Nottingham Forest 1-2 Hull City

I love to do nothing more than have a Sunday lunchtime stroll around Nottingham city centre. Some of the architecture is stunning; the Council House, in particular, is a favourite of mine, with its 200 feet high mint green-topped dome, which dates back over 90 years. Sadly, Nottingham is often in the news for all the wrong reasons. It has its turf wars and gang rivalry, which often results in shootings or stabbings, but I prefer to concentrate on the positive side of Our wonderful city.

Nottingham's hostelries are second to none; particularly the real ale ones. The city is steeped in a history of brewing beer. Shipstone's, Home Ales and Hardy and Hanson used to rule the roost, back in the day. I'm sat in a window seat of one of my favourite pubs, Lillie Langtry's, named after a British-American socialite (a bit like Gemma Collins off TOWIE). I people-watch the hustle and bustle of folk going about their business on Upper Parliament Street, as a string of Motown and Northern Soul tracks are played on the iPod shuffle.

Just down the road, a Joe Lolley inswinging corner away, is The Playwright pub. In 1865 it was known as the Clinton Arms. Back then, a group of Shinty players met at that pub, on Shakespeare Street, and Nottingham Forest was formed. A Blue Plaque is above the pub doorway.

I sink a couple of 'Dizzy Blondes' before jumping on the 27 NCT bus to Carlton. The rest of the evening is spent writing up our visit to the West Midlands yesterday. The blog doesn't go down too well in the Black Country. I get a message from a supporter of Cradley Town asking for my phone number, so the 'Manager' (clown) can discuss some of my comments. I tell Ms Moon to double-bolt the doors and to not answer the doorbell, even if they claim to be Jeff Brazier from the People's Postcode Lottery.

The Taxman is back on the groundhopping circuit following major eye surgery. He seems quite chipper when I pick him up from his mansion in Plumtree. He can't even moan about his beloved Nottingham Forest who have hit a rich vein of form of late, apart from a setback at the Northern Soul capital of England, Wigan, on Sunday. 

I've suggested that we have a spot of tea at the Tap and Run, a pub and kitchen in the idyllic village of Upper Broughton, which nestles on the Notts/ Leics border. The pub is part-owned by Notts cricketers Stuart Broad and Harry Gurney. The beers on offer aren't thrilling. I have a lime and soda instead. We sit in the conservatory and chew the cud whilst hoovering up fish and chips. The chips are chunky and undercooked, a bit like some of Harry Gurney's long hops in the T20 Blast. 

Tonight, there is a Leicestershire Senior Cup tie between Melton Town and Barrow Town. The venue, the Melton Sports Village, is alive with kids teams training in a variety of sports, as we park up just shy of fifteen minutes before kick-off.

Ms Moon and I first visited the ground back in 2016. It was very much work in progress then and still is now. Mind you, the pitch is immaculate. I've always wondered why a town the size of Melton Mowbray (population 25,000) doesn't have a decent football team. This does seem to have been addressed over recent years. There's certainly a pedigree of player in these parts as former Nottingham Forest wingers Paul Anderson and Oliver Burke are from the market town.

Barrow are excellent in the first half, playing up the slope. The Taxman is already bleating that it's going to be 0-0, at half-time, as we queue up for a cup of tea. I'm taken aback and startled to see who is playing in centre midfield for Melton. I recognize his low sense of gravity, his fleet of foot and speed of thought. It's former Mansfield Town and Lincoln City winger, Nathan Arnold. 

Arnold scored an injury-time winner for the Imps at Sincil Bank versus Ipswich Town three years ago, in an FA Cup third-round replay. Sticky Palms moonwalked down the aisle when Arnold rounded the 'keeper and rolled the ball into an empty net. Lincoln made over £3 million from that Cup run. Nathan has battled with anxiety in recent years and is a motivational speaker on the subject.

Melton run out 3-1 winners, but it's the visiting No.10 and No.11 who catch the eye for Barrow Town. I look forward to watching them again with a pint of ale and cooked chips, pre-match, at the Packe Arms in Hoton.

Sticky jnr ('The Keyworth Georgie Best') has sorted a couple of tickets out for the clash with Hull City. He's been a diehard Red for over 20 years now, during which he's had very little to cheer about in those two decades. When Joe Kinnear and Gary Megson were in charge at Forest and 'junior' had been a naughty boy at home, I used to threaten to take him down to watch the Tricky Trees.

I meet him at the back of the Brian Clough Stand as a Happy Mondays track blasts out of a crackling PA system. He's already had a few scoops in Ruddington and the NFFC Supporters' Club on Pavilion Road, near the main gates. He orders up a bottle of Carlsberg (dishwater) and downs it in two large gulps. Everything he does is at 100 mph. I love him to bits; he's so funny. We had a tough time together when I managed his local team last season, as I never showed him favouritism, or showered him with praise. Quite the opposite, as I often singled him out for criticism. I made a big mistake going back to manage there. He's best left to his own devices.

We sit in the 'Brian Clough Lower.' I always fear for Forest when their colossus, legendary defender Michael Dawson is missing. It's no coincidence that there's a high percentage win-rate when the old warrior is at the heart of their defence. Joe Worrall has come on a bundle since his year-long loan with Steven Gerrard at Rangers. The production line of talent emerging from the youth set up is never-ending. Brennan Johnson and Sticky's favourite, Ryan Yates, are both on the bench.

The opening exchanges are cat and mouse as both teams look to suss one another out. It was like this against Barnsley a month ago when the Tricky Trees were fortunate to take all three points. Hull look there for the taking, but Forest don't seem capable of upping the tempo. I much prefer them when they play on the front foot like they did when D***y Clownty's circus came to town in the League Cup.

Matty Cash is having a torrid time coping with the fast feet of Hull 11 jacket, Polish winger Kamil Grosicki. The opening goal comes from the Hull left and is scored by Josh Magennis. Sticky junior has not only broken the seal but has furiously chewed his way through half a packet of Rowntree fruit pastilles. He fires a few obscenities in the direction of the 690 away fans from Humberside, sat close by, before scurrying off to the concourse for a cheese and onion pasty. Flakes of pastry are spat over my Parka as he angrily dissects the first-half performance.

I mention to 'junior' that I fancy Hull to score another. It duly arrives early in the second half as Dad once again witnesses a string of expletives from an exasperated 'junior'. He's soon out of his chair celebrating a Matty Cash toe-poke after a superb, mazy run by the 22-year-old stand-in full-back who has an outstanding second half.

There's a grandstand finish to the game with the visitors reduced to ten men following a poor tackle. The question marks remain about Forest as a defensive unit. Wide gaps are open and once again they are in debt to some brilliant shot-stopping from bargain-buy Congolese 'keeper Brice Samba, who on this form will be in the Premier League next season, regardless of whether Forest are promoted or not.

Attendance; 27,624

Man of the Match Sticky jnr and Brice Samba

Dudley Sports A-A Cradley Town

It saddened me to see Paul Gascoigne up before the beak at Teesside Crown Court. 'Gazza' wore a haunted look for the TV cameras, despite being found not guilty of sexually assaulting a woman on a train. I prefer to remember the England v Czechoslovakia game at Wembley and 'Italia 90' where his heart was broken and tears streamed down his cheeks, when a yellow card was waved, after a desperate lunge, which would have ruled him out of a World Cup final. My spine tingles and goose-bumps explode as I think of that moment. I was holed up in a pub (surprise surprise) in Cornwall at the time.

It's been a quiet week on the football front. I'm not an easy man to live with when rain is teeming down on the French window and football is a no-go. I take a second look at Keyworth United U19s. What a beautiful game of football they play, on a still night at Platt Lane. Teversal U19s are blown away with a high tempo display of fast-flowing football that they were unable to cope with. It was even clearer to see when sporting a new pair of short-sighted spectacles - and yes, I did go to Specsavers.

I shoot out of the fire exit at 4 p.m. on the dot, on Friday afternoon. Newark can be a bugger to drive through at any time of day; least of all in rush-hour traffic. I sail down the by-pass without any incidents; the traffic flows freely. The same cannot be said of Bracebridge, a suburb of Lincoln, where it's bumper to bumper. There is a funfair on the South Common and a football match on at Sincil Bank; both are on the same evening. Matters aren't helped by Steve Wright's 'Serious Jockin' - I'm seethin' no 'g' - see what I did there?

Another bumper crowd is expected at Sincil Bank to watch Lincoln City, a side in transition, since 'He Who Must Not Be Named' and his brother, upped sticks for West Yorkshire. I park up at the back of Robey Street, where my Nana spent her final few years. I slog it up the High Street. The city is alive with supporters hanging out of pub doorways, chain-smoking and downing pints. I hate boozing prior to a game; always have. I can think of nothing worse than watching a match through a beer-fuelled haze. Hurling abuse at officials and opposing fans is not my bag (unless they are from D***y).

It's pasta and diet Coca Cola for Sticky Palms at the super friendly Ask Italian restaurant, which is housed on the Brayford Waterfront, opposite Wagamama. I push the boat out and have a honeycomb cheesecake for dessert. I'm full to the brim as I turn off High Street onto Scorer Street, the birthplace of Lee Chapman, who scored over 200 career goals (how many times have you told us that, Sticky?).

I'm seated in the Stacey West Stand, named after two supporters who perished in the Bradford Fire Disaster in 1985. 'He Who Must Not Be Named' (now Huddersfield Town's manager) had arranged, before his hurried departure, a special discount for teachers and school employees for tonight's match. Over 9,000 fans are expected.

I love the 45 minutes pre-amble before the game. The Lincoln DJ is in fine form. He plays 'Rhinestone Cowboy' by Glen Campbell and The Courteneers, 'Not Nineteen Forever.' I said to a mate at work that this game has got a draw written all over it - as long as it isn't 0-0 - as I don't do 'em.

There are loads of teachers here; I can tell, as they've all got beards and look cross - can't speak for the women. Three or four squeeze past me with young kids in tow and Grandad. The game kicks off with 'The Lincoln' attacking the Stacey West End. The first thing I clock, just like I did at Rotherham and Blackpool, is how big the opposition are in height and stature.

New incumbent, Michael Appleton, has changed the Imps' style of football They play out from the back and through the midfield. The '617 Squadron' might as well discard with the air raid sirens used during set-pieces and corners when Raggett, Waterfall and Matt Rhead wore 'Our' colours.

Shrewsbury don't look particularly interested and we can't break them down. It's a lacklustre, stalemate affair in the first half, with little hope of anything changing. Grandad, next to me, rummages around in his rucksack and unearths a Tupperware container full of homemade flapjacks. Everyone is offered one on our row except for Sticky Palms. The greedy grandkids have a second helping. I don't speak to Grandad for the rest of the game; even when he makes a coaching point.

The second half is as dull as dishwater as 'The Lincoln' play at a slow tempo and don't shift the ball quickly enough. The game comes to life on 75 minutes when the flame-coloured haired Imps centre back, Cian Bolger, sees the red mist, out on the far touchline. The card is also Red. Lincoln 'keeper Josh Vickers is called into action on several occasions as we run the clock down.

I'm fuming that Bolger got sent off, as I walk down Queen Street, reflecting on the game. I turn onto the High Street as folk pour into the Golden Cross pub. My mood darkens even more as I switch on Radio 2, only to hear 'back in the day' Manc-born DJ, Gary Davies, (ex Radio 1) waxing lyrical about some Indy band - this is the bloke that spun Five Star and Milli Vanilla in the 80s whilst a music revolution was happening, right under his nose (and trust me he has a big 'un).

I have an awful night's kip. Cheese and biscuits for supper was a bad idea. I dreamt that Gary Davies got John Peel's slot on Radio One. I persuade Ms Moon to come out for the day to Dudley. One of our favourite pubs is Windsor Castle, in Lye, just a few miles away from Dudley Sports' ground in Brierley Hill.

It's a pint of pale ale from the Printworks Brewery and a latte for Ms Moon as we enjoy a bacon and brie baguette and a fish finger sandwich for lunch. Traffic was unkind on the way, so the schedule is a tad tight.

After a few wrong turns, we find Dudley Cemetery. On February 6th, 1958, Flight 609 crashed on its third attempted take-off from Munich Airport in West Germany. Manchester United players, nicknamed the 'Busby Babes', were aboard the flight. 23 people out of 44 passengers died. One of which was Dudley-born Duncan Edwards, aged just 21 years old. They only stopped in Munich to refuel after flying in from Belgrade. More than 5,000 people lined the streets for his funeral. My father was a cub reporter for the Daily Express and based in Manchester. He flew out to Munich to cover the story.

Ms Moon finds his grave and waves me over. I become upset when I notice that Duncan's sister died at just 14 weeks old. Their parents were to remain childless for the rest of their marriage. My mood remains sombre as we park up and walk into Dudley town centre. The statue of Duncan Edwards is remarkable. We walk back to the car in silence.

Dudley is a market town in the West Midlands with a population of 80,000. Well known from the town include: Duncan Edwards, Sam Allardyce and the comedians Sir Lenny Henry and Norman Pace.

It's £5 on the gate at Dudley Sports; there's no sign of a programme. I love the ground that's dwarfed by the high-rise flats in the distance. Who signed-off approval to build such a monstrosity? We grab a coffee and tea at Kath's Cafe and discuss orange twirl bars that are in short supply.

There seems to be no lost love between the two dugouts. It's a local derby, but the disrespect and ill-feeling is more deep-rooted than that. Dudley Sports could be 3-0 up in the first ten minutes. Due to shanked efforts, blocking and misfiring they aren't.

The Cradley Town management team are a pair of foul-mouthed muppets. Their demeanour and behaviour are stereotypical for this level (Step 6), One chews gum furiously and rushes his fingers through his wax-ridden hair, whilst his chrome-domed assistant brags to all and sundry how good he was as a 'Pro' and that he doesn't talk to 'Bell Ends' that haven't 'played the game.' - a reference to the opposition bench.

Cradley take the lead from the spot after an uncontested stonewall penalty is awarded. The rest of the half is scrappy and devoid of any quality. I take a stroll around the ground at the break and take a few snaps of the stand on the far side of the ground. "Oi, are you the blogger?" shouts out a bloke. I get chatting to a couple of Cradley fans. Apparently, the pair of clowns in charge today are for One Day Only - a new management team is to be appointed tomorrow, Cradley have already used 60 players this season.

The second half ends in tragedy. The Dudley Sports No.10 rides a tackle but lands awkwardly and gets his studs caught in the turf. The whimpering cry and howling I've heard a few times suggest an ACL injury. The poor lad is in distress and in need of medical attention. There's little sympathy from 'Our Man' whose hair is plastered with putty or wax. "Can't we find a stretcher or carry him off?" There's little regard for the player's welfare. The lad could be self-employed, married with two kids.

An ambulance is called. The game is over for us. How could you possibly continue after such a sickening injury? But for some the result is more important!

Man of the Match: Dudley No.10

Attendance: 42

Clay Cross Town 3-1 Cottesmore Amateurs

The incessant rain is frustrating the groundhopping fraternity, including Sticky Palms. I flat refuse to travel too far, particularly during the week. The thought of watching The Chase, Emmerdale Farm, Corrie, 'Celebrity' Coach Trip and 'Celebrity' MasterChef has put me on suicide watch. Talking of Emmerdale, there's been an outbreak of salmonella food poisoning - Tommy Cannon has already bitten the dust. Hotten village is in lockdown. The lads from Heartbeat have been drafted in to investigate, although PC Ventriss has been told to have his fried breakfast minus the eggs. One of Jack Sugden's hens has laid a dodgy batch of eggs. It's either that or Amos Brearley has undercooked them.

I haven't time for this twaddle as I drive south of the Trent towards my old stomping ground of Keyworth. A tasty Under 19 local derby clash between the 'Green Army' and West Bridgford is on the menu at a bitterly cold Platt Lane. The Bridgford mums will need their 'fur coats' this evening.

Wise to the weather, that blows in from the west and across the ground, I'm wrapped up to the ninepins. The wet and cold never used to bother me, but Father Time has finally caught up with me. I chat with Keyworth Cricket Club legend John Baldrey. In 1979 'JB' knocked the final ball out of the park for KCC in the Eddie Marshall Trophy up on the Keyworth Rec'. The Millers beat red hot favourites Southwell CC. We drank and sang long into the night, up The Salutation Inn on Main Street - well actually I didn't, as I was only 15 years old and on holiday in Cyprus.

I scouted JB's grandson, Myron. He was down The Pies until he was 16 years old, but is now in the 'States' completing a football scholarship, whilst taking a degree. His younger brother is playing for the visitors. The standard of football is high, neither team give no quarter or want to kick lumps out of one another, which is often the norm at this level. The difference between the two teams is in the final third of the pitch. Bridgford run out 3-0 winners.

Both youth policies are in rude health. Keyworth will only go from strength to strength as their young guns are integrated into the First Team under the watchful eye of local manager Ian Marley. There's talk of a 4G surface down 'The Theatre of Dreams.' I may have to do a Friends of the Earth job and chain myself to the goal post (the one nearest the bar) before a JCB excavator rips up the first sod of turf  - Sticky doesn't do 3G or 4G.

I spend the second half gassing to staunch Barnsley fan Roger Wilson. His lad, Tom, comes off the bench. I chucked him into Men's football, at the age of 16 years old last season, after being tipped off about him by KUFC Development Officer, Mark Ritchie; he wasn't fazed one iota, and more than held his own. I would have played him earlier, but had to wait for his 16th birthday. I called him 'The Keyworth Cruyff.'  I look forward to following the under 19s and hopefully the return of the Development Team next season too.

I spend the next few evenings listening to the pitter-patter of rain on the French windows. I tune into the excellent 'Undr The Cosh' podcast show that is hosted by former footballers Jon 'The Beast' Parkin and Chris Brown. Ex-Arsenal and Nottingham Forest striker, Kevin Campbell, is the latest guest. He tells a couple of cracking anecdotes about the two occasions he met Brian Clough and seems all-round good egg

I read late into the night on both Wednesday and Thursday. Keyworth lad, Duncan Hamilton, is one of my favourite authors. My father trained him up to take shorthand when he was a rookie reporter on the Nottingham Evening Post in the 1970s. He wrote one of the best books about Brian Clough that you are ever likely to read. It was titled 'Provided You Don't Kiss Me.' It's a must-read for any football fan out there. It follows Hamilton's 20 years reporting on the Tricky Trees for the local rag. Clough is so taken with Hamilton that he invites his family round for Sunday lunch at his home in Quarndon, near Derby, the day after he retired from NFFC.

I've got the car booked in at Kwik Fit on Huntingdon Street, first thing on Saturday morning. I ask Ms Moon if she fancies breakfast and some retail therapy. We drop the car off and wander around the back of the Victoria Centre before joining Lower Parliament Street, an area sadly renowned for stabbings of late.

We drink coffee and enjoy a full English breakfast in a window seat at Copper Cafe on Market Street. Back in the day (the 1980s) it was packed to the rafters and called Cafe Royale. 'Chopper Harris' walks by and gives us a wave. More on him in four weeks' time when we're on the lash in Tenerife for 7 nights.

A couple of winter coats and a pair of jeans are bought before picking the car up and driving out towards Derbyshire. Paul Gambaccini is playing tracks from the best albums of the 21st Century. The first three tracks are by Sam Smith, Scissor Sisters and Lady Ga Ga. I ask Ms Moon if the Graham Norton Show has been extended.

We drive over the hilltops admiring the stunning views of the Derbyshire countryside. It's my second visit to Clay Cross Town FC. I first came in 2013 when I was impressed with the facilities and the friendliness of folk. I clock the old winding wheel from Parkhouse Colliery on the main road that closed in 1969. There's the memorial to the many miners that lost their lives, two thousand feet underground. Forty-five men perished after an explosion in 1882. The Labour politician, Dennis Skinner, better known as 'The Beast of Bolsover' was born in the village.

I remember walking up a deserted High Street six years ago, unable to fathom out why a lot of shops were boarded up or in disrepair. It became pretty apparent why, when coming into full view of the Tesco Superstore which was part of a £22 million redevelopment. It's killed the town centre stone dead. Some would also say that it's brought employment to the area. Either way, there's no 'Meal Deal' for Ms Moon and Sticky Palms as we're still podged from the Copper breakfast.

It's a short walk down Mill Lane to the ground. Ms Moon has arranged to meet a friend, Lois, whose son is one of the mascots today. I leave them having a catch-up, so I can take a few snaps. It's £3 on the gate which is great value for a first-round FA Vase tie. There are no concerns about the playing surface which looks immaculate. Clay Cross's groundsman has won many awards and accolades over the years. I engage in conversation with a photographer who has travelled all the way down from Blackpool. He's another 'Proper Hopper' who has visited over 2000 grounds.

Clay Cross are the stronger team in the first half. The Vase draw has been unkind to the visitors from Rutland, England's smallest county. They have overcome adversity in being drawn away in the previous two rounds at Harrowby and Sticky's favourites Radford. Apparently, Big Glenn was in a filthy mood that day, launching his baseball cap 40 yards down the touchline as the goals flew into the Radford net.

Cottesmore look nervous from the off. Clearances are hurried and passes are misplaced. 'Scully' is the Millers' grand fromage (well he thinks he is). He's been off the radar with a couple of skew-whiff long-range attempts at goal, but opens the scoring at the back stick with a simple finish.

I'm soon scurrying into the bushes for an alehouse clearance. I retrieve the ball and toss it back to the Cottesmore full-back. Both Ms Moon and I take note that he says thank you. They are a very polite set of lads, including the subs who are always up for a chat.

A Cottesmore fan, adjacent to me, has moaned and whined at the referee's decisions throughout the course of the first half. I try to reason with him, but he's having none of it. Ms Moon says I'm best backing off as he looks a bit like Grant Mitchell of EastEnders.

We have a coffee, tea and a couple of chocolate bars at the break. The 50/50 draw is announced. The lucky winner is in for a £65 windfall. My winless run continues - I'm 15 numbers off the prize. Cottesmore pick up the pace in the second half and restore parity with a brilliant goal following great work by the right full-back, who nutmegs his opponent before delivering a worldy cross.

Their joy turns to despair minutes later with an outrageous finish from the outside of the boot by 'Jack the Lad' 'Scully.' Cottesmore have little left in the tank. Clay Cross add a third goal at the death, with the scorer jumping into committee member 'Nobby's' arms. It's a wonderful moment to end an entertaining afternoon. I look forward to the second round draw and hope to be there.

NB: Breaking news emerges from Bingham Town's ground (by text) that 'The Keyworth Georgie Best (my lad) has scored with a 30-yard howitzer of a shot. I'm as pleased as punch for him, as he's had it a bit rough of late.

Man of the Match: Adam Kimberley (love his jinking runs)

Attendance: 220 (Great turnout from both sets of fans)

Prize Money £821

Cotgrave CW Res 1-5 Keyworth United Res

Wythenshawe Amateurs win hands down the most-friendliest Club I've visited in years. I hope to catch Mike, Arron and the 'Ultras' again, later in the season. A tasty Boxing Day local derby versus 'noisy neighbours' Wythenshawe Town is on the radar.

Sat Nav takes me home over Woodhead Pass. The views are stunning; the area is isolated and vulnerable to the elements. I listen to 6-0-6 with Alastair Bruce-Ball and failed ex Lincoln manager Chris Sutton - he's certainly better at punditry. I call by The Brickyard pub on Carlton Hill, a favourite Lincoln Green hostelry of mine. I partake in a pint of LocAle before turning in for the evening. I fight off the sleep as long as I can during Match of the Day.

I knock out the blog on Sunday morning of my solo trip away to Lytham, Blackpool and Greater Manchester. I jump on the NCT No.27 bus to Nottingham, alighting at King Street. Yates's Wine Lodge has recently been re-opened as a Slug and Lettuce (not my usual choice of pub). I've fond memories of Yates's from back in the day, with its grand staircase and view from the balcony. A mate of mine, 'Wrighty', a legend in Keyworth folklore, used to sink double figures in sweet-tasting Aussie wine before spray-painting the urinals (if he managed to get there in time).

I push open the front door of the Slug and Lettuce on Long Row. All the dining tables are squeezed tightly together; there's no room for manoeuver. Kids are squealing and the decor is painted in a turquoise and pink - it's like something out of Lewis Carroll's Mad Hatters Tea Party. I stand at the bar with a face like thunder for over ten minutes, unattended. I ask for a pint of Goose Island when a half-arsed barman finally wanders over. "We've ran out mate." They've no real ales or craft ales on. I about-turn and head out of the door in a fit of pique.

I've arranged to meet my childhood friend 'Keebo.' We bump into one another in Market Square. I suggest the Bell Inn for a few quiet sherbets. A jazz band is tuning up in the bar. We retire to one of the snugs, where I enjoy a few pints of Aurora from the Pheasantry Brewery based in East Markham, Newark.

I slope off at six bells, conscious that I've my blog to publish. Sunday dinner is spent at Five Guys. My delicious burger (Scooby Snack), smothered in countless toppings, is devoured at home. It's lights out at 10: p.m. The forecast for the week ahead looks bleak. Whilst Ms Moon is in Tenerife lapping up the sunshine, all local football looks like being watered off.

The 'Ideagen Baby Squad' - the ‘Inside Sales' team - have kindly invited me (I begged to go/gatecrashed) to Hooters on London Road on Monday evening for the Arsenal v Manchester United game live on Sky. 'Our Joe' works at Ideagen too. I don't want to cramp his style, but he seems pretty chilled about me coming along.

Whilst the lads' eye-up scantily-dressed serving staff (in this day and age?), Sticky Palms can't keep his eyes off the game - apart from a dour first half an hour, what a cracking match it is too, although it seems  trendy to slag off these two fallen giants on social media and TalkSport.

'The Arsenal' play a beautiful game of football, but a draw is a fair result. I wipe the sweating brows of the Squadron, caused by the 911 chicken wings (and not the waiting staff) - I pop another blood pressure pill, as neither are healthy to a man in his mid-50s. I find out in the morning that 'Our Joe' and a few of the lads had a late night out in town (on a Monday). Apparently, it's Freshers' Week  ..... lol.

I live the life of an armchair supporter all week. The weather is doing my duck in. I swerve the Ilkeston Town v Wisbech Town game, having seen two goalless draws at the New Manor Ground this season (fuming folks). I cook a Chilli con Carne. Don't ask me, but I somehow manage to get some hot chilli powder in my eye. It's flipping Schwartz too, top of the range, and it flipping stings. I watch the Spurs v Bayern Munich, Champions League game through one eye; bathing it throughout with a cold, dampened Jeyes cloth. I know how Lord Nelson felt now when he lost a 'mince pie' in Corsica.

I have a 'Mike Baldwin' moment at Carlton Tesco on Wednesday evening. I park up to the rear of the store and dash through the double sliding doors. Hobnobs are on offer at 75p; I love dunking them in my Yorkshire Tea. I wander out of the store, admiring the late, warm, autumnal, evening sunshine. I walk up the road and notice Ms Moon's car parked up on the driveway. Where the heck is my car? Someone's nicked it. Oh, hang on a minute, no they haven't, it's still in Tesco car park. I unload my shopping before traipsing back down Carlton Road to collect my car. I watch Liverpool surrender a three-goal lead, before they inch over the finishing line in a seven-goal thriller at Anfield against Salzburg.

Thursday is the final day of 'Armchair Viewing Week.' I've struck lucky so far. Jesus wept, Man Utd play out a 0-0 at 'The Hague Powerleague' versus AZ Alkmaar. They are second best throughout the game and fail to register a shot on target. 'The Arsenal' are different gravy in the 8 p.m. ko versus Standard Liege of Belgium. 18-year-old Brazilian striker, Gabriel Martinelli, bags another brace, whilst 22-year-old Isle of Man born Scottish left-back, Kieran Tierney, impresses with his energy and skill on the left flank.

I have a mass tidy up on Friday teatime as Ms Moon boards the TUI flight from Tenerife South to East Midlands Airport. I shoehorn enough time in for a couple of jars at The Brickyard. Birmingham City are playing Middlesbrough at St Andrew's, and it's live on TV. I'd shut the curtains if those two teams were playing in my back garden.

I wake up to the news that Notts Police have surrounded the Premier Inn at Hucknall. I quickly get on Facebook to see if Trumpy Bolton has checked-in there and has kicked off that the bar's not open yet. It turns out that a suspected armed robber is holed up there.

A tanned and fresh Ms Moon is back from 'the Reef.' She fails to make the team coach for the short trip over to Cotgrave. I get the car washed and valeted by the eastern European lads on Cavendish Road before visiting Tesco for the umpteenth time this week.

I zip through Burton Joyce, start booing loudly in Lowdham (their kids' team were horrible when I coached) before hitting the A46 towards Leicester. I turn off at Stragglethorpe that leads onto a road where Forest legend Stuart Pearce had a nasty accident with a dustbin lorry here back in 1998.

I park in Sainsbury's to grab some lunch and a bunch of flowers. I walk past the stunning All Saints Church before opening the gate of the cemetery. The 1990s were halcyon days for Keyworth Cricket Club. Two lads from Cotgrave played a major part in this renaissance. Barry Newby and Tony Newby were both talented footballers and cricketers. I once saw Tony take two corners in a minute with different feet - many Prem players couldn't do that, Marcus Rashford for one.

I loved Barry to bits - we all did. 'Biff' was a brilliant 'keeper/batsman. It was a privilege to be in the slip cordon with both him and his brother, Tony. Each batsman, on arrival to the crease, was greeted with a string of gags and Mickey-taking. 'Biff' was struck down with Motor Neurone Disease which he battled with courage, bravery and humour. The village of Cotgrave turned out in their droves at his passing at the age of just 39 years old. I lay some flowers at his grave and shed a tear at a photo of him wearing an England cricket shirt. Biff was a massive Sunderland fan. He came with Dad and me in 1999 for an FA Cup 3rd Round tie at Lincoln City. Ironically, today, the two teams meet for first time at Sincil Bank since that day.

I feel sombre and sad as I peck on my sandwich in the Welfare car park. Both teams are warming up as I walk through the gate. I sit on a wooden bench out of view. The lads won't need firing up for this game. 'We' (I was the manager) lost in the League last season at Platt Lane; it was a miscarriage of justice. Two of my lads got sent off for dissent when ten minutes in the cooler would have sufficed. I kicked them out of the changing room and out of the team. I didn't speak to the pair of them for a month.

We lost 2-0 at Cotgrave in the semi-final of the League Cup too. I was long gone by then but take full responsibility for that defeat. Hopefully today under Steve Cullis's tutelage we can reverse the hoodoo.

News is reaching me that 'The Keyworth Georgie Best' isn't in the starting line-up. His little brother starts in centre midfield. It's a sloppy start by the Keyworth young guns. Ten of the eleven starters have come through a youth system that in the past has been neglected and ignored. Gone, have the days, thank God, of the Club shipping lads in from far and wide. After all, it's meant to be a Community Football Club.

The Green Army boss the midfield, with the lung-bursting runs of Sam Lund and the uncomplicated and simple passing from Wood and Palmer. 'Woody' could slice open a can of beans with his right peg. They race into a three-goal lead, with Sam Clements's goal being the pick of the bunch, after a mesmerising passage of play.

The Cotgrave 'lino' has raised his flag more times than the starter of the Grand National horse race. He comes off with arm ache at the interval. I've hooked up with Keyworth Cricket Club legend 'Big Bear Baker.' He's impressed with what's on offer. Cotgrave claw one back and have another one chalked off, ironically, for offside.

Late strikes from Clements and Pauley put the game to bed. The Ressies play some champagne football and pass the home team (top of the table) off the park. I shake hands with Steve Cullis after the game and congratulate him on a top-notch performance.

The lads are in safe hands and give their all. That's what happens when you bring them through. They play for the badge, honour and with their hearts. As Sir Matt Busby once said, "If they are good enough they are old enough"

Man of the Match: Sam Lund