It's the Easter holidays in 1978 and I'm up in Durham, north-eastern England, with a schoolmate and his parents in the coal-mining village of Stanley. The local folk are so warm and friendly. I fall in love with the dialect and the local delicacies such as pease pudding. All the mineworkers and their families make me feel so welcome at the Welfare, where bingo numbers are called out and bands sing on the stage.
We visit Sunderland's Roker Park twice, on Good Friday and Easter Monday - they played three games over four days, back in the day - there's no moaning or groaning like the namby-pamby managers, coaches and players of today.
The final day is spent in the picturesque city of Durham, with its cobbled streets and stunning cathedral. In the distance, we can hear a drum being played, accompanied by some handclapping and singing. We're accosted by a shaven-headed lady wearing a long orange robe. Who the chuff is Hare Krishna? We sign up for a newsletter, just to get rid of them, to be honest. They say they'll send one every week. I give a false name; actually, it was my mate Ackers whose address I gave them. I vow to return to Durham, one day when I can enjoy the culture, history and of course the real pubs it has on offer. It will be another 40 years before I return. And I will raise a glass to my friend, who took his own life - God bless you.
I chill out on a sofa, at work, on Monday at lunchtime. I impatiently tap the table, with my fingers, as I await the draw for the next round of the FA Vase. I'm hoping Sporting Khalsa, who we saw knockout Heanor Town in a pea-souper of a fog, last Saturday, get an away tie (they play on 3G) I peruse the draw and notice there's a replay up at Consett, Durham, next Saturday, when Wythenshawe Town travel up from Manchester. "You fancy a weekend in Durham, Ms Moon?"
Talking of the FA Vase, last weekend's tie between AFC Mansfield and Newark Flowserve was frosted off. It gives me the opportunity of taking in the rearranged fixture on Tuesday evening. It's a chippy tea, at the award-winning Oceans Fish Bar, at the bottom of Carlton Hill, before zipping up the A60 towards Mansfield.
I arrive at Clipstone Road West, ten minutes shy of kick-off. I pay £7 on the gate ( OUCH, but after all Mansfield is Tory. Can you ever imagine saying that?) The ground isn't very well lit. There's a reason for this; the floodlights are out. The spare battery isn't working and neither is the generator. I'm cursed at this ground. I saw previous occupants, Forest Town, play out a 0-0 draw with Calverton Miners' Welfare a few years back - Sticky doesn't do 0-0s (very often).
There's no PA system, so it's all Chinese whispers, on the circuit, as to whether the game will take place or not. Word is, that the Ref has said that 8.30pm will be the cut-off time. Rumours circulate that an electrician has been called out. After a few false starts the generator kicks in and the floodlights spark up. I'm chilled to the bone. It's freezing folks oop North.
Newark Flowserve, who I've heard on the grapevine aren't very happy with my comments on their performance at Long Eaton t'other night, look fired up for this excellent cup tie. They come from behind and play a beautiful game of football in the second half. Kyle Dixon, who I had down the Pies when he was ten years old, is excellent in the engine room. The Highwaymans' reward for victory is a 272 mile round trip up to Longridge in Lancashire - I'm hoping to be there to cheer them on as they continue to fly the flag for Nottinghamshire.
It's Friday evening and I've sloped off from work 15 minutes early ( if the CEO is reading this, and he does), I put 12 hours in yesterday - phew. I jump on the No.27 bus, opposite the Nags Head - a pub I never frequent. I alight the bus, just up from Pryzm, a nightclub, where a few nights ago there was another senseless stabbing, with fingers pointing squarely at a pathetic Nottingham postcode gang warfare.
I buy a few Christmas presents before heading over to the west side of town. I stroll up Friar Lane, past Southbank City, where I'll be getting spangled at the Office Party next Friday. I cross over Maid Marian Way towards the Magpie Brewery's Crafty Crow. A bald-headed gent is propping up the bar (don't worry Sticky it's not Hare Krishna) it's Tony 'Dogman' McDonald, a Keyworth Tavern legend, with a wand of a left foot and the drinking capabilities of Trumpy Bolton. 'Dogman' loves his gigs and following England at Wembley Stadium. I casually let it slip that I'm meeting one of our bezzy mates from back in the day, 'Babs', at the Ned Ludd, at 7 p.m - Tony hasn't seen 'Babs' for over 25 years. I feel like Eammon Andrews from This is Your Life as they embrace one another minutes later.
We spend the rest of the evening at The Salutation Inn on Main Street in Keyworth, where Babs and I grew up (he lives in Spain now). It's the birthday of the Mayor of Keyworth. We sink a few beers as Nottingham Forest fall at the final hurdle at the New Den.
I book a taxi with DG at 10.30 p.m, mindful of the early start to Durham in the morning. "How are you doing, mate?" asks the taxi driver, as I slump into the back seat of the car. It's Hubert, a lad I was in Tenerife on holiday a few weeks ago. We re-tell a few tales of an epic Sunday on the lash when Liverpool turned over Man City.
I arrive home to a scene of utter chaos at 'Sticky Towers.' Ms Moon, best friend, Jill and 'Young Lily' are dancing around their handbags to 'Lay All Your Love On Me' by Abba on the youtube jukebox - circa Madison's on Goldsmith Street in 1982, when folk didn't shank one another up - preferring a punch-up instead. Another taxi is called and Ms Moon is sent up the 'Wooden Hill' whilst Sticky Cleaning Services (Mrs Doubtfire) springs into action to clear up the debris.
The following morning Ms Moon is worse for wear. I rustle up scrambled eggs for one before we head oop North. Graham Norton is talking poppycock to a wine expert on his Radio 2 show. I see Ms Moon turn a whiter shade of pale, so change the station to Heart 80s.
The journey is without incident. We park up outside Langley Park Cemetery, a village that sits in between Durham and Consett. There are only a few graves, so the one we are looking for should be a cinch to find.
He was raised in Langley Park, the son of a coal miner. His house was two-bedroomed, had no bathroom but there was an outside toilet. He went onto play for Fulham and WBA, before managing Ipswich Town, England, PSV Eindhoven, Sporting Lisbon, FC Porto, Barcelona and his beloved Newcastle United. Sir Bobby Robson was more than a manager; he was ahead of his time. I feel the hairs on my neck and my heart skip a beat when Ms Moon alerts me to his gravestone. There's no airs and graces on his memorial. 'In Loving Memory of Sir Bobby Robson'. A tear falls from my cheek as I turn away from Ms Moon.
Lunch is taken at a hidden gem of a pub called the Travellers Rest in Consett. The real ale is flowing and the staff are so friendly, as we tuck into a fish finger sandwich and chicken fajitas, whilst watching Huddersfield Town, managed by 'He Who Must Not Be Named' (Danny Cowley .. Doh!) go down fighting 2-0 to Leeds United (the artist previously known as 'Dirty Leeds')
Ms Moon nips into Lidl, at a nearby retail park, as Sticky Palms pays £7 on the gate. I grab a couple of 50/50 tickets and donate to a bucket collection for the Under 8s. Consett is a town in County Durham, 14 miles south-west of Newcastle. It's well-known for its steel-making industry - it manufactured the steel to construct Blackpool Tower. Famous people from the area include: Rowan Atkinson, football referee Mark Clattenburg, cricketer Paul Collinwood, ex Sunderland Chairman, Bob Murray, and former footballer Barry Venison.
I stroll around the ground and bump into two-year-old Sprocker spaniel Grace, who was bred in Barnsley. Her tail is wagging in excitement for the game to commence. It's flippin' freezing folks and I've under-clubbed on the clothes front, as a biting chill blows in from the hills. I thaw out in the Clubhouse where I'm greeted with the news by Ms Moon that a multi-pack of salt and vinegar Snack a Jacks have been snapped up from the supermarket.
The game is played on a 3G surface (I usually boycott them). The Notts FA award cup finals to a Club who have one. Lads, last year, played games in 80 degrees on them ... lol. I understand why at a place like Consett, as it benefits the whole community and not one man's pocket.
The first half is lacklustre and devoid of any entertainment. The visitors look disinterested and enjoy wasting time (why?) The Number 9 for Wythenshawe is a big girl's blouse (can you still say that?). He rolls around the floor as if shot by a sniper. The referee is having none of it. I thought they were hard, up in Manchester?
Chances go begging as Consett up the tempo. With 0-0 and extra-time looking on the cards a wonderful goal is scored from outside of the area by the home 9 jacket which sends the home fans into raptures and into the next round where Lutterworth Town from Leicestershire will be the visitors.
Attendance: 404
Man of the Match; Sir Bobby Robson
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