I'm in the car travelling back from Stoke. Trumpy Bolton is riding shotgun. He's supped and slurped Abbey Hulton Utd's clubhouse dry of Newcastle Brown Ale. His beer count is about to hit double figures for the day, as I park up outside the White Lion, in the village of Rempstone, close to the Notts/Leics border. I'm due to meet the 'Mad Jock' and his partner, Sarah, later this evening at the 'World Renowned Trent Bridge Inn', adjacent to Nottinghamshire County Cricket Club. The plan is to leave the car overnight in County Hall car park and hook up with Ms Moon, who will be arriving by taxi (like Royalty) at just after 7 p.m.
We're greeted by a cheery landlord at the community-owned pub. He pours two world-class pints of Bass - that can only be matched at the nearby Wysall Plough. The pub is one of Bolton's Friday night haunts. We chat to one or two of the locals, who crowd the bar, watching the Six Nations rugby between Wales and England. I drop Trumpy off at his yard, just after 6.30 p.m. before enjoying an evening at the TBI - where I had my 21st birthday party back in 1985.
On Sunday lunchtime I peg it up to Mapperley Tops for a couple of pints at Castle Rock's Bread and Bitter. It's a steady 45-minute stroll with one hell of a steep incline, to negotiate, at the top of Cavendish Road, where all you can see before you is the sky. I don't sleep too well on Sunday evening as I'm having a tooth out in the morning.
I'm not too sure what's more painful, the tooth coming out or the dentist playing Take That's Greatest Hits on the dukey. It takes near on half an hour for the tushy peg to be dislodged and extracted. I ask for a badge (like Muttley off Wacky Races) for being a brave lad and proudly place a Peppa Pig sticker on my coat. My work colleagues laugh at the sticker but are less than amused when I fiddle around in my jeans pocket and unearth my badly infected gnasher.
My gums start to ache as the anesthetic begins to wear off. I spend the evening up at Radford FC's delightful Selhurst Street ground. The company is good too. I chat to Heanor Town Press Officer, Tony Squires, who is always great value, before strolling around the other side of the ground to catch up with John Harris and 'Wife Jackie.' One person, who's none too chuffed to see me, is Radford manager 'Big Glenn Russell.' He shakes his head at me and snarls an obscenity - I'm a Jonah you see; Radford usually lose when Sticky's in the building. Tonight is no exception, as they are well and truly thumped 4-1, with the visitors' Jamie Sleigh outstanding once again.
We're both super-excited about the up and coming long-weekender in Edinburgh. The weather looks set fair and I've shoehorned a game into the schedule, up at Bonnyrigg Rose Athletic, in the Scottish Lower League. The Club confirm a 3 p.m. kick-off.
I ply Ms Moon with coffee on Friday morning before the short trip to Newark Northgate train station. The good lady bagged the train tickets, a few months back, for a bargain-buy £75 each return fare. What could possibly go wrong?
Ms Moon enjoys her fourth brew of the day as we sit around with nervous and anxious passengers in the waiting room. Everyone is keeping their distance due to Coronavirus. The train heads out of the station at a fair old lick. I'm scrolling down my twitter timeline, feeling as happy as Larry, when suddenly I turn a whiter shade of pale. "Are you alright honey?" asks Ms Moon. I read the tweet over and over again. Nicola Sturgeon, First Minister of Scotland, (aka 'Janette Krankie') has instructed the Scottish FA to suspend all professional and grassroots football. I start blowing my nose and shed a few tears. I reassure passengers, sitting close by, that I'm not COVID-19 positive. Ms Moon asks if I want to put 'Mardy Bum' by the Arctic Monkeys on the dukey? A 450 mile round trip with no chuffing football folks.
I sulk for half an hour, with my bottom lip quivering. Events take a turn for the worse when I'm charged £4 for a bacon roll at the buffet cart. I sing to Ms Moon on my return to Carriage D "This is the worst trip I've ever been on."
It's a two-minute walk up the hill from Waverley Street train station to the Hotel Motel One, where we're staying for three nights. It's our favourite hotel chain, having stayed a few times at the one on High Bridge in Newcastle-upon-Tyne.
We check-in and head out into the streets of Edinburgh pretty darn quick. We turn off Cockburn St onto the Royal Mile. There's a commotion and gathering outside the Court of Justice. Ms Moon asks what's the craic? I know, instantly, that the sea of TV cameramen, reporters and photographers are waiting for former Scottish First Minister, Alex Salmond, to emerge from the court.
Salmond has denied 14 charges of sexual assault on 10 women. Ms Moon muscles in with the Paparazzi whilst I stand around the corner chatting to a camera crew. A black Mercedes van appears from a side street and parks up close by. I point out to a police officer that there's a sign clearly saying 'No Parking.' Without humour 'Taggart' removes the sign as Salmond hotfoots it out of court, with his wife in toe. The blacked-out car speeds off into the rush-hour traffic.
The first night isn't without incident either. After a pleasant few pints with a Middlesbrough fan in the Halfway House, on Fleshmarket Close, we venture out into New Town. Ms Moon loves a 'Spoons and in particular when it's her round (cheap as chips). I'm at the bar at The Standing Order (yes, an old bank) and shout up a Pentland IPA from Stewart Brewing. I'm presented with a beer that has more clouds than the view from the top of Kilimanjaro.
I've already paid for the round. The barman says he'll pour me another one. I'm not having it. "I'll have my money back and a free Tanqueray Seville, please. That bad pint could have wiped out my weekend." My request is refused. Long story cut short readers, after 15 minutes negotiation with the 'Manager' (a twonk) I'm refunded £2.69 and get a cloudless 6.5% abv rocket fuel ale for free. As we exit the pub I see a guy huddled in a blanket, shielding from the cold air. I handover the £2.69 and a bit more and say "but don't buy an out-of-date real ale in there, Son."
I'm full of beans and up and at 'em on Saturday morning. We enjoy breakfast at an independent cafe called Em's Kitchen on St Mary's St. We did a recce yesterday, so Ms Moon knows what lies in wait for her. Arthur's Seat is a hill that rises above the city to 823 feet. The views over Edinburgh towards the Leith and Hibernian's Easter Road ground are breathtaking. According to Wikipedia "it's relatively easy to climb." Try telling that to a panting, puffing and hungover Sticky Palms. An exhausted Ms Moon and I retire to Cafe Palace to stock up on caffeine after two hours of hard yards.
I break down in tears at 5 p.m. Ms Moon asks me if I'm still upset about the cloudy beer at 'Spoons and the nasty 'Shift Manager.' I reply it's chuff all to do with that and it's more about not being able to check the final scores as lots of games have been cancelled.
The non-footballing weekend in Edinburgh has been a blast. Cafe Royal was the standout pub and The Witchery was a restaurant to die for. Thanks to Scott in projects and G J Dunkin in sales (no relation to PJ and Duncan) for the pub tips - we loved The Hanging Bat and Fierce Beer. Bonnyrigg Rose Athletic, we're gutted that we missed you; maybe another time. Ms Moon loved the visit to the Royal Yacht Britannia too.
Attendance: 2
Woman of the Match: Ms Moon xx
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