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