Belper Town 2-1 Carlton Town

We exit the car park at Consett AFC and head towards the city of Durham. The visitors from Manchester, Wythenshawe Town, can feel flattered that they only lost 1-0. Consett will entertain Lutterworth Town, from Leicestershire, in the next round of the FA Vase. On the Road to Wembley.

I get anxious, feel my stomach churning and butterflies kicking in, as I flick on Five Live's Sports Report. My team, Lincoln City, were 1-0 up earlier in the afternoon when I last checked my phone. We've been on a dreadful run of form since Danny Cowley left (there, I said his name). I punch the air and whoop in delight when I hear that Tyler Walker has scored his 10th goal of the season, at the fag end of the game, to see us home and hosed at Nigel Clough's Burton Albion.

We check-in at the Royal County Marriott Hotel, in the city centre. There's a lovely vibe about the place as families and friends gather and Christmas parties commence. I slope off for a couple of pints, whilst the good lady powders her nose and watches Tipping Point ... lol.

I tick off The Shakespeare and Head of Steam, from out of the Good Pub Guide. I smile when I see Man Utd are 2-0 up against Man City in the tea-time kick-off - the OGS haters will be deleting back-dated tweets.

Ms Moon loves a Strongbow at a 'Spoons and I'm quite taken with guest real ales on at £2.15 a pint. A lass on Reception, at the hotel, has tipped us The Bishops' Mill on Walkergate Leisure, close to the waterfront. We're met with a scene of utter carnage - a war zone. A few skirmishes are dealt with swiftly by security. A girl sat next to us, sinks to her knees and gives a world-class performance in projectile vomiting  - on further inspection, after she's been carted off, it seems the Purple Rain cocktail hasn't gone down too well, as it trickles its way down towards the front gate.

It's Tuesday evening and I've just hopped onto the No.27 bus into town (Nottingham). It's teeming it down with rain and I've time on my hands. I don't usually watch football through beer goggles, but I fancy a couple of jars in the Six Barrels Victoria. The rain eases off as I wander through town and onto London Road, passing Hooters, where I had a good night out with the Ideagen Baby squad, a few months ago, for the Man Utd v Arsenal game.

Sticky Palms' track record at The City Ground in the last few years has been nothing short of abysmal. My usual sparring partner, Sticky jnr (my lad) has opted to attend a spin class rather than sit with Dad and put himself through the wringer, watching his beloved Tricky Trees. He usually boots the seat in front of him when the inevitable winner or equaliser is scored late on in the game, during our visits. The away fans get the middle finger, Rodney Trotter style, as he exits the stadium, with Dad usually sheepishly trudging behind him- *read recent NFFC v Hull City blog for said scenario*

I take my seat in 'B' block of the Peter Taylor Stand,  There's a subdued mood around the joint, despite a tune from the cult punk band the Sex Pistols booming out of the sound system. An injury-ravaged Middlesbrough could roll over and surrender, to lift my City Ground curse.

Forest never really get going. I've had enough viewings to form an opinion. Their game is possession-based. Very few players are prepared to take a risk apart from the impressive Sammy Ameobi. They take a 1-0 lead with a header from Lincoln-born Ryan Yates, a boy who was at the Academy at 7 years old. They fail to go for the jugular and finish the visitor's off. The inevitable happens when a pinpoint pass cuts the defence in two. Jack Robinson clips the heels of an attacker, leaving Paddy McNair to do the rest, with a spot-kick which earns Jonathan 'Bungalow' Woodgate's 'Boro a point they barely deserve.

There's a cameo role for £13 million record signing Joao Carvalho. I've been berated in the past on this blog by Tricky Trees fans for my criticism of the diminutive, light-weighted Portuguese attacking 'midfielder'. He flatters to deceive and his stats don't add up. Martin O'Neill tried to move him on and it appears that Sabri Lamouchi's patience is running out too.

It's Friday and the day of the Christmas Office Party. I'm the oldest by a country mile in the Inside Sales team at Ideagen PLC. I'm duty-bound to keep an eye out on the Baby Squad. We've booked an area at Southbank City, on Friar Lane, for a bargain-priced £5 per head, which includes some finger food. I fire an email out to one and all to say it might be worth having some snap before hitting the 'Sauce,' I've seen one or two stretcher cases in 35 years worth of festive celebrations.

A good night is had by all 35 of us. We're made very welcome and are well looked after by the bar and catering staff. 'Our Joe' (second born) has been potting a few. A bloke at the bar waves me over and says he'd like to talk to me about Non-League football. I ask as to how he's aware of my interest. "Oh, that's easy mate, your lad told me, he's over there chatting up my daughter."  I make a sharp exit. The party moves onto the Slug and Lettuce in the Market Square (the artist previously known as Yates's Wine Lodge.' It's where the night ends for Sticky Palms. Grime music does my duck in!

Ms Moon is propped up by the wall of the Ned Ludd public house on Friar Lane and is looking worse for wear (Office Party too) We get her belted up in the back seat. I try to chit chat with the West Indian taxi driver, but he's not having any of it and prefers to listen to his FBI files podcast about bank robbers on his phone. I can't even distract him when I drop out a gem that Sir Vivian Richards was a guest speaker at my local cricket club the other week.

'The Princess' is 'lying in state', looking ghost white and unresponsive in the morning. I check her pulse before firing up the grill and knocking up an award-winning Cumberland sausage sandwich. The fridge is stocked up with a recent shipment of Beer 52 craft ales, so all's good for this evening's Strictly Come Dancing final. The good lady fails a late fitness test, missing out on a trip up to Belper.

I head up the M1 and turn off at Junction 28 onto the A38. Juliette Ferrington is reporting from Anfield for Five Live as rock bottom Watford miss a hatful of chances. First port of call is the Dead Poets Inn at Holbrook, up in the Derbyshire hills. I enjoy a pint of Cascade real ale in front of a roaring fire at this cosy pub, with its nooks and crannies.

I pay to park the car in Belper as parking looks limited at the ground. Belper is a town in the Amber Valley district of Derbyshire with a population of just over 20,000. It was well known for its nail-making and textile mills. It's a safe Tory seat with a majority of over 15,000 (incredibly Mansfield is the same too #BREXIT). Notable folk born or raised in Belper include: Timothy Dalton (James Bond), Tracy Shaw (Maxine Peacock off Corrie  .... "I say Ashley") Ron Webster (ex D***y County, 455 League appearances) and Suzy Kendall (first wife of Dudley Moore),

Belper Town are nicknamed The Nailers and were founded in 1883 (a year before my beloved Lincoln City). They play their games at Christchurch Meadow. I haven't been in over 13 years. Skelmersdale Town, from the north-west, were the visitors. They had a tricky winger playing that day whose quick feet, pace and footballing prowess blew my mind. His name was Craig Noone who went onto play for Plymouth, Brighton, Cardiff and Bolton. It was reported that Cardiff splashed out £1 million for his services - I can't arf pick 'em.

It's £9 on the gate (sorry Belper, you're a great club, but £9, even in Tory Land is too much), I don't bother with a programme and there's no sign of a raffle ticket or 50/50 draw person. The ground is a snorter with the backdrop to the mill a standout feature.

The Nailers have enjoyed a profitable FA Cup run. They pulled a plum tie, out of the hat, away at Notts County. Have a look at Danny Gordon's strike on youtube. Carlton, the visitors, a place I now reside in, have been the League's surprise package this season. They arrive here, though, on the back of a heavy loss to Leek Town last week. It'll be good to see if there is a positive reaction.

There isn't. The Millers are bullied early doors by a towering forward line. They panic in possession and flap around at set-pieces. They are in debt to 'keeper Jack Steggles and his acrobatics that the score is kept to 1-0 on 44 minutes. Carlton have a corner that's cleared to Belper centre forward Evan Garnett, who is being marshalled by two defenders. He shows them a clean pair of heels and puts Belper 2-0 up. I daren't even look at Tommy and Mark (Carlton Management) they'll be sick to the pit of their stomachs that 'we' couldn't run the clock down for half-time.

Whilst Tommy and Mark get the blow torch out, I go for a warm-up in the clubhouse. I notice Tranmere Rovers are down to ten men at Sincil Bank. I'm alerted by Barthez (whose kind offer of a free ticket I declined this morning) that NFFC are 0-4 down to the Owls at The City Ground.

The Millers of Carlton, fresh from the 'hairdryer' treatment, go through the gears and up the tempo in the second half. Tom Maddison (ex Keyworth Utd) is spraying the passes around the park and cult blog legend Oliver Clarke (Sticky loves him to bits) struts his stuff with his 50/50 wins, surging runs, deft touches and intelligent play,

Maddison cooly dispatches a penalty kick as Carlton turn up the heat. The game's best player is Niall Davey, a roaming left-footer for The Millers. He's found space and wriggled his way through a sea of players all afternoon. How he hasn't been spotted higher up the Pyramid, God only knows. The Belper bench is alerted to this. A coach bellows out instructions to all and sundry to pick up 'Number 11.'

Time runs out and the final whistle is blown by a referee who has been harangued all afternoon. Belper shade it, as Carlton pay the price for a poor first-half showing. I've loved every minute of it. What an advert it has been for the Non-League game.

Attendance: 237

Man of the Match: Niall Davie

Consett A.F.C. 1-0 Wythenshawe Town

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?

It's 0-0 at the break, but we're enjoying the company and wisdom of an elderly gentleman stood next to us. I love meeting folk like this, whose whole week builds up towards a game of football. We're assured that Consett will improve in the second half as they kick towards our end - he isn't wrong.

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

Heanor Town 2-4 Sporting Khalsa

The day out in Barnsley and Sheffield 'Looking For Kes' and watching football will live long in the memory. The hits on the blog were off the scale; just like the old days when folk actually used to read. I relive the day in the Lincoln Green pub, The Brickyard, on Carlton Hill, whilst the good lady puts her feet up on the sofa and watches 'Strictly.' I'm currently serving a two-week ban from watching SCD due to Sticky P re-enacting his ballroom dancing days on the lounge floor and blocking Ms Moon's view of the TV screen. For the record, I came second in the Ergo Computing Strictly Come Dancing Christmas Bonanza in 2006, under the chandeliers at the Nottingham Council House ballroom. I've got faster feet than Aston Villa's Jack Grealish.

On Sunday lunchtime I have a quiet couple of real ales in the Six Barrels Draft House, that has recently opened on Mansfield Road - it's the artist formally known as Keogh's Irish Bar. It's usually full of characters and in particular, some Irish lads, who are always good for the craic. I take a window seat and stare outside watching another day's rainfall from black-leaden skies. There will be Bob Hope of any football this week. The thought of Emmerdale Farm and I'm a Celebrity sends me into a deep depression. I cheer myself up by writing the Kes blog, and well-received it is too. Although it causes quite a stir on a Barnsley FC messageboard, as some Blades fans hijack the thread and take the rise.

Incredibly, Tuesday evening's Long Eaton United v Newark Flowserve fixture in the Midland League is confirmed as ON. Before this, though, I have to dust down my old manager's coat, that was laid to rest forever last February, after an eventful and enjoyable spell as Keyworth United Development boss. The young lads at my workplace, Ideagen PLC, on Ruddington Fields Business Park, have kindly asked if I want to 'help out' at a Business Fives works tournament at Nottingham Powerleague, down Lenton Lane, near the old John Player cigarette factory.

'Our Joe' (previously known as 'The Skipper" in these musings) is in the eight-man squad. The lads sail through the Group stages and qualify for the Champions League. It begins to unravel as they forget they're a team and the passing (or lack of it) goes to pot. The lads panic and start to do their own thing. They come up against the best 'keeper seen in this parish since Peter Shilton. It's a lad in the nets for Capital One; one of Nottingham's largest employers. 'We' rattle the woodwork and sting the lad's hands time and time again. They score two on the break and knock us out of the tournament. I trudge back to the car, despondently, with the chant of 'you're getting sacked in the morning' ringing in my ears.

On my return to work, the big boss calls me in and asks how the lads went on. I reply "sack 'em all Chris and me too." I'll chuck my manager's coat in an incinerator tomorrow and douse it in petrol before setting it on fire. The dugout isn't for me .... lol.

Blimey, I've been that busy at work and with the tournament that I've forgotten to eat. I don't fancy some soulless Hungry Horse or Charlie Chalk's pub meal, with screaming kids and flat ale. I call in at my favourite fast food joint adjacent to the Nottingham Showcase Cinema. You can't beat a Five Guys burger, readers. It's up a notch or two from dirty Maccy D's. I devour a Scooby Snack in the car before driving down University Boulevard and heading out towards Beeston and Chilwell.

Long Eaton United play at Grange Park on the outskirts of the town. Brian Clough signed striker Garry Birtles from 'The Blues' in 1976 despite saying that the half-time OXO was better than Birtles performance. The former carpet fitter repaid Clough by scoring 71 goals in over 200 appearances for NFFC. Ironically Birtles and Colin Barratt were both down Powerleague earlier today. I guess they were dishing out the prizes. It suddenly dawns on me that they both scored for NFFC v the Mighty Liverpool in the first round of the European Cup in 1978. Peter Shilton kept clean sheets in both legs.

Newark Flowserve are in town tonight. Looking at the team sheet I would say that 'The Highwaymen' have a decent budget. Former Boston United target man Gregg Smith is one of their stellar signings. He plays alongside ex Celtic and Middlesbrough striker Ben Hutchinson. Long Eaton deservedly go into a 2-0 lead as the visitors stink the place out with a sub-standard first-half performance.

I've been stood with Neil Boyd, a keen supporter of football in Notts, who knows his onions. We're both blown away with young Zak Goodson, a small boy, who has been playing wide on the left for the visitors, but who looks more dangerous down the middle, running at the huge centre-backs, who have mopped up for most of the evening. I saw Goodson last season, playing at Quorn, ironically, for Long Eaton United. He impressed me that night too. He was soon snapped up on a two-year contract by big-spending Basford Utd ( btw have a look at their twitter feed this week, it's been comedy gold for all the wrong reasons). Goodson was released at 16 years old by D***y Clownty. On this evidence, he'll play a lot higher than the Northern Premier League (he's on loan to Flowserve from Basford).

Flowserve score an equaliser in the sixth minute of injury time. It gets them out of jail, but they have to thank the naivety of a young Long Eaton side for gifting them a point, that some would say they are fortunate to get.

Due to the weather, we have three potential FA Vase ties lined-up for the weekend, as we may need some backup. Heanor and Sporting Khalsa are two of my favourite clubs due to the friendly nature of officials and supporters. Ms Moon and I saw a humdinger of an FA Cup tie, over at Khalsa, a few years ago when FC United of Manchester were the visitors. Over 2000 supporters were in attendance, with a large contingent from Manchester. Before the game, a Wolves 'firm' wearing balaclavas stormed into the ground and waded into the away supporters. Proper fisticuffs took place until a police riot van rocked up and order was restored. The game was end-to-end with FC running out 3-2 winners. We both remember the friendly welcome and homemade curry from that day.

We get the green light from my good friend Tony Squires, a Heanor official, that the game is on. I knock up scrambled eggs on toast for breakfast which is well received by the Princess. I made a schoolboy error at yesterday's Christmas Market at work. I was unable to resist a Brockleby's Melton Mowbray pork pie. I cut up a huge chunk and smother it in mustard before wolfing it down.

It's the fag end of part one of Paul Gambacinni's Pick of the Pops on Radio 2. 'Gambers' has been running down the chart from November 1977. Nottingham Forest theme tune, 'Mull of Kintyre', is this week's Number One. The mist certainly will be rolling in from the River Trent today. In fact, there's a proper pea-souper of a fog in Heanor that's causing Tony Squires some concern. 'The ref needs to crack on with this', he remarks, as he greets us.

Ms Moon dashes over to the award-winning tea bar. Oasis blasts out of the PA system as she's met by a cheery couple. Her steak pie is soaked in piping hot gravy. We love visiting the Town Ground. Everyone has a touch of class about them.

We bump into Priory Celtic legend Mr John Harris, accompanied by his wife Jackie. Both are regular characters from midweek visits in these writings. We're all wrapped up to the ninepins as the teams emerge from the dressing room. Khalsa wear T-Shirts in memory of Richard Eades a former official in the West Midlands.

The Lions of Heanor kick towards the Wilmot Street End. Khalsa, a league above Heanor, immediately stamp their authority on the game. Heanor's highly-rated forward Jamie Sleigh is well shackled by the visiting defence.

Topics of conversation between Mr and Mrs Harris, Ms Moon and Sticky Palms during the first half include: Stella, red wine, whiskey, Bounty bars (blue or red wrapper,) Starbars, slippers, Strictly, omelettes and Tony Blackburn. Meanwhile, a humdinger of a last 32 FA Vase cup tie is taking place. Khalsa take the lead on 15 minutes but can't widen the gap. A stunning volley from 'Keano' (not Roy) puts Heanor on level terms. We retire to the tea bar to catch our breath and get our blood circulating in the freezing conditions. Coffees, teas and Bovril are shouted up. Mrs Harris pulls a face like she's sucking on a lemon when she takes a sip of her Bovril.

The second half is a classic, as fog descends on the ground, making visibility towards the far end virtually impossible. Khalsa storm into a 3-1 lead, but start faffing about. Heanor chalk up another goal. We only realise when the crowd cheer and Khalsa kick off - we can't see a sausage at the other end.

The brilliant James McGrady puts the game to bed after rounding the 'keeper and rolling the ball into an empty net from an acute angle. The Heanor management are gracious in defeat. There is mutual respect from both parties. I can't arf pick em and I bloody love football.

Man and Woman of the Match: Mr and Mrs John Harris

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.