Carlton Town 1-2 Leek Town

Ms Moon drops me off, after the Hucknall game, on Mapperley Tops, close to where Freddie Mercury's sister lives - that's the word on the street. Former Liverpool and Notts County striker, Tony Hateley, (Dad to Mark) and the greatest wicketkeeper the world has ever seen, Chris Read, have resided up here at some point too.

I walk past The Woodthorpe Top, a 'Spoons I used to frequent until founder, Tim Martin, started spouting off. I open the front door of the spit and sawdust Castle Rock real ale house, Bread and Bitter. I check-in for track and trace and get seated in a booth, that is sealed off either side by large plastic screens. Castle Rock brew some lovely session ales. I down a pint of Elsie Mo, a name derived from its Low Colour Maris Otter malt. I finish off with a Citra Smash, from Lenton Lane Brewery, before calling a cab and heading home.

Sunday lunchtime is spent with the wee man, 'Bruiser', down the banks of the river, in the Trent Bridge area. We wander past County Hall towards the village of Wilford, crossing over the old toll bridge where south and north Notts are now connected by a tramline. Victoria Embankment is peaceful due to the road being closed to traffic. There is a sobering reminder of a time gone by as we stand in silence gazing at the Great War Memorial and the 13,501 names inscribed, including civilian casualties, who lost their lives over 100 years ago. 

Refreshment is required. We have a sandwich on the patio of Waterside Bar + Kitchen, observing the rule of six, Tier 2 restrictions. Nottingham has come under the COVID microscope since the return of students to the large universities in our city. Some of the blithering idiots aren't helping themselves by holding parties and blatantly flouting the laws. Later in the week, four students are fined a total of £40k, placing our city not only in the media spotlight but teetering on the brink of Tier 3. 

Ms Moon and I continue to work from home. It's particularly challenging being in the same room (working) as I haven't sorted out an office yet. We grapple over which DAB radio station we should listen to. We meet halfway with Radio 2 - it's an upgrade on Capital FM, Absolute 80s and TalkSport. It does have its downside. Steve Wright in the Afternoon is cringeworthy. Events take a turn for the worse. 'Silly Boi' is on his jollies and is replaced by Gary Davies. Older readers may remember GD from his days on Radio One in the 80s. Whilst New Wave and Indie music were exploding onto the scene and happening right under his snout (and let's face it, what a big 'un) Davies was playing Five Star, Womack and Womack and Milli Vanilli on his show.

There's no midweek football fix for Sticky. The floodlights dazzle my eyes and I can't see chuff all. And besides, I don't expect to be driving the car until next year at the earliest - this will come as a relief to the residents of Carlton, Keyworth and Ruddington. 

The first time I pop my head out of the door is on Thursday evening and what a special moment it is too. Ms Moon and I part company in Victoria Retail Park. Sticky keeps it real and visits Morrisons. Ms Moon legs it across to Marks and Sparks. Tears of joy stream down my face as four slices of haslet are sliced, wrapped and bagged at the butcher's counter for the princely sum of 55p. Add to that a box of Yorkshire Gold tea bags and four cans of Northern Monk craft ale for £6. I skip back to the car beaming from ear to ear.

Three hours later I'm in the depths of despair and at my lowest ebb. The good lady has flicked over to ITV. The worst presenter in living memory, Philip Schofield, is hosting a load of twaddle called The Cube. Blog regular, Mr John Harris, nails it good and proper on his Twitter timeline, saying it's 'torture' and calling out ITV for 'scraping the barrel.' I head to bed to listen to Celtic v Inter Milan on Five Live.

I've put a decent shift in at work this week, with my half an eye, (stop going on about it). I've pencilled something into the diary on Friday morning at 11am. It's non-work-related but a matter of life and death. With Tier 3 on the horizon and all wets pubs about to close, I log onto Neon Raptor's Beer Shop and order a mixed case and a new glass - it should see me out for a week.

Today is 'We Hate D***y Day' in our fair city. A beer-fuelled Sticky switches on after Corrie. 'Cocu's Clowns' begin to get the upper hand and take the lead with an excellent free-kick from Waghorn. One of Danny Cowley's old lads, Lyle Taylor, opens his account for the Tricky Trees. He gives a great interview after the game, explaining why he has pink hair and the tireless, voluntary work he does for cancer charities. 

Marcus Rashford has run the Tories and Paris St Germain ragged this week. The buffoon of an MP for Tory held Mansfield (did I really say that? #BREXIT) has proper put his foot in it with a massive Twitter faux pas and is now backpedaling quicker than the PSG defence on Tuesday evening. Non-League has embraced the campaign and are hurriedly organising Food Bank collections for this afternoon's fixtures, as it's half-term next week. 

Carlton Town Football Club, as expected, step up to the plate. They ask for donations from supporters. It's where socialism comes to the fore. A good friend, sunning himself in Spain, messages me on Twitter to make a pledge. Ms Moon very kindly pops to the supermarket where she fills up three bags with emergency supplies.

I pull up my armchair to about five metres from the TV screen on Saturday lunchtime, so I can view 'The Irons' v 'The Citizens,' Ex NFFC forward, Michail Antonio, scores a spectacular bicycle kick to give West Ham a deserved lead. 'Citeh' send on the ace up their sleeve, 'The Stockport Iniesta' {Phil Foden). He looks a proper 'rum 'un; well he was in Iceland. His impact on the game is instant, scoring a cracking goal on 51 minutes. His movement and intelligence keep me on the edge of my seat. Southgate needs to forgive and forget.

Carlton Town's ground is a 25-minute walk from our crib. Black clouds are rolling in, with the forecast set for torrential rain. I double-check that the 'golfing' umbrella is in the back of Ms Moon's Fiat 500 with the go-faster Italian stripes.

Because of the short journey we've only got time for one toon from Radio 2's Pick of the Pops. Would you Adam 'n Eve it, when Milli Vanilli pipe up with 'Girl You Know It's True'. I ask Ms Moon if Gary Davies is sitting in for Paul Gambacinni?

We park off Stoke Lane, just over the railway crossings. We lug the three bags of shopping over the road. It's £9 on the gate and £2 for a couple of raffle tickets. We put our masks on before venturing into the clubhouse to drop the food off. The DJ is playing the best set on the Non-League circuit. Today's bands include: The Jesus and Mary Chain, The House of Love and The Mission - Gary Davies won't have heard of any of 'em.

We stand over the far side of the ground. Ms Moon is unfamiliar with the Carlton team as I often slope off down Stoke Lane for evening games whilst the Soaps are on. She's fully briefed on my love for and obsession with 'Clarky' and 'Bally' - sadly both are missing today. 

The heavens open as the referee blows his whistle to kick off proceedings. There's not much in it early doors as the game settles down,  Opoku opens the scoring for the Millers with a left foot swinger that the defender should have blocked. The visiting 'keeper doesn't move.

The conditions deteriorate as the rain becomes relentless. We're pretty much the only people stood on the far side of the ground as supporters scurry towards the stands like drowned rats. Leek look dangerous going forward. I suggest to Ms Moon we stay where we are for the second half, as we stand in six inches of water. She fishes a pair of armbands and a snorkel from out of her handbag.

Leek are magnificent in the second half, playing some scintillating footy on a boggy, and in patches, waterlogged surface. The equaliser is a well-crafted goal. Their 11 jacket is running the show down our side. He whips in a corner that is nodded home. Ms Moon says rainwater is dripping from my eyes. I burst into tears. "How can we win the game without Oliver Clark"? I blubber. 'The Carlton Cattermole' would love an aqua-plane tackle on this surface. 

We slope off a few minutes before the final whistle, soaked to the skin with footwear squelching and overflowing in rainwater. I can't 'arf pick 'em.

Attendance: 163 (I salute you all)

Man of the Match: Marcus Rashford

Hucknall Town 0-1 Heanor Town

I can't describe how much the day out in Radford with Dringy and Craig has lifted my spirits. Big Glenn is beaming from ear to ear as we exit the clubhouse and dash across Radford Road to the nearest tram stop, close to Hyson Green Asda. We alight the tram in Hockley and call by The Curious Tavern, a pub situated in the oldest hotel in Nottingham, now called Mercure, previously known as the George Hotel, where Notts County's Committee and Officers were elected in 1864.

The service in this place is usually an omnishambles. I've had the misfortune, in the past, when with Ms Moon after a few hours relaxation at Broadway Cinema, to get stuck behind a hen party (remember them?) who are ordering about 16x cocktails which will take about two hours to make and shake. Bar staff are having to earn their corn these days, dashing about the place, continental style, with table service only. Our barman is as miserable as sin. We give him the run around with a few rounds of craft ales before heading down to Sneinton Market and it's 'Creative 'Quarter.

I want to show off the UK's Number One taproom to Dringy and Craig. There's no room inside at Neon Raptor but we do manage to grab the last table outside. We finish off on an 8% double Indian pale ale (us hipsters call it DIPA  ... lol). It's goodnight Vienna and lights out for Sticky Palms on arrival back at HQ.

We have breakfast, on Sunday, up at Copper Mapperley, close to one of my favourite haunts, Castle Rock's Bread and Bitter. The plan was to blow away the cobwebs up at Gedling Country Park, but I'm feeling a tad delicate. I make an excuse that my eye is hurting (it's a hangover). I remain rooted in my armchair for the rest of the day, writing the Radford blog. 

It's 8am on Monday and I'm slumped in the back of DG taxi which is fighting its way through the congested roads of Nottingham city centre in rush hour. The taxi takes a familiar path I've become accustomed to over the last five weeks. I settle up with the driver outside the main doors of the QMC's Eye Clinic.

There's the usual comedy eye test with the nurse, where I laugh out loud that I'm unable to see any letters on the board. Today is different though; I can actually see the first three lines. For any new readers, I've had a detached retina and four large tears. I'm called in to see the consultant. My stomach churns as he shines a torch into my eye. It's good news, the retina is still attached. They want to see me in two months' time, when hopefully they'll drain all the silicone oils, sitting behind an air bubble, that protects and heals the retina. My sight should then, fingers crossed, start to improve.

It's no Blue Monday at our crib. I celebrate the good news about the dodgy 'mince pie' with a couple of tinnies. It's looking bleak for Paddy the vet on Emmerdale Farm. His missus, Chas, is playing away, and I don't mean for the Hotton Ladies' team. Serves Paddy right. Didn't he do the dirty with a lass he met on the school run? Anyhow, he's batting well above his league.

Carlton Town v Stamford AFC is the nearest game to me within walking distance on Tuesday evening. Because I've got two cataracts (stop going on about your eyes Sticky) and the aforementioned retina issue, I really struggle with the floodlights shining in my eyes. The choice is: the match with impaired vision or that big wet blanket, Paddy the vet on the Farm shedding a few tears.

I wander down Burton Road past the Blacks Head and Old Volunteer. I've already had a chippy tea from Oceans Fish Bar on Carlton Rd. I walk by Apollo Fish Bar, at the bottom of Carlton, on the border of Gedling. I notice a queue that snakes around the corner. It's definitely one for the notebook the next time the Millers are at home.

There's a feel-good-factor down at Carlton Town. I check-in with track and trace, part with £9 on the gate and buy a raffle ticket with the change. I arrive early so I can tap my feet to the best Non-League playlist on earth that includes The Fall, Killing Joke and The Smiths.

The football is to die for too and is played at a fast and furious pace. Carlton take the lead following great work by Niall Davie down the left. What a moment it is for the 17-year-old winger, Joel Daft, who taps the ball home at the far post to notch his first senior goal.

The second half is one-sided with an experienced Stamford side swarming all over the Millers. They hang on for dear life until the visitors draw level 13 minutes from time. The young Carlton side see the game out, to gain a valuable point, following heroic, resolute defending, by Martin Ball and Toby Moore in particular.

It's official, Nottingham has the fastest-growing infection rate of COVID-19 in England. Students at the University are copping the flak for it. To cheer up all us proper Nottingham folk, Banksy, the street graffiti artist, pays our city a fleeting visit. His/Her latest piece shows a girl hula-hooping a bicycle tyre in the student area of Lenton. 

It's Saturday morning and Sticky Palms' Cleaning Services are running at full power. The highlight of the previous evening was a fridge raid down at Neon Raptor, with Nottingham on the brink of Tier 3. Ms Moon has a full schedule today, but still very kindly runs me over to Hucknall in her Fiat complete with Italian go-faster stripes.

I can see a bald gentleman, wearing a Harrington jacket, necking a dark beer whilst sat at an outside table at Hucknall's Station Hotel. It's a place that holds fond memories for me when I 'worked' in the offices at nearby Linby Colliery from 1982-1985.

Tony McDonald is a Keyworth and Hucknall legend and today he's making his blog debut. I enjoy a pint of Longbow from the Lincoln Green Brewery - it's a beauty - as Mac and I chew over the cud. There's time for another swift one before we make the 25-minute walk down memory lane.

We cross over where the Byron Cinema used to be and head up the High Street with the depressing sight of abandoned pubs. We swing left onto Watnall Road past the Green Dragon where I used to pot a few in my wasted youth. Mac points at the Co-op further up the road on the left. "That was The Flying Bedstead, Sticky." 

It's £5 on the gate. Mac very kindly pays me in. There's time to visit the little boys' room before we take our position further up from the dugouts. Someone up the line shouts "hello Sticky." It's John Harris and wife Jackie. 

The first half is dire and a poor advert for Step 6 football. Attention turns to what Mr and Mrs Harris are having for tea this evening. There has been a faux pas on the food front. Wife Jackie has picked up a fish pie from Sainsbury's 'finest range' only to be told by daughter Lucy, who has invited her parents round for lunch tomorrow, that she is rustling up, yes you've guessed it, a homemade fish pie.

Just shy of 250 folk have rocked up at Watnall Road today. That's some pulling power for this level of football. It's also a good opportunity to cover off payments and expenses for the three officials with a raffle or 50/50 draw - sadly there's no evidence of either (could be COVID related).

Nottingham Forest captain Joe Worrall is a Hucknall lad. I remember seeing his swan song for Hucknall Sports Under 12s in a cup final up at Clipstone Colliery's ground before he signed for the Tricky Trees. I stood that evening with my boss at Notts County, Mick Leonard when I scouted for the Pies. The lad could tackle and head for fun. Forest could do with his passion and leadership right now.

The second half picks up a wee bit, particularly for Hucknall. There are a succession of corners and crosses flying into the Heanor box, but they fail to convert their chances. The inevitable happens and even I have a bird's eye view of it with my dodgy 'mince pie.' Lewis Weaver, who has been marginally flagged offside a few times, beats a high line and offside trap. He races down the right flank, cuts inside, ignores an unmarked colleague before firing a shot into the bottom corner of the net - Sticky Palms doesn't do 0-0s.

The final whistle is blown. Hucknall are worth a point but have been wasteful in front of goal. A drunken home fan, worse for wear, hasn't taken kindly to defeat. He bad mouths the Hucknall manager who wants to front him up. It's a sour ending to the afternoon's proceedings.

Attendance: 248

Man of the Match: Tony 'Dogman' McDonald

Radford 3-3 Ollerton Town (Raddy Win 4-3 on Pens)

It's Sunday 6th September and I'm at Woodthorpe Hospital, two miles outside Nottingham city centre, for what should be a routine cataract operation on my left eye. I've become concerned about the sight in my other eye, which also has a cataract. I ask the Consultant to check it. I'm immediately carted off to Eye Casualty at the Queen's Medical Centre University Hospital in Nottingham. There, I'm met by a grim-faced doctor who says I might not be able to regain my sight.  I have a detached retina with four large tears. I put on a brave face for a distraught Ms Moon. I sit silently in my armchair, for the remainder of the day, gazing out of the window, thinking about what lies ahead and what the future holds.

I go under the surgeon's knife first thing on Tuesday morning. The operation is called a vitrectomy and is complicated. Silicone oils are injected around the retina and are protected by an air bubble. I wake up feeling groggy. I hang around a side room for a few hours of recovery before being discharged. I feel like I've been hit by a bus.

I've been told to posture for 50 minutes every hour, ten hours a day, for the next two weeks. We order some equipment where I put my head down a hole and have to keep still. It's mentally challenging, soul-destroying and deadly boring, but an important part of the recovery process. I thank the Lord for the mindfulness classes I attended a few years ago - my positive thoughts keep me upbeat.

I take a turn for the worse on Saturday evening. My head feels like it's having a hemorrhage and my eyes are dripping blood. I'm rushed into Eye Casualty. My eye pressure is off the scale. An on-call doctor arrives from his Beeston home and doubles my dosage.

Ms Moon has been by my side (and has been my rock) for every second of this sorry saga. She administers all the eyedrops and dishes out all the bollockings when morale hits a low. She has a well-deserved short break near to the east coast as I'm ferried up to my brother's crib in York, for a few nights away. Even with only 40% vision in the other eye I still manage to spot England Test bowler 'Fiery' Fred Trueman's grave in the churchyard at Bolton Abbey - I can't 'arf pick 'em. 

Fast forward the clock a few weeks and I'm up at Plains Road in Mapperley. Two of my favourite sides: Gedling Miners' Welfare and Radford are crossing swords. I can't see a lot, to be honest. Vision is blurry; it's like opening your eyes when you are swimming underwater.

I walk past the Radford dugout. 'Big Glenn' pops his head out and is as nice as pie with Ms Moon. "And how are you, you four-eyed t**t?" he says to me - it's a back-handed compliment, I think. His young Radford side, a work in progress, are magnificent in the first half and are 2-0 up at the break. Ms Moon pops across the road for a coffee with her bestie Jill, leaving 'Stevie Wonder' to fend for himself. 

It's backs to the wall for the Pheasants, in the second half, as they are pinned back by a rejuvenated Miners. Gedling claw a goal back as Radford hang on for dear life. They are in debt to Club stalwart Matt Hopewell who puts his body on the line, bravely blocking a certain goal with his head and face. He's dazed, dizzy and requiring treatment. I love Matt. He's not one of those lads who ups sticks at the end of each season, drifting from club to club. He'd be my first name on the team sheet if I was the gaffer.

I hook up with The Taxman at Carlton Town's Stoke Lane ground on Tuesday evening. It's for the best as there's a double helping of Emmerdale Farm on the box. It's six months since I've seen The Taxman. He moans about the plight of Nottingham Forest for most of the evening. 

The Millers are a joy to watch these days. They wipe the floor with Wisbech Town, playing some beautiful fast-flowing football. Well, I think they did, as I couldn't see chuff all out my battered black eye. The visitors couldn't cope with the pace and power of 9 jacket Aaron Opoku. Sticky's favourite, Oliver Clark, ('The Carlton Cattermole') bagged again, keeping him on track for the Golden Boot. 

It's Friday evening and I'm sat in the armchair supping a few strong craft ales I purchased from Hopology, on Melton Road, in 'Bread 'n Lard Island.' Six Barrels is my usual haunt on a Friday teatime with my old sparring partner Tony 'Dog' Mcdonald. But I've a big day out set up for tomorrow with Matt Dring and Craig Farina, in town, prior to the FA Vase encounter between Radford and Ollerton in inner-city Nottingham. It's lights out for Sticky straight after Gogglebox.

Ms Moon has fired up the grill as I traipse downstairs. I sink a strong, half-filled cup of coffee before hoovering up two crispy smoked bacon sandwiches, smothered in soft blue cheese. It's a faff getting into town these days as Canal Street has been shut permanently. Nottingham is also under the microscope as cases of COVID this week have soared, particularly in the student community, where 75% of all cases have been recorded.

I jump out of the car on Friar Lane. I wander past Cafe Sobar; I won't be popping in there anytime soon.  'Dringy' and Craig are already tucking into some ales. I shout up a New Dawn Pale from the Navigation Brewery as I relive my eye horror story for the umpteenth time (you're getting boring now Sticky).

We have been enjoying some 80s music on the pub dukey; particularly Big Country. The big sports screens are turned on and the volume is ramped up - it's chuffin' egg-chasing and time for a sharp exit. We get masked up and jump on a tram in the Old Market Square. We're so fascinated by the buildings we pass that we miss our stop; alighting in Basford rather than on Radford Road. A tram is coming in the opposite direction. We dash across the tracks, avoiding getting knocked down like Alan Bradley did in Corrie a few decades ago when he was hunting down Rita Fairclough or whatever her name was, in Blackpool.

Radford is one of my favourite areas in Nottingham. It has an unfair and unjust reputation. I have met nothing other than good people during my frequent trips here in the last 15 years of groundhopping. Radford FC's Selhurst Street is a ground to die for. It's £5 on the gate. We do a circuit of the ground. I can see the lads are impressed.

Big Glenn is loitering outside the clubhouse. He clocks I'm wearing sunglasses. He roars "Here he is, Lennie Peters", a reference to the blind singer from the duo Peters and Lee, an Opportunity Knocks act from the 70s TV talent show. He says he's sick of reading about pubs and fish and chip shops in my blog and is there any chance he can have some credit and a good write up. "It's not about you Glenn, and anyway I'm one of the few people in Notts who actually likes you" I reply as I step on the gas.

Ollerton are highly-rated and will fancy their chances as they are talked up on social media. It's a no show from them in the first half. They look jittery, listless and disjointed. Radford race into a two-goal lead. The first to hit the onion bag is a beauty by 18-year-old winger Buba Ceesay, who turns the full-back inside out before unleashing a shot which gives 'keeper Levi Owen no chance. The fast feet of Mamoke Akauna sees Radford double their lead. Ollerton hit the post as the half draws to a close. I catch Big Glenn close to the tunnel area and remind him that they were two the good this time last week.

We ask Levi in the Ollerton nets what was said in the changing room at half-time. "I'm just relieved to be out here", he smirks. The inevitable happens. Ollerton restore parity with 20 minutes remaining. They start to show what all the hype is about. They take the lead on 78 minutes following some fantastic play on the flank, which results in a floated cross to the back post that isn't dealt with.

I try not to catch Big Glenn's eye as I sneak past the dugout. I've been a proper Jonah over the years. If he clocks me I'll get booted out of the ground. There's one minute remaining when the referee awards a corner. Another of Sticky's favourites, Joe Meakin, sends in a peach of a dead ball, 'keeper Joe Searson-Smithard has raced up into the area, he leaps like a salmon to nod the ball home, before racing to the crowd to celebrate. It's a beautiful, heart-warming moment that ends a breathtaking game.

We're back in the bar refilling our glasses whilst the referee sorts out the spot-kicks. You have to feel for Levi Owen who saves a penalty but is flagged by an eagle-eyed assistant for coming off his line - it was marginal and appears a tad harsh. Ollerton's fifth penalty is skied over the bar and lands in Asda car park on Radford Road.

We enjoy a drink with the Big 'Un in the bar again. "You can bring these two lads again Sticky" says Glenn. We jump on the tram back into town, partaking in a few scoops in The Curious Tavern, before I introduce the lads to the delights of Neon Raptor in Sneinton Market and its outside drinking area. I can't 'arf pick em.

I jump in a cab after a 8% finisher and ring up Ms Moon. "Princess can you put on 'Welcome Home' by Peters and Lee on the YouTube dukey, please" 

Attendance: 115

Men of the Match: Big Glenn, Dringy and Craig - proper lifted my spirits, lads.