I rock up at Trent Bridge for the T20 Vitality Blast game between the Notts Outlaws and a beleaguered Yorkshire Vikings. I've already had a couple of scoops in the sun-drenched streets of Sneinton, at the Neon Raptor Tap Room. I've had the heads up that you can pay £5 for a day-pass into the Larwood and Voce Taverners' Bar, thus avoiding large queues in the pub downstairs.
I handover a £5 note to a steward, who clips on a wristband, before making my way through to the bar for a thirst-quenching ale. "Sorry mate, the bar isn't open for another hour." (it's 2:30 p.m.). I feel the red mist descend over me. Only a Club with a history of being amateurish would make a decision like this. "No wonder all the playing staff are leaving for pastures new" is aimed at blazered Notts official as a dehydrated and flabbergasted Sticky chunters off to the pub. I've been fleeced for £5 and not had a scoop yet.
It turns out to be a stroke of good fortune. We're packed in like sardines in the bar downstairs, but I get served easily. Everyone's watching the fag end of the Ashes. In what looked like an hour ago as being a lost cause ends with Ben Stokes clubbing a long hop through the covers to tie the series 1-1. It's greeted with scenes not witnessed since 'The Lincoln' knocked out Burnley in the FA Cup at Turf Moor a few seasons ago - I can't 'arf pick 'em.
The day gets even better when Notts scrape home by three runs and qualify for the quarter-finals. 'The Bulwell Bomber' (Luke Fletcher) bowls with balls of steel, cleaning-up two batsmen in the penultimate over. I just hope Fletch, Hales and Stokes don't celebrate by having a night out on the lash, in Leeds.
It's Tuesday evening and I'm sat in 'B' Block in the notorious Peter Taylor Stand, at Nottingham Forest's City Ground. Three thousand Sheep have crossed the cattle grid for a second-round Carabao Cup tie. The Tricky Tree DJ's pre-match music is top drawer - Gangsters by Two Tone's The Specials is the pick of the bunch - Killer by Adamski is the runner up.
Fringe players are given an outing by both managers. Forest play on the front foot and attack the inexperienced Rams' full-backs. A wicked Joe Lolley corner is stabbed into the net by Albert Adomah. The favour is returned ten minutes' later to put NFFC 2-0 up against their bitter rivals.
'A' and 'B' Block taunt the away flock. They belt out their entire back catalogue of chants including "Ain't nobody, like Joe Lolley. Makes me happy, makes me feel this way." "Lampard start the bounce" rings around the ground as crowd favourite Joao Carvalho puts the game to bed, with most of the D***y fans already halfway up the A52, heading back to the Sheep Dip.
It's a sporting fiesta for Sticky this week. Straight after work on Wednesday. I shoot down the A46, towards Sincil Bank. It's the usual pre-match routine of pasta on the Brayford Waterfront at Ask Italian. Tonight, for the first time in twenty years, I'm housed up on the back row of the Co-op Stand.
Marco Silva, Everton's manager, isn't mucking about and has named pretty much a full-strength side. The Imps catch them cold on 20 seconds with a sublime finish by folk hero Harry Anderson. The game is breathtaking and played at a furious pace. The Toffees deservedly equalise from a stunning free-kick, before taking the lead from a Gylfi Sigurdsson penalty. England 'keeper Jordan Pickford is as thick as a brick - he manages, somehow, to be cautioned after the penalty for unnecessarily getting involved in a melee 100 yards up the pitch.
Mercurial Portuguese winger, Bruno Andrade, puts 'The Lincoln' on level terms with a stunning rocket of a volley to set up a grandstand finish. Two late goals see Everton over the finishing line and into the next round of the cup. I can't sleep, as I replay every minute of the game through my mind.
There's time for a quick stop off at Castle Rock's Fox and Grapes in Sneinton Market, on Friday evening, before the long slog up London Road, that is at a standstill with rush hour traffic. I enter the world-famous Trent Bridge cricket ground on Radcliffe Road. There are huge queues at the craft ale bar. I prefer not to watch cricket through beer goggles - anyhow after last Sunday's bar pass farce these buggers aren't getting chuff all off Sticky. I deadeye the steward who fleeced me for a 'Bluey' last Sunday, before taking a pew in the Larwood and Voce Stand.
The Outlaws need to win tonight to secure a home tie in the T20 quarter-finals. We have a history of mucking up and not making it easy for ourselves when the heat is turned up. I'm dismayed and inconsolable to hear we've lost the toss and will be chasing. Durham make hay during the power play and will be disappointed to have only posted 171 runs after some excellent ground fielding by Notts.
Notts collapse like a deck of cards. Only Jake Libby, Samit Patel and Tom Moores show any resistance as we are skittled out for 124; falling short by 45 runs. We are fortuitous that results go our way. Middlesex will make the trip oop North next Thursday. I'll be there moaning and groaning again.
It was a spur of the moment decision to spend the weekend up in Liverpool. Ms Moon has come up trumps with a good price on Booking.com for a night's stay at the Crowne Plaza on Princes Dock. We're up and at 'em by 10:15 a.m. Graham Norton and Mel Sykes are sacked off on Radio 2; we're both into Union Jack Radio on DAB. They play Sense by the brilliant Liverpool band The Lightning Seeds.
The town of Knutsford, in Cheshire, is the first port of call today. It's hosing it down with rain as Ms Moon turns off Chelford Rd into the car park of the Dun Cow, a country dining pub. We're made very welcome by a cheery landlord. I have a pint of Dizzy Blonde from the Robinsons stable. We enjoy beef soaked in onion gravy on a ciabatta, before hitting the road to Prescot.
The town centre long stay car park is £3. We've chuff all change between us after tipping the waitress in the pub. Ms Moon shoots off into town and buys a lottery ticket (my numbers win later) so we can pay the fee. We stroll around the town, that has a real community feel to it. A dance group is raising money at a Methodist church. U Sure Do by Strike blasts out of a PA system.
Prescot Cables were founded in 1884 (the same year as Lincoln City). They play their home games on Hope Street. It's £8 on the gate (take note the greedy Daniels of Stamford). An excellent programme is £2.50. We buy a couple of 50/50 tickets too.
The ground has been on my hitlist for some time since it was flagged up by well-known groundhopper and Non-League photographer Mike Bayley, who is about to release a book called 100 Grounds to Die For.
I'm taken aback with the old main stand which runs along the touchline. It has multi-coloured tip-up seats and bags of character. I'm perched up at the back of the stand with a bird's eye view of proceedings. Ms Moon joins me after queuing for coffee and tea.
Tadcaster Albion, from North Yorkshire, are today's visitors. They are managed by ex-footballer and professional boxer Curtis Woodhouse - over 200 League appearances for Sheff Utd, Birmingham City and Peterborough Utd. He won't be happy with their start, as Cables swarm all over them; deservedly taking the lead through James Edgar on four minutes after some Champagne football.
There isn't much doing in the first half, Cables are the more creative and dangerous team. Ms Moon has spotted a massive dog in the horizon. We wander over at half-time and are introduced to Koda a one-year-old Newfoundland pup. She melts my heart and playfully nips me.
Prescot are wasteful in front of the goal and spurn chances. The visitors grab their opportunity, equalising with ten minutes remaining. They are unable to capitalise on this, with their best player shown a red card after a late tackle. The game peters out into a draw with both sides reduced to ten men through an injury to Prescot's tricky left-winger.
Attendance: 386
Man of the Match: A lady, actually, Koda, the Newfoundland pup.
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