Hereford FC 3-1 FC United of Manchester

I'm fagged out on Sunday morning after yesterday's long trip to Forest Green Rovers in Gloucestershire with Trumpy Bolton. We popped into the Pear Tree in Keyworth, an old haunt of mine, for a quick jar. I was hoping some of the lads from the team I'm going to run, Keyworth United Development, would be sinking a few scoops in the bar, celebrating coming back from 2-0 down to win 3-2 against a side who had only lost once all season. I can see from the WhatsApp group that they're all getting showered, shaved and groomed for a big night out that will last into the small wee hours.

Ms Moon and I head south of the water for a change, into 'Bread 'n Lard Island' (West Bridgford).  It's full of well-to-do and high society. The social media rumour mill is awash with tweets that suggest that Lord James Turner of Clifton has upped sticks and pitched up in the land of fur coat 'n no knickers. It won't be long before he's sporting a flat cap, tweed jacket and Oxford brogues.

We enjoy an excellent breakfast served up at Cote Brasserie on The Avenue, before stretching our legs for three miles around Rushcliffe Country Park, Ruddington, an area of Nottingham that I have worked at for near on 15 years. After the walk, I enjoy a pint at The Embankment in 'North Bridgford' before hopping on an NCT bus into town, where I wander down to Hockley and call by the Fox and Grapes in Sneinton for much-needed refreshment. I pore over the Sunday papers and glance at the League Two table. What a sorry state of affairs there is at Notts County right now. They were gubbed 3-0 at home to fellow strugglers Cheltenham Town in a vital six-pointer. They are managerless and rudderless - let's not forget they were favourites to win the League at the start of the season

Tuesday evening is spent up in Mapperley Tops at Gedling Miners' Welfare on a bitterly cold evening. I make my seasonal debut at the Plains Fish Bar where a small fish, chips and curry sauce is the bargain-price of £4.20. The chips are down at the Welfare as the Miners' have had a run of bad luck and misfortune. Popular manager Chris Marks has taken a break. I'm still met with a cheery smile by Clubman Tony Hay. Gedling twice blow a one-goal lead, before bowing out of the League Cup 3-2 to a slicker, fitter outfit in Belper United from Derbyshire.

I'm chuckling to myself on Wednesday tea time as I drive over Lady Bay bridge towards Keyworth. The management team has organised a one-hour boot camp for the lads at a new gym on Debdale Lane Industrial Estate in the village. Every single lad turns up; I feel really proud of the team spirit that has been fostered in recent months. I stand and admire the boys grafting and sweating their gonads off.

This weekend will be the last time Ms Moon and I can go away for a while, as I take charge of the team as Manager from 1st December. I won't be blogging every week, but hope to post some ramblings on a fortnightly basis.

I feel a bit light-headed on Saturday morning courtesy of a Tesco finest Shiraz that was on special offer. We're on our way to Herefordshire at just gone ten bells. The journey is seamless apart from the Graham Norton Show and the dire choice of music he plays. The plan is to spend the night in the sleepy market town of Ross-on-Wye.

I thought it be best to park the car at the football ground and walk into town. Despite the traffic being gridlocked we manage to shoehorn the car into a space in an overflow car park. Lunch is spent at the Spread Eagle, a bustling, traditional city centre pub on King Street. Ms Moon loves a homemade fish finger sandwich that's accompanied by some dirty fries.

We take a wander back to the ground. I'd already checked with a very friendly steward that we can pay cash on the away turnstile. I like to be among the United fans as they create a good atmosphere and sing one or two good ditties. I love the old school floodlights, they are proper football porn.

Hereford is a cathedral city and county town of Herefordshire which lies on the River Wye and has a population of just under 60,000 people. It's 16 miles east to the border with Wales. The British Army Special Air Services (SAS) are based in Hereford. Major employers in the town include: cider producer Bulmers and Cargill Meats (formerly Sun Valley) - the Wye Valley Brewery and Weston's cider are also from the area. The puppeteer for The Muppets and Yoda from Star Wars, Frank Oz, was born in Hereford as was singer Ellie Goulding and Crystal Palace footballer Connor Wickham.

Hereford FC were founded as a phoenix club to Hereford United FC. They inherited the Edgar Street ground. In 2016 they reached the FA Vase final at Wembley, only to lose 4-1 to Morpeth Town from north east England. Controversially the club sacked popular manager Peter Beadle in September of this year. They somehow find themselves playing in the National League North - don't ask me, haven't a clue, but it must include some gruelling journeys up and down the M5 and M6. Today is an FA Trophy tie, with the visitors F.C.United of Manchester making the 290-mile round trip.

We had hoped to see Ronaldo the bull take his customary parade around the ground, but there's no sign of the old lad. At least he enjoyed his day out at Wembley. The visitors from Manchester also have a new manager in Neil Reynolds who they snared from Bamber Bridge, close to Preston.

It's £15 to sit in the Len Weston Stand and £2.50 for a programme. The stand is steep and affords the supporter a panoramic view of this wonderful old ground and city. The home officials make a fuss of us and are super friendly and polite. 135 supporters have made the long trek south. The DJ is having a throwback to the 1970s as he plays Chic, Sister Sledge and The Whispers.

F.C. United are wearing their famous red shirts and white shorts - Ms Moon enquires as to which team is 'United.' Despite constant pressure by the Bulls, it's the visitors who take the lead against the run of play with the ball fortuitously falling to Jack Banister, who lifts a shot over the 'keeper and into the net. Hereford are in debt to their shot-stopper, Matt Yates, who makes two fine saves before the break.

Hereford continue their good form from the first half and draw level from a corner with an excellently executed header from Cullinane-Liburd just after the restart. Minutes later half-time substitute Tommy Sullivan smashes a shot which hits the back of the net to put the Bulls 2-1 ahead - it's nothing more than they deserve. They put the game to bed on 79 minutes with a goal from hardworking striker Mike 'The Beast' Symons to put them into the hat for the first round draw. One or two United fans have breached security and are now sitting up in the stand with us, rather than on the terrace. They try to rally their team, but there's nothing left in the tank; they are running on empty.

Man of the Match: 'The Beast'

Attendance: 1,067

Forest Green Rovers 0-1 Morecambe

It's 6:30am on Thursday, November 10th and I'm sat in a bar at East Midlands Airport caressing a glass of diet Coke. 'Chopper Harris' is sinking a pint of Guinness. Our Jet 2 Boeing 737 hits the skies bang on time as we begin our five-day adventure (bender) to Tenerife. We're staying in the heart of the liveliest resort on the island, Playa de las Americas - for the record I'm 54 years old and three quarters. Fast forward 15 hours and I'm having to escort a drunken 'Chopper' back home to Parque 3 Santiago - he has the balance and control of Arsenal forward Danny Welbeck.

Each morning is spent tucking into breakfast at El Cedro, where two full English and four coffees comes in at less than 10 Euros. It gets rowdy on Friday evening. We're at the Royal Garden, on the front, having a peaceful gin and tonic, watching the sunset over the Atlantic, seeing if Robert Maxwell's final Cuban cigar washes ashore. Suddenly there's a rumble and a commotion. You tend to hear him before you see him; yes folks, the Big Man has rocked up with 'Bruiser' and Paul.

Saturday is the mother-of-all benders (well that's what I thought at the time). Chopper and I are stepping out by eleven bells and heading up towards the resort of La Caleta, 7km away (disgraced ex football TV pundit Ron Atkinson lives up there). We take in bar after bar before calling by the Big Man's HQ, Leonardo's, to watch the scores coming in. Only one result really interests Sticky Palms; Keyworth United Dev 7-0 Ravenshead United. We return to 'HQ' later after a session and bite to eat at Bad Bobs, to watch the 'Big Fight.' Chopper is out for the count quicker than Scouse cruiserweight Tony Bellew.

Events take a turn for the worse on Sunday. After spending one hour looking for my passport - Chopper found it in the oven (don't ask) - we jump on a bus from Los Cristianos up to the island's capital city, Santa Cruz. I've bagged a couple of tickets from a lovely chap called Chris Todd, who runs an ex-pat bus, up to CD Tenerife. Santa Cruz is the most unremarkable place and is also dead as a dodo. We sit in a bar in the centre of town contemplating what to do next, as Chopper is desperate to watch the Manchester derby. He searches on Google maps before hunting down a tiny sports bar on a narrow, cobbled side street. One TV is showing Barca' v Real Betis, the other has Chelsea v Everton. Three hours later after watching Barcelona and 'United' both get tonked, we stagger up the road to the CD Tenerife Supporters' Bar. We'd earlier drank that little bar dry (watching Barca) and ate copious amounts of tapas - for just 33 Euros.

I've not seen a 0-0 at a new ground since April 2017, when Ms Moon and I saw Colne v Droylsden fail to register a shot on target, up in the Lancashire hills. I've grave concerns about tonight's game after reading up on the stats. A couple of gins go straight down the hatch before we peg it up to the ground.

The stadium is a belter and holds 23,000. I'm starting to feel worse for wear after neat Amarettos and goldfish bowls full of gin. It's not bloody well helped by a couple of buffoons banging their drums two rows down. The game has 0-0 written all over it. The visitors, Albacete (near Valencia) are woeful and couldn't hit a Pamplona bull with a pair of castanets. CD Tenerife swarm all over them, doing everything but score. The Big Man and Bruiser are going to rip me to bits - 2,000 miles for a chuffing 0-0 - I shed a tear at the final whistle.

We sink a few more gins before returning to our resort. Chopper suggests we drop into The Dubliner for a nightcap to see the lads - five hours later I collapse into my pit, still singing Sweet Caroline and 'Laid' by Manchester band, James. It's deja vu on Monday evening, following an epic day out which began with a 'Lads' Lunch' up in the hills - the Big Man retired early (3pm) to watch Tipping Point and Home and Away, the rest of the boys pushed on. Sticky Palms aged 54 and 3/4 ends up on all fours after more stumbles than Raheem Sterling due to another sing-song at The Dubliner. After four failed attempts at opening the patio door, I call for a paramedic (Chopper).

It's Friday evening, how the hell did I get out of Tenerife alive? Tuesday was the longest day of all time. The three-day working week has lasted a lifetime. Not a drop of alcohol has passed my lips in the last 100 hours. I've drunk more water than Robinson Crusoe. I venture out up Carlton Hill to the Free Man a comedy 'Spoons watering hole. I sink a pint of Shipyard and catch up with Ms Moon before trotting up the road to The Brickyard for a swift one. Lights are out for 9:30pm; Tenerife has done for me!

A few weeks ago a 270-mile round trip to Nailsworth, in Gloucestershire, sounded a great idea. On Saturday morning I feel battered, broken and shattered, just like Tony Bellew (and Chopper) the other weekend. I'm on Spinney Road at the heart of the 'Keyworth Bronx.' I can see the Big Man's van parked up and 'Big Ed' knocking on his door - "he'll still be in his pit me duck" I shout, as I wind down the window. We do a Facebook live of Trumpy Bolton pottering down the hill towards us. He's had a pint of 'Fursty Ferret' for 'breakfast' and is full of cough and cold - it's only 10 o'clock.

It's been a sad old few weeks for Trumpy and his wife, Jayne, following the tragic helicopter crash at the King Power Stadium. He went to Leicester to pay his respects and both were at Cardiff City for an emotionally-charged afternoon, where their team played their hearts out.

We travel Coventry and Stratford way, before hitting traffic that's heading to Cheltenham races. Forest Green play in the small, picturesque town of Nailsworth in Gloucestershire. We find a free car park, high up overlooking the town. Trumpy has a couple of cracking pubs lined-up. The first is the Britannia, a former manor house, with a big log fire. Bolton necks a couple of ales as Sticky devours a brie and bacon burger. The second boozer is a snorter. Egypt Mill is a converted 16th Century mill with working waterwheels and a stone floor bar. It's two more real ales for the legend, as Sticky struggles with a half, still feeling the after-effects of 'the Reef.'

After two aborted attempts, we finally rock up at The New Lawn. We're fleeced for £7 to park the car. A very friendly steward ensures we aren't double-parked ( must of heard I tripled parked in Tenerife) so we can get a quick getaway.

Trumpy has got the moaner-meter on full power. It takes an age to purchase a ticket (I know, before you start, should have done it online). How was I to know they had a kids' deal on? There's worst to come for Bolton when time is called before he can buy a pint at the Green Man. He's seething and starving by the time he catches up with me in the South Stand behind the far goal.

Forest Green were founded in 1889 and are owned by green energy industrialist and former New Age traveller, Dale Vince, the owner of Ecotricity. Mark Cooper is the gaffer; he's managed more clubs than Peter Stringfellow and seems to have beef (sorry Dale) with Danny Cowley at 'The Lincoln' - fair play as we always seem to beat 'Rovers.'

Morecambe are today's visitors and have one of the best managers in the League in Jim Bentley. Year after year he keeps them up on a shoestring. Ms Moon and I have loved our two trips up to the Globe Arena.

Trumpy has got the hump because of a beer-free zone. I suggest he hunts down the famous Forest Green vegan pie. He returns with a tray of chips soaked in curry sauce. Forest Green play a neat passing game, but nobody is prepared to take a risk, shoot or cross. The Shrimps are rapid on the counterattack. They force the Rovers 'keeper to make a few good saves. Resolute defending sees the visitors go in at the break at 0-0.

Trumpy has a smile as wide as the M5 at half-time as bucket loads of lager are wheeled into the 'Beer Zone.' I listen to a bungling DJ play Rockafella Skank by Fat Boy Slim three times. Trumpy spends the second half looking through his beer goggles counting how many visiting supporters have made the 400-mile round trip. He says there are 72. The PA guy announces 94. "Does that include the team and coaching staff?", chortles Bolton.

I'm chuffed to bits for Morecambe when their skipper Aaron Wildig scores at the death to send the visiting supporters into wild celebrations, which will last long into the night on their long journey home. I think of the little boy and Dad who we saw earlier in the town earlier today. What a memorable day out for Dad and lad.

Attendance: 3,085

Man of the Match: 'Chopper Harris'

Kirton Brickworks Res 1-2 Keyworth Utd Development

It's April 30th, 2014 and the final whistle has just been blown at Dunkirk FC's Lenton Lane ground. Dunkirk U18s have beaten Keyworth U18s 7-3 - I can't 'arf pick 'em. I shake hands with the opposition and wearily trudge off towards the dressing room for the final time, where I thank each and every player for the efforts over the season and for the twelve years they have represented the Club and village

I've also coached the Keyworth U16s all season, with my good pal Jon - another team I've been involved with for over ten years. I'm fagged out, stressed out and over and out. We have a joint presentation evening; it's emotional and I'm desperately fighting to hold back a flood of tears, but I have to let go for my own sanity. I had hoped the club would run an Under 19 floodlit team the following season - that invitation never came; I felt my vision and passion wasn't shared, it was a massive missed opportunity that would have an impact in the years to come. The blame lays squarely at the foot of my door, but my fuel tank was running on empty.

Fast forward the clock four years and I'm stood down Clifton All Whites one evening watching CAW Dev v Keyworth Dev in an NSL Division Two fixture. The visitors are going through the motions. Nobody seems to be enjoying it. Both my boys are playing; it's breaking my heart to witness it when I know I can make a difference. I want to give it one last go and suggest to someone at the Club that if a vacancy arises next season, I'd be willing to step in. "Why not come now?"

It's Wednesday evening and I'm sat in the Platt Lane clubhouse two hours before kick-off with Keyworth Utd Dev manager Chris Thompson (the lads love this guy). We both have a passion for the game, but more importantly, share a vision for the future. We want to work with the first team and provide a pathway for our young guns. A club can't function properly if teams are run as separate entities, as they were last season. I don't want a side choc-a-bloc full of mercenaries who drift from club to club, not giving two hoots about playing for the badge or wearing the famous green shirt.

I've been involved with the Dev team for over a month now. Chris Thompson, since his involvement, has turned the team on its head. They shipped 50 goals in their first 9 games and only registered one win. We're now unbeaten in the last three games, and guess what? 15 out of the 16 playing squad have come through the youth system. Three lads out of the back four are 16 years old - "you'll never win anything with kids." Training is compulsory, which all the boys have bought into. We're very lucky to have a FA Level Two coach called Phil Anstey onboard, who generously gives up his time to help the lads out.

AFC Clifton are tonight's visitors. We get the boys pumped up and warmed up for kick-off. I take my place in the dugout for the first time in four years. Some folk will say 'what's all the fuss about, Sticky, it's only NSL Div Two?' Just seeing these boys with smiles on their faces, enjoying the dressing room banter and sharing a drink with each other after the game, win or lose, means the world to me.

I say to Chris that I'll sit back and have a look at the opposition for the first 15 minutes. It lasts for all of 45 seconds when hesitancy at the back should see us go a goal behind. I'm pointing, cajoling and gesturing to the lads. We concede a goal to a well-struck free-kick that's poorly defended, before our talisman, Tom Siswick, gets us out of jail, after being slipped in with a slide rule pass by 'Woody.'

Our fitness levels are astounding in the second half as we swarm all over the visitors up the famous Platt Lane slope. Chance after chance goes begging. 'The Keyworth Georgie Best' sees an effort tipped onto the crossbar and young Shyan sees a close-range header sail over the bar. A stonewall penalty is turned down in the dying embers. The lads have given their all and are disappointed to only take a point against a team who have lost one game in ten outings.

The drive back from Bury St Edmunds on Saturday evening was a nightmare. It was teeming down with rain for most of the journey. I'm exhausted and pretty much hit the sack on arriving home. I wake up to the tragic news of the death of five people in a helicopter crash at the King Power Stadium in Leicester. One of the dead is said to be the Club's owner Vichai Srivaddhanaprabha. Our great friends, The Boltons, are Foxes through and through. They are 'both totally numb.'

It's a bit of a Keyworth themed week, folks. Ironically the first team are down at AFC Dunkirk on Tuesday evening. I say hello to manager Ian Marley and his assistant Sam Ralph before viewing proceedings to the right of the away dugout. The Green Army are under the cosh for the first 20 minutes, before taking a vice-like grip on the game. Things are looking good at 2-1 up at the break.

I'm joined by Sticky junior, Stolly and Sizzers for the second half. A trim-looking 'Tank' (Scott Litchfield) gives a masterclass in the art of finishing as he bags a hat-trick ensuring that Keyworth make it five consecutive League victories in a row.

Thursday is the most exciting day of the week. Today will see the arrival of a brand spanking new cribbage board from the Amazon depot in Bardon Hill, Leicestershire. I follow the tracking on the parcel for most of the day - crikey Moses it's been on the van since 10:am and it's now 6pm. Where the chuffing hell is it? I'm fuming readers. I head up to the Elwes Arms on Oakdale Road for a couple of pints of Guinness to calm down. Ms Moon is all beams and smiles on my arrival back at HQ. The eagle has landed. I'm still quite cross because I wanted to sign the parcel off with the driver; it's my board.

It's Friday evening and I'm flopped out in my armchair after a one-hour demonstration of the software I sell with a customer from the USA. The console of my phone lights up; it's James 'Tosh' Turner the first team manager at the world famous Clifton All Whites. He's holed-up at a wake at a community centre in Clifton. He wants to know if he can jump in for a lift to watch Keyworth United v Wollaton under the lights for some Friday night football.

I drop Ms Moon off up at Mapperley Tops. She's meeting her best friend Jill for a two hour Strongbow sesh in the poshest 'Spoons north of the river. I'm pogoing in the car and banging my head on the roof to 'New Rose' by The Damned as an unsteady Tosh staggers down the road in a 'whistle and flute.' He's had a couple of scoops and appears to be speaking Swahili as 'Relight My Fire' from Lulu belts out of the radio on the Tony Blackburn Golden Hour on Radio 2.

There's a good attendance at the 'Floody Friday' game. There's bad news for Sticky Palms though; half his team have rocked up and are on the sauce. Thank the Lord the 'Keyworth Georgie Best' is piloting tonight. Keyworth cruise to a 7-0 victory following a horror tackle by the Wollaton centre back, which sees the excellent referee Mick Leslie brandish a Red card - the youth is still protesting his innocence half an hour later as I wander back into the bar to check on the state of my gin-swilling star striker.

I'm like an excited little kid on Christmas Eve on Friday night as I toss and turn in bed, restless and excited for the game. Who's taking the free-kicks? What about the corners, both sides? Throw-ins? Penalties? Is it just me?

I drop Ms Moon off in town on Saturday morning as she has an open day at work. I'm mooching down Platt Lane by 11am; a full hour before the agreed departure up to north Notts. Chris and I chew the cud over a cup of tea and discuss tactics, as the lads begin to roll up - two are missing in action (Bingham) and need to be picked up enroute.

'Our Joe' is back from Uni in Leeds for his bro's birthday tomorrow. He travels as a fourth sub in case there's a no-show or late withdrawal. I'm as nervous as hell as we pull into the car park (the lads will be laughing when they read this).

The boys are blasting out the tunes on the Bluetooth speaker in the changing room. I was going to ask if we could listen to Paul Gambacinni's Pick of the Pops on Radio 2. 1967 & 1983 are today's years. I choose to set up the warm-up instead. We have a long chat about any complacency that might be creeping in, as our opposition are lower than us in the table.

I chat to a timid referee and explain we're trying to instil discipline with lads and are working with them on ways to accept decisions when they don't go their way. The first 15 minutes is scrappy and disjointed. We get a foothold in the game and start to play at a tempo we expect. Chances come thick and fast, but the Kirton 'keeper is equal to everything we throw at him. His performance is alien to anything I've seen at this level. I jokingly ask their manager if he's on loan from Mansfield Town.

Chris says not to be too harsh on the lads at the break. He's dead right; we've done everything but score. One and all have given 100% and played for the badge. Anyhow, Sticky doesn't do 0-0s.

The second half is a crazy game of football and not for the faint-hearted. We fanny about with the ball at the back, a clearance is hurried and returned back, wind-assisted from 55 yards, our keeper is caught cold and off his line. I turn away, my stomach churning, as I hear the ball hit the back stanchion and nestle into the net. 'Harby' our 'keeper is concussed and dazed. We make changes, bringing on 'Shirty' as an emergency 'keeper (he's 6ft 6").

These boys never know when they are beaten. We go 3-5-2. Incredibly our 16-year-old sub defender, Ben, puts us on level terms, following a brilliant move from open play. Woody coolly slots home from the spot to maintain our unbeaten run. Kirton are a very welcoming club and are sporting in defeat. I console their tearful 'keeper at the final whistle.

Man of the Match: Kirton 'Keeper

KUFC Man of the Match: Josh Stolworthy

Bury Town 3-0 Tilbury

I'm absolutely out on my feet after returning to HQ from Chippenham, following a day out with blog legend Trumpy Bolton, watching a dull as dishwater FA Cup tie. Ms Moon is slouched on the sofa watching Strictly Come Dancing. I enquire as to whether former Notts and England cricketer Graeme Swann has put a shift in, as I have a vested interest, having placed two 50p each way bets at 25/1 and 40/1. Ms Moon says he's scored high marks again - I can't 'arf pick 'em.

We walk for an hour around Colwick Country Park, adjacent to Nottingham Racecourse, on a beautiful, autumnal Sunday morning. The leaves are changing colour; the setting is peaceful and tranquil until we bump into around 200 bleating Canadian Geese sat on the lake - I avoid these buggers like the plague, particularly when I'm cycling.

I exit the car on Weekday Cross and slip down a passageway next to the Ibis Hotel. I swing open the front door of the Herbert Kilpin and shout up a pint of Kilpin from the Black Iris Brewery. I watch the fag end of a seven-goal thriller in Serie A - Sticky doesn't do 0-0s. I pop into the Six Barrel Drafthouse on Carlton Street and the Fox and Grapes in Sneinton before settling in for the evening.

I have a daft £1 bet on Crystal Palace, Serbian international midfielder, Luka Milivojevic, to score the first goal of the game up at Goodison Park on Merseyside; he's at a juicy odds of 28/1. I'm proper cross six hours later when I see the blithering idiot fluff his spot-kick on Match of the Day.

Monday is Lincoln manager Danny Cowley's 40th birthday. This living legend has turned our Club on its head with his younger brother, Nicky, and has brought back a feel-good-factor around the city not seen since the late great Keith Alexander was the manager of the Imps.

The Club have given Danny the honour of picking a playlist of his favourite tunes to be played before the clash with Carlisle United. Being a Cockney he's bound to have some Blur, The Jam and The Clash up his sleeve. I'm so excited about the sell-out game at Sincil Bank as I hurtle down the A46 on Tuesday tea-time.

I park the 'Rolls Royce' at my lucky spot outside the old people's home on St Botolph's Crescent, where my Nana, Lucy, spent her last few years. I peg it up the High Street past the Ritz, where I'll have an all-nighter if we beat 'Dirty Mansfield' on November 24th. I slip down a walkway onto the Brayford Waterfront. I like having some pre-match pasta at ASK Italian, which is rammed full of Imps fans. As per normal, I'm one of the first folks to go through the turnstile at Sincil Bank just before 7pm. I sit high up at the back of the Selenity Stand, where I have no recollection of the last time I saw the Mighty Imps lose a game.

There's some strange music blasting out of the PA. Michael Jackson's 'Man in the Mirror' and Lionel Ritchie's 'Destiny.' I look at Lincoln's Twitter account and notice DC's playlist - blimey they were his picks, along with Elton John. Danny, are you sure you're only 40?

Tonight's visitors, Carlisle, have a makeshift central defender who usually plays as a striker and Steven Gerrard's cousin, Anthony Gerrard , playing as his partner. It's an exciting first half which ends 2-2. Carlisle are great value and have caused our defence some uncomfortable moments with their hassling, harrying and movement. The second half is a non-event with the game ending in a stalemate. Danny Cowley is furious at the end of match Press conference, not only at the sloppy defending but also that they were unable to water the pitch due to an internal cock up - I prefer to blame it on some of those song choices, Danny.

The highlight on Friday is a reduced 20p off a cheese and pickle sandwich at Tesco. I spend the early evening with 'The Keyworth Georgie Best' and 'Sizzers', the hottest property in the Notts Senior League. I've allowed them a night out - we haven't got a game tomorrow. We have some tea at the 'World renowned iconic Trent Bridge Inn' (a posh 'Spoons) in West Bridgford. I've got my 50p off CAMRA vouchers again and Liberation is a guest ale - it's a steal at £1.65 - you wouldn't get a Latte, Mocha or Flat White for a sniff of that down 'The Avenue', the coffee capital of Notts. We sink a few more at a refurbished Southbank Bar, before I'm very kindly dropped off at base camp by Sticky jnr's girlfriend, Alix.

Blimey Charlie, I've got a banging head on Saturday morning. It was well worth it though, to spend some time with Sticky jnr. Ms Moon is off to Cheltenham at the weekend to help her daughter find some accommodation, as she has just landed a job as restaurant manager at The Botanist. I won't need any excuses to visit the Regency spa town and get the odd game in somewhere in the Cotswolds.

I'm off out to the Fens to pick up my best mate from school, 'Ackers' for a day out in Suffolk. He has legendary status in our village for being accident-prone and the worst driver since Maureen off Driving School. I pick him up in Thorpe Meadows, at the Peterborough Rowing Club, where he's enjoyed a few strokes on the water - I hope for the crew's sake he wasn't the cox or they might have ended up in The Wash.

He's still dressed in his rowing gear as we head down the A14 towards the village of Great Finborough, in Suffolk. I park on a sleepy road adjacent to St Andrew's Church. Back in 1978 when I was at school, I was still into disco and pop music. Ackers mentioned a late-night DJ on Radio One called John Peel was worth a listen - it was a life-changing moment in my childhood.

John Peel died in 2004 at the age of 65 years old from a heart attack whilst holidaying in Peru. He was laid to rest in the village churchyard. On his gravestone are the words "Teenage dreams so hard to beat, lyrics from The Undertones classic 'Teenage Kicks.'

I stick the car in a long stay car park right outside Ram Meadow - home of Bury Town. We head into town for a spot of lunch at the Mason Arms - and very nice it is too. Ackers eats like a horse.

Bury St Edmunds is a historic market town in Suffolk with a population of 40,000. It is known for brewing and malting (Greene King Brewery) and for a British Sugar processing factory, where Silver Spoon sugar is produced. On the 3rd March 1974 a Turkish airline jet crashed shortly after take-off, killing all 346 people on board. Among the dead were eighteen members of the Bury St Edmunds Rugby Club who had been watch and play rugby in France. There are two memorial stones in the area to remember those who passed away in the tragedy.

The town's main football team, Bury Town, were founded in 1872 and are the fourth oldest Non League team in England. English actor Bob Hoskins was born in the town. He appeared in many well-known films including: The Long Good Friday, Mona Lisa and Who Framed Roger Rabbit.

It's £9 on the gate and £1 for a golden goal ticket. The ground is a snorter and has been on the hit list for a while. I love the unusual stand with it's angled roof. There is plenty of cover, which isn't required today with clear blue skies; albeit a tad chilly.

Tilbury, from neighbouring Essex, are today's visitors. The DJ just seems to be playing what he likes - without consultation from Danny Cowley. The first half is lacklustre with hardly any goalmouth action. The most exciting thing to happen is to see the smoke billowing and drifting across the ground from the nearby sugar factory. Bury play a nice passing game but lack any nous in the final third to exploit a defence that is there for the taking. Tilbury are reduced to ten men after a scene of handbags that TOWIE would be proud of. 'The Big GC' (Gemma Collins) would pack a bigger punch.

Bury take advantage in the second half scoring three fine goals. The second one, in particular, is worth the gate money. Ten-man Tilbury plug away but don't get a goal their efforts deserve. 'The Lincoln' have had a miserable time of it 40 miles down the road in Colchester - I saw that one coming a mile off.

Attendance: 287

Man of the Match: Ackers

Chippenham Town 1-1 Maidenhead United

We jump in a cab from what I can only describe as the worst 'Purple Palace' on earth (Burgess Hill, Sussex, for the record). The Beefeater bar still has no Guinness on, despite having two lit up pumps and a moaning Sticky Palms on their case. A gin-crazed British public have been left with the choice of Gordon's only. I shake my head in disbelief as we wander through Reception - "have a pleasant evening sir" says the lass behind the counter, trying her utmost to salvage the situation.

Ms Moon's brother, Andrew, is having his 40th birthday bash at the Cock Inn in Wivelsfield Green, out in the sticks. It's a joint do with the landlady, who has turned fifty. I have a couple of pints of Harvey's best bitter; a barrel that has been very kindly bought by the birthday boy. I'm dog tired - talking of which, Ms Moon mentions that there's an unpleasant whiff and pong in the air. I turn up the heel of my shoe; Jesus wept folks, I've traipsed into some poop in the back garden, which matches the colour of my shoes. I spend the rest of the evening wiping my dog shit coloured and covered shoes clean on a nearby grass verge, much to the amusement of onlooking partygoers.

It's an early exit from the Premier Inn on Sunday morning. There's no second chance for the buffoons on the Beefeater waiting staff to serve me a cooked breakfast, after yesterday's omnishambles. A rare outing to McDonald's on a nearby retail park, to bag a sausage and egg McMuffin, is relatively successful. Not the same can be said for an hour of Steve Wright's Love Songs with Ms Moon's Mum riding shotgun - the company is better than the disc jockey.

By 2pm I'm sat in the King William IV (better known to the locals as the King Billy). It's an old Victorian boozer in the heart of Sneinton, with bags of character. I have a few ales from the Black Iris stable, as a couple of old boys play out a game of cribbage. A wry smile comes across my face as I think of the time I locked Ms Moon out on the balcony when she beat me at crib by two legs to zero in Spain back in early September.

No games catch my eye on Tuesday evening; it's a rare night in, where I suffer in silence at endless soaps and cookery programmes. It's a relief to be back on the training ground the following evening. Our army is growing; even some of the first team lads are buying into the philosophy of giving their limbs a midweek stretch.

I officially take the team over (Keyworth United Dev) in early January. In the meantime caretaker manager, Chris Thompson, is doing a cracking job lifting the spirits of the young guns after a mixed start to the season. I address the boys at the start of the session and congratulate them on their Cup win at the weekend that puts Us into the quarter-finals. I'm keen to find out who has been booked and sin-binned as discipline is high on my agenda.

Ms Moon and I meet in the Free Man, a 'Spoons establishment on Carlton Hill, at 6pm Friday teatime. Anglo Saxons gave Carlton their name. Coerl is the Anglo Saxon word for freeman, while ton or tun means an enclosed settlement. Anyhow, the beer is spot on. Liberation real ale is a snip at £1.49 per pint with my 50p off CAMRA voucher.

It's an early start on Saturday morning, as I head over to the village of Keyworth, in South Notts, to chauffeur HRH King Trumpy Bolton. Chippenham and Maidenhead fans I need to explain something to you (sorry about this regular readers). For forty years Trumpy Bolton has travelled the length and breadth of England, Scotland and Wales, making a financial transaction (usually a pub) in every village and town. He highlights the place off in a crumpled old atlas, once he receives a credit card statement telling him where he went on his beer-fuelled visits.

The Legend is loitering half way down Spinney Road, on the 'Bronx', swinging a Co-op carrier bag full of Koppaberg mixed fruit cider. He 'fesses up to having Ardenne smooth pate (on offer at Fine Fare) on toast, smothered in butter, accompanied with a bottle of Lancaster Bomber ale, for breakfast. There's a release of gas as he untwists his bottle of booty, before taking a huge swig of 'apple juice.'

I know all the right buttons to press. I ask him if he wants to listen to the Graham Norton Show. He immediately starts fiddling with the DAB radio before settling on 6 Music. I enquire if he's listened to the Jim White Show recently on TalkSport. It's met with a full-on ten-minute rant about the celebrity-obsessed, name-dropping Scottish presenter.

We opt to drive the scenic route into the beautiful surroundings and towns of the Cotswolds, rather than the laborious, mind-numbing journey down the M42 and M5. Trumpy can name every pub on every corner, a mile before you reach it. He really ought to apply for Mastermind, with his specialist subject being British Pubs since 1976.

After sweeping through Moreton-in Marsh (where Gloucestershire CCC used to play Sunday afternoon John Player League Cricket) Stow-on-the-Wold (where I once saw Morris dancing) and the market town of Royal Wooton Bassett (where military funeral repatriations take place) we finally pitch up at at the picturesque Dumb Post Inn in Bremhill, near Calne.

Bolton's not mucking about, he shouts up two pints of Butcombe Bitter and a lime 'n soda for Sticky. They vanish in ten minutes and before you know it we're entering the ghastly Pheasant Carvery on the outskirts of Chippenham. There are kids chasing about the place squealing and crying. Even worse than that, 20 or so 'Manchester Utd' fans crowd around a TV cheering on 'their' team - we're in Wiltshire by the way, a 340-mile round trip away from Manchester. We chuckle later when Chelsea equalise at the death.

We're driving up Rowden Hill, where on April 17th 1960 American rock and roll legend Eddie Cochran lost his life at the age of 21 years old, after his speeding taxi blew a tyre, causing the driver to lose control of the vehicle - Gene Vincent, also in the taxi that night, survived the crash.

Huey Morgan from the Fun Lovin' Criminals is spinning some tunes on his lunchtime show on 6 Music. He plays the 12" version of 'What' from The Damned's Captain Sensible. I give Trumpy a full rendition - he remains unmoved.

The town's turned out in their numbers for this FA Cup 4th Qualifying Round tie. A mouth-watering £25,000 is up for grabs to the winners. Folk are saying they've never seen queues like it at the turnstile, as we pay £12 in and £2.50 for a programme. I daren't tell 'True Blue' Trumpy that staunch Red, Jeremy Corbyn was born in the town. Ex Chippenham Town player Tyrone Mings signed for Ipswich Town for £10,000, before AFC Bournemouth shelled out £8 million for his services - crikey I hope there was a sell-on clause negotiated by Chippenham.

Trumpy has retreated to a jam-packed social club for a few pints of Old Speckled Hen. I'm on the far side of the ground, opposite the lovely old main stand, basking in the glorious sunshine, which is shielded by my Lincoln City baseball cap.

Maidenhead United, from Berkshire, are managed by ex-West Ham United fleet-footed winger, Alan Devonshire, who stands motionless in the technical area sporting a flat cap. I fancy their chances as I saw Chippenham capitulate at the fag end of last season at Hemel Hempstead.

The playing surface looks uneven and bare in places. The first half is utter dross, with neither 'keeper being tested. Trumpy emerges from the bar to ask what the score is. I tell him to trot back as neither team are going to score in a month of Sundays.

Sledgehammer by Peter Gabriel and Pinball Wizard by The Who fail to lift my spirits at the break. Sticky P doesn't do 0-0s; hasn't done for 18 months, but this has one written all over it. The fans swap ends without fuss; it's the beauty of Non League.

Maidenhead score from a free kick with a wonderfully executed left-foot shot from Christian Smith. Chippenham finally start to believe in themselves. Chances going begging before a last-gasp strike from Mike Jones puts them into Monday evening's first round draw - it's nothing less than their team and fans deserve.

Attendance: 706

Man of the Match: Trumpy Bolton (who else)

Eastbourne Borough 2-4 Torquay United

Ms Moon mentioned a month or so ago that her brother's 40th birthday celebrations would be taking place in Burgess Hill, Sussex, in mid-October. I couldn't crank up the computer quick enough to peruse the fixtures and towns in the county on google maps. The fixture list threw up an interesting Conference South game between Eastbourne Borough and a beleaguered Torquay United.

Monday evening is spent in the northern city of Carlisle following a windswept journey up to Scotch Corner and onto the exposed A66. My boss and I have a meeting in the morning with a rail company in the area. We jump into a taxi outside the 'Purple Palace' and head into the city centre. We have a quick jar in the Kings Head on Fisher Street before legging it up to The Thin White Duke - named after a David Bowie persona in 1975 and 1976. It's a converted monastery building which is now a fashionable bar. My ears prick up when I hear a familiar tune coming out on the Spotify playlist. It's 'How Much Are They?' by Jah Wobble (ex-Public Image bassist) from 1981, a record I bought as a kid on 12" from Selectadisc on Nottingham's Market Street. The barman says it was a hit on the New York club scene.

I'm fagged out on my return to HQ, the following day and decline an invite to Owen Street to watch Coalville Town v St Neots Town in an FA Cup replay. The game is an epic with the visitors clawing back two goals at the death to make it 3-3. They eventually win on penalties - I can't 'arf miss 'em.

Wednesday evening is spent on the training ground, introducing myself to the Keyworth United Development team, who I'll be managing in the New Year. The lads enjoy a great session that leaves me bursting with pride on the short journey home.

I pick up Ms Moon's mum, Val, at just gone twelve bells on Friday lunchtime, as a convoy of cars head 'down 'Sarf.' Sat Nav is predicting a three and a half hour journey. We're sailing along the M1 with not a worry in the world, and only two miles away from the M25. I'm dreaming of slumping on my 'Purple Palace' double bed for a lovely cat nap when suddenly the traffic comes to a grinding halt during Terry's weekly allotment update from Merthyr Tydfil on the Jeremy Vine Show. We don't move for two hours as a seriously injured lorry driver is air-lifted to hospital by a helicopter.

We've pretty much polished off the mint imperials and Murray Mints by the time we get going again. The torture continues with the Steve Wright Show on Radio 2 - I didn't think Val would appreciate Hawksbee and Jacobs on TalkSport. I wince and shake my head in disbelief and embarrassment at 'Silly Boy' and his Serious Jockin' - and no, I'm not saying it.

The Beefeater bar at the Burgess Hill Premier Inn is in disarray. They've no Guinness on and only Gordon's gin. Big Tony shouts me up a Doom Bar - it tastes like dirty washing up water (sorry Tony). The meal is top notch at Buon Appetito. I'm on Amaretto, Aperol Spritz and an expensive Merlot - as you probably realised there was no real ale on.

I feel sick on Saturday morning. Scoffing that birthday cake on top of everything wasn't a good idea. The service at the breakfast bar is nothing short of a shambles. Waiting staff play with their hair, giggle at hushed conversations and saunter around. I twice have to chase up coffee and breakfast  - Ms Moon can be a madam without her early caffeine fix.

The sleepy village of Rottingdean is our first port of call. The purpose of our visit is to pay our last respects to Thin Lizzy, Belfast-born guitarist, Gary Moore, who died in Estepona, southern Spain, a resort we stayed at a few weeks ago. Moore is buried in the churchyard at St Margaret's.

Our timing isn't great, it looks like a funeral is about to take place, as we snoop about the graveyard, before Ms Moon frantically waves at me from the far corner. I'm quite cross, as I like to find the celebrity headstone first as a rule (we have done this a few times - gravehoppers). Ms Moon clocks Kipling Gardens. I mention that they sell exceedingly good cakes there - it falls on deaf ears. Jungle Book author Rudyard Kipling lived in the village for several years.

We by-pass the channel ferry port of Newhaven, where the abandoned car of Lord Lucan was found in 1974 on a residential street following the murder of the nanny of his children, who was bludgeoned to death with a piece of lead piping in Belgravia, London.

We arrive on the seafront at Eastbourne with plenty of time for a mooch around. The pier is a beauty, despite being seriously ravaged by fire in 2014. It was bought by a local hotelier a year later for a reported £5 million. Ms Moon and I part company for a while (Caffe Nero). I peg it up through town before turning onto Lushington Road. There's a blue plaque on a property at No.7 (now a dental surgery) where Alice in Wonderland author Lewis Carroll used to holiday in the late 19th Century. I manage a quick pint of lukewarm London Pride ale at The Marine, a cosy residential pub tucked away on a back street off the front.

As we stroll back to the car, two yellow Coastguard vans with flashing beacons accompanied by a police car are speeding up to Beachy Head, where we later hear a glider has crashed-landed into the sea, with no injuries reported.

Eastbourne Borough's ground is a short three-mile ride out of town. Eastbourne is a seaside town and resort in East Sussex with a population of 100,000. It's east of Beachy Head where I'll be visiting later today if 'The Lincoln' come away from Port Vale empty-handed. The MP for Eastbourne is the Liberal Democrat, Stephen Lloyd, who holds a 1,609 majority - the party only have twelve seats. Eastbourne Pier was built between 1866 and 1872 at the junction of the Grand and Marine Parades.

German philosopher Friedrich Engels' ashes were scattered from Beachy Head at his request and the author of The Graduate, Charles Webb, is housed in a far-from luxurious hotel, in the town, by social services. Current (not for long) British Prime Minister, Theresa May, was born in the town along with BBC weatherman Michael Fish, as were footballers Joel Lynch and Solly March (a bargain buy from Non-League, Lewes) and cricketer Ed Giddins. Legendary Radio 2 presenter Charlie Chester resided in the town -one for the kids there. Eastbourne Borough FC were formed in 1964 and play at Priory Lane. Notable former players include: Ashley Barnes, Carl Jenkinson and Lyle Taylor.

It's £13 on the turnstile and £2.50 for a programme. It's Non-League Day today, but I'm not aware of any discounts. Ms Moon notices that I have a face like thunder and that I'm pointing at the playing surface. It's 3G - Sticky doesn't do 3G. Oh well, it's a decent tick off. We stand on the opposite side to the dugouts, nearer to the goal the Gulls will be attacking. Their large following are housed behind the far goal. The DJ is in fine fettle. He plays Modjo, David Guetta and Babyshambles - no relation to Omnishambles at the Beefeater 'restaurant.'

The first half is nowt to write home about. Torquay are toothless in attack. Eastbourne work the 'keeper and thoroughly deserve to take the lead shortly before half-time through Alfie Rutherford. Torquay United manager Gary Johnson will be blow-torching the paint off the dressing room walls after witnessing that lacklustre display; they are sent out early onto the pitch.

I fancy Torquay will win this one. We decide to move up to where their following are gathered. Ms Moon has heard a couple of racist remarks made by a moron next to her (Eastbourne fan). Had I heard them I would have sparked the bloke flat out. It's for the best we stand elsewhere.

A Jake Andrews wonder strike from 25 yards with a wand of a left foot restores parity for the visitors and has the Torquay supporters mobbing Ms Moon. Minutes later a tap-in from Jamie Reid puts the Gulls 2-1 to the good. They are pegged back to 2-2 when their fragile defence leak another goal, scored by the excellent Dean Cox. A stonewall penalty is dispatched by Jamie Reid, who completes a hat-trick in the dying embers to give Torquay a flattering victory.

Attendance: 929

Woman of the Match: Ms Moon's Mum, Val