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)