Bradford Fire Disaster

It's Saturday, 11th May, 1985. Early spring sunshine lights up Rectory Field, in Keyworth, as local rivals 'The Millers' and Plumtree Cricket Club lock horns. I've completed my bowling spell for about the hundredth time up that bloody, steep hill ('The Ashley Road End') that only a madman would volunteer to run in from - I amble rather than run-in if I'm perfectly honest.

I'm grazing down at fine leg and staring out towards the black railings that run along Nottingham Road, which leads you into the village Square. He'll (Dad) be here soon. The first signal of his arrival will be his pacesetting 5-year-old faithful black and white cocker spaniel, Sadie Palmer, with an out-of-breath, mad as a hatter, chain-smoking Frank Palmer following in hot pursuit.

God help you if you bowled a bad ball or had a fielding mishap on Frank's watch. You'd soon be on the end of his razor-sharp, sting-in-the tail wit - even more so if you were his lad. He would grace you with his presence shortly before the tea break, so he could scrutinize the scorebook and verbal volley any underperforming player. His usual beeline would be for me, so he could receive a full report on the afternoon's play and dish out a bollocking or two. Today, there is no sign of him, which is rather strange, and odd, as Saturday is his day off from his job as East Midlands news reporter for the Daily Mirror.

The umpires remove the bails and tea is called. I'm getting quite anxious about Dad's no show. I ask a few spectators of his whereabouts, everyone just shakes their head. I'm pulled to one side by a committee member before I reach the pavilion. I start to shake and tremble when I'm told there has been a fire at Bradford City's Valley Parade ground during their team's Division Three championship title celebration game against my team Lincoln City.

Dad is on the M1 northbound, on his way up to the scene. It's only the second Saturday I can ever remember him working. The previous time was in June 1974 when 28 people were killed in an explosion at a chemical plant in Flixborough, North Lincolnshire.

56 supporters perished in the fire with a further 265 injured; with many of the survivors bearing scars for the rest of their days. It later transpired that the fire was caused by a discarded cigarette end that found its way through a gap in the seats, falling onto some litter that had mounted up under the wooden-roofed stand. What should have been a day of joyous celebrations ended in the saddest day in the Club's history. I attended quite a few Lincoln away games that season and often sat in the home end, to avoid any trouble when exiting the ground. Due to my love of cricket and its camaraderie, I didn't travel that day. Two Lincoln fans lost their lives too. The Imps named the Stacey West Stand after them.

Monday of this week marked 35 years since the fire. I'm alerted to one of the most moving, tragic tales I've ever read. It reduces me to tears. Award-winning ex-Guardian journalist, Daniel Taylor, who now writes for The Athletic, attended St Peter's Primary School, in East Bridgford, as a kid. It's a village close to the town of Newark, in Notts, and is 11 miles east of Nottingham. Taylor had a friend called Martin Fletcher, who had moved into the village from the Bradford area. On that fateful day Martin, his brother, Andrew, dad John, uncle Peter and grandad Eddie, went to the match at Valley Parade to enjoy the celebrations. Only Martin came home.

Martin was wearing a baseball cap at the game. It was said that the thin layer of protection of the hat may have saved his life. Sign up for The Athletic and read the article. It will make you weep and put life into perspective. I've never been to Valley Parade, but hope to in the near future, so I can pay my respects. I was up in Bradford, 12 months later, watching Nottingham Forest play The Bantams in a League Cup tie at their temporary home at the Odsal Stadium, whilst the stand was being rebuilt.

It's Sunday morning. Ms Moon and I are having a mooch about the Marks and Spencer Food Hall on Victoria Retail Park, in Netherfield. This chuffin' shop does some serious damage to my bank balance, particularly in the red wine section. After running up a three-figure bill, I suggest to Ms Moon that some fresh air wouldn't go amiss. The good lady had read, the previous day, on Spotted in Carlton, that there is a conservation area called Netherfield Lagoons that's close by.

It's a nature reserve that is located on the Trent Valley flood plain. It was used by nearby Gedling Colliery to dispose of their coal slurry. It now attracts a number of wildfowl and smaller birds, along with a few twitchers (bird-watchers). It's slightly overcast and a tad blustery as we enjoy an hour's stroll around the lagoons. It was once the property of UK Coal but ownership has since been passed onto Gedling Conservation Trust. I'll be taking a second viewing, as I notice a railway viaduct in the distance that needs further investigation.

I've supped my final three cans of the Neon Raptor popular brew, Dr. Galapagos, a mango milkshake IPA. Left Field Brewery has fired over a mixed case of craft ales, but supplies are running low. I ordered 15x cans from Honest Brew, a company recommended by a work colleague. Having placed the order, I received a further email to say there was a 15x day waiting time on delivery. I fired off a couple of curt (to-the-point) emails expressing my disappointment. I'm hardly filled with confidence when they let it slip that Yodel is their chosen courier.

I book a day off work on Friday. I foolishly bought 5x additional holidays for this year, mistakingly assuming I could tour England and Wales watching cricket and football. I spend the day in the garden digging, planting and pruning. It's a hobby that I've grown to love, which hasn't always been the case.

I rustle up scrambled egg and smoked salmon on toast for brunch on Saturday morning. We jump into the car, make a short journey, crossing the 'Gaza Strip', into Sneinton, before parking up in Lidl on Carlton Rd. We wander around the perimeter of St Anns, a happy hunting ground for Sticky Palms when he scouted for 'The Pies'. We end up on Lower Parliament street which leads us up into the city centre. The first port of call is Trinity Walk, the birthplace of legendary prize-fighter William 'Bendigo' Thompson (you're obsessed with him aren't you Sticky?).

We stroll past Foreman's Punk Bar and what was The Bluebell, one of Frankie Palmer's old haunts. All the old journalists from Central TV and Radio Nottingham used to congregate in there. Dad tipped us off that the landlord had bought a two-year-old racehorse. I must of backed the bloody thing over 10x times without a return on investment.

Eventually, we arrive at The Arboretum on Waverley Street, close to the Commonwealth War Graves in Nottingham City Cemetery. The Arboretum is stunning. It's peaceful and tranquil with the copper beech trees and weeping willows in fine form.

We peg it up Peel Street towards Mansfield Road. I want to prove to Ms Moon that the final plaque of the day isn't just the name of a public house on Bridlesmith Walk. Herbert Kilpin, one of nine children, was born at 129 Mansfield Road and was the son of a butcher. To cut a long story short, he was the founder of Milan (A.C.) Football and Cricket Club and is another one of 'Nottingham's Own.'

Rest in Peace #56

This is Chilwell

It's February 19th, 1981. Sticky Palms, 'Ackers' and 'Browny' sheepishly walk, heads bowed, into a packed out Shipstones boozer, on Wollaton Street, Nottingham, called the Tap 'n Tumbler. 'Browny' is sent to the bar, as he looks the oldest - I only turned 17 years old two weeks ago. Ackers isn't 17 until August. We neck a few pints of 'Dutch courage' before crossing the road onto Talbot Street, home to the music venue and nightclub Rock City.

The Stranglers are on their Meinblack tour. I loved their first three albums - Rattus Norvegicus, No More Heroes and Black and White - at a push The Raven, their fourth album, wasn't bad either. I'm ghostly white and a bag of nerves as bouncers frisk clothing and quiz music-goers about their age. I weigh ten stone wet through and am a lanky streak of piss, with a baby face to boot. "Are you 18?" asks Paddy on the door. "No, I'm 19, pal."

The place is mobbed with folk wearing The Stranglers trademark donkey jackets. The beer, Stones bitter, is disgusting but flows freely. The band appears on stage at ten bells precisely. They belt out a couple of tunes before stopping mid-set. A group of undesirables (probs from D***y) have been flobbing (spitting) at lead singer Hugh Cornwell, who quite rightly is none too chuffed. He warns that action will be taken against the next offender.

A few minutes into their next tune on the playlist, 'Hanging Around', a huge sea of phlegm lands on the black leather jacket of Franco-English bass guitarist, Jean-Jacques Burnel. JJ, a blackbelt in karate, throws his instrument to the floor, jumps into the crowd and full-on Jackie Chan karate kicks the perpetrator in the throat. The lad is sparked out in the mosh pit and is carted off to the front doors by Max and Paddy and sent back over the cattle grid.

On May 3rd, 2020, The Stranglers' brilliant keyboard player, Dave Greenfield, passed away, aged 71, another victim taken by CV19 virus. Incredibly, drummer, Jet Black, is still going strong at the ripe old age of 81 years - admittedly he no longer tours with the band.

I'm all excited for the VE Day 75th anniversary celebrations on Friday and have a little treat lined up for Ms Moon. I often ride up the Trent on my bike to Beeston Weir and Beeston Marina. I rarely venture into the town centre. A poster off the NFFC 'Lost That Lovin' Feeling' message board tipped me off about some of the street art that's on display in Beeston. There are also many famous names, in Notts folklore, who have lived in the town, and have blue plaques commemorating their stay.

I'm so excited that I'm wide awake at 4.30am. I toss and turn for an hour or so. Those chuffing pigeons are scurrying up and down the solar panels, cooing and fluttering their feathers. My patience runs thin. I trudge down the stairs, flick on the kettle and make a pot of Yorkshire Tea for one, accompanied by Marmite on toast smothered in melting butter.

I'm dog tired as I stretch out in my armchair. I pick up a book and read a few pages of the life and times of Nottingham legendary prize-fighter 'Bendigo.' I stare out towards the far end of the garden at the beautiful red rose bushes that blossom on the trellis that the Catholic church backs onto. It's time to brighten up the garden. Morrisons and DIY stores on Victoria Retail Park, in Netherfield, will be open now - the early bird catches the worm and all that. Ms Moon pulls back the lounge curtains to find a sea of plants on the patio. I've brought some rhododendrons, clematis, some climbers and bedding plants - that's Saturday afternoon sorted out.

We start our tour of Beeston and Chilwell outside the Victoria Hotel, one of my favourite haunts from the Castle Rock stable. 'The Princess' and I love a Sunday lunchtime roast dinner here after a long walk down the canal and river. Next port of call is Beeston railway station, where a couple of trains have just pulled in. I take a snap of a blue plaque close to the platform.

A five minute walk away is Linden Grove. We chance upon a couple of neighbours chatting at social distance (two metres folks). On the wall, above the doorway, is one of the most impressive plaques I've ever seen. In 1931, Leader of Indian Independence, Mahatma Gandhi, visited his nephew at this very house we are now looking at. The current owners campaigned for a plaque and even named their baby, Josh, in honour of Gandhi's nephew, Joshi.

We take a stroll into Beeston town centre. The murals of fashion designer Sir Paul Smith, Porridge and Rising Damp actor Richard Beckinsale and Northern Soul singer Edwin Starr are impressive. I visited Starr's grave up at Wilford Hill Crematorium, close to Ruddington, with my work pal 'Shifty', one lunchtime. Starr, who had hits such as War and Eye to Eye Contact, died from a heart attack, whilst soaking in the bath at his Beeston home, in 2003, aged 61 years old. There's a mural of 12-year-old Owen Jenkins playing rugby. I often stop off on my bike at Beeston Weir, where he lost his life, in saving another. The memorial makes my spine tingle.

Just down the road, at what looks like an old mill, which are now flats, is a plaque dedicated to my man Bendigo, who retired to this cottage after a lifetime of scrapping and drinking. The book I'm reading about him is bloody brilliant. What a legend he is. There's another plaque of him up Trinity Walk, in Nottingham, where he was born - I'll save that for a rainy day.

I decide to head towards Chilwell, passing a cycling shop which was run by a well-known character called Sid Standard. He died in his 70s after colliding with a tractor. Further up the road is the old Barton's bus depot where T H Barton 'The Guv'nor' worked. The old Keyworth 6 Barton bus has got me out of trouble on countless occasions.

We walk into Chilwell, turning right down Cator Lane. On the school gates is a plaque that remembers old pupil Richard Beckinsale, Lenny Godber off Porridge. He died, tragically, of a heart attack at the young, tender age of 31 years old, leaving a widow, the actress Judy Loe, and two young daughters, Kate and Samantha, who later went on to become fine actresses.

Our final visit of the tour is also a sad and sombre story. On 1st July, 1918, a catastrophic explosion ripped through a shell-filling factory, killing 134 people and injuring a further 250 workers. It was the biggest loss of life from an accidental explosion in the entire First World War. We pay our respects at a cottage where chief engineer and survivor of the blast, Albert Hall, lived.

We walk past The Cadland pub, named after a locally-trained racehorse that won The Derby in 1828. Cadland dead-heated the first race but won a deciding heat with The Colonel by half a length. On what is a poignant day we take in the War Memorial on our way back to the Vic Hotel.

I rest up, slumped in my garden furniture, on the patio, for the rest of the day, sinking a craft ale or two. We were going to support the local chippy, but it closed early. I make my debut on the Deliveroo app and order a Scooby Snack burger from the daddy chain, Five Guys. After all, the Americans formed a massive part of the Allied army, 75 years ago.

I'm on my bike and heading down to the banks of the Trent by 9.30 on Saturday morning. The sun's shining and the skies are clear, as I ride under Gunthorpe Bridge and head out towards the village of Caythorpe. I pass Caythorpe Cricket Club, who were revered and feared in the South Notts Village League back in the early 80s. I made my First XI debut there for my village in 1981. They had two opening batsmen called Eric Screaton and Graham Baguley who put the fear of God into bowlers with their stroke-play. They were both back in the hutch, early doors, as a fearless, cocky, lanky 17-year-old streak of piss trundled in from the Road End.

I get chatting to the landlady at The Black Horse Inn, on Main Street, in the village. She expects to be open for social-distance drinking by August. The next village, Hoveringham, is another beauty too, folks. I cycle up past The Reindeer and onto the cricket ground. The Club were left £250,000 in a will by a former President and player, back in 2018. What a lovely, heart-warming story.

My memories of playing here are fairly bleak, particularly on May 4th, 1991. It was a hot day, the heat was stifling and sapped your energy; certainly not a day to be fielding first. Keyworth CC 2nd XI rolled into town after enjoying pre-match 'liquid refreshments' in The Reindeer. Tottenham Hotspur and Nottingham Forest were playing one another in the FA Cup final. All the lads were desperate to watch the game, in the pub, which you could if you batted first.

I walked out to the wicket to spin up with the opposition skipper, with strict instructions from the lads to bat first, so some could watch the game. I didn't like the look of the wicket; the ball always seemed to stay low and shoot through. On my return to the changing room, I informed the lads that we'd be fielding first. "You t**t Sticky, you lost the toss didn't you?" I replied, "No lads, I won it." Nobody spoke to me for the rest of the day.

Man of the Match: Lenny Godber.

Footnote: Roger Milford, who looked in the mirror more times than Billy Davies, gave the weakest refereeing performance ever seen at Wembley Stadium. A game that's remembered for Paul Gascoigne being stretchered off in tears and not for the serious foul play he committed on the pitch.

This Is Leicester

It's Boxing Day 2015. Ms Moon and I are driving over Lady Bay Bridge, in the Land Rover Freelander, towards 'Trumpy Towers', in the village of Keyworth. Leicester City are having the season of their lives and are two points clear of 'The Arsenal' at the top of the Premier League table, after a 3-2 win at Everton's Goodison Park.

A ruddy-faced man, wearing a tangerine Slazenger T-shirt, emerges from his front door with a lady in toe. I recognise her to be none other than Mrs Trumpy Bolton; dare I say it, an even more die-hard Foxes fan than her hubby - and she was born in Leicester too.

Today will be my 76th new ground. In over 40 years of watching football, I haven't managed to tick-off Anfield. It's not often Lincoln City play there, although my dad watched the Imps, stood on the Kop, win 2-1, in the 1950s, whilst he was a reporter on the Liverpool Echo.

'Stan Flashman' has come up with the goods again - somehow getting tickets for another big game, that was sold out weeks ago. The blog legend has already supped three cans at the 'breakfast table' and is now grimacing as he untwists a bottle top off his trusty litre of cider. He spits his dummy out as Ms Moon sails past a 'Spoons in West Derby on the outskirts of Liverpool city centre.

Bolton sniffs a pub out on Anfield Road. He zig-zags his way through the crowded bar like 24-year-old Algerian mercurial wing wizard, Riyad Mahrez. He shouts up four drinks to a miserable old bat of a landlady, who looks like Shane McGowan's mum. I down a couple of pints of Guinness at The Flat Iron pub, just down the road, as Trumpy Moonstomps to 'Nite Klub', by The Specials, that's blasting out of the jukebox speakers. We make a sharp exit to the ground after Ms Moon discovers a floating fingernail in her glass of Coca Cola.

Leicester City are unable to cope with a star-studded Reds' midfield. The Brazilian, Philippe Coutinho, a snip at £8.5 million from Inter Milan, runs rings around them, finding small pockets of space to thread his passes through. Too many Foxes are having an off day. N'Golo Kante and Mahrez rise above the mediocrity. They are the bargain buys of the season at £5.6 million and £350,000 (€450,000) respectively.

Jamie Vardy, running on half-empty and nursing a groin strain, is well shackled by the Liverpool defence. They barely have a shot on target. The visiting fans are angry with their team's performance. Expectations and targets are set higher than I'd imagined. The truth is though, that an injury-ravaged Liverpool are in 9th position and were there for the taking.

Four years later, and almost to the day since the Foxes won the Premier League title in 2015, I'm sat in my armchair, flicking through a book of Jonathan Northcroft's brilliant account of that season. It's called Fearless. Northcroft pens a number of incredible anecdotes in his book. Crewe Alexandra had Vardy watched nine times by their chief scout whilst he was playing up on the Pennines in the Northern Premier League  at Stocksbridge Steels, in South Yorkshire. They had him in on trial at Gresty Road for a few weeks, whilst Dario Gradi was on sick leave and former Stoke City and Notts County manager Gudjon Thordarson was in the hot seat. Vardy was shoved out on the right-wing and failed to impress the Icelandic.

Mahrez's story is even more remarkable. After hovering around lower league football in France, he found himself on trial at St Mirren, up in Paisley, Scotland. Seven goals in four reserve team outings wasn't enough to convince dithering management to award the Algerian a contract. He packed his bags, upped sticks and returned back home to France.

It's Thursday evening and I've worked throughout the day, making calls and attending demonstrations of our software. I pack my laptop away, rummage around in the shoe cupboard for the faithful old black and white striped Adidas trainers, before sliding open the French window door and heading up towards Carlton Hill.

I shed a tear as I turn right onto Standhill Rd; walking past a deserted Brickyard pub, one of my favourite Lincoln Green hostelries. I end up on Porchester Road and slog it up to Woodborough Road, passing The Punch Bowl and the old Mapperley Hospital. I remember playing an Evening League game for Keyworth Cricket Club, as a 17-year-old, in 1981. It was an old psychiatric hospital. The patients were often allowed to wander around the grounds, unattended, and mingle with spectators and players. I would have a chat with some poor sod recovering from a nervous breakdown, whilst I was grazing down at fine leg. His angst and anxiety would increase after seeing me bowl an over of utter filth.

I find myself walking down a place called Private Road, in Mapperley Park - it's Millionaires' Row. It leads me onto Mansfield Road. Just up the road is Carrington, where The Gladstone Inn is housed. I could kill a pint of real ale right now. The last time I sunk one was when Boris Johnson announced on Friday, March 20th, at 5pm, that all licensed premises were to close from midnight, until further notice.

I make a right-hand turn and walk up over Sherwood Rise, a hipster area of Nottingham, that has appeared on the trendy Channel 4 show Location, Location, Location. I'm not knocking it, mind yer, as it has a few nice bars and restaurants including Ginza, a first-class Japanese eatery. We had an epic Ergo Computing Christmas Party there back in 2003. It resulted in Keyworth United legendary 'keeper and good pal 'Barthez' getting a shiny, black eye, as the party spilled over to Ritzy, on Upper Parliament Street, where a Christmas reveller didn't enter into the festive spirit.

I'm winging it by now, and don't have a clue how to get home, as a few filthy black clouds blow in from D***y way. I stroll up a path adjacent to Woodthorpe Park. The pitch and putt course is in a state of disrepair. I join the road on Woodthorpe Drive and pass a place called Breck Hill Park where Carlton Town FC junior teams play. I close my eyes and visualize a seven-year-old Joe Palmer floating a last-minute free-kick, over a wall and into the roof of the net, to win the 2005 Carlton Tournament. I was stand-in coach that day and was helped by former Tranmere Rovers and Millwall forward Chris Malkin, whose lad, Joseph, is causing quite a stir at Non-League Nantwich Town.

I'm on a deserted Mapperley Plains. Those rolling black clouds have emptied its load, causing a torrential downpour. I've forgotten my golfing umbrella that Keebo lent me. I'm cussing, cursing and blowing a gasket, as I peg it down Westdale Lane, wearing jeans that weigh like lead. I smell like an old, wet dog on my return home - stripping to my pants and slumping into an armchair like Jim Royle off the BBC sitcom The Royle Family.

Friday night is spent up in the bedroom (steady readers) it's the two weekly Baker Cup Quiz with the lads I go abroad 'golfing' with every year. It's a 'good walk spoilt' for the lads but has helped me enjoy spots in Majorca, Lisbon and Budapest over the years. I'm crap at the quiz but enjoy the craic and a couple of stiff gins. Thanks to Wayne, up in the Toon, for sorting.

There's a commotion during the quiz, which sees me dashing downstairs and into the lounge. Ms Moon's jaw has dropped and she looks like she's seen a ghost. Turns out Yasmeen, sick to the back teeth of the verbal abuse from Geoff, on Corrie, has shanked him up in the jugular. The bloke's 'brown bread.' An easy case for Greater Manchester Police to solve. If not, Street favourite, Norris Cole, will grass him up.

Man of the Match: Ginza, in Sherwood and 'The Tinkerman' (swapped his full-backs and won the Premier League)