It's May 3rd, 1978. Sticky Palms and his best mate, Ackers, are wandering at the back of the Parr Stand at Nottinghamshire County Cricket Club. We've got the autographs of Richard Hadlee and Derek Randall (both childhood heroes of mine, along with Clive Rice) for the umpteenth time, as we loiter around the Long Room at the foot of the pavilion stairs. Notts have been entertaining Pakistan in a touring game. 22-year-old leg spinner, Abdul Qadir, has burst onto the scene and is walking in our direction. We politely ask him to put his moniker into our autograph books. "I can do one better than that lads, why don't you come onto to the team bus and meet all the players?"
My heart beats ten to the dozen as every player shakes our hand and sign our books. We're talking legendary status - the likes of Mudassar Nazar, Javid Miandad and Safraz Nawaz. I jump off the Keyworth No.6 bus and race up the twitchell (Nott'm slang for alley). I share the news with my Dad, who is as pleased as punch for me. I learn of Abdul Qadir's untimely death on Friday, a life cut short by a cardiac arrest at the age of 63 years old. I will never forget his act of kindness. Rest in peace, my friend.
We enjoyed our afternoon out at Prescot Cables in the north west; it's a ground to die for, and we met the greatest Non League Dog of all-time - Koda, a one-year-old Newfoundland puppy. Ms Moon doesn't muck about when she's driving - I'm sat shotgun, whinging and moaning at Rylan Clark-Neal on Radio 2 (I think he's quite funny really, I just don't let on).
We both adore Liverpool and need no excuse for a stopover. The bar is packed in the Crowne Plaza, opposite the Royal Liver Building. Klopp's Liverpool are playing Big Sean's Burnley, and there's a wedding reception on too. I've had my fill of football for the day - I'm not a sad, proper Hopper who does 2-3 games a day. I ask Reception to book a cab up to the Real Ale Quarter, near the Liverpool Philharmonic. We chillout in the Fly in the Loaf, on Hardman Street, as the goals rack up at Turf Moor.
A few new pubs are ticked off before we turn in for the night. There aren't many takeaways in the Princes Dock, close to our hotel. We're both 'Hank Marvin.' I've already enquired about room service, pre-drinks, and have had the thumbs-up that a sandwich is 'no problem.' I order up a cheese and ham sarnie and crisps, as the Match of the Day theme tune strikes up. Deep into 'injury time' there's still no sign of supper. I nudge the lass on the switchboard and I'm assured it won't be long. A third conversation, with Match of the Day long gone, is less cordial. I'm not interested that "Ivan's all over it." Where the chuff is my sandwich?
It's frosty at checkout the following morning. I notice we've been charged for supper but not the two rounds of drinks we necked as nightcaps. Ms Moon says let it go. I'm still blowing a gasket as we head onto M62 towards the M6.
I've had to split my sporting week up due to the added bonus of Notts being fortuitously being handed a home tie versus the big guns of Middlesex in the T20 Vitality Blast on Thursday night. I didn't want to chance my arm with Ms Moon by announcing another football fixture. I'll watch Emmerdale Farm, Corrie and Celebrity Masterchef through gritted teeth.
To be honest I wish I stopped in for a double helping of Amos and Mr Wilks on Tuesday evening. Instead, I venture out to the New Manor Ground, where Ilkeston Town and Spalding Town are crossing swords. I sit with Big D and his son Ross, who misses out on playing in goal tonight due to a slight tweak in his groin. Both are on top form, delivering a string of laugh out loud anecdotes. Entertainment is in short supply on the pitch, but you can't fault the endeavour. And before you start, yes, it was nil chuffing nil. To complete a miserable day I arrive home to find out that 'The Lincoln's' Danny Cowley is 1/6 ON for the Sheffield Wednesday job.
I've cheered up by Thursday evening, although still a tad concerned about young Jacob's hairdo on Emmerdale Farm - I thought he was the lovechild of Gareth Bale. I have a quick pint of Buried Treasure at the Neon Raptor taproom, served by 'Mr ZZ Top.' I take my place in the Larwood and Voce Stand at Trent Bridge. The Middlesex All-Stars are in town. Their group includes: David Malan, AB de Villiers and England T20 skipper Eoin Morgan.
Peter Moores drafts in Chris Nash from the wilderness and prefers Luke Wood, who recently signed a three year deal with Lancashire, over Luke Fletcher, who can feel hard done by. Notts are brilliant in the field, with their spinners, particularly Lincolnshire lad Matt Carter, executing their plan perfectly. The Londoners are restricted to 160-8 off their 20 overs.
Notts have been known to collapse like a deck of cards, when chasing runs, with the heat turned up. Tonight they reverse the trend. Alex Hales and Chris Nash treat the loyal supporters, sat in a bitterly cold evening, to a masterclass in T20 batting. Hales, left in the cold by England, clouts Steven Finn into orbit to see Notts home by 10 wickets. I skip all the way home down London Road.
I have three pints of ale in The Brickyard on Carlton Hill on Friday teatime. I arrive home to find Ms Moon and her best friend Jill, dressed to the nines' for a wedding reception at Welbeck Hall, in West Bridgford, on the banks of the Trent. The next thing I know is that it's well past midnight and someone is knocking furiously at the front door. It's a bit early for Jeff Brazier from the People's Postcode Lottery, but I'll happily accept the £30,000 cheque at any time of night. It's a furious Ms Moon. I've left my keys in the inside door and she can't get in.
It's still a bit frosty first thing on Saturday morning. It's going to take more than a Nescafe Alta Rica and two slices of fruit loaf toast to woo the Princess back. I keep my head down and crack on with the chores. There's another knock at the door. It's Beer 52 with a box of craft ales.
It's £9 on the gate (cheaper than Stamford's world record £10 for Step 4). We buy a couple of raffle tickets. 'Diddy' David Hamilton must be on the decks. He plays a string of 1970s hits including 'Get Dancin' by Disco-Tex and the Sex-O-Lettes.
We bump into legendary Staveley owner/chairman Terry Damms in the bar. He's so welcoming and appreciative of our support. He makes a fuss of Ms Moon and asks how our weekend was in Liverpool; oblivious to 'Sandwich Gate.' The Trojans love a good Cup run. We saw them play Lincoln United off the park in the previous round of the FA Cup a few weeks back. Last season they knocked out big-spending Basford United in the FA Cup on the hallowed 4G at Greenwich Avenue. Massive egos were dented that evening. Terry waxes lyrical of celebrations late into the night at Napoleons Casino in Sheffield.
The ground is a beauty and the pitch looks immaculate. We both peel off our fleeces as the sun emerges and the teams kick-off. Staveley look nervous from the off and survive a few scares before falling behind on 7 minutes.
The visitors are proper under the cosh and are getting outmuscled and outfought. The half time whistle can't come quick enough as the ball just keeps coming back. I'm chuffed to bits to get my mitts on an FA Cup match-ball on 13 minutes. I pull a stomach muscle stretching over an advertising hoarding to retrieve a misplaced pass. Out of breath, I ask Ms Moon for a swig of her Buxton Water.
Staveley throw on an old school warrior of a centre-forward in the second half, who works his gonads off. They scuff a few half chances, but their delivery continues to be poor. The referee has a 'Weston Super Nightmare' in the second half. He takes an age to address handbags and free-kicks.
The game peters out. I'm gutted for Terry and the travelling flock, but they just didn't get going.
Attendance: 253
Man of the Match: Abdul Qadir. RIP aged 63 xx
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