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.