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.