It's been a smash 'n grab by 'The Lincoln' at Burton Albion's Pirelli Stadium. Ms Moon has stepped on the gas, with her foot firmly to the floor, in the Fiat 500, that has go-faster Italian stripes. We hurtle down the A38 and onto the A50. There's a quick pit stop at Gamston Morrisons, as I'm cooking at Chez Palms this evening.
By 6 p.m. I'm sat outside, lapping up the the late evening sunshine, at Neon Raptor, in the heart of 'The New Covent Garden' (Sneinton Market). In celebratory mood I shout up a 1/3 of a pint of 'Defeat the Rancour,' an Imperial Double Pastry Stout at 13% abv - my legs are like jelly and nearly give way when I run for the bus.
It's Tuesday evening. I jump off the No.27 bus outside Oceans chippy on Carlton Road. I grab some tea (fishcake and beans from Tesco, if you're interested) before booking a taxi. Tonight Radford FC are playing Kimberley MW at the Oakfield Construction Arena, on Selhurst Street, inner city Nottingham. Regular readers will know that Pheasants manager, Big Glenn Russell, has told me not to bother turning up anymore as they always seem to fall to defeat during my presence.
I've decided to go in disguise - the fool will never recognise me. I've a new light grey waterproof walking coat that I recently bought on a dismal summer's day at Mountain Warehouse in Ilkley. I put an old baseball cap on, tuck my large golfing umbrella under my arm and jump in the taxi.
I had hoped to hook up with blog legend John Harris and wife Jackie. Sadly, John is bogged down with work this evening and can't attend. I slip through the turnstile with no questions asked. This is going to be a breeze. I clock Big Glenn eyeing up the Raddy warm-up; he's definitely distracted and caught in the moment. I peg it double quick past him. "Oi ... what the effing hell are you doing here?" The bloke must have eyes in the back of his head.
I explain that I have a new tactic that should help Radford to victory. I announce that I'm going to stand in the away end. "Good ... keep out of my sight" he shouts out loudly. I get gassing to Kimberley committee members 'Hobbo' and Danny. The club have put together a young side after losing some of their best players to Kettering Town, Loughborough Dynamo and Heanor Town. It doesn't bode well for Big Glenn that Kimbo have won 7 out of their last 8 games - add to that the fact his unlucky mascot is also in attendance.
It's hosed it down with rain all day. It's relentless and if anything it rains even harder as the teams emerge from the tunnel. The game is scrappy and disjointed. I'm more interested in hearing about Hobbo's holiday in Zante and of some of the pubs in Giltbrook and Langley Mill that I've yet to visit.
There is a rare moment of beauty in the 40th minute. Aaron Coyle, who I clocked off the bench at West Bridgford earlier in the season, picks up the ball in space out on the left wing. He drifts inside before curling in a shot that nestles into the bottom corner of the net. Jeez .... Sticky Palms is in big trouble again.
I try to avoid Big Glenn like the plague at half-time. Hopefully he's in the changing room slinging his baseball cap to the floor in a fit of pique, whilst handing out a bollocking to the lads. I'm queuing at the tea bar, minding my own business, when I feel a tap on my shoulder. "I thought I told you not to bother coming down this evening" says a cheesed off Big Glenn.
I hide at the top end of the ground, out of sight. It only takes Kimbo a couple of minutes to increase their lead with a brilliantly worked goal headed home by Jack Henchcliffe. They even manage to fluff their lines from the penalty spot. I successfully manoeuvre around the perimeter of the ground without coming across the Big Man. I receive a text, as I sit in my armchair warming my hands on a piping hot cup of tea. It's succinct and to the point. 'YOU'RE BARRED.'
It's Thursday morning and I'm sat at a table for two with Tony Mac at Bill's on Queen Street, close to the Brian Clough statue. We wolf down a full English breakfast before catching the 10.15 a.m. train to 'Dirty Leeds.' We've planned this real ale trail and craft bar trip to precision over the last few weeks.
My brother, Mark, is 60 years old on Saturday and only lives down the road in York. We've already ticked off a few canalside pubs by the time we meet him in the wonderful Scarborough Hotel. We carry on supping and chatting at Leeds' oldest pub Whitelocks as well as Turks Head and Brownhill and Co. It's great to catch up with 'Our Kid' before his big day.
We catch a cab up to the Premier Inn Leeds Arena. There's time for a shower and shave before heading out to Vocation's bar, that is housed in Assembly Underground. The guy who owns Vocation, John Hickling, was a co-owner at Blue Monkey Brewery at Giltbrook. His dream was to open a pub and own a brewery at Hebden Bridge. Vocation beers are now available at most supermarkets. They also have a beauty of a bar called Society Manchester, where you can order street food to accompany their insane beers.
I wake up on Friday morning and count up the pubs and bars we visited yesterday - there are 13x in total, but I feel as fresh as a daisy. We head back to the train station and buy a West Yorkshire all-day saver. The Trans Pennine Rail Ale Trail is the peak of the trip. First port of call is Marsden, which lies at the confluence of the River Colne and Wessenden Brook. It's also home to Marsden FC which features in Mike Bayly's book called British Football's Greatest Grounds. Not only are we taken aback with the jaw-dropping panoramic views that surround the ground, but are also amazed that sheep graze on the pitch.
We're killing time before the pub opens, having already polished off another breakfast at the cosy Bistro 11. It gives us the opportunity to discover the grave of Enoch Taylor, who built automatic croppers that were smashed to smithereens with hammers by The Luddites.
The day is spent hopping on and hopping off the TransPennine Express train. We call in at Huddersfield where I was a few weeks ago when the Tricky Trees footballed the Terriers off the park. We tick off the Kings Head that is part of the station. I'm curious about the Jimi Hendrix artwork that is on the pub sign and litter bins outside. There's a re-visit to The Grove along with it's wonderful beer menu.
Day runs into evening as we call by Mirfield, Dewbury and Batley - names that remind me of Rugby League teams and the commentator Eddie Waring back in the 70s. Dark descends as we pull into Wakefield Station. I came to this city on the day Prince William married Kate Middleton with Trumpy Bolton. It was also the last game Wakefield ever played at their old ground. We pay a visit to the Wakefield Labour Club. According to the barman Wakefield was a Labour stronghold for over 100 years until the last election. The cliental are as miserable as sin. There's a sarcastic 'thanks for coming' from a beer-swilling Corbynite as we make for the exit - I've voted Labour for 40 years in every election, but first impressions, eh?
Northern Monk Refrectory, back in Leeds, is on the list to be ticked off. We rock up at 10.35 p.m. to be told last orders and the final bell was rang five minutes ago. What sort of 'pub' closes at 10.30 on a Friday night?
What a superb two days we've had. Tony Mac catches a tram to Hucknall as I slog it up London Road towards Sneinton Market in pouring rain. I swing by Neon Raptor and buy a few cans of rocket fuel that I squeeze into my suitcase. There's a brilliant end to the day. Ms Moon has flicked on Final Score. I'm on all fours praying that Lincoln equalise versus Plymouth Argyle. Two late scorers at gone 90 mins appear on the vidiprinter: Anthony Scully for Lincoln and Curtis Thompson for Wycombe Wanderers. I discovered Thompson playing football for Hyson Green Cavaliers at Clifton All-Whites back in 2005 - I can't 'arf pick 'em.
Attendance: 48
Man of the Match: Our Mark and Tony Mac.
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