Whalley Range A.F.C. 7-2 Heyside FC

It's the early hours of Sunday morning, August 23rd. I'm having to move rooms in The Angel Hotel in Royal Leamington Spa due to a blocked toilet (nowt to do with me) and broken cistern. We've (Piers and 'Bruiser') enjoyed a cracking day out in the Warwickshire town.

Earlier in the day, we had wandered down the river in bright sunshine, with the water leading us to the town of Warwick, which sits on the Avon. We had lunch on a cobbled back street before skirting around the grounds of the castle. We called in at Fizzy Moon Brewhouse and Grill and quenched our thirst on the sun-soaked terrace, packed to the rafters with revelers. Evening dinner was spent at the highly-rated Carisma Tapas and Wine bar. A few gins were sampled and seen off at the White Horse where former Coventry City and Carlisle United manager Steven Pressley was holding court with some friends.

My night's sleep was disturbed even further due to some noise coming from over the road at the Royal Pug public house. I feel groggy at the breakfast table before we check-out. We stroll up to the cemetery a mile or so up the road. Yesterday we chanced upon a statue, in Warwick town centre of Randolph Turpin, a former World middleweight boxing champion, who defeated Sugar Ray Robinson in 1951. Robinson had only lost one fight in 132 bouts, and that was against Jake LaMotta (Raging Bull). Turpin made some bad business decisions and later became bankrupt. Suffering from depression he took his own life, in May 1966, at the age of just 37 years old. Piers finds his headstone amongst a maze of graves - we pay our respects.

The weather has turned this week with the arrival of 40mph winds and Storm Francis. It put paid to my visit to West Bridgford FC who were entertaining Carlton Town. Incredibly the game still went ahead. It looked a cracker too, with the visitors running out 5-3 winners. I watch The Fall on Netflix with Ms Moon instead.

It's Thursday evening. I'm parking up the car in West Bridgford Library. I enjoy a spot of tea at Pizza Express with my youngest lad ('Our Joe') who works in the same office as me. Whilst he heads off to the gym, I drive back to the office, as I've an hour or so to kill before Clifton All Whites take on Ilkeston at Green Lane in a pre-season friendly. It's beginning to hammer it down with rain as I stretch my legs around Rushcliffe Country Park, in the village of Ruddington. It's a former bomb factory and ammunition bunker.

I park up in The Fairham Hotel car park. I cross Farnborough Road and enter the ground. I bought a ticket online to save any hassle on the gate. I bump into Big D, who is stood behind the nearest goal chatting to his lad, Ross Durrant, who is in the nets for Ilson.

Clifton legendary manager James 'Tosh' Turner emerges from the dressing room area with a broad smile on his face. He elbow bumps folks en route to the dugout. I catch up on the gossip with Big D, who I haven't seen since the COVID outbreak. Ilson have been busy recruiting players. They are managed by former Northampton Town and Scunthorpe United striker Martin Carruthers. There are a few well-known local celebrities in the crowd including 'Boydy' and 'Yogi.' It's a throughly enjoyable evening and an entertaining game too, with All Whites winning 5-4 #Icantarfpickem.

Ms Moon drops me off at the bottom of Sneinton, just short of five bells, on Friday tea-time. I walk  through Hockley and up Goose Gate. Blog legend Tony 'Dog' McDonald has booked a table for two from 5pm-7pm in the Six Barrel Draughthouse on Carlton Street. We mainly talk craft ales as we drink cans from the fridge that are recommended by the knowledgeable bar staff. It ends up getting messy in Neon Raptor Tap Room where freshly brewed rocket fuel Naughty Luggage is available once again.

I feel worse for wear on Saturday morning. That final half-pint of coconut and mandarin sour at 9% abv proper finished me off. I walk gingerly down the stairs and make a brew. Ms Moon throws a few things into an overnight bag. We're on the road by 11 a.m.

The Cheshire town of Knutsford is tonight's destination. Ms Moon has booked a room at the olde worlde Rose and Crown, which is an entry in the Good Pub Guide. The plan had been to watch Knutsford FC play away at Denton Town in east Manchester - another deluge of rain has seen that game bite the dust. Whalley Range Amateurs are second on the list. Their twitter account confirms the game is ON.

I quite like Alan Carr and Melanie Sykes on Radio 2. They play a banging toon by Manchester-based House band K-Klass, called 'Let Me Show You.' The Sat Nav takes us over Woodhead Pass. The lilac heather, blossoming on the Pennines, looks beautiful as we head towards Mottram Moor.

We arrive in Greater Manchester an hour before kick-off. Ms Moon is gagging for some caffeine. I locate a Costa Coffee outlet in Withington. I queue at a cashpoint that isn't dispensing any money out. I take a wander down the street and chance upon a ruddy-faced, weather-beaten beggar. I promise him some money once I've found a hole in the wall. Two drunks sitting outside Costa are necking some super-strength lager. One points out to me that I've some paper riding up my back pocket (it's a mask). I thank him. He asks for some cash. I give him a quid, as I do the other beggar on the High Street.

We park the car outside the narrow turning for the ground in a suburban area on Kings Road in Chorlton-cum-Hardy. Ms Moon unwraps some prawn sandwiches that she very kindly made up earlier this morning (sorry to Roy Keane if he's reading this).

Whalley Range was built by Manchester businessman Samuel Brooks in the mid 19th Century. It has a population of 15,000. A few celebrity links: the band James were formed here. Nigel Pivaro - Corrie bad boy Terry Duckworth -  was baptised at a local church and the comedian Les Dawson passed away in Whalley Range, at the Spire hospital, of a heart attack whilst waiting for a routine check-up. I tried to find his grave whilst groundhopping in Lytham St Annes last season, but the cemetery was waterlogged.

A track-suited, friendly home official confirms there is no payment required on the gate. I love the ground. There's a shiny, plush clubhouse with leather sofas and a pool table - there's also real ale on, but I'm still feeling a tad fragile after last night's shenanigans. The ground is in the heart of the community. We lean on the white-painted rail at the end the home side will attack.

The visitors, from Oldham, start brightly and look sharper. They take the lead with an early goal after a towering header from their 6' 7" centre-half. The home side look shaken, but their never-say-die attitude soon sees them restore parity.

There is an extraordinary 'off-the-field' incident 15 minutes into the game. Across the far side of the pitch are some semi-detached houses. An incumbent at one of the properties has taken to fly-tipping some old fence panels. They are hurling them over the garden onto the football club's property. The perpetrator is either very brave or extremely stupid. There are some handy-looking blokes milling around the clubhouse - folk round here can look after themselves.  A club official, who is ripped and furious pegs it over to the far side of the ground to have it out with the Herbert who has been lobbing stuff over his fence. Abuse is hurled in both directions for 15 minutes or so before the agitated official returns to the dugout, muttering that the said offender is 'an embarrassment.'

The goals continue to fly in on Sticky Palms' pre-season schedule. Whalley's second to hit the onion bag is a goal to die for. An all-round team effort after a tenacious, breathtaking, surging run by the left-back.

The commotion on the far side has calmed down for the time being. A lady from behind the bar has stormed across and had her two pence worth. The garden gate is slammed firmly shut, leaving the woman aghast.

The ebb and flow of the game continues in the second half. It's another nine goals that ends an entertaining action-packed week of Non-League footy.

Man of the Match: Randolph Turpin

Attendance: 40 (Head Count)

Tintwistle Athletic 3-2 Stockport Georgians

Ms Moon drops me off outside the hustle and bustle of Nottingham's Creative Quarter in Sneinton Market. There's a buzz and vibe about the place as staff and security set out tables for the sold-out street food event that is put on each week. A DJ is setting up his decks (laptop) as I swing through the iron gates, turning left through the entrance of my usual haunt, Neon Raptor Tap Room.

The heat is sweltering. Sweat drips from my forehead as I sign in for track and trace. A new brewer has been appointed at the world's greatest ever craft ale producer, with the lines beginning to fill with freshly brewed ales that won't be ready until the end of August. It feels like a greenhouse inside as I neck a 6% abv pint of Levitating Tactics. It's packed to the rafters outside in one of the most happening and hipster parts of our city.

I crack open a few more craft ales in the back garden at HQ whilst slouched in a chair on the patio. I rate all the beers on an app called Untappd, which a few of my mates are on, including blog legend John Ramshaw, who as well as being an esteemed connoisseur of beer is also Kettering Town's assistant manager.

I sleep like a log on Saturday night and feel as fresh as a daisy on Sunday morning. Ms Moon and I head down to the Trent Bridge area, south of the river. We stick the car outside the Hubble Bubble bar; named after an Iranian 250-year-old shisha pipe. The world-famous red-painted gates of Nottingham Forest's City Ground are in my eye-line.

Breakfast is spent on an overcast patio at Waterside Bar and Kitchen on the banks of the river. We both hoover up a full English breakfast accompanied by coffee. The other day at home, after breakfast, Ms Moon asked me if I'd dry up the pots. I replied that I was writing another award-winning blog and did she think Mrs John le Carre interrupted John when he was penning another world-class espionage thriller. I ended up washing and drying the pots and clearing up all the broken crockery.

 The 'Wee Man', Bruiser, joins us for a beverage before Ms Moon shoots off to get some shopping in for her mum. Bruiser and I take a stroll down the river towards Iremongers Pond - named after two talented sporting brothers - Albert and James. Albert Iremonger donned the goalkeeping gloves of Notts County on 564 occasions between 1904-1926, as well as playing cricket for Nottinghamshire CCC.

We cross the tram tracks and turn onto the Embankment on the north side of the Trent. The Brewhouse and Kitchen is baking in the sunshine, now it's burnt off the early morning clouds. I enjoy a can of Magic Rock craft ale from Huddersfield in West Yorkshire. We continue lunchtime in the back garden of The Embankment, where 'one of our own' Jesse Boot had his flagship store, outside the city centre, in 1905 - it's now a listed building. I have a paddle of real ales back at the Waterside Bar; it's the final scoop for now as I jump in a taxi and head back home to Carlton.

I cycle from Gamston to Radcliffe-on-Trent with Bruiser and Piers on Monday evening, for a spot of tea at the impressive The Radcliffe gastro pub (Trent Hotel under a previous name) on Shelford Road - it's the sister pub of The Railway Inn in Lowdham. The grub served up is top-notch and so is the ambience in the beautiful beer garden.

I'm back on the bike on Friday evening. I park up in Netherfield and nip to the chemist for some tablets before heading up the Colwick Loop Road and into Colwick Country Park. The estate dates back to the 14th Century - the park itself opened to the public in 1978. I ride down the Trent, through a housing estate and re-enter the park. I stop at a beauty spot and quench my thirst with a cold bottle of water. I hear the sound of children squealing and the splash of water. Teenagers jump off the jetty into the lake despite signs saying 'No Swimming.'

I finish my cycle off with a nosey around the luxury penthouse waterside apartments on Riverside Crescent. Former England and Lazio manager, Sven-Goran Eriksson, lived here for six months back in the 2009-2010 season when he was appointed as Director of Football at Notts County by Munto Finance. It's a toss-up whether to watch Gary Windass get married to gangster's moll, Maria, or the Barca v Bayern quarter-final. I make the right choice as it goes tits up for Windass and the Catalan giants too.

It's Saturday morning and I'm excited for the day that lies ahead - so is Ms Moon, as I've treated her to a hairdo. I grab a coffee and have two slices of toast and marmalade before the Big Man rocks up in the 'Fun Bus.' I chuck my bike into the back and jump in the front seat. Plan of attack today is: Rother Valley Country Park, Bulls Head, Tintwistle for a spot of lunch and a pre-season friendly up at West Drive Football Centre, home to Tintwistle Athletic.

The Big Man loves a bit of Smooth Radio. He shouts out 'toon' when Jenni Falconer plays Paul Young's 'Wherever I Lay My Hat' - I'm more of a Mel Sykes and Alan Carr man, myself. He fiddles with the radio controls, unprompted, switching to Radio 2. Sykes and Carr are playing 'What Ever Gets You Through The Night' by John Lennon- it knocks the spots off Paul Young, folks.

Rother Valley covers 740 acres and has four lakes to pedal around. The land was previously used as opencast for coal. We stop to refuel with coffee before jumping onto the Trans Pennine Trail - part of the National Cycle Network.

The village of Tintwistle is about an hour's drive away - the steep hill and narrow street you enter, off the Woodhead Pass, takes the Big Man by surprise, but he still manages to skillfully navigate the Fun Bus up the tight one-way street.

We're greeted on arrival by pub landlord Mick whose idiosyncracies remind me of Fred Elliott, the butcher off Coronation Street. Mick has enjoyed his time off as a landlord during COVID 19. He seems a bit cheesed off to be back at work. He pours a fine pint of Wainwright golden ale. Mick has a string of belly-aching anecdotes - he's a Mancunian from Wythenshawe and used to be a doorman.

We mop up a couple of fish finger butties. Stanley the 12-year-old border collie is on manoeuvers just like he was the last time I came with Ms Moon. You have to keep your eye on the little blighter, as he'll pinch your food, given half the chance. The Big Man is as happy as Larry now he's been fed and watered. We stand to pay our respects at the War Memorial in the centre of the village before the short journey to the football ground.

Tintwistle is a village in High Peak, Derbyshire and has a population of 1400 people. British fashion designer Dame Vivienne Westwood was born in the village. She is well known for bringing punk and new wave fashions into the mainstream. She had a son with Sex Pistols manager Malcolm McLaren.

The fag end of a reserve game is taking place as we pull up outside the ground. The Club has been brilliant on twitter with information about pre-season fixtures and kick-off times. Club legend, Barry Lawson, a UEFA 'B' licensed coach, has kept in close contact - I owe him a pint if he isn't too busy.

"I like your T-shirt" remarks a lady leaning on a barrier - "I saw them play at The Hacienda in the 80s" she says. I'm wearing a New Order T-shirt and had completely forgotten we're only 13 miles shy of Manchester; home to the band. I mention I missed them in 1984 when they played Nottingham Palais whilst I was sunning myself in Ibiza. Kim is watching her lad play for the ressies. Her little seven-year-old dog, Berni, is flopped out on the grass having forty winks - it's another photo for the Non-League Dogs Twitter and Instagram social sites.

The Big Man and I stand on the far side of the ground, admiring the view up into hills. It's a great little set up with a smart, plush clubhouse, which houses a patio where supporters can watch the game. I must thank those bungling fools at the FA and DCMS for banning spectators from watching football at Step 7 and above. I've now fallen in love with watching village football where lads play with their mates, just for the fun of it.

You can't take your eyes off the game. Tintwistle have already seen a long-range effort cannon back off the woodwork when the visitors take the lead with a pearler of a goal. 14 jacket nutmegs the full-back before whipping in a ball that is blasted, first time, into the roof of the net by the centre forward. The goal takes my breath away. A faux pas by the home 'keeper sees the visitors go further ahead. Tintwistle pull a goal back before half time.

I do another circuit of the ground at the break as the Big Man fails a late fitness test. I earwig the Tintwistle half time team talk. They firmly believe if they press the opposition that the game is there for the taking. The coach is spot on as they complete an impressive comeback to win the game 3-2.

What a smashing day out we've had. 10 miles on the bike, a cracking lunch and a visit to another fantastic, friendly community football club - I can't 'arf pick 'em.

Man of the Match 'Fred Elliott' - the landlord at the Bulls Head, in Tintwistle.

Tansley FC 4-3 Dove Holes

I feel a million dollars, as we head back to Nottingham from the Peak District, after a smashing day out hoovering up cream teas, viewing a cricket match and watching a game of football, for the first time in six months. I decline Ms Moon's kind offer to drop me off in 'The Sneinton Triangle' for a few real ales in the sun-soaked rooftop garden (3G surface) of the King Billy - I dont do 3G. I've got a few craft ales chillin' at the back of shelf three in the fridge. I sit on the patio, in the garden; shifting a few beers until sunset.

Sunday is spent weeding and feeding the garden. I fire up the laptop at 3pm and publish my first football blog since March 7th - the hits and page views are far better than I'd anticipated (over 500). Roll on next Saturday, when Stapleford Town entertain Dunkirk FC, at Hickings Lane, a ground I've never blogged from. What could possibly go wrong?

It's gone wrong folks; big time. There'll be no blog from 'Stabbo.' Those spineless, gutless, faceless, fusty, suited and booted bureaucratic buffoons from The FA and DCMS (Department for Digital, Culture, Media and Sport) have pulled a fast one and put the brakes on. The general public (Londoners) can pack the beaches like sardines at Brighton, Bournemouth and in their second homes in upper-class Suffolk, but a 100 odd working-class folk can't watch their local village play a 90 minute game of football; breathing much-needed life and support into communities who have suffered more than enough.

I see decent, articulate folk, on social media, tweet Government agencies, for most of the week, begging for them to reconsider and reverse their decision to ban spectators from watching games, where as little as 50 folk will rock up, to watch family members play the beautiful game. They are wasting their time; it'll fall on deaf ears, just like it does when you appeal a Red card - common sense is not on their agenda or radar.

Stapleford Town would have been a great day out. I was going to meet a colleague from work, Alex, for a couple of beers in the Horse and Jockey. We'd have then hooked up with Nottinghamshire football legend 'Upo', who is celebrating his 20th wedding anniversary. 'Upo' would have sworn, cussed and had me in stitches throughout the game. A few post-match beers would have been shared (Upo's round) in 'Stabbo', where we'd chewed over the fat before the short journey home. But no, those Herberts at the FA and DCMS have robbed us of that.

'Stabbo's' ground is in a public park, so I would be well within my rights to watch the game. But you just know 'The Gestapo' ('FA Fun Police') will swarm the place and want to make an example of someone. I message STFC to say it's best I don't blog from there and that I'll catch up with them later in the season.

It's a club I hold in high esteem after a moment of class from them the season before last. Keyworth Utd Development side lost 15-0 (fifteen) in the first game of the 2018-2019 season. I took over as manager a few months later, and as luck would have it we drew them away in the quarter-final of the League Cup. We were 3-1 down with 20 minutes remaining. All the lads were caning me (particularly the unused subs) about tactics and team selection. I kept my cool and threw on a 16-year-old. We won 5-3 in a barnstorming finish. The Stapleford management and players took it on the chin and shook every one of my players' hands and were very complimentary about my 'Young Guns.' That has stuck with me to this day since.

Monday and Tuesday evening are spent cycling east and west down the banks of the River Trent. There's always a strong headwind on the rowing course at Holme Pierrepont Country Park (the artist formally known as the National Water Sports Centre). It's more tranquil on Tuesday evening as I park up at the Ferry Boat Inn in Stoke Bardolph. I cycle down the river and meet up with 'Bruiser' (ironic nickname - he's an athlete) outside Tom Browns Brasserie, on the banks of the Trent, in the village of Gunthorpe.

We cycle up to Lowdham, turning right across the railway crossing, and head out to Caythorpe, passing the Cricket Club where a nervous 17-year-old Sticky Palms opened up the bowling on his Keyworth Cricket Club debut in 1981. Hoveringham is the final port of call, sadly The Reindeer Inn, which backs onto another beauty of a cricket ground, isn't open on Mondays and Tuesdays. We stop for a well-earnt refreshment (blackcurrant and soda) at the impressive Old Volunteer in Caythorpe. Bruiser strikes it lucky with a £1.25 round of drinks, thanks to the government's. 'eat out to help out' deal  ... lol.

So, where to go on Saturday, after my midweek head wobble following The FA announcement? I trawl the Non-League Matters message board and club twitter accounts. A club in the Peak District village of Tansley has a 2pm kick-off versus Dove Holes FC, who we saw last week - they'll think we're stalking 'em  ... lol.

I manage to stay out of the pub on Friday evening. My usual sidekick, Tony Mcdonald, is in Turkey on his jollies. I sink a few beers in the garden, whilst listening to Tony Blackburn's Golden Hour on Radio 2. I was at a corporate do at the Gateway Hotel, on Cinderhill Island, in Nottingham, a few years ago. Having sunk a few scoops (rocket fuel Stella at the time) Tony Blackburn appeared on stage and started to play a 'set' (I use the word 'set' loosely- TB is no Pete Tong)). He shouted out to the audience "does anyone ever listen to my breakfast show on Gold FM?" A beer-fulled Sticky Palms shouted out "Nooo.... it's rubbish." Blackburn asked for the lights to be turned on and I was outed. Funnily enough, I was never asked back.

The journey up into the Peak District follows a similar path to last week. We drive through Linby, join the M1 at Junction 27, come off at 28 and steadily climb up into the hills. Ms Moon is not having Melanie Sykes and Alan Carr on Radio 2. I meet her halfway with Smooth Gold hosted by Jenni Falconer (pants) - so is the music. I ask Ms Moon to drop me off on the hard shoulder after hearing Ocean Drive by Lighthouse Family. I've got a treat lined up for Ms Moon as she's never been for a stroll up the canal at Cromford.

It's baking hot as we meander onto the canal, passing a rugby and cricket club. Ms Moon refuels with water as I venture a tad further towards Ambergate with the 'pen 'n ink' of the sewage works for company. There's just time for a 99 ice cream and chocolate flake before the 15-minute death ride up some of the tightest roads ever seen since the Lake District.
We stick the car outside a church as parking is limited near to the ground. We wander up the hill and chance upon a couple of spotty teenagers, who point us in the right direction. We hear the shrill of the referee's whistle as we leave our contact details as part of the Covid (over the top - we're outside) risk assessment.

The Fete Field has a narrow playing surface. We're restricted to standing to the nearest roped-off side of the pitch. The lack of quality is replaced with an exciting ebb 'n flow. The opening goal is comedy gold. The equaliser is a goal worthy of a Champions League stage. The full-back hits a howitzer of a shot from 35 yards out, which cannons off the inside of the post before nestling into the net on the opposite side of the goal. It's 3-3 at the break and has been thoroughly enjoyable.

I get gassing to a knowledgable groundhopper from Wolverhampton. He's a lovely chap. It always raises a smile when a 'Hopper' times each half with a stopwatch and when they write down the half time and full-time score in a notebook - I'm surprised his pen doesn't set his notebook on fire in today's seven-goal thriller.

The bronze coloured referee (sun-tanned) is the biggest poser dressed in black since Roger Milford at the 1991 Spurs v NFFC FA Cup final. He strokes his hair and stretches his muscles at any break in play. His 'banter' with the players falls on deaf ears. But fair play to the young 'un, he lets the football flow and bosses the game.

Man of the Match: Ms Moon (for her driving)
Attendance 41 (head count)

Wirksworth Ivanhoe 5-0 Dove Holes FC

Rewind the clock back to March 20th:                                                                                                                    

It's 5pm and I'm emptying the beer fridge at the World's finest taproom, Neon Raptor, in the 'Creative Quarter' of Sneinton Market in inner-city Nottingham - it forms what I call 'The Sneinton Triangle' along with Castle Rock's Fox and Grapes and King Billy on Eyre Street.

I settle up with the proprietor and dash out of the pub with my large stash of cans boxed up. I swing through the front door of the Fox and Grapes as a BBC Breaking News alert flashes up on my phone. Bumbling buffoon Boris Johnson has announced that all pubs are to close from midnight until further notice (probs three months). I down a pint of Snow White pale ale before wishing the barman farewell.

I zig-zag up Carlton Road whilst balancing my two boxes crammed full of craft ale; peering over them to catch the eye of any oncoming pedestrians.  

Ms Moon is revving up the car in Lidl car park like a getaway driver whose accomplices have just robbed a bank or jewellers. We speed off up towards Carlton, heading home, where we will spend pretty much the next three months together, holed-up in our crib.

It's been the longest spring on record; I've worked from home throughout. I may have mentioned in previous dispatches before of my dislike at working away from the office - it's one of the reasons I threw in the towel from life on the road and working from home, to return to an office-based role as a Digital Sales Executive (very posh Sticky).

We've both tried to remain positive during dark times. I've walked and cycled for miles and miles. I've discovered parks, alleyways, nature reserves, lagoons and millionaires' rows that I had no idea existed. It was difficult to even contemplate thinking about football as over 40,000 people lost their lives to Covid-19. 

A chink of light and ray of hope appeared as the lockdown was eased. How did I cope with the closure of pubs? Pretty easy really. I readjusted like most folk did. I joined more beer clubs than Trumpy Bolton. I found a passion, an expensive one mind yer, for craft ales. Left Field Beer, Polly's in Mold, North Wales, Verdant in Cornwall and Deya Brewery, based in Cheltenham, have had some serious shilling(s) off me, and have kept many a DHL courier from going on furlough. Add to that beer shops called Hopology in Bread 'n Lard Island, The Bottle Top on Ruddington High Street and Brew Cavern in Flying Horse Arcade, Nottingham - it's pretty safe to say I've done my utmost to keep the craft ale industry afloat.

It's Monday morning at the crack of dawn. I'm lying in bed in a delightful fisherman's one-bedroom cottage called 'The Ingle' that is sat in 'The Rock' overlooking Barmouth seafront in north west Wales. Wind and rain has battered the cottage throughout the night. It's the end of our four-day stay; we were both desperate for a break and like most folk have cancelled a trip abroad.

Wales was a blast. We visited Bala (a beer shop was involved), Porthmadog, the beautiful seaside town of Criccieth on the Llyn peninsula and completed a 10-mile return walk up the estuary to the coastal village of Fairbourne. You were only allowed to frequent the beer gardens in Wales as drinking inside is still not permitted. Blog legend, Mr Trumpy Bolton, tipped us off on a couple of beauties in the villages of Penmaenpool and the historic town of Dolgellau. 

In 1966 a pleasure boat called the 'Prince of Wales', carrying 42 passengers, hit a toll bridge in Permaenpool. 15 people, including four children, lost their lives in the water. What should have been a straight forward eight-mile trip up the estuary from Barmouth to the George III Hotel ended in tragedy. All 42 people aboard ended up in the water and only the brave actions of hotel staff prevented a heavier loss of life.

Thursday is a glorious day with the sun dripping like honey. I finish work at 4.30pm and drive along the A60 Loughborough Rd before turning into County Hall. I whip out my old faithful boneshaker from the boot, fresh from the repair shop. I cycle in a westwardly direction down the Trent, past the delightful riverside apartments that sit above the water. I jump on a track that runs along the back of the Michelin two-star restaurant Sat Bains and Dunkirk FC. I pass Unity Casuals Cricket Club and pick up the route again at Grove Farm Sports Complex. 

I love riding down here past 'Owen's Place', through Beeston Marina and onto Attenborough Nature Reserve. I'm proper fagged out folks when I arrive home and slump into my garden chair. I'm soon refreshed with a Rhubarbra Streisand craft ale from the Brew York stable.

It's Friday evening and I'm back in the garden again, this time with a watering can in hand despite the threatening rain clouds. Ms Moon has her bestie Jill around for a few drinks and her son Jamie. I take it steady with a can of High Roller from Play Brew in Smoggy Land, Middlesbrough.

I jump in a cab at 7.30 and head south of the river for a few looseners with some pals at a mate's house in West Bridgford. The lads have been hacking it round Radcliffe On-Trent Golf Club in the sweltering heat all afternoon. We head back north over the river. A table has been booked for food at Brewhouse and Kitchen on Trent Bridge. 

The maitre d' announces there's a 45-minute wait for drinks; it takes nearly as long for the menus to arrive. Staff want no interaction and poor old Bobby has to order all the food on an app. How can pubs possibly survive with this attitude? The night is saved by our waiter George, who is quick on his feet and speedy with his service. 

The evening ends with the usual omnishambles that is expected of The Avenue in West Bridgford. We've already walked past a perfectly good watering hole called  Waterside Bar and Kitchen, adjacent to the Tricky Trees City Ground. I'd previously done a reccy of the joint a few Sundays ago and was mightily impressed with the sun terrace renovation - the lads are having none of it, preferring the poncy gin and cocktails bar of Fur Coats and No Knickers territory. CV19 restrictions curtail the evening for Sticky Palms.

We're up and at 'em for 10.30 am on Saturday. I'm bursting at the seams to watch a game of footy, and there's the chance of a double bill of seeing cricket too. I've lined-up some posh sandwiches (poncy) and a cream tea for 'The Princess' at the Trip Advisor 5 star rated Coffee Bunker in the Derbyshire Dales village of Wirksworth.

The trip is a breeze. We shoot up the A60 turning off at Papplewick, going through the back of Hucknall and the village of Linby before joining the M1 at Junction 27. It's a hefty £3 to park the car for a few hours in the village centre. We walk up the narrow, cobbled streets peeking into shop doorways. Sadly for Sticky the local tap house and beer shop is closed for now.

Lunch is spent at the cosy and welcoming Coffee Bunker as we polish off lamb and mint wraps followed by scones smothered in raspberry jam and Cornish clotted cream. It's like a scene from Brideshead Revisited during lunch. Four toffs have rocked up for jasmine tea and pretentious flavoured water. They talk about how they'll make their first million by shooting some films for YouTube TV.

The Recreation Ground is a mile away from the village centre. The ground is a beauty, with the added bonus of a cricket match on too. We do a full circuit of the boundary prior to the football starting. An elderly gentleman takes his place on a memorial bench. He says he's excited to be viewing his first cricket fixture of the season. We wander past a deserted bowling green and hop over a fence before taking up a viewing point on the halfway line. 

The vista up into the hills, shrouded with low white fluffy clouds, is stunning. God, I have missed YOU; the beautiful game: the early breakfast, the banter in the car, the pub lunch, Gambacinni's Pick of the Pops, the guy on the gate, the one-liners, the swearing, the euphoria of a goal being celebrated; even the dishwater colour of a clubhouse cup of tea. Then there's the drive home with moi dissecting the game as Ms Moon switches off Five Live's Sport Report for Rylan Clark-Neal on Radio 2. My spine tingles and my eyes fill with water as we hear the shrill of the referee's whistle that kicks off the game I appreciate it even more now because it was taken away.

All the lads are enjoying it; the thrill of just being out there with your mates. The warm-up. The camaraderie. The game. The pub. Wirksworth race into a 2-0 lead and play some lovely football. The visitors enjoy a good spell 15 minutes before half-time, but are wasteful in front of goal. They concede three more in the second half as endless substitutions disrupt the pattern of play. 

Man of the Match Bill 6 Jacket for Wirksworth. Only player over 30 years old and looked like he enjoyed every second of the game.