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 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)
No comments:
Post a Comment