Keyworth Utd Res 3-0 Nottingham FC

We head out of a windswept Gainsborough. Trumpy Bolton ('The Keyworth Oliver Reed') has drunk the Lincolnshire town dry of real ale. The social club has broken its 136-year-old record for the most barrels changed during a 90-minute football match. Trumpy needs another ale to quench his thirst before spending an evening in back at his crib on the 'Keyworth Bronx.'

I take a left-hand turn off the A46 southbound carriageway and park up adjacent to a village green, It's over 25 years since I last visited the Royal Oak at Car Colston. It was after a Sunday pub league game of football on that very green. I sink my first pint of the day as Bolton ups the gears. I'm surprised to hear that the landlord has been here for over 16 years. The bar is cosy and the restaurant is doing a roaring trade. It's definitely one for the notebook and is also a Good Beer Guide entry.

I spend Sunday lunchtime holed up for a couple of hours in Lillie Langtry's on Nottingham's South Sherwood St, opposite the Royal Concert Hall and Theatre Royal. Summer Lightning from Wiltshire's Hopback Brewery is on at £2.50 per pint. I dip my bread folks, before knocking up a blog that's well-received in Gainsborough and Stalybridge.

I've proper got the face on at work on Monday. It's post-holiday blues readers. The weather is pretty darn awful too. Football looks like being wiped out for the week. Carlton Town are due to play Gedling Miners' Welfare at Basford United in the Notts Senior League, but Sticky Palms doesn't do 3G, and in particular that one.

I listen to Atletico Madrid versus Liverpool on the radio in the bath on Tuesday evening and the following night politely ask Ms Moon if she can sack off Love Island for Spurs v Lokomotive Leipzig. I 'accidentally' downloaded the Love Island app a few summers ago and even took part in the voting. I'm ashamed and apologetic about this. The Germans are good value for their 1-0 victory with Chelsea on-loan defender/midfielder Ethan Ampadu outstanding. That big baby Jose Mourinho fronts up for the cameras, post-match, with a face like a slapped arse.

The weekend can't come quick enough. I've had a shocker at work and the weather is getting me down. I'm offered a couple of tickets at The City Ground for NFFC v QPR and have the option of Lincoln City v Gillingham at a flooded Sincil Bank. The third option is of more interest and closer to the heart too.

Keyworth United Ressies are playing Nottingham FC in the Nottinghamshire County FA County Trophy semi-finals. I lived in Keyworth for 45 years and have coached at the club for a number of teams. The question is whether the pitch will hold up after the incessant rain of late.

No alcohol has passed my lips since last Sunday. I keep up my recent good form by offering to drive on Friday evening. Ms Moon asks if I'm off colour. The lovely Maxine at work has invited Ms Moon and me to her 50th birthday party at Stadium Leisure in inner-city Basford, close to Vernon Park, where I spent many weekends scouting for the Pies.

We park the car in a dodgy area and jaywalk across a busy Nottingham Road taking our lives into our hands. I manage to see out two hours sipping on a couple of bottles of J2O's (mango and orange if you're asking). There's a cracking turnout from Ideagen PLC. I'm not surprised as Maxine is a popular lass who greets one and all with a flashing smile on arrival in Reception at work.

I'm woken at the crack of dawn with rain pouring from a leaking drainpipe onto a wheelie bin. Next door had a moan about it the other week - I wouldn't mind but they only moved in the other chuffing week, the cheeky blighters.

We both laze around in the morning playing our favourite tunes on YouTube. Ms Moon gets all teary-eyed at a James Blunt track, whilst I pogo to The Stranglers. I've been in conversation with KUFC chairman Chris Thompson and Our Joe, in the last 24 hours, regarding the prospects of the game taking place. Fixtures are falling left, right and centre as I browse legendary Notts groundhopper Malcolm Storer's excellent On the Road twitter updates.

Confirmation of 'Game On' comes from an unlikely source. Stanton-on-the-Wolds Golf Club Manager, Paul Keeling, one of my closest friends, texts me to say he's heard on a what's app golf group that the match is to take place. I arrange to meet him at the home of football shortly before kick-off. 'Golf is a good walk spoiled' said Mark Twain.

I drive down Carlton Road and swing by the 'King Billy' before sweeping left off Meadow Lane onto Lady Bay Bridge. Five Live are over at Sheffield United's Bramall Lane. The presenter Mark Chapman is teasing an out of breath commentator Ian Dennis, who has had to peg it up a few flights of stairs to the commentary box.

Dennis tells an extraordinary tale from earlier in the day. He's just interviewed Blades manager Chris Wilder who has confessed that to cope with the stress and strain of a home game that he likes to jog from his house to the ground on a matchday. He got stopped en route to the ground by a club volunteer who completely oblivious to who he was talking to, asked Wilder, dressed up in club gear, if he would answer a few questions for a survey of a matchday experience of a Sheff Utd supporter. He answered all the questions before continuing on his run. The volunteer had no idea it was Chris Wilder ... lol.

I roll into Platt Lane car park 45 minutes shy of kick-off. I get wrapped up and take a stroll around the perimeter of the ground. A very young Nottingham FC side are laughing and joking during the warm-up. They arrive in Keyworth on the back of six-match unbeaten run, with confidence soaring high.

I wander along the side of the train track that groundhoppers (glorified trainspotters) get excited about when the occasional Virgin test train speeds by. The award-winning Perkins Bar and Bistro is the other side of the fence. The junior pitches at the bottom of the slope are under water, but the four main pitches seem playable underfoot.

I peg it up to the top of the hill and walk towards the cricket square. Miller Homes are building new houses on a plot called Spinners Croft - it can only be good news for both the Football and Cricket clubs that families will be moving in soon. A new 4G playing surface is on the horizon; I'm going to have to grin and bear it, as Sticky doesn't do 4G. It's the community that is going to benefit and not one greedy owner.

I say hello to Keyworth manager Steve Cullis and wish him good luck. Steve's a great lad who helped me out last year with the Development side I ran. Scott 'Tank' Litchfield is giving him a hand with some of the drills. The lads look 'on it' and I know they will win.

You have to know Platt Lane to win a game. Keyworth kick down the slope after winning the toss. First rule of thumb at 'The Lane' is to kick down the hill in blustery conditions as a game can be won in the first 45 minutes.

Both teams appear nervous and jittery with chances going begging at both ends. I stand with Keebo and the Big Man (Bish) opposite the 18-yard box that Nottingham FC attack. Keyworth 10 jacket, Tom Siswick, the best striker and finisher I've ever seen at junior level, is in a rich vein of form of late. He puts the Green Army 1-0 up on 16 minutes to settle his team's nerves.

The visitors are rattled and aren't used to losing. They start to run off at the mouth and lose their cool. It's a shame as they've played some good football and look to have a goal in them. The referee handles the occasion brilliantly with a flurry of yellow cards. One imbecile runs 70 yards to protest with the man in black - he's sent to the sin bin.

Keyworth play some champagne football and go for the jugular with their opponents a man down for ten minutes. Samuel Lund is the standout player. I brought Sam to the Club back in 2012. He told me he was a 'keeper. I said to him that I'd already got a goalie and asked him if he was good at anything else. "Well I do cross country running" he replied. "Excellent, you can play centre-midfield then."

I burst with pride at his lung-bursting runs, intelligent play and the heart the size of a bucket. He ghosts past three players before tormenting and teasing the full-back. He pirouettes on the ball inviting the defender like a matador does to a bull. Finally bored he delivers the ball into the danger area, Conor Pauley does the rest, punishing a team with a player sat in the sin bin.

The biting wind sees us retreat to the clubhouse for a warm. Bish slopes off to watch the Emmerdale Farm omnibus edition. I catch up with Ian 'Fod' Siswick Louise Dixon and Celtic fan David Reilly who also coached some of these boys when they were younger. I bag an excellent programme produced by Chris's lad, Jamie Thompson, which is bound to bring a smile to the face of NSL committee member and well-known groundhopper, Rob Hornby, who I've caught up with today with his lad Shawn. Get well soon Rob!

I catch the eye of Steve Cullis and say that I expect the visitors will shoot themselves in the foot and probably see the red mist and a red card. It happens sooner rather than later. 5 jacket, dizzy from being twisted and turned by 'Sizzers' falls over and cradles the ball in his arm. The referee has no choice but to wave a yellow card and produce a red one from his back pocket. No.5 is sent to the dressing room but not before a verbal volley at the ref. He boots an advertising hoarding in anger; he's kicked fresh air and blown hot air for most of the afternoon. The resulting spot-kick, taken by Pauley, is telegraphed and weakly hit, the 'keeper makes a smart save though.

'The Keyworth Georgie Best' (my eldest lad) has got the face on as he hasn't make the starting XI. At least it shows he cares for a club he's represented since the age of 6 years old. He's not one of these glory hunters and mercenaries that go from club to club pot-hunting before doing a disappearing act. He's been warming up for a while (and I don't mean smoking a Mayfair tab or sinking a can of Carling Black Label). He's let off his leash with 15 minutes remaining, replacing Siswick who has played his heart out and ran himself into the ground.

The 'KGB' gets on the ball and ruffles one or two feathers. His feet are made of magic dust and are the fast on the ball. He bamboozles a couple of defenders before winning a corner. Lund sends in another pinpoint dead ball, Pauley leaps like a salmon and sends a looping header high into the net to put the lads into their first final in over a decade.

There are great scenes as the lads pile onto one another. Our Joe has played at CDM. His performance is mature and his game is simple. Two touches and the ball is away. He has a telepathic understanding with Tom Siswick; playing him in countless times

Frame and Stolworthy at the heart of the defence have been like nightclub doorman - thou shalt not pass. They'll be on the doors at the village pub called The Pear Tree later in the evening. The Green Army bring on 'The Terminator' (Harry Stolworthy) as Cullis looks to run the clock down.

There are a few unsavoury scenes when the final whistle is blown. The referee's performance is only bettered by Sam Lund. A visiting spectator leaps over the barrier and runs onto the pitch. He confronts a few Keyworth players who just laugh at the moron. The two sides are separated. I'm saddened to hear later that the opposition 'declined' the offer of post-match hospitality.  I did like it when I heard their manager shout above the 'handbags' "come away lads, we've been beaten fair and square." Well said, Sir.

Congratulations to Steve Cullis and the lads. I just hope those clowns at the Notts FA see common sense and play the final on grass and not at Basford United or Eastwood Town's artificial surface in 80 degrees of mad dogs and Englishmen midday sunshine, in May, like they did last season. But I won't hold my breath.

Man of the Match: Sam Lund

Attendance: 74 on a bitterly cold day

Gainsborough Trinity 1-3 Stalybridge Celtic

It's 3 a.m. on Friday 7th February. I sit bolt upright in bed, as an alarm rings from my phone. I shave and shower in silence as Ms Moon wakes from her slumber. Hubert, my no.1 favourite taxi driver, collects us at 4 a.m. on the dot. The journey to Birmingham Airport via the M42 is without incident and very little traffic too.

Check-in with Jet 2 is a breeze in the park. We enjoy breakfast in 'Spoons (sorry, no beer consumed Trumpy). Ms Moon needs two pints of coffee to fight the tiredness and lift her mood. What could possibly go wrong, as our flight is called ahead of schedule? Ms Moon is informed by a sheepish air stewardess, posted at the top of the plane steps, that the 'cheese-eating surrender monkeys' (French Air Traffic Control) are on strike.

We're sat on the tarmac for over two hours without shifting. Ms Moon has managed to read: Chat, Take A Break and Women's Realm before our pilot is given the all-clear for take-off to Tenerife South Airport. I bury my head into a book written by the comedian and Farnborough Town fan, Andy Smart, called A Hitch In Time, whilst Ms Moon flicks through a few pages of Sir Elton John's autobiography.

Our patience is rewarded with an upgrade to our apartment, situated halfway up 'Heart Attack Hill' at the resort of Los Cristianos. Base camp, 'early doors', is spent on a bar stool, high up in Manhattan's Bar, overlooking this wonderful, old resort.

We enjoy a long walk up to the harbour village of La Caleta and a bus ride to the coastal town of Los Gigantes, with sweeping views of the island from the hotel clifftop. The highlight, of course, is the groundhopping up into the hills of the south of Tenerife.

I've managed to find a new league where I haven't ticked off many teams. I sent CD San Lorenzo Constancia a message on Facebook asking them to confirm the Saturday kick-off time. 6 p.m. allows us both a few extra hours of sunshine by the pool.

I wander across to Hotel Sur Tenerife and show the address of the ground, on my phone, to a bemused, head-scratching taxi driver. I mumble San Lorenzo (it's only 10km up the road) and receive the thumbs-up and a "si senor" from our man in the driving seat.

It's a six-mile death ride, readers, that's reminiscent of a scene from the 1970s TV series Sweeney Todd Flying Squad, with George Carter driving a Ford Granada and Jack Regan riding shotgun. We're also tuned in to the Spanish version of Capital FM which has Sticky raising his eyebrows and gesticulating to our man to change channels. After a few false dawns, which include two rubber-burning emergency stops, whilst asking locals for the whereabouts of Calle Joao Garcia Allo, the ground is finally located.

We both emerge from the taxi mentally drained and 15 Euros lighter. The ground is perched on top of a hillside in the village and at the bottom of a mountain. The views are stunning and surreal. It's 6 Euros each on the gate and a further Euro for a raffle prize which is a box of overripe fruit.

After negotiating the 'San Lorenzo Baby Squad' (eight kids under 12, who could out-sup the South Normanton Shandy Squad') we stand on the 'Spion Kop', which has four steps, and admire the view.
I've set out a low expectation to Ms Moon which prove to be wise words after a dull as dishwater first half - in hindsight, I'd have been better off staying in the resort and watching the 'Tricky Trees take on 'Dirty Leeds.'

Thank the Lord we don't win the raffle, although I could have bartered the fruit with the returning taxi driver instead of parting with 15 Euros. San Lorenzo hit the back of the onion bag on three occasions in the second half after some comedy defending from the visitors, Guancho, who are located in Puerto De La Cruz, in the north of the island.

That utter buffoon of a taxi driver arrives on time and rattles down the hill at breakneck speed, tooting his horn and gesticulating at anything or anyone that dare get in his way. White as a sheet, I climb the steps of Players Lounge and shout up a Jameson and ginger. I stare out to the Atlantic Ocean with its crashing waves and thank our lucky stars that we're both still alive to re-tell the tale. Unlike 'Fat Fraudster' media mogul, Robert Maxwell, who was found in the 'soup' (man overboard) only a few miles from this very spot, after a final meal in the island's capital Santa Cruz on 4th November 1991.

There are no complications on our journey home, although Hubert, the taxi driver, avoids Clifton Bridge like the plague, as it's closed indefinitely due to structural damage. I turn in for an early night, leaving Ms Moon to catch up with Love Island.

I sleep fitfully and end up in the spare room. I'm grumpy and moody when I eventually roll out of bed at 8 30 a.m. Royalty are travelling to Lincolnshire today on the groundhop, so I need to get the car washed and valeted by the eastern European lads at the Gedling branch. I smother toasted crumpets in butter and Brie (I've forgiven the French ATC lads) and say goodbye to Ms Moon who will no doubt watch back-to-back to back-to-back episodes of Emmerdale Farm.

It's the same old scenario that I'm met with on Spinney Road, Keyworth. Blog legend, Trumpy Bolton, has legged it up the road even though I'm bang on time. He throws his coat on the back seat and his plastic bag of booty (litre of 'apple juice') into the footwell. I've already turned off Graham Norton as a precaution and double-checked that both Adrian Durham and Jim White aren't on TalkSport, as the Ledge will blow a gasket.

I mention that I don't do 0-0s as he discusses his beloved Leicester's bore draw at Molineux the previous evening. He's slightly concerned and miffed at their recent form. He scrutinises the performances of Kasper Schmeichel - I agree and say that Brendan Rogers will replace the Danish 'keeper in the summer.

Gainsborough and Stalybridge fans, please be sat down when I roll out the next line. Trumpy Bolton has had a mission in the last 42 years of his life to visit one pub in every village, town and city in England, Wales and Scotland. He has a crumpled, old, dog-eared atlas, where each place visited is highlighted off. There aren't many places left to visit, but one is the village of Stow.

The Cross Keys has been in the Top 3 Lincs dining pubs and has had a Chef of the Year winner. It's a bit too posh for us. Bolton settles for two pints of Lincoln Gold (the litre of cider in the car has long vanished). Linger by The Cranberries is on the dukey as we head out of the door towards our next destination.

I'd been umming and ahhing all week on whether to venture up to Humberside and tick off Hall Road Rangers in the Northern East Counties League - the weather has put paid to that. We choose Gainsborough over Grantham, as it's a far better ground and town.

Trumpy has eyed-up a traditional fish and chip restaurant called Adam's Bay which also has rave reviews and has the added bonus, for Bolton. of a licence to sell alcohol. He washes down mini Haddock, chips and mushy peas with Magners cider and settles the bill to the dulcet tones of Rock Your Baby by George McCrae.

Gainsborough is a town in the West Lindsey district of Lincolnshire with a population of just over 20,000. It's 18 miles from Lincoln and 15 miles from Scunthorpe. Well known personalities from the town include the actor John Alderton (Please Sir), actress Dame Agnes Sybil Thorndyke and Coronation Street producer Bill Podmore.

Gainsborough Trinity have played football at The Northolme since 1884. The ground is a belter and would definitely feature in my all-time top ten. They became Football League members in 1893 and remained in the Second Division until 1912; ironically replaced by newly-elected Lincoln City. Trinity are managed by former Sheffield United and Birmingham City midfielder Curtis Woodhouse, who is also a former British light-welterweight champion.

We stick the car at the rear of The Ping Stand - custom made golf clubs from the leading supplier are made in the town. We watch the fag end of WBA v NFFC. Trumpy is in heaven when he hears that three real ales are on offer in what must be the greatest social club on the Non-League circuit. He nearly chokes on his Kelham Island beer when Matty Cash, from arch-rivals Forest, scores with a breathtaking last gasp strike.

A barrel has gone as Trumpy emerges from the bar just in time to see some slack defending from Lincoln City loanee Jordan Adebayo-Smith, who gifts the visitors an early lead from the penalty spot. Stalybridge look far sharper and brighter of the two teams. Their big number 9 Craig Hobson poses problems, but sadly can't keep his gob zipped up. He's shown a straight Red before half-time, with Trumpy Bolton already cosied up in the bar, tucking into a pint of Exmouth Gold.

Even with ten men Stalybridge are comfortable on the ball. They score a beautiful goal on the break and despite Trinity reducing arrears, manage to hold on and add to their tally, following a faux pas by a defender.

Attendance: 457

Man of the Match: Matty Cash (NFFC)

Burton Joyce 5-3 Cotgrave

I glance back towards the turnstiles of York City's Bootham Crescent, for one final time. 88 years of football being played here will be confined to the history books, this time next week when Anthony Johnson and Bernard Morley bring their Chester team here for the final ever League game on the hallowed turf - unless further delays are announced.

We enjoy a cracking night out, pacing up and down the cobbled streets of York city centre. We tick off The Minster, Eagle and Child, Phoenix, Golden Ball and re-visit, for Sticky Palms, the excellent Brew York, with its superb range of real ales and craft beers. We finish the night off with a dirty kebab.

I'm as fresh as a daisy in the morning after sleeping like a baby in Sprakey Airport's basement flat. My Godson, Will, is as white as a ghost after a double-figures session. We drop him off at his Uni digs before heading home to Nottingham. I take advantage of Ms Moon nipping down to the Marks and Spencer Food Hall at Victoria Retail Park, in Netherfield, by sloping off for a couple of jars in the wonderful Old Volunteer, on Burton Road - it's in all the pub books, folks.

Monday night is a washout. Emmerdale, a double helping of Corrie and Love Island on ITV2 puts me in a coma by 9.15 pm. I'm excited for Tuesday, to be honest. I dash out of the doors of Ideagen PLC at 4 pm on the dot. I'm parked up in Lincoln by 5.15 pm, despite crawling in traffic for the last couple of miles.

Kenny Jackett's promotion-chasing Portsmouth are in town. With the amount of blues and twos in action, it looks like all police leave is cancelled - although I don't sense or see any trouble. 1000 Pompey fans have made the 425 mile round trip on a school night - I salute them all.

I am cursing them, though, as I walk through the doors of the Ritz Wetherspoons on High Street, as I had hoped to experience a new dining cuisine (bacon and Brie baguette). The building was opened in 1932 as an Odeon cinema (the same year as York City's Bootham Crescent). I have many happy memories of watching films, as a little lad here, such as Lady and the Tramp and The Aristocats, with my lovely Nana - it was just a 15-minute walk from her warden-aided bedsit. I do an about-turn as the bar is six deep with beer-swilling, well behaved Pompey fans.

I squeeze down the Glory Hole, off the High Street, and wander onto the Brayford Waterfront. Another 'Spoons' is bustling with folk. I usually frequent Ask Italian pre-match, as the snap is decent and the restaurant is a lucky charm - 'The Lincoln' never lose when I dine here. The Taxman and I had a poor dining experience here for the Bolton Wanderers game a few weeks back. The service was poor and the kitchen staff had the handling skills of Fawlty Towers Spanish waiter, Manuel.

Stevie Wonder is on the Ask Italian dukey as I peel off four layers of clothing. A bitter wind chill is blowing in from the North Sea (Skeggy) with sub-zero temperatures expected. I hoover down a posh spicy sausage pasta dish and some garlic bread. I pay my dues and tip an excellent waiter before heading to the ground with the hordes of Pompey fans.

I settle into my seat in the Selenity Stand, safe in the knowledge of knowing that my eyes have never witnessed an Imps League defeat from this view in over 20 years. The Lincoln pre-match 'playlist' is off the scale, folks. Blossoms, Editors and Kasabian get my feet tapping, restoring blood circulation to my frozen feet.

The first half is as dull as dishwater as both teams eye up one another, cancelling each other out. I'm looking forward to a half time cup of Bovril as Harry Anderson, too clever for his own boots, is needlessly dispossessed. A free-kick is given away, which is thumped home from 22 yards out by the Republic of Ireland international Ronan Curtis, three minutes into added time.

Rumours are rife that Nottingham Forest loanee, Tyler Walker, is to return home to his parent club. Tonight, due to a dead leg, he is on the bench. Our talisman can't add to his 16 goal tally, as the Imps contribute to their own downfall, by gifting the visitors a penalty kick, after some farcical playing-out from the back. I usually have a strop, on my way back to the car, when we suffer a loss. I gesticulate and moan with anyone remotely interested on Shakespeare Street.

Thank the Lord it's the weekend; I've had a tough week in the office. I jump on the No.27 bus into Nottingham and alight on Southwell Road, close to the Motorpoint Arena. I shed a bucket full of tears, as I pass the Neon Raptor Tap Room in Sneinton Market - there's no date night with their rocket fuel craft ales this evening. Tonight I'm venturing out south of the river to the land known to the bitter and twisted (me) as 'Bread 'n Lard Island.'

It's the Big Man's (Bish) birthday bash at The Botanist on The Avenue in West Bridgford (there I said it). I wander in and clock 'Big Ed' (ironic nickname) sipping on a non-alcoholic bottle of Heineken. I order up a pint of Neck Oil from the Beavertown Brewery. We're soon joined by 'Bruiser', Big Man' Moyes and Rotton. A pattern begins to emerge as the bottles of zero per cent 'lager' appear on the scene. The Shandy drinking side, south of the river, rears its ugly head - I thought I was back in South Normanton for a moment. I enjoy my hot Cumberland Scotch egg and prawn linguine, accompanied by a large, stiff gin - thank you, Big Man, for settling the bill, I thoroughly enjoyed it with a great bunch of lads for company.

I toss and turn in bed. The noise of fireworks lights up the sky. Simpletons are celebrating BREXIT, none more so than in the Tory stronghold of South Normanton, where the 'Big Babies Squad' will be off their pea-brained minds on vodka Red Bull - I thought the Neanderthals were celebrating the Silver Jubilee up there a few weeks ago, when we were greeted with a sea of Union Jacks in a village decimated by Thatcher's pit closure programme.

Ms Moon and I are up and at 'em after a decent lie-in on Saturday morning. We enjoy a croissant and a salted caramel bun before heading up to Gedling Village, where former Nottingham Forest and England midfielder Steve Hodge grew up - read his book The Man With Maradona's Shirt, it's class.

We park the car close to All Hallows Church. Mission today, on the celebrity grave hunt, is to find the final resting place of two Nottinghamshire County Cricket Club legends: Alfred Shaw and Arthur Shrewsbury; buried a cricket pitch length apart.

It's Shaw I'm really interested in. I had a 'drop your bacon sandwich' moment earlier in the week during research, (yes, I do some prep for this blog, you cheeky sod, reader). I discovered that Alfred Shaw, born in Burton Joyce, bowled the first-ever ball in Test cricket for England v Australia in 1877 and also was the first player to take five wickets in aTest innings. Even more astonishing is that he is buried less than two miles from our house.

The church and spire are huge. You would presume that it's filled with hundreds of graves; it isn't. I soon locate Shaw's grave. The lettering is barely legibly; battered by over a hundred years of harsh weather, at one of the highest points in Notts. Shrewsbury's grave is close to the front gate. In 1903 he took his own life, after incorrectly believing he had an incurable disease. We drive, in silence, up to the Travellers Rest on Mapperley Plains.

The Poplars, home to Burton Joyce FC, is a ten-minute drive away. Burton Joyce is a village in the parish of Gedling district, with a population of just under 4,000. Notable residents from the past include Sherrie Hewson of Coronation St and Benidorm fame and Matthew Horne the actor who played Gavin from the hit TV show Gavin and Stacey. It was reported on Dec 20th, 2018, that Horne had been struck by a train close to the Lord Nelson pub in the village; he escaped with minor injuries.

The last time I came here, only a few years ago, was dark times for the Club. They could only raise nine men for a midweek fixture. There was no Senior section the following season, which is astonishing for a set up that boasts over 30 teams at junior level.

I'm gobsmacked to be asked to part with £3 per person at the 'turnstile' (Tupperware box outside the clubhouse). When did this creep into the Notts Senior League?  I can think of many fantastic community clubs who don't charge in this League, such as Keyworth United and Cotgrave. I bet their bar tills are ringing to four figures too, as engaged villagers proudly watch their boys. For the record, 22 people from close on a 4000 population make the effort today (at least eight are from Cotgrave).

We stand with a strong wind at our backs and get chatting to a couple of friendly folk who follow Carlton Town - one of Sticky's faves, who have been hosed off today. Cotgrave won't be that chuffed that I've rocked up, as I've seen them rolled over this season by Woodthorpe Rangers and Keyworth United respectively.

Burton get the ball down and play a game that's easy on the eye. A goal has been coming and duly arrives with the fast feet of Reece Campbell who dances his way through a static defence before finishing with aplomb.

We speed walk to the clubhouse, at the break, which isn't much warmer than outside and lacks any vibe. A lady counts today's takings on the gate. We don't bother with a tea, coffee or chocolate as we've been wiped out for change due to the admission charge. I've only got £20 notes on me (not being flash but was in West Bridgford last night, the Holmes Chapel of Notts).

The second half is a treat with two outstanding players bagging hat-tricks, scoring goals of high quality. BJ go 5-1 up with outstanding 17-year-old winger, Josh Gardner, claiming the match ball, or so he thought.

We're stood behind the goal with the 'Cotgrave Eight.' They're such lovely, upbeat people; not downhearted with the scoreline whatsoever. 21-year-old Lucas Cotterill celebrated his birthday last night with his girlfriend in Birmingham. He has the heart of a lion and is undeterred or affected by the score. He scores a brilliant hat-trick and sees another effort crash off the crossbar. Both he and Gardner will move up the football pyramid, and we'll be paying more than £3 to watch them then.

Attendance (headcount) 22

Men of the Match: Josh Gardner and Lucas Cotterill