This is Beeston

It's Saturday, April 25th, 2015. I'm driving the 'Rolls Royce' up through the hills of Lancashire towards the old mill town of Burnley, and more importantly Turf Moor, a ground steeped in footballing history. My partner in crime, Trumpy Bolton, is riding shotgun and swigging on a litre bottle of liquid that can only be described as a 'Molotov Cocktail' - a mixture of cider and WKD; it looks like screen wash.

Trumpy's beloved Leicester City are performing the 'Great Escape' after being anchored in the nether regions of the Premier League table for most of the season. Today is another six-pointer against the Clarets, who sit in 20th position. The Foxes have only been allocated 2469 tickets. Don't ask me how, but our man Bolton has managed to secure a couple of them off Stan Flashman, which are like gold dust and selling for extortionate prices on the black market.

Lunch is spent holed-up at Jimmy Anderson's Burnley Cricket Club, along with 800 visiting supporters, who have the tills ringing and singing. I rub my eyes in disbelief when two umpires appear from the pavilion, placing bails onto the stumps at both ends of the wicket. It's the first day of the Lancashire League season. 800 beer-fuelled lads and lasses cheer a bowler in, off a longer run-up than Dennis Lillee. The nervous batsman, shuffling in his crease, is a jibbering wreck. He chips a ball straight to mid-off, where a catch is snaffled up by the fielder. A disconsolate batsman trudges off to back to the pavilion, with the Leicester faithful, in unison, belting out 'cheerio, cheerio cheerio.'

The game (Burnley v Leicester) is on a knife-edge, with no quarter given, when on the hour Burnley are awarded a penalty after a reckless and needless tackle by Paul Konchesky. The experienced Matt Taylor steps up to take the spot-kick, despite not having done so for over five years. To the crowd's astonishment, Taylor loses his footing, before scuffing his penalty, which smacks the outside of the post, going out for a goal kick.

Trumpy and I are dancing and hugging one another as seconds later, Marc Albrighton, one of the greatest Bosman signings in Premier League history, is in space down the right-hand side. Unsung hero Albrighton eats up the ground and delivers a cross to die for. An exhausted Jamie Vardy, who has sprinted 80 yards down the pitch, bundles the ball into the back of the net, off his knee.

I'm reminded of this five years to the day, not just on a Facebook memory, with Trumpy and Sticky wearing 'Foxes are Fearless' T-Shirts, but also a recent Kindle book download, of a diary of the season after, when they astounded the footballing world, claiming the Premier League title at odds of 5000/1. The book is called Fearless: The Amazing Underdog Story of Leicester City, The Greatest Miracle in Sports History, brilliantly captured and researched by acclaimed Scottish journalist Jonathan Northcroft. It's a riveting read and a steal at £1.99 on Kindle.

We've been in lockdown for over 30 days. I try to remain chipper and positive. With deaths approaching 20,000, many have been less fortunate. Families are having to cope with loss and bereavement; unable to attend funerals in some cases. I feel sad and so sorry for folk in this awful period of time.

I get into the routine of daily exercise after work. Getting on the bike or heading out for a walk is good for the heart, soul and mind. It's no coincidence, with little pollution in the skies or emissions from traffic, that the weather has been wall to wall sunshine.

It's Thursday evening and I'm cycling down Burton Road. I cross over at the lights on the A612 Southwell Road, close to Carlton Town's ground, and onto Stoke Lane. The last time I was here the car broke down after an eight-goal thriller between Real United and the world-famous Clifton All Whites. A dog walker got us out of the mire that evening, towing us back to Colwick where we lived at the time.

It's baking hot as I swing by the tranquil village of Stoke Bardolph (population 170) where I spent many a season, back in the 1980s, pitting my wits against Burton Joyce and Stoke Bardolph CC whilst 'turning my arm over' for Keyworth Cricket Club. They had a hot-headed all-rounder called Anthony Cockayne. He was a hard-hitting batsman and a 'quicky' with a temper to match. The Millers of Keyworth were the kings of banter and sledging, often having Cockayne 'on strings' and off with a strop.

I cycle past the old ground, have and a shufty about the village, admiring the defibrillator in the old red telephone box. Further up the road is Gedling FC's ground and the Ferry Boat Inn, a scruffy Hungry Horse pub, that's dying on its backside. I notice a footpath on the corner, adjacent to Burton Joyce Football Club. It's one for the notebook for Ms. Moon and me to explore on Sunday morning, as the weather forecast is set fair once more.

I find a distraught Ms. Moon in tears on Friday evening. I hug and console her, unaware of what has caused this meltdown. I fetch a box of tissues and gently wipe away the tears before she noisily blows her nose. It turns out she's been reading one of those rubbish TV chat magazines who are saying (pray to God) that ITV are running out of episodes of Emmerdale Farm and Coronation Street due to CV19. I start fist-pumping and do a Michael Flatley River Dance on the lounge floor - the good lady is unimpressed.

I'm up and at 'em on Saturday morning. I cycle down to Trent Bridge, again, as the sun begins to peep out from the light, white fluffy clouds. I shout 'You Reds' to Plumtree Cricket Club supremo, Mark Oldham, as he enjoys the fag end of an early morning stroll along the banks of the Trent - no mist rolling in, mind yer.

I join the Nottingham ring road, close to Clifton Bridge, which has planned, staged closures for the next nine months, that everyone in Notts was up in arms about; complaining and bleating about it on social media. But it's now fallen under the radar. I turn off onto a track that takes me past Dunkirk FC and the Michelin two-star, Restaurant Sat Bains - he's from D***y, so I had to suck it up on my one and only visit. Thankfully lamb wasn't on the menu.

I pedal on a path, adjacent to Grove Farm, with its empty football pitches. The River Trent is to my left, it looks so inviting and the water still on a day like today. Sadly it's not the case, as only half a mile or so up the river is laid a tribute to 12-year-old 'gentle giant' Owen Jenkins, who sacrificed his own life to save another at Beeston Weir. I always unsaddle here and pay my respects to this young, brave, selfless child, who lost his life trying to save a friend, who got into difficulty in the water, back in July 2017.

I ride through Beeston Marina. Normally I'd slope off for a pint in the beer garden at one of my favourite haunts, the Victoria Hotel. Beeston has a couple of other decent boozers too: the Crown Inn and The Star Inn. There are one or two famous folk from the town too: Van Der Valk actor Barry Foster, fashion designer Paul Smith (cracking taproom in one of his old shops on Byard Lane in Nottingham), Motown and Northern Soul singer Edwin Starr, sadly passed away in the bath, at his home in Beeston, in 2003, aged 61 years old. Porridge and Rising Damp actor Richard Beckinsale who tragically died at the young age of 31 years old, in 1977, lived in the town.

I continue my bike ride up to Attenborough Nature Reserve, completing a circular route before the return journey home. I stop outside the back of the Trent End at The City Ground for a much-needed thirst-quenching drink. I see a chocolate-coloured spaniel enter the water to chase some ducks. The owner is frantic with worry as 'Gemma' (the dog, not the owner) doggy paddles halfway across the river. It's relief to see her swim back to shore after 15 minutes of play-time.

Man of the Match: 12-year-old Owen Jenkins. A legend never to be forgotten.

Carlton to Castle Marina

An email hits my inbox from Sticky's favourite craft ale brewer, Neon Raptor, who are based in Sneinton, two miles from my crib. I rub my hands with glee, get all excited and do a little jig. Five minutes later Ms Moon waltzes into the lounge to find me in a flood of tears. She passes me a box of recycled Marks and Spencer tissues, they are as coarse as sandpaper and make my nose bleed. I suggest she'd be better off fetching the mop and bucket from out of the garage, as I've proper cried me a river.

Tears dry up and my mood quickly switches to anger. The email contained bad news, folks. It said "We have stopped production of beer, and have no available or planned beer due to COVID-19." I have to act fast as my stash is running low; almost empty. I source 10x cans of Doctor Galapagos mango milkshake and 10x cans of Liquid Zoo from Left Field Beer in Birmingham. I pay a king's ransom for my booty, but it's worth every penny, as on the black market some of Neon Raptor's beers are going for a ridiculous £7.50 per can. I tip off two mates: 'Dog' and Alex.

Apart from an early wobble on Monday morning, my performances on Ken Bruce's PopMaster are much improved, and averaging around the 21 mark. Ms Moon beat me twice on Monday. I make excuses and say I was concentrating on work. I have a Sam Smith strop on. Deep down inside, I'm seething folks. I don't speak to 'The Princess' until an hour into Steve Wright in the Afternoon - sore loser or what?

It's Thursday teatime and it's been a gorgeous sunny day. I saddle up on my Boneshaker bike and head out to Netherfield before jumping onto the Colwick Loop Road. I cross over Lady Bay Bridge and turn off down some steps that lead me onto the banks of the River Trent. I stop outside the Trent End, at The City Ground, gazing and reading the messages on personalised bricks and stones on the 150th Anniversary Wall. Some are heart-wrenchingly sad, as loved ones, who devoted their lives to the Tricky Trees, have passed away.

I reminisce about some of the games I saw in the Trent End, back in the late 70s, when supporters were treated like cattle; crammed in and fenced in. I was a big (still am) Lincoln City fan at the time and was green with envy at my schoolmates revelling and soaking up Forest's unexpected success. I was ridiculed for supporting my hometown team, who were turning heads and breaking records in Division 4, under the stewardship of rookie manager Graham Taylor.

I used to jump onto the Barton Keyworth 6 bus and join my mate, Ackers, in the Trent End. I was mesmerised, spellbound and obsessive about dumpy winger John Robertson, who I'd seen struggling for form under the previous manager Allan Brown, a dour Scotsman. I loved wingers and he was the best left-sided player I'd ever clapped eyes on. He hugged the touchline and the ball stuck to his boots like glue. Two-footed, he could cross the ball onto a sixpence. To this day, I still couldn't tell you what his stronger foot was (the same with Stanley Victor Collymore). He used to terrorise Aston Villa full-back John Gidman. His jinking, dazzling dribbling skills left many a full-back feeling dizzy and sat on their backside.

I fell in love with the second side Clough built. I can hear the roar now as Stuart Pearce emerged from the tunnel, running straight to the crowd, who are chanting "PSYCHO, PSYCHO PSYCHO" as he flexes his muscles and clenches his fists. A hushed tone would then descend on The City Ground, as the crowd waited with bated breath for one of the greatest managers of all-time to appear, resplendent in his trademark green sweatshirt; always giving the lads and lasses the thumbs-up - it sends shivers down my spine, just now, thinking about it, as I cycle down the banks of the Trent, past the Nottingham Boat Club, a venue where I saw The Associates, Orange Juice and Bow Wow Wow play back in the early 80s for £2.50 per ticket.

Talking of music, I can hear some toons blasting out from a barge that's moored up adjacent to Nottinghamshire County Hall. A guy is basking in the late evening sunshine on the roof of his boat. He looks a rum 'un and so does his Heinz 57 variety snarling dog. He plays a decent set though, including 'Would You?" (Go to Bed with me) by Touch and Go and a Traveling Wilburys track.

I head over a suspension bridge and pay my respects at the Victoria Embankment War Memorial. The Great War Memorial names the 13,482 people individually who died from Nottinghamshire during the First World War. It was opened on 28th June 2019, 100 years to the day since the Treaty of Versailles was signed.

I pass Notts County's famous old Meadow Lane ground. A sign on County Road says their next game is against Harrogate Town. Lord knows when that will be. When we moved from Lincoln in the late 60s, Dad took us to both Forest and the Magpies. Secretly, I know he was chuffed to bits that my brother and I chose to support Lincoln City. But we both enjoyed our trips to two clubs separated only by a river.

Wily old Scotsman, Jimmy Sirrel, was putting down his marker as a shrewd spotter of talent when I first started watching Notts. Jimmy loved a winger and had a great scouting network North of the Border too. Stevie Carter and Ian Scanlon were the two on the flanks at the time. I remember, once, when we got free tickets, through school, to watch County v Sheffield Wed in 1974. Little were we to know that history was to be made that day. Mercurial and eccentric Scottish winger, Scanlon, scored a hat-trick in 165 seconds. My Dad, a reporter on the Daily Mirror, covered a story about Scanlon years later when he made false claims to have inherited a large fortune. He disappeared back up north, seeing his days out at Aberdeen and St Mirren. That day, though, stood with Dad on the Spion Kop, with its quirky scoreboard, is etched in the memory forever.

I enjoy a few hours of football quizzing and drinking copious amounts of beer and gin on Friday evening as I Microsoft Team-up with some friends that I've known for over 30 years or more. I struggle with the quiz, as the gin kicks in, but love the craic with the lads, who I miss dearly. Well done Bobby.

I'm back on the bike on Saturday morning, after a couple of rounds of cheese on toast for brekky. I pedal up Gedling Road, past The Gedling Inn, and turn right at the roundabout, which the All Hallows Church towers above. I noticed a cycle track sign to Burton Joyce the other day, whilst we were on our daily walk. I ride up to the back of Carlton le-Willows School. I clock a new state of the art 3G pitch  - Sticky doesn't do 3G folks and it cost £1 million to build too .. Wow!

I have to slam the anchors on when I reach a barrier with a no entry sign plonked on it - they are building a new Gedling Access Road that will link the B684 on Mapperley Plains and A612 Nottingham Road. Disappointed, I head back and chance upon a dog walker squeezing through a gate at Gedling House Woods and Meadows. He advises me to ride through the woods and says it should bring me out onto the road near Burton Joyce. It's like a scene from Last of the Summer Wine as I take a tumble from my bike on two separate occasions over dead tree stumps. I've been in these woods for chuffing ages now, it's like a scene from The Blair Witch Project. Crikey Moses, I don't believe it, everywhere is sealed off because of that bloody access road. I trudge back to where I started from, past the startled dog walker, who I blank as the red mist descends upon me.

I reach Burton Joyce without further incident(s). You'd need some serious lolly to live amongst its 3500 residents. No pub really takes my fancy. Gavin and Stacy actor, Matthew Horne, who's from the village', was 'struck by a train' on the crossings, as he stumbled out of the nearby Lord Nelson, in December 2018, after a few too many cans of Shandy Bass. I have a mooch about the place, but there's not much to report apart from a queue at the Co-op and a nice church on the main road, whose view is blocked by a huge Cedar tree.

I pull open the curtains at the crack of 8.30 a.m. on Sunday morning, shower, shave and grab a couple of apples and head out towards Carlton Hill. There's the odd jogger or elderly gentlemen returning from a newsagent with Sunday papers tucked under their arms. There are no queues at hand car washes or the humming of bus engines at the Nottingham City Transport depot.

I blank the Neon Raptor Taproom as I swing a left onto Pennyfoot Street as there's a blue plaque I'd like to see. In 1961, Stewart Adams, OBE, was part of the Boots team who developed the painkiller Ibuprofen. It's now one of the world's best selling drugs and another reason why Nottingham folk should be proud of where they're from.

I continue onto London Road and drop down some steps, close to a Premier Inn, that lead me onto the canal towpath. I peer enviously at folks eating breakfast on sun-soaked balconies that dwarf the water. I head towards the Waterfront, where last weekend pubs should have been packed to the rafters, with revellers basking in the Easter Bank Holiday sunshine. Today, apart from the odd jogger, cyclist or pigeon, you can hear a pin drop.

Hopefully, in the not too distant future, all the Non-League managers, players, supporters and characters, who I have grown to love over the last 15 years, can meet down here for a few scoops or two.

Man of the Match: No man of the match, but I can't get out of my head that nearly 14,000 people, from our county, lost their lives in the First World War.

This is Nottingham

It's over four weeks since I last saw a game of football - it's coincided with the last time I put any fuel in the 'Rolls Royce' too. That day, Trumpy Bolton drank 'The Potteries' of Stoke-on-Trent high and dry of real ale, cider and Newcastle Brown Ale. Little was he to know that he would spend 23 consecutive days without a sniff of alcohol, due to the Coronavirus pandemic that's sweeping the world.

It's been a testing time back at the ranch. Ms Moon announced that she has been granted permission to work from home for the foreseeable. We've been swapping rooms and floors in an effort to set up a routine during these surreal times. I point out that Loose Women isn't an option.

The good lady goes for her 'one hour exercise' at close of play, wandering up to the Wimpey estate at the back of Carlton Rec. On her return, she watches the re-run of Tipping Point. As soon as I hear the theme music strike up, I'm up like a shot and scuttling down the back passage. Ben Shephard must have thought he'd died and gone to heaven when he got offered that gig. The contestants are as thick as two short planks. Some of the answers they give beggar belief. Hannah from Wales was asked which Welsh boxer won BBC Sports Personality of the Year in 2007? "I know this one Ben, is it Barry McGuigan?"

I've cycled to Colwick Country Park a few times this week; it's beautiful, tranquil and just a stone's throw away from Nottingham's inner city. I usually pedal down into Carlton Square and head towards Netherfield (another place that is growing on me after a mooch around the other day). I take a right-hand turn, just before the railway crossing, past the Fox and Hounds public house, which still remains unticked off (one or two of the lads in there are rum 'uns). The road leads you onto a track that runs parallel to the Nottingham to Lincoln railway line. You cross the railway bridge and cycle up Vale Road, past The Vale Social Club (unticked) and before you know it you're in Colwick Park.

It always saddens me, when I see fresh flowers tied to a barrier, close to a pedestrian crossing. It's a reminder of the tragic passing of a teenage cyclist, knocked off his bike, on his way to school, in 2012. A skate park was built in his memory. A solitary skateboarder negotiates the circuit as I ride by, looking out onto a deserted Colwick Recreation Ground, where as many as three full-sized football pitches were played on every Saturday afternoon and Sunday morning, back in the day.

Colwick Country Park was opened to the general public in 1978, but the estate dates back to 1362. The park covers off 250 acres and is an easy, flat cycle ride, with views of the River Trent and two large lakes. By the time I arrive back at HQ, folks, I'm fagged out. It was my first cycle out, this season. I collapse into a garden chair gasping for air and water.

I can report there has been little improvement in Ms Moon's TV viewing schedule. I sit reading and weeping as Masterchef and Celebrity Great British Bake-off hit our screens. I'm compensated with part three of the excellent The Nest, a drama set in Glasgow; another of Sticky's favourite cities. I had the mother-of-all benders, there, with my boss a few years ago.

TV viewing plummets to an all-time low on Thursday evening. A moody and grouchy Ms Moon has already got the hump due to the lack of Emmerdale Farm on our screens this week (last time that happened was the Foot and Mouth outbreak in 2001 -  also a harrowing time for blog regular the 'Big Man', as T-Bone steaks were withdrawn from pub menus). 'The Princess' flicks on Top of the Pops 2. Nicky Campbell, complete with an 80s mullet, is compering the show.

Anyone who waxes lyrical or gets all misty-eyed about how good music was in this decade has completely forgotten about 1989. Jason Donovan, Monie Love and Fuzzbox see the red mist descend upon Sticky Palms, as he sinks further into his armchair. Nicky Campbell scores a late consolation goal with 'this week's number one" - 'Back to Life' by Soul to Soul. I bury my head into 'Test Match Special Diary', for the rest of the evening, still aghast and raging at what I've just seen - including Campbell's mullet.

It's Good Friday, a day that, traditionally, I spend with blog superstar Trumpy Bolton. They'll be no early start in a 'Spoons, oop north, for us today, as football is the last thing on anyone's mind right now - apart from dysfunctional, bleating groundhoppers, crying out for the Non-League season to be completed, whilst the UK is about to announce over 10,000 deaths from CV19.

There's a farcical start to the day as we make the foolish decision to head down to the Netherfield Victoria Retail Park. The queue at Marks and Spencer Food Hall snakes around the edge of the car park. I take a wander up to Morrisons to see if they have any decent plants for sale in their gardening section at the front of the store - they haven't, and it's a bit early for bedding plants, as a couple of frosts can soon see them off.

Ms Moon is making steady progress in the queue, but I'm not hanging about. I peg it back home through Netherfield. The good lady arrives back with four bags of shopping, including a nice bottle of Red from Argentina. I clocked some shrubs outside Lidl at the bottom of Sneinton, t'other day, on one of my many walks.

Ms Moon chauffeurs me down Carlton Road. The queues are ridiculous. I want to show Ms Moon the wonderful Promenade I discovered last week and St Mary's Rest Garden, where Nottingham boxing legend William 'Bendigo' Thompson is buried. The good lady is mightily impressed. We continue our walk into town - what a depressing sight it is. There's no hustle and bustle of shoppers or chinking of glasses and singing coming from pubs and bars - the place is deserted and empty. I feel sick to the pit of my stomach.

En route to the car we pass a place of worship (Neon Raptor Tap Room) I may have mentioned this establishment somewhat before. For a gag, Ms Moon videos me crying into tissues that the pub is shut and the gates are padlocked, whilst playing Missing You by John Waite (no relation to Terry).

I'm up at the crack of 8 o'clock on Saturday morning. I rustle up scrambled eggs on toast. I jump on the bike and pedal like Chris Boardman (more like Stan) down Netherfield and onto the Colwick Road past the Starting Gate pub and onto a track that runs adjacent to the A6011. Before I know it I'm entering the final furlong, on the rails at Nottingham Racecourse. There's no horse running to place a bet on, and even worse than that, I'm locked in, and unable to gain access back onto Colwick Road. I throw the bike over an eight-foot padlocked gate and clamber over it, comedy style.

I cycle past Notts County's Meadow Lane ground and stop to look at the statue of their legendary manager Jimmy Sirrel and his sidekick Jack Wheeler. I scouted at the Academy and youth team level for a few years, and people often ask me who's the one that got away?

It was a poisonous, toxic atmosphere. during my time on the periphery at the Club (you could have written a book). I was keen to scout the Non-League for them, but a succession of chief scouts showed very little interest, preferring, instead, to sign the tired legs of 32-year-old journeymen on two-year contracts that contributed towards the Club's demise. Owner, Ray Trew, appointed a guy called Matt Alexander as head of recruitment - Matt's Dad, Keith Alexander, was ex-manager at Lincoln City, where Trew had previously been a Director.  I tipped off Alexander about a forward called Lee Gregory, who I had watched a few times in the Non-League. He went onto captain Millwall and is currently at Stoke City. It was too left-field thinking for Notts County and was never followed up by their dinosaur scouting department. I could mention Andre Gray, but that's another story.

I cycle over Trent Bridge, which is currently being re-painted. It seems a long time ago since the folk of Nottingham were raging at being stuck in gridlocked traffic on it's three main bridges. I head down to Holme Pierrepont (the artist previously known as the National Water Sports Centre). I up the gears around the rowing course as the sun shimmers off the water. I arrive home two hours after I left, refreshed and ready to attack the day.

Man of the Match: Ben Shephard

This is Sneinton

We've lived in Carlton, two miles outside Nottingham city centre, for three years now and I absolutely adore the place, as I do the village of Keyworth, where I was holed up for the previous 45 years. There are so many walks around here, I've avoided feeling cooped up and hemmed in during these desperate times. Every day I get in my one hour permitted exercise after a full shift of working from home - which I despise and get cross about by the way.

We wander up Carlton Road, just after Sunday lunchtime, past the Recreation Ground, where Top Spot FC hasn't kicked a ball in weeks. There are the usual queues, on top of the hill, outside Tesco Extra and Iceland, as we swing a right down Standhill Road, and have a mosey around the west side of Carlton. We settle in for the evening with pretty much the same routine: Ms Moon on the 'bubbles' and Sticky P breaking into his stash of Neon Raptor goodies. I re-name the 8.2% abv 'The Carlton Crack Cocaine.'

'Blue Monday' is so depressing as a number of firms and companies announce redundancies, furloughs and 'realignment.' I switch off my computer at 4.30pm and choose a different walking route. I pass The Blacks Head and The Old Volunteer on Burton Road before turning left up Main Road towards The Willowbrook and The Gedling Inn. At the end of the road, facing me, is the glorious view of Gedling All Hallows Church, where two famous Notts cricketers are laid to rest (covered off in a previous celebrity grave hunting blog when Ms Moon got a bit mardy). I admire the sculptural depiction of a miners' lamp and the War Memorial situated on the opposite side of the road.

I continue my walk past Burton Road Playing Fields, where I enjoyed many a Nottingham Evening League cricket game back in the 80s, when wickets were uncovered, green and damn right dangerous. There was no fun had, as a tail-ender, when sniffing the leather seam of a ball, whistling past your snout ('Chin Music') with the sun long gone and darkness falling. We used to retire, after, to Inn For a Penny, which I later walk by, with its empty car park and the sad sight of a desolate lounge and bar.

I try to join in with any positive social media statuses on Facebook and Twitter. I'm uploading my favourite LP's on FB by posting an album cover each day - Three Imaginary Boys by The Cure, Soul Mining by The The and Meat is Murder by The Smiths are right up there in my collection. I was also asked why I loved cricket and uploaded a picture of Derek Randall, doffing his cap at Dennis Lillee, after scoring a century in the Melbourne Centenary Test in 1977. My mates and I watched it on a reel to reel film projector up a Keyworth Tennis Club one night, sneaking in the odd bitter shandy. Randall is the reason why I always threw myself around as a dedicated fielder in the covers for Keyworth CC.

I spend the rest of the week with my head down either grafting, cycling around Colwick Park or shopping at Marks and Spencer Food Hall, on Victoria Retail Park, in Netherfield (within walking distance) - you can't beat a bit of posh nosh.

I'm often asked why do you love the Non-League scene and what compelling event confirmed this for you? February 19th, 2011 was the day I saw my greatest game of football, in the mining village of Coalville, in north-west Leicestershire. The mighty Boatmen, of Dunkirk, Lenton Lane, Nottingham, were the visitors that day; a club I'd taken a keen interest in for most of that season. They had a never-say-die (Dunkirk) spirit, which I admired from the terracing. It was instilled into them that you're never beaten until the final whistle - it was a DNA throughout the club from colts to youth level.

Back in August, that same season, I saw them played off the park and 2-0 down, with 90 minutes up, against Grantham Town, a team a few leagues higher with the arrogance that comes with it, in the FA Cup. They scored twice in added time when they were dead and buried; many players without heart and soul would have ragged in and thrown the towel in: it's not the 'Dunkirk Way.'

Grantham supporters labelled Dunkirk 'a pub team.' It came back to haunt them with the Boatmen winning the replay 3-2 in the last kick of extra time. I popped onto the Grantham message board at full time and posted "3-2 to the pub team." I received dog's abuse and didn't answer the doorbell or pick up calls from unknown numbers for a few months.

Back to Coalville, where the visitors were under the cosh and 3-0 down. Upo, a great character, with razor-sharp wit, reflected in the way he and joint manager Dave Harbottle's teams used to play and react, was absolutely seething and frothing at the mouth. He had to be helped over the wall for a much-needed (chain-smoking) John Player Blue ciggie break with the travelling supporters. A home striker was heard to say, "let's make it double figures lads"

It was 3-2 at the break and 4-3 to Coalville with seconds remaining when Theo Smith (one of the 'Three Degrees') smashed home an equaliser. It was like watching Kevin Keegan's Newcastle United. The scenes were incredible. I found myself mobbed. My heart was racing and my fists clenched. That was when I knew it was for real, and for me. As for 'their striker;' well he got pelters when the final whistle blew.

It's Saturday morning and another blank sporting weekend. Sport pales into insignificance as the daily death toll rate and new cases of CV19 are reported around the world. I mow the lawn before spreading some feed, weed and moss killer on it - in a few months' time, you'll be able to play snooker on it.

Trumpy Bolton and Sticky Palms should have been up in the north east today watching Marske FC v Colne in the seaside town. Roy Castle (one for the kids) was up at Trumpy's house yesterday presenting him with a certificate for not having any alcohol pass his lips for 15 days in a row for the first time since 1975 - "he's a record-breaker."

The Adidas Sambas are on my 'plates of meat' folks; I'm about to hit the streets of Sneinton on today's social-distancing walk. Ms Moon is a late withdrawal. I'm approached by a beggar at the lights at the Porchester Road junction - I haven't got a bean on me, and can't remember the last time I withdrew any cash. I put £50 petrol in the car four weeks ago, prior to a day out in Stoke with Trumpy Bolton; I've still got some juice left in the tank. I apologise to the beggar before continuing my walk.

I'm stopped by a policeman outside the old Duke of Devonshire pub - actually it's my mate Sean who used to coach my youngest lad at the famous Clifton All Whites. He tells me some horror stories from the last few weeks; most are of the stupid, juvenile behaviour by large groups of kids (who aren't used to the word No) in inner-city Nottingham, despite government advice.

First port of call is the Salvation Army in Sneinton. Ms Moon and I made a donation towards their food bank this morning. It's tough and desperate times for a lot of people right now, particularly in these areas of town. I clock a statue of Sneinton-born William Booth, the founder of the 'Sally Army.' I can't get a close-up photo as the gates are padlocked.

I wander up to the old Bendigo pub, on Thurgarton Street, that's boarded-up and in disrepair. Nottingham is famous for many sporting characters, the world wide. William 'Bendigo' Thompson was the last born of 21 children. He became a famous prize-fighter of his time. One of his fights lasted 93 rounds. He later became a boxing coach at Oxford University but felt uncomfortable amongst academics. When he was aged 59 years old he saved three people from drowning in the River Trent. In our city, he has cult status, the same as Brian Clough, John Robertson, Torvill and Dean, Derek Randall and Jimmy Sirrel.

I love Sneinton with its nooks, crannies and cobbled streets. I wander up to Green's Windmill, one of the highest points in Nottingham. What a treat this is. The views over town and out into the country are magical. I get all misty-eyed in the moment. It's all for free folks.

The final port of call is Bendigo's grave. The legend was laid to rest in St Mary's Cemetery. The walk there is to die for. Google maps direct me up to Promenade, a narrow pathway, where all the three-story houses are painted in different, bright colours. Neighbours chat over walls at a two-metre distance.

I pay my respects to Bendigo, at his graveside, as the odd couple or two sprawl out on the grass kissing and kanoodling in the afternoon sunshine. I may have breached the one hour exercise 'rule' but I've had a few hours out that I'll never forget. Just like the trip to Coalville in 2011, it will be etched in the memory forever.

Men of the Match: Upo, William Booth and Bendigo.