Oughtibridge W.M.S.C. 2-1 AFC Penistone Church

It's January 1974 and I'm leaning back on a wooden chair with my hands behind my head, sat at a wooden desk, at Keyworth Junior School, on Nottingham Road. It's lucky dip time. Everyone's name is in the hat for a prize draw. There are 30 pupils in our class. Due to cutbacks (Ted Heath's Tories are in power), only one minibus will be travelling into Nottingham, to the Savoy Cinema, on Derby Road.

We've been reading Barry Hines's classic book, A Kestrel for a Knave, for weeks now. I'm sat next to my best mate Kev Flinton. We both desperately want to see the film adaptation by Ken Loach - there's no second chance viewing on Betamax, Film 4 or Amazon Prime. I'm last out of the hat, a bit like Chichester City in the first round draw of the FA Cup a few weeks back - I don't win £36,000 for doing nowt, but hey, I'm on the coach for a big day out in town.

I'm mesmerised and captivated by the screenplay. I cry my eyes out (we all do; you should all do) when Billy finds Kes dead in the dustbin, killed by his brother, nasty man Jud, because Billy forgot to place a 'winning bet' at the bookies on the horses for him. The football scene in the film lives long in the memory. Brian Glover plays the PE teacher, who despite being from Yorkshire is obsessed with Manchester United and, in particular, Bobby Charlton. If you've never seen Billy Casper swinging on the crossbar then get on YouTube and hunt down the scene. A few years later, my mate, Kev, got his own back when we pulled short straws to be ball boys at Nottingham Forest v West Ham United - tell you what though, I wouldn't have missed Kes for the world.

By coincidence, Ms Moon and I are up at Dodworth Miners' Welfare on Saturday for some Sheffield and Hallamshire County Senior League action, in the Barnsley area, close to where Kes was filmed. What's even more remarkable is that the actor Greg Davies (Mr Gilbert off The Inbetweeners) is featuring in a BBC Four documentary called Looking For Kes.

It's a compelling, heart-warming hour of TV; the BBC at its best, and also a welcome break from all the General Election tosh we're being served up. Davies, a Welshman, admits to having never visited Barnsley before. He meets Ken Loach and Billy Casper actor Dai Bradley. He's visibly moved throughout the story when he learns how the book was pieced together by Barry Hines.

I mention to Ms Moon, the following day, on whether she fancies a trip down memory lane to Hoyland Common, where Kes author Barry Hines grew up and wrote the book. The deal is signed and sealed. All we need now is the rain to hold off.

'The Lincoln' have been in freefall since 'He Who Should Not Be Named' did a moonlight flit. To be honest their form had dipped before his departure. Two wins in fifteen games has seen the Imps plummet down the League table, as new incumbent Michael Appleton oversees a new era and playing style. In their hour of need and 'fresh' from a week's sunshine in Tenerife, I jump into my car on Tuesday evening and zip up the A46.

It's the usual pre-match ritual. I have pasta at Ask Italian on the Brayford. I take my seat in the Selenity Stand, 45 minutes before kick-off. I love watching the ground come alive: The pre-match warm-ups, Sincil Bank filling up and the music booming out of the PA system. Boy oh boy, they are knocking some toons out this evening. Hard-Fi, 'Hard To Beat', New Order, 'Regret' and Stone Roses, 'Made of Stone' are the pick of the bunch.

'City' are short on confidence in front of goal. Big John Akinde shanks two gilt-edged chances wide of goal. The inevitable happens with seconds remaining on the clock. Former Notts County, Irish attacking midfielder, Alan Judge, finishes off a fine passing move from the Tractor Boys. It's payback time from three seasons ago when a Nathan Arnold last gasp winner, live on national TV, knocked Ipswich out of the third round. The Imps went onto make £3 million from that Cup run.

I'm back on my old stomping ground the following evening. Keyworth United will fancy their chances in the Notts Senior Cup against Ashland Rovers from the north of the county. The Green Army control the first half and look good value for a 1-0 lead shortly before half time. An own goal changes the script. In the second half, they forget how to defend and lack legs, intelligence or energy. A fitter, slicker visiting team run out worthy 4-2 winners.

It's Friday evening and I'm like a kid at Christmas. I've mapped out our trip up to South Yorkshire tomorrow, regardless as to whether Dodworth MW v Houghton Main is hosed off. I'm tucked up and fast off by 10,30 p.m.

I find out in the Schwartz spice aisle in Morrisons that Dodworth MW twitter have announced that the game has been watered off. Oh well, at least the chilli con carne is still on the menu this evening. I have another game up my sleeve at High Green Villa, near Hillsborough, Sheffield. It's where the Indie band Arctic Monkeys are from. They mention the Sheffield suburb in the song 'Ritz to the Rubble.' - to the taxi driver: "It's High Green, mate, via/Hillsborough, please." The problem is that Sticky Palms doesn't do 3G.

A proper groundhopper on Facebook comes to the rescue. He mentions a club called Oughtibridge War Memorial Sports Club play on grass, and that it drains well too. Ms Moon drives north up the M1 with the pitter-patter of rain dancing on the windscreen.

I check my clipboard (borrowed off Gordon from The Brittas Empire). The first scheduled stop is St Peter's Church in Tankersley. We both love a bit of celebrity grave-hunting. It has brought a few comedy moments and tears over the years. Ms Moon likes to be first on the scene, but today is my moment.

Yesterday, first thing, I emailed Dai Bradley the actor who played Billy Casper in Kes. He kindly replied as quick as a flash to tell me where the book's author, Barry Hines is laid to rest. We pay our respects at his graveside, before the short journey into Hoyland Common.

Dai Bradley has told me there's a blue plaque at 78 Hoyland Common where Barry Hines, a humble, working-class man was born. Ms Moon spins the car around at a deserted police station and parks a short distance up the road. The queue at Caspers chip road is snaking out of the door as the lass behind the counter serves at a snail's pace. I ask Ms Moon if she would be so kind to drive up to the ruin where Billy first discovered Kes. The stone brick wall is still there. Everything seems untouched from forty years ago. We finally get chips and batter bits at the second time of asking.

Ms Moon negotiates awkward car-parking conditions at Oughtbridge WMSC. I take a few snaps before hooking up with the good lady. We're both gobsmacked and taken aback with a tree adorned to the clubhouse brick wall where those that served our country and lost their lives in the two World Wars are remembered and named in a tree sculpture.

The ground is an absolute pearler. What a day we're having. The game doesn't live up to the setting; a massive hat tip to all the volunteers whose efforts have pulled out the stops to get the game on, and have prevented a grumpy groundhopper from swallowing his pride and watching a game on 3G.

Ms Moon remarks that one or two of the lads look out of shape I explain that we're dipping our toe into Step 7 where camaraderie, team-spirit and taking part are more important. The biggest lad on the field has a first touch to die for and a shot on him. He opens the scoring with an Exocet missile that Ms Moon misses as she grabs a coffee and chinwags with the Referees' secretary.

I meet Bobby a six-month-old Staffy puppy. She's as daft as a brush and won't calm down for a still shot without a choccy drop out of Dad's pocket.

The Big Man puts the game to bed in the second half with a cool, calm finish, having been put through with a one-on-one with the 'keeper. The opposition are reduced to ten men after a Jackie Chan two-footed lunge that sends shudders down my spine from the opposite side of the ground.

It's been one of the best days out in ages. Just think, we could have stopped in for Jeff Stelling's Soccer Saturday. Not on your Nellie.

Man of the Match: Billy Casper (Dai Bradley)

Downham Town 2-0 Haverhill Borough

We're approaching a windswept Tenerife South Airport at just gone 2 p.m. on Friday November 8th. It's not my finest moment to mention to a petrified lady passenger, sat adjacent to me, that in 1977 two Boeing 747s collided at Tenerife North Airport resulting in 583 fatalities - the accident is the deadliest in aviation history. Just as our Jet 2, 737, wheels are about to kiss the tarmac we feel a sudden swoop and thrust as the plane soars back into the air - it's my first aborted landing in over 40 years of flying. There's a round of applause following success at the second time of asking. I'm still apologising profusely to the ghost-white lady passenger as we disembark the plane down the steps.

A few hours later the 'Big Man', 'Bruiser' 'Mad Dog' and 'Hopper' are sat in a sun-kissed beach bar downing alcoholic beverages whilst staring out at all the surfers skillfully negotiating the ocean waves. The first three days are always the toughest to cope with - the late nights and gin-fuelled evenings are alien to me. I'm normally tucked up in bed with my Kindle, back home, before Huw Edwards has shuffled his script and has finished the BBC News bulletin.

We congregate at Leonardo's, in Playa de las Americas, on Saturday lunchtime for the 'A52 Derby' between the Tricky Trees and D***y Clownty - as Jim Bowen used to say on Bullseye, I hope disgraced Sheep striker Tom Lawrence has got his 'bus fare home.'

All the lads are getting stuck into a few sherbets and it's not even siesta time yet. There are a few Rams supporters scattered about the bar. They're none too impressed when we jump out of our seats and do the Moonwalk after Lewis Grabban opens the scoring following a faux pas by Jayden Bogle. The funniest moment is on 70 minutes when a lad from Sleaford waltzes out of the bar with a bucket full of ice and a bottle of champers swimming on top. It could have been the kiss of death, but it sets the tone for the rest of the day when the cork is popped and the bubbles are poured at the final whistle.

The evening (early hours) ends in the usual Gincident for Sticky Palms. I successfully, somehow, arrive home solo and unscathed following a session at The Dubliner. I've two security gates to negotiate before I can hit the sack - sadly my room card is as dead as a dodo. Despite three 'angry' (quite cross) phone calls to Reception, it's another 20 minutes before Security rock up and bundle me into my room.

I'm greeted in the late morning by a letter from the hotel Customer Relationship Manager that has been slid under the room door. Perhaps they want to apologise to me? They've asked for a meeting between 5 p.m - 8 p.m. - crikey I'll have been on the sauce by then watching Liverpool v 'City.' 'Mad Dog' takes a call from them later in the evening. I'm on a yellow card for aggressive behaviour towards the staff - I keep my head down for the rest of the holiday.

Tenerife is a beautiful island with some hidden gems. We enjoy a 12 mile-round walk to the harbour village of La Caleta. Tapas and a carafe of Rose wine are shared. The following day we visit the wonderful seaside town of Los Gigantes. The Big Man kindly drives us up into the hills of the north-west of the island, where we take in the breathtaking views in the beautiful hamlet of Masca, with its ravines and narrow gorges. The Big Man usually drives like he's the getaway driver on Grand Theft Auto. To his credit, he takes it's steady and shows some courage in difficult conditions as the mist rolls in.

We land back at a bitterly cold East Midlands Airport. I arrive home in driving rain at 10 p.m. Arranging a day out in Cambridgeshire and Norfolk tomorrow doesn't seem such a good idea right now. Ms Moon is out for the day with her daughter who is back for the week from Coventry - a place I have been sent to on numerous occasions. I leave our house in Carlton, two miles outside Nottingham city centre at 10.15 a.m. I yawn the entire way to the village of Keyworth.

Last week whilst I was in 'The Reef' my local cricket club had the biggest night in its 200-year-old history. Keyworth Cricket Club along with the Caribbean island of Antigua, formed a partnership and created an exchange programme which allows youngsters to experience cricket and culture in different parts of the world. Don't ask me how but Sir Vivian Richards and Test Match Special commentator Daniel Norcross gave up their time for a question and answer evening at the 'New Field of Dreams.' I was gutted to miss this, as I too was indulged in a culture of Tapas and gin-swilling in Tenerife. I hope somebody asked Sir Viv about his 232 at Trent Bridge that I witnessed as a 12-year-old boy sat by the boundary rope for the entire five days in 1976.

I pull onto Spinney Road; an area locally known as the 'Keyworth Bronx.' Even with my appalling eyesight, I see in the distance blog legend Trumpy Bolton swinging his Kwik Save carrier bag full of Strongbow Dark Fruits. It's his first outing of the season since Boreham Wood last May.

Breakfast has been a complicated affair for TB this morning. Mrs Bolton was on a work outing the previous evening in Leicester. The good lady left him a curry in the oven to warm up for his tea. Unfortunately, Our Man got waylaid in the Three Crowns in Wymeswold (co-owned by Stuart Broad and Harry Gurney). Having got stuck into a few ales, Trumpy was then offered complimentary sausage and chips for supper. Breakfast was chicken curry with rice, accompanied by two bottles of Black Sheep, following a recent visit to the brewery in Masham, North Yorkshire.

He waxes lyrical about his long weekend in Southampton. He rubbed his eyes in disbelief as his beloved Foxes racked up NINE goals without reply. I remark that I was fuming after placing a 50p bet at half time that Leicester would win 8-0. Jamie Vardy's goal, which was the last kick of the game, scuppered any chance of a return.

The first port of call is Peterborough Rowing Club where we pick up a mutual friend and great pal of mine called Ackers, who was also once from the Parish of Keyworth. Trumpy and Ackers chat away as Rock the Casbah by The Clash plays on Union Jack Radio. Trumpy's cans of cider are a distant memory as we park up in the Fenland market town of Wisbech for a quick drink (lime 'n soda for me) at the Red Lion.

Bolton licks his lips in anticipation at the thought of ticking off a new Wetherspoons pub. The Whalebone is a new build in Downham Market. I'm disappointed by the choice of guest ales that are on, so choose an Adnams Ghost Ship at £1.99 per pint. Trumpy is in overdrive; sinking another two pints to match his efforts in the previous hostelry.

The last time I visited Downham Market was in 1978 on a geography school trip. We later went onto Kings Lynn to visit Lockwood's fruit factory and to see all the Skoda cars shipped in from the port of Hamburg. Downham Town's Memorial Field ground is half a mile from the 'Spoons pub. As usual, my parking is abysmal. Trumpy kindly pays me in and buys me a programme before disappearing into the clubhouse for a session on Newcastle Brown bottled ale. (Ackers, thanks for lunch Son).

The ground has a homely feel about it. It reminds me of Keyworth village recreation playing fields. A cricket pitch is roped off. On the far side of the ground there are three different covered stands. I enjoy a stroll with Ackers around the tree-lined ground, admiring the changing colour of leaves.

The visitors from Haverhill, across the border in Suffolk, look sharper and hungrier in the first thirty minutes. Downham start to wear them down and create openings. They take the lead shortly before half time. We received a warm welcome on our arrival from the media/twitter guy. I love the little quirks about the Club - the whiteboard with the team line-ups including subs and the PA man who also reads the teams out.

Ackers and Trumpy are holed up in the bar as I join an ever-increasing crowd on the nearside of the pitch. Crowd favourite 'Jock' scampers down the wing before delivering an inch-perfect cross which a sliding Robbie Priddle gets a boot onto the ball to complete a brace of goals.

We say goodbye to Lulu the Yorkshire Terrier and Blaze the three-month-old Husky puppy belonging to a Suffolk groundhopper. It's been a long exhausting week and my bed is calling.

Bolton Beer Watch:

2x Black Sheep
2x Dark Fruits
2x Cambridgeshire ales
2x Ghost Ship
3x Newcastle Brown's

Man of the Match: Big Man for driving up those hills in Tenerife.

West Bridgford 0-2 Heanor Town

It's 11 p.m. on Saturday evening; the last one in October 2019. A gin-fuelled Sticky Palms and Ms Moon (bubbled up with prosecco) have flagged down a black and white cab, after a day on the sauce in 'Dirty Leeds' city centre. The plan was to have lunch up in Thornton, on the outskirts of Bradford, where the Bronte sisters were born, and take a game in at Campion AFC. The filthy black clouds and driving rain have put paid that.

20,000 steps have been logged on Ms Moon's mobile device. I've dipped in and out of a few real ale establishments including the 300-year-old Whitelock's on Turks Head Yard and the glorious Victoria Hotel on Great George Street. I'm in a jovial mood and clutching, for dear life, a large Five Guys cheeseburger, with all the trimmings wrapped up in tin foil. We've not had our usual fill of Saturday afternoon Non-League football - the previous week our choice of game was abandoned due to a serious injury, but great fun has been had in Leeds.

I slump into the back seat of the cab and rest my tired, drunken head onto Ms Moon's shoulder. The good lady tells the taxi driver our hotel name and address. "Who do you support mate?" I ask the thirty-something taxi driver (not Uber btw; I'd never stoop that low) "Leeds United." he replies. I put on my best Brian Clough impression, "As far as I'm concerned you can throw all your medals in the dustbin because you got them from cheating." Ms Moon digs an elbow into my kidneys; the driver steps on the gas and doesn't talk to us for the rest of the journey. "Don't tip the Young Man" are my final words to Ms Moon as I stagger into Reception and jump in a lift before 'supper' commences.

What a football-starved weekend we've had. We both fall in love with Leeds. 86 year old Dame Joan Collins was in the city, headlining the 'Leeds Made Up Festival' at Trinity Shopping Centre. Ms Moon asked if I fancied it? "Maybe 40 years ago when she starred in The Bitch, but I've got a real ale pub to tick off.

It's Sunday afternoon and Ms Moon has dropped me off at the wonderful, refurbished Lillie Langtry's pub on South Sherwood Street, Nottingham. I knock back a couple of pints of Titanic Iceberg pale ale as I play on my phone. I notice that Newcastle Utd are playing 'The Wolves.' I've always had a soft spot for former NFFC central defender Jamaal Lascelles, who now captains the 'Toon Army.' It's a mystery to me why he doesn't partner Harry Maguire at the heart of the Three Lions' defence. I place a £1 bet on him to score the first goal of the game and to bag at any time. I'm pleased as punch to see him return a dividend as I jump on the bus home in Sneinton Market. Our Joe says he hasn't scored for nearly four years - about the same as you Joe!

There's no game for me on Tuesday evening as I have a 90-minute work call with a customer from New Zealand - I choose wisely not to mention the All Blacks defeat in the Rugby World Cup, or the Cricket World Cup anguish for the Kiwis earlier in the summer - it'll help keep the deal open and on the table.

I catch (unfortunately) the first 15 minutes of Emmerdale Farm on Wednesday evening. Let me tell you folks Cain Dingle is in a foul mood. Some buffoon (who turns out to be his son) has been having it away with his missus - they love a massive High Six in Hotton village.

I'm down Stoke Lane watching table-topping Carlton Town play Northern Premier League Matlock Town in the FA Trophy. It's £9 on the gate. There's been an upturn in fortune for The Millers since the return of legendary manager Tommy Brookbanks. He's invested in young 'uns, with heart and soul. One of them is Sticky's favourite, Oliver Clarke, a former artist in the parish of Dunkirk. Ollie loves to tackle and swear; there's more of the latter this evening as Carlton show too much respect to their opponents in the first half as Matlock race into a 2-0 lead.

I get chatting to a football clued-up Dad in the second half. His lad is left-back for The Gladiators. At 12 years old he was playing for Bradford City before joining Leeds United. At 16 years old he lived the dream and signed for Chelsea, where he remained for six years before playing in Scotland and dropping down the leagues. Dad, who knows his onions, says Lad has a 90% completed pass rate. I never see him lose possession in the entire second half, in which Carlton are superb, and can consider themselves unlucky not to force a replay.

On Friday evening Ms Moon is up Mapperley Tops (it knocks the spots off West Bridgford's social scene) with her bestie, Jill. I've been tee-total all week in the run-up to 7 days carnage in Tenerife with the lads. I settle down with a pot of tea for one and tuck into a film called Unbroken that's set in World War II and is directed by Angelina Jolie. Two hours later there are tears of sorrow and joy - Jack O'Connell's portrayal as Louis Zamperini is spellbinding. On a brighter note, I've had a 50p punt on Welsh international Ashley Williams to score the first goal of the game for Bristol City at Oakwell. 28/1 ensures a £14 pay out - Our Joe is disgusted with my stake  .. lol.

I traipse down the stairs on Saturday morning and flick the kettle on. I walk bleary-eyed into the Lounge. I'm looking forward to a couple of episodes of Heartbeat from the back catalogue on ITV3.  "What this wack?" BTW it's not Sam Dingle muckin' out on Emmerdale Farm. I suffer in silence as Ms Moon watches the egg-chasing in Japan. England hoof the ball more than John Beck's Lincoln City in the 1990s.

It's tipping it down with rain and my preferred choice of game between Clay Cross Town and Sherwood Colliery has already fallen victim to the weather. I'm going stir crazy in the house. I've got Keebo's massive golfing umbrella in the boot of my car.

I enjoy a 90-minute stroll around Colwick Country Park, adjacent to Nottingham Racecourse. A duck is disturbed from washing itself in a puddle by a young pup tugging at the leash. I'm stopped in my tracks by the sound of the Last Post being played from close to the vicinity.

The choice of game is down to two: West Bridgford v Heanor Town in the FA Vase or Keyworth United v AFC Dunkirk in the NSL. Both are confirmed as on, and as much as I love Keyworth, you can't beat a Cup tie.

Five Live presenter Mark Chapman is holding a Post-mortem into Man Utd's 1-0 reverse down at Bournemouth, on the south east coast, as we park up on Regatta Way, close to the National Water Sports Centre at Holme Pierrepont.

It's £5 on the gate. We bump into legendary ex Keyworth United manager Arthur Oldham and his son Bobby, who are good friends of mine. Bobby's lad, Jack, is a big mate of the 'Keyworth Georgie Best' and 'Our Joe.' His brother, Sam Oldham, won a gold medal at the 2012 London Olympics; he's also down here supporting his brother.

A young Bridgford side, missing a couple of players through suspension, show way too much respect to their opponents in the first 45 minutes. They're a goal down at the break, and it could have been more.

There isn't that community-feel about the place that you get Oop North on a weekend. There's no PA, 50/50 or raffle tickets. 203 people have turned up for the biggest game in the Club's history with a population of nearly 50,000.

The second half showing by West Bridgford is much improved, but they are still unable to cope with a streetwise Heanor and the movement of Jamie Sleigh, despite his tantrums and childish behaviour. Heanor double their lead at the fag end of the game, and see the tie out to go into the third round draw with £900 winnings.

Attendance:203

Man of the Match: Jamie Sleigh