitch is the Mickleover 6 jacket. He's only a young un and small in stature, but he's tenacious in the tackle, brave in the air and has a beautiful range of short and long passing. He appears well coached, and too good for this level.

We climb the balcony steps before paying cash for coffee and tea cartridges. There's a commotion at the hot water machine as it appears to have run out of milk. I have a mosey about the place. There's entertainment most weekends, they run a Tote and there is a coach trip to Bury Market in April. I peer through a small window in a door and clock two full length snooker tables.

We view the first 15 minutes of the second half from up on the balcony. I can't see Mickleover's 6 jacket; he must have taken a knock. We walk past the home dugout: "where's your No.6 mate?", I ask the manager of Mickleover, "he was the best player on the park in the first half." "Tactical change mate, we've gone 4-4-2" he replies. I'm absolutely gobsmacked, the boy has bossed the game. We're all entitled to an opinion, but what game has this guy been watching ? Ironically they manage to equalise, before Blidworth throw on a few subs who contribute in scoring two goals to put the game to bed.

The Blidworth manager is a sound guy. I ask him if Max Curzon still plays for them, as I had him down at Notts County as a youngster, and know his Dad quite well from the Rock City days in the 80s. Apparently he's been rested for a big cup game next weekend. The guy apologizes to Ms Moon for his bad language - a touch of class, that is. We get caught in a hailstorm on our walk back to the car, it doesn't spoil a lovely afternoon, though.

Attendance: 18

Man of the Match: Referee

Morecambe 1-2 Carlisle United

Hell's teeth, we're back on the M6 again. It's much kinder at 9am on a Saturday morning. Ground number 77 is Morecambe FC. We're parked up on the West End side of the seaside resort by 11am. There's no stiff breeze or bracing air, as the skies begin to lighten.

Morecambe is a town in Lancashire with a population of 35,000. It was known back in the day as 'Bradford by-the-Sea' due to its railway connections with Yorkshire. It was once a thriving seaside resort that has suffered decades of long-term decline. Both piers have bitten the dust. For a number of years the Miss Great Britain Beauty Contest was held in the town.

We walk past the Frontierland fairground that closed in 1999. All that remains is the Polo sponsored phone-mast that was once a remnant of the theme park. On February 5th 2004, 21 undocumented Chinese migrant labourers, hired to pick cockles at £5 for 25kg, by Chinese Triads, trafficked in on containers that docked in Liverpool, were found dead after being cut off by an incoming tide.

Ms Moon and I join a small queue at the Eric Morecambe statue for a photo-shoot. Morecambe took his stage name from the seaside town.  Other famous folk from the town include Dame Thora Hird  and 'Charity' from 'Emmerdale Farm. World heavyweight champion Tyson Fury is from the area.

A group of 'Carlisle Casuals' are being escorted down the front. They're ushered into the King's Arms by the local plod. We call in at The Palatine, a comfortable Edwardian seafront pub. A Lancaster Blonde accompanied by a three piece deli - including Garstang blue cheese and honey roast ham ensures we have an enjoyable lunchtime. The landlord and staff are first-class.

My mate, Piers, has tipped me the wink about the glorious art deco hotel the Midland Grand Plaza. It had a £7 million re-fit in 2008. I have a craft beer from the Shipyard brewery in the USA. We sit in Chesterfield leather armchairs looking out onto Morecambe Bay, where those poor, unfortunate souls lost their lives .

Within ten minutes we're parting with £4 cash to park at a local primary school. Lancastrians are well known for their warmth, friendliness and humour. This is all in evidence on our arrival. It's £16 to stand on the Northern Terrace and £3 for an info-packed programme. On each occasion we are told to 'enjoy the game.'

I get gassing to a steward adjacent to the turnstile. He lets it slip that a Carlisle player has driven through the gates in a Maserati. He jokes that a Morecambe player can't even afford a Mini. It's like our usual fix of Non League, we're close to pitch-side, as there are only a few concrete steps on the small terrace. Carlisle's players are put through a strenuous warm-up routine which leaves us all gasping for air. Bowie, Blur and Blondie are blasting out the PA. Inevitably 'Bring Me Sunshine' by Morecambe and Wise is the signature tune.

I donate some money to the Prostate Cancer charity. The volunteer is a lovely chap called Michael Parker. He gives me a potted history of the area including Fleetwood and Heysham - everybody is so friendly. The scoreboard to our left has been donated by Heysham Power Station in memory of Chris Cowan who plunged to his death from a platform in 2010. Chris was a lifelong Morecambe fan.

I notice that Nathan Bondswell is on the subs bench for the Shrimps. He's a Nottingham lad. I remember when he was a 12 year old at Clifton All Whites, a club that produced the likes of Jermaine Jenas and Jermaine Pennant, that every club in the Midlands was tracking him. He finally chose D***y Clownty, who recently released him.

Morecambe play a beautiful game that belies their lowly league position. At the hub of it all is the engine driver, Irish forward Jamie Devitt, who I clocked playing for Hull City as a youngster seven years ago. Seasoned pro, the well-travelled 37 year old Kevin Ellison, escapes his marker and deftly chips over an advancing 'keeper to give the Shrimps a deserved lead. They play some lovely pass and move football, pretty much passing Carlisle off the park, as the visitors go route one with two huge powerhouse centre forwards.

The 1500 travelling support are unimpressed. They start to sing a few derogatory songs about their own team. We've been impressed with the Carlisle skipper, Michael Raynes. He cajoles and encourages his team-mates. He marshals the troops forward, as they often sit too deep.

The fire alarms go off at the break. Sponsors spill out of the corporate hospitality suite as panic sets in. It is believed an e-cigarette has set the alarms off. I'm inclined to think that Carlisle manager Keith Curle has set some fireworks off in the changing room to awaken his lacklustre under-performers. Ms Moon returns from the snack cabin with a steaming hot cup of Bovril.

Carlisle up the tempo and start to play. A corner from the left is met first time by McQueen as he lurks on the corner of the penalty area, his effort whistles over the bar.

Morecambe seem happy to see the clock tick down as Curle injects some pace into the game with the introduction of ex Lincoln City winger Derek Asamoah. The Morecambe sub never looks switched on, he bundles over Wyke, who makes no mistake from the spot. One minute later the game is turned on its head with Asamoah smashing home a loose ball to send the visiting support into pandemonium. Blue flares are set off, as the police converge.

Curle, the coaching staff, players and supporters celebrate as one at the final whistle. Keith Curle is a good manager, and seems to have put in a good infrastructure and instilled discipline. I never quite understood why he lost his job at Notts County.

Nothing is going right for Jim Bentley's Morecambe, as they nervously and agonisingly glance over their shoulders at the relegation pack in League Two. Bentley made nearly 300 appearances for the club, and has been at the helm since 2011. Remarkably the Shrimps have only had three managers in the last 22 years. They are a wonderful family club with all the right values. A worried steward returns to speak with Ms Moon to apologise about saying we all might have to evacuate the ground at half-time. It's a nice touch that, and pretty much sums up the day.

Attendance: 3070

Man of the Match: Kevin Ellison

Alvechurch 4-1 Loughborough University

I'm on the M6 in standing traffic. I've spent six rotten hours on this bloody God forsaken stretch of road today. I arrive back at HQ at 6pm. I fish my phone out of my pocket and scroll through the texts. My heart misses a beat. I draw a sharp intake of breath. It's news that I've been dreading all week. Blog legend Finley Palmer the rabbit, and crap Non League tipster, has been laid to rest. He would have been the grand old age of 10 years old in August.

His crap tips have featured in this blog for over nine years now. His final one, last week, was ironically 0-0. The game ended 1-0. Finley was so close to being on the money, time and time again. A few years ago Rammers and I watched Real United take on Holbrook St Michaels down at Stoke Lane. Finley had it down on the correct score coupon for 4-4, which ironically was the score after 95 minutes. Finley had logged onto his laptop and had just pressed the button for his basket full of carrots to be delivered from Waitrose as the big Holbrook centre forward nodded home the winner in the 96th minute. Old Fin never really recovered from that day. God bless his soul.

Last Saturday evening was spent in the Trent Navigation and The Embankment near Trent Bridge consoling the Nottinghamshire football-watching public following defeats for 'You Pies' and 'You Reds.' We're both still chuckling about the Bromsgrove PA announcer last Saturday. The visitors make a substitution in injury-time at 1-0 up. The lad coming off was dragging his heels. The guy on the PA shouted out "Hurry up and get off the pitch."

On Sunday we have a lung-bursting walk around Gedling Country Park, followed by a drinky-poo in the Bread and Bitter on Mapperley Top. You can't beat a pint of Castle Rock's Elsie Mo. I drop into Clifton All-Whites on Tuesday evening. They are entertaining Wollaton FC in the NSL Senior Cup. Both squads are skinny. Clifton hang onto a 1-0 lead until the dying embers of the game, when their ten men run out of steam, with Wollaton taking full advantage to the win the tie. If they dished out Olympic gold medals for moaning and chuntering at match officials, then Wollaton would have come on top of the leaderboard. They did play a beautiful game of football though.

It's been another long week on the road. The 'Rolls Royce' has visited Stockport, Chester, Brigg and Louth. I've a road-trip booked to Ireland too. We wind down for the weekend in the Bear and Lace, before dining out at my favourite establishment, The Round House on Royal Standard Place, where I enjoy two pints of Tribute from St Austell in Cornwall.

Game day finally arrives. Ms Moon has got the hump. We played 'guess who' the other night, I presume most couples do ? After grilling me for a good ten minutes she finally gave up. The answer was Bouncer the dog off Neighbours. I can't arf pick em.

We're back down the M42 for the second consecutive Saturday. Destination is the gastro pub the Queens Head in the Worcestershire village of Stoke Pound. The place was stacked out with folk last week, so we didn't get time to eat. Lily Allen's 'The Fear' is on Magic Radio as we pull into the car park. It makes me feel like swallow-diving into the nearby Birmingham Canal.

We hook up with Ms Moon's sister, Kate, for lunch. A cloudy pint of Wyre Valley IPA is changed without fuss. The scran is spot on. Ms Moon and I have stone-baked pizzas. Lye Meadow, the home of Alvechurch FC is only a few miles away. They are chasing down Midland League leaders Hereford FC, and have games in hand.

Alvechurch is a village in the Bromsgrove district of Worcestershire with a population of 6500. Its nearest city is Birmingham, which lies 11 miles north. The novelist Fay Weldon and The Archers creator Godfrey Baseley are from the area. Former Leicester City and Arsenal striker Alan Smith once played for Alvechurch. He scored 199 career goals, and is now a pundit on Sky Sports.
Tracey Andrews is also from the village. She murdered her boyfriend Lee Harvey in 1996. It was a high-profile court case, where she blamed the murder on a 'road-rage' killer.

It's £5 on the gate. The programme is top drawer at a bargain-priced £1. We're not enticed or drawn to the burger van. We head over to the far stand. I get chatting to the referee's assessor, he's a lovely bloke. He was at Bromsgrove last week, as we were too. I compliment the official from that game. The guy's all tooled up with his laptop. Clifton's manager 'Tosh' drops me a call. Have I got a pair size 10 boots in the car ? Yes I have, but I'm 60 odd miles away. I tip him the wink that NSL table-toppers West Bridgford have been turned-over by Bingham Town.

R 'n B is haunting me on the PA system. The DJ recovers the situation with Irish singer-songwriter Hozier. The teams emerge from the dressing rooms. There is a gorgeous vista of the rolling Worcestershire hills in the distance, as we hear the loud shrill of the referee's whistle as the students kick off.

 I saw a first year student from Loughborough put a shift in for UCL team Harrowby United in Step 5, the same level as the Midland League, a few months ago. He's already notched 20 goals for the season, but has not played for a while due to a serious injury. He attended trials at the Uni along with 300 others. He wasn't spotted - couldn't even get in the 4th team. Oh dear oh me!

It literally is men against boys. Alvechurch are 2-0 up in the early stages. The second goal is beautifully crafted on a pitch you could grow potatoes on. We viewed Alvechurch earlier in the season in a FA Vase 4th round tie up at Cleethorpes. They folded like a deck of cards that day, after controlling the game in the first half. There is to be no repeat of this today. The game is put to bed at 3-0. The students score a smart consolation goal, but they don't have any fire in their bellies.

We have been amused with the body language of 20 goal Alvechurch striker Jordan Nadat. He's fluffed a few chances and is getting frustrated, which results in an inevitable yellow card, before trooping off after being hooked by the manager. He rips off his sock tape and removes his shin pads. We can see he is distressed. "What's the matter?" I enquire. We engage in conversation. Turns out Ms Moon and Jordan are both in the healthcare recruitment game. They compare notes and talk shop. I'm trying to watch the bloody game here. They exchange email addresses. Christ, it's like being on 'Take Me Out,' with Sticky Palms playing the part of Paddy McGuinness. Why not discuss it over dinner at the Queens Head in Stoke Pound ?

The raffle numbers are announced, it's my third win in 10 years. Coincidentally its a Midland League hat-trick. Ms Moon is dispatched to the clubhouse for the presentation of the cheque. Disappointingly, she arrives back with three miniature bottles of wine.

Alvechurch drive home the final nail in the coffin. Jordan waves us goodbye, 'we' promise to be in touch. He was a really nice lad.

Man of the Match: Finley Palmer

Attendance: 123

Bromsgrove Sporting 0-1 Nuneaton Griff

A week of sun on my back on the Canary Island of Tenerife has done me the world of good. Ms Moon's missing luggage turned up at the hotel 48 hours into the holiday. I played twitter table tennis with the Ryanair customer service feed; they haven't heard the last of this.

It's 2am in the early hours of Wednesday morning. I've woken up with a start. My stomach is making more rumbling noises than the island's volcano, Mount Teide. I'd scoffed a seafood pizza earlier in the evening. It's come back to haunt me. An hour later the inevitable happens, again and again and again. I spend the rest of Thursday in searing heat on bottled water reading Stuart Maconie's 'The Pie at Night.'

We're back in Old Blighty on Thursday evening, it's blooming freezing. Murphy the budgie is pleased as punch to see me. He's perched on my hand listening to my tales in Tenerife. He reminds me that our favourite programme, Death in Paradise, is on BBC1 tonight.

It's Friday evening and I'm on the Trent Barton Keyworth connection bus. I'm meeting Sticky jnr and 'The Skipper' in the Pear Tree sports bar. I dish out some duty free gifts to the boys. Dafty joins us for a few beverages. DJ Stag is knocking out some retro toons. 'Michael Buble' is on here tomorrow night for a Valentine's Tribute Night - I think I'll give it the swerve.

I finish the night in the 'World renowned' Trent Bridge Inn - the most expensive Wetherspoons in the UK. I bump into a couple of old mates, Chopper and KUFC legend Willy Gee. I have a trot down Radcliffe Road, before venturing into the Spice kebab shop for my first one of the season. The miserable sods behind the counter aren't up for banter, though.

Bromsgrove Sporting has been on the Hopper radar for some time now. I met the old assistant manager of Bromsgrove Rovers in Cleethorpes, from back in the day, when they were pushing hard for promotion to the Football League. The guy is a director at Alvechurch now - his name escapes me.

We stick to the M42 like shit to a blanket. Graham Norton has somehow managed to remain on the car radio. He plays 'Instinction' by Spandau Ballet and 'The Hustle' by Van McCoy. First port of call today is Bromsgrove Cemetery.

We park the car opposite St John's Church. A couple of well known people are buried in the churchyard. It's a good twenty minutes before I chance upon the first one. Anthony Pratt was the inventor of the board game Cluedo. He sold the patent onto Waddington board games for a tidy sum. Former wrestler and actor Pat Roach is also laid to rest here. He is better known as 'Bomber' from the hit 80s TV series Auf Wiedersehen Pet. Pat also played parts in Indiana Jones, a Bond film, Rising Damp, Clockwork Orange and more memorably Heartbeat (Sticky and Murph's favourite).

A couple of people are tending their loved ones graves. In hindsight, I perhaps shouldn't have asked them where Pat's grave was. One was particularly upset. Nobody seems to know though. After a thorough search of Extension B we give up the ghost. It's bloody embarrassing to be honest. Pat was 6 ft 5 inches and nearly 20 stone. It must be one helluva grave. I didn't have this problem finding that fat lad Daniel Lambert in Stamford.

We're running late for lunch now. We pull into the car park of gastro pub the Queens Head in Stoke Pound. It's recently been refurbished by the Lovely Pubs group. The jet set of Bromsgrove have turned out in force this lunchtime. The place is stacked out with folk. I grab a pint of HPA from the Wyre Valley brewery. There's Bob, Maurice and no hope of getting any food here.

Ms Moon squeezes the Insignia into a car parking space at Bromsgrove Sporting's Victoria Ground. The steward is a lovely chap, my club official of the season by a country mile. He tells us a few gags, including the time he declined the Chairman a parking spot because he turned up late. He merrily limps away using a stick as a walking aid.

Bromsgrove is a town in Worcestershire with a population just shy of 30,000. Notable folk from the town include: the singer Michael Ball, actress Trudie Styler (married to the singer Sting), Fast Show actor Mark Williams and Birmingham City manager Gary Rowett. J.R.R.Tolkien's mother is also buried in Bromsgrove Cemetery - and no, couldn't find her either!

It's £6 on the gate and £1.50 for an excellent programme. The ground is an absolute belter. The old school Stand on the far side is a must-see. Ms Moon dashes towards the snack bar. She picks the local delicacy, a chicken Balti pie, I opt for chips and curry sauce. We wander over to the glorious old stand, taking a pew on the front row to the right of the halfway line. The Club DJ plays an interesting set that the Pear Tree's DJ Stag would learn a lesson or two from. Songs from the Manic Street Preachers, Cheap Trick, Travis and The Verve brighten up the day.

Bromsgrove Sporting kick down the slope in the first half, and create the better chances. Good fortune and great goalkeeping keeps the visitors in the game. Ironically, just before the break, Griff's best player, Josh Ruff, wriggles his way through the defence before smashing a shot against the post, which gratefully falls into the 'keeper's hands.

I venture out into the cold, heading over towards the snack bar. I order up a piping hot cup of Bovril and give the old pepper pot a good shake. I muck up Ms Moon's coffee order by clicking a couple of Sweetex in. She's proper got the face on.

The guy next to me has a Bromsgrove rattle, which fascinates me. He's accompanied by an American guy who is comedy gold. He shouts out encouragement to the home team. Near misses are met with "sugar" or "nuts." A Griff player is poleaxed by a shuddering challenge. "Get up you big Jessie", shouts out our American friend.

'Mr Bean' has refereed today's game. He's a tall and gangly guy. He communicates with the players well, and you couldn't argue with many of the seven yellow cards he has brandished in 90 minutes.

The only goal of the game is superbly executed by substitute Luke Shorthouse. They manage to hang on for a win despite a long range effort from Bromsgrove hitting the inside of the post and rolling along the face of the goal.

Man of the match: The Car Park Attendant.

Attendance: 364.