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)
No comments:
Post a Comment