CMS Football Club 2-4 Poets Young Boys FC

I climb out of my sick bed on Sunday March 13th. I've been holed up in my room for time. It feels longer than a week in prison. There's been no moaning and groaning about Ms Moon watching Emmerdale Farm, Four in a Bed and Tipping Point. I've been living on a diet of pea and ham soup, Five Live, Podcasts and Desert Island Discs - Arsene Wenger and Tony Adams are different class if you get the chance. 

I smother two slices of toast in butter and thinly spread some Marmite on them. I pour a strong pot of Yorkshire Tea for one, with a drop of milk, into my 'The The' tea mug. I open the French door window for the first time in nine days, and take in a huge breath of fresh air, as I wander down the passageway towards the bottom of Carlton Road.

There's a Notts Senior Cup semi-final taking place at Carlton Recreation Ground - some call it 'Dog Shit Alley' - personally I think it's a proper old school venue for real football. None of your soulless 3G cages. A bumpy playing surface and a stiff breeze that will test a footballers ability playing at any level. I stand with a good friend called Bobby Oldham, whose lad Jack is playing for Poets Young Boys. PYB are on top in the first 45 minutes, but only have a one goal lead to show for it.

They are wasteful from dangerous set pieces. Phoenix Top Spot gain confidence and score a brilliantly-worked equaliser. They fluff their lines, missing a sitter with the clock ticking towards closing time. PYB seize on the opportunity presented to them. Dan Neary fires home a spot kick to see them through to the final. Sadly, the game will be played at Basford, so I'll have to follow it on social media.

On Wednesday night I enjoy watching NFFC play their best 45 minutes of the season versus 'Dirty QPR.' It wasn't on the cards at half-time, with a 1-0 deficit to overcome. They pinned the opposition back in their own half and passed them off the park in a breathtaking second half display. A clueless, out of his depth, Mark Warburton, looked a broken man during the Press conference. 

We're out of bed in the early hours of Saturday morning. Our regular taxi driver rocks up at 4.15 a.m. We enjoy a full English breakfast at Castle Rock Tap Room and Kitchen in East Midlands Airport. Our Ryanair flight kisses the tarmac at Tenerife South Airport just shy of midday. Cases are quickly unpacked at Hollywood Mirage hotel, located at the top of the hill in the resort of Los Cristianos.

The walk back to the hotel would test Sir Edmund Hillary and Sherpa Tenzing - it makes Steep Hill in Lincoln look a doddle (Up the Imps). We both gasp for air after a nine-hour sesh on the seafront. I managed to fallout with a Bluenose fan, in Cafe Ole, who told me Lyle Taylor is the best thing since sliced bread - my loaf of Hovis is worth more and falls over less.

It's Monday evening. The sun is beating down on Zizzi's bar and Daft Punk's 'All Around the World' is on the bar dukey. We're hanging about with around 20x die-hard CD Tenerife supporters waiting for the ex-pats supporters coach to turn up. Ms Moon is in for a treat tonight folks. I'm taking her on a 140 km return trip up to the island's capital, Santa Cruz, oop north, for a Segunda B promotion-chasing clash versus Almeria. It's a club who splashed out a reputed £7 million for Nottingham Forest winger Arvin Appiah - once of AFC Vernon Colts, Basford, in Nottingham.

We stop off halfway up on the coast for a toilet break and more beers. These trips have been organised for years by a guy called Chris Todd. It's a bargain €30 for ticket and travel. We all congregate at a small bar close to the ground. Incredibly Ms Moon bumps into a young lad, who used to work for her, who is visiting family on the island and is also going to the game.

Regular readers will remember me going to a game at Estadio de Tenerife a few years ago with 'Mad Dog', after a five hour session in Santa Cruz. It ended 0-0. My first in over two years. I didn't speak to anybody for the rest of the holiday. I was that cross. I don't do 0-0s or 3G.

CD Tenerife couldn't hit a cow's arse with a banjo. The bar is rattled and the visiting 'keeper pulls off a worldy save. I'm getting rinsed on social media by folk back in Nottingham who are saying the game has 0-0 written all over it - it would be my third consecutive blankety blank in the Reef if it happens.

CDT don't come out in the second half. Almeria win a penalty that is converted. The bus journey home is in silence as folk realise that CDT have blown a chance of automatic promotion to La Liga, with the only route possible being the lottery of the play-offs.

The rest of the holiday is spent relaxing around the pool sun-bathing and reading. We even get the chance to spend a few hours drinking with blog legend Trumpy Bolton and his wife Jayne, down at Playas de las Americas. Obvs it was a struggle to entice him out of his all-inclusive hotel, but he seemed pretty chipper after the Foxes beat the Bees 2-1. He reminisced about the time he took Mrs Bolton to Leith, a few miles outside of Edinburgh. I asked him if he took the good lady to see Royal Yacht Britannia. "No, but I took her to the Royal Oak" he replied .. lol.

The plane journey home is so, so long. Ms Moon watches three episodes of Bridgerton on her phone - don't ask me, haven't got a Scooby. I flick through the latest issue of cult football magazine When Saturday Comes.

I'm aghast to find that I only have two cans of craft ales left in the fridge. I sup 'em both as Ms Moon chuckles away at Ant 'n Dec (somebody has to). Attention turns to twitter. There's a gentle reminder on Poets' timeline that they have a big semi-final tomorrow away at CMS Football, in Clifton.

I'm dog tired from that bloody flight back from the Reef. Ms Moon drops me off at Farnborough Academy at just after 10.35. A huge crowd has congregated. I can see with one eye that it's more than Basford United got in the Northern Premier League yesterday on Non-League Day. 

There's a huge cheer, and a mass celebration, early doors, when CMS open the scoring. Hello, hello, this could be tasty. Sam Harbottle restores parity. Poets go further ahead with two more goals, but CMS always look a threat. Zydane Richardson's long throws are a weapon. Arrears are reduced further following another missile that's launched.

We all drew for breath after a five-goal thriller of a first half. 'Our Joe' is here and a load of lads from Keyworth, who sadly don't play for the club anymore. Most of Keyworth's reinforcements have arrived from Big Glenn's Radford FC. Not that they are missing them. The Big Man (Glenn Russell) is smiling from ear to ear after dishing out a 7-0 drubbing to Borrowash Victoria yesterday, which leaves them in a Champions League spot. 

I was 'banned' from Radford earlier in the season by Big Glenn as they always lose when I rock up. They then went on a club record nine match winning run in my absence. I ask Glenn if I can watch them in the play-offs. "Only if we're away, Sticky" he replies.

Sam Harbottle completes a hat-trick early in the second half to spoil it for the neutral. It puts the game to bed. The match is played in a fantastic spirit, most of the lads know one another. There are two unnecessary second yellow cards waved by referee Dave Southern which reduces both sides to ten players. He certainly got himself into a pickle on those occasions. Aside to that, he has refereed it well and let the game flow.

CMS miss the energy and surging runs of midfield powerhouse Callum Barratt. His experience and presence would have made a difference. I enjoyed coaching him a few years back when he was returning from injury. Unfortunately he's on holiday today. Not on my watch, he wouldn't have been!

I manage a quick chat with Dave Harbottle, dad of hat-trick hero Sam. His other lad Riley is impressing folk in NFFC under 23s. I'd love to see him at my team Lincoln City on loan next season. Our manager Michael Appleton would be a brilliant mentor and coach-educator like Steve Cooper is.

There are a few rumours that the final could be at Meadow Lane. I can smell the mown grass already.

Attendance: 332 (I've only got one eye -'Carlton Stevie Wonder' headcount)

Man of the Match: Sam Harbottle

Hull City 0-2 West Bromwich Albion

Rain looks set for the week. The wonderful volunteers of Non-League Football will be doing their upmost to get a game ON for their lads, lasses and community. The smug 3G/4G folk will be crowing about their facilities and 'grass' where games are played at a testimonial pace and nobody 'puts a tackle in.' I'd rather wash the pots (or at a stretch watch D***y County) - and yes, I get the commercial gain and use by the community.

It's the time of year where I turn to the professional game, assured with the certainty that a game will be ON unless it's at Russian-owned AFC Bournemouth's 'Meccano Stadium' where a gust of wind blows the house down.

The Tigers versus The Baggies looked a good game to go to a few weeks ago. But now Hull are safe and WBA have dropped like a stone. I'm more intrigued by the history of the city and the real ales they have on offer. Ms Moon doesn't need much arm-twisting. The Admiral of the Humber 'Spoons hotel is a steal at £75 for the night. 'Book 'em Danno' as Steve McGarrett used to say on Hawaii Five-O.

It teems down with rain for most of the week. I'm restricted to listening to football on the radio. It's doom and gloom from Radio Nottingham's Charlie Slater and Mark Stallard up at Chesterfield's 'Technique Stadium.' as the Pies are turned over 3-1; pretty much ending any realistic chance of an automatic promotion spot. The knives are out for boss Ian Burchnall. I enjoy 'Burch Ball' as the Pies fans call it. Notts have a soft centre though, that costs them some games when they are sussed out.

It's Thursday morning. I'm knocking off at 11 a.m. Reason being is that we're off to a wedding out Sleaford way. The ceremony is taking place at 200-year-old Aswarby Rectory in Lincolnshire. It's a country house set in 9 acres of private gardens and paddock land. The bad news for Sticky Palms is there isn't much demand for real ales or craft ales in those neck of the woods.

I'm feeling pretty chipper in my dry-cleaned Next suit that's on its second-ever outing. It all ends in tears when a guest on my table tips a glass of Shiraz wine all over my trousers. I laugh it off but obvs I'm seething. To help me come to terms with it I spark up my first cigarette in 27 years (Marlboro Gold). My breath stinks more than usual in the morning. 

It's Friday evening and I'm pegging it up a blot on Nottingham's landscape called Upper Parliament Street. I head up Derby Road past Nottingham Cathedral towards Canning Circus. It's Friday date night with Tony Mac. We're in the city's real ale quarter. The meeting point is the Sir John Borlase Warren, a multi-levelled traditional Lincoln Green pub, named after a distinguished naval officer born in Stapleford.

We swing by the The Falcon, Good Fellow George and old crowd favourite, Hand and Heart. We're planning our next trip, at the end of the month, to Halifax, where we'll be jumping on and off the 'Fax to Manc' real ale train, set in the Calder Valley.

Time is pressing as Nottingham Forest are due to kick off at Sheffield United's Bramall Lane at 7.45 p.m. We race through town but manage to find a spare table and seats at a jam-packed Bunkers Hill pub at the bottom of Hockley, a hipster area of Nottingham.

We're sinking crafts and going through the card (blackboard) of delicious ales as Forest pass the Blades off the park. Brennan Johnson wastes a chance from the penalty spot. It's the old Panenka that falls straight into the arms of a grateful 'keeper. Tony Mac is a pessimist when it comes to NFFC. He correctly predicts that Sheff Utd will score. It hurts even more that it's ex-Red Billy Sharp who does the damage.

I'm such a curse on NFFC that I suggest we head over to Neon Raptor on 90 mins to see if it will aid Forest in any way at all in added time. By the time I've parked my backside on a seat in Rap Tap then none other than Sticky's favourite, Ryan Yates, has secured Forest a precious point with a last gasp header from a Jimmy Garner corner. I celebrate with a small doner kebab from the Carlton Fryer.

It's Saturday morning and we're on the A614 at just after 10 a.m. Claudia Winkleman is playing the 'Importance of Being Idle' by Oasis on her Radio 2 show. We hit Clive Sullivan Way just shy of 11.30 a.m. The road is named after the Welsh Rugby League legend who made over 550 appearances for Hull KR and Hull FC. He died from cancer at the age of 42-years-old.

We stick the car close to where the hotel is and head over to the Marina. The weather has taken a turn for the worse. I've been tipped off about a pub called The Minerva by Hull's number one crime-writing author Nick Quantrill and another character called Darren 'Knocker' Norton. It doesn't disappoint either. We enjoy broccoli and Stilton soup and a fish finger sandwich. I wash it down with a salted caramel stout called First World Problems, from Roosters Brewery in Harrogate. Lunch is somewhat spoilt when Craig David and Mark Morrison are played on the dukey.

It's a long hard slog to the MKM Stadium in driving rain and blustery conditions. The road is grim and soulless. We pass a number of ugly high storey flats that are an eyesore. I've been to Hull City's old ground, Boothferry Park on a few occasions. I was with Trumpy Bolton and Jimmy Henry in 1990 when Leicester were tonked 5-1 and also with the Imps in 1983 when Hull won 2-0. The omens look good for The Tigers. There are some nice touches outside of the ground including artwork and memorials.

I've paid £27 for seats in the West Stand. A steward sends Ms Moon in totally the wrong direction. I'm laughing as I take my seat. Steve Bruce, the WBA manager, returns to one of his old clubs today. Ms Moon and I were laid by the hotel pool at the Sir Henry Cotton Club Penina Golf Club in July 2016 when we were interrupted by the arrival of the entire Hull City FC squad following their relegation to the Championship. Bruce made time for the holidaymakers and the players were as good as gold too. Michael Dawson was a class act, always having time for a chat.

Ms Moon has clapped eyes on another man and Sticky Palms ain't too happy. She drools over the pony-tailed Andy Carroll who is warming-up for the Baggies. I'm blowing a gasket folks as I'm not the centre of attention for once. The East Stand is re-named the Chris Chilton Stand at the beginning of the game in the memory of the legendary forward who scored 193 goals for the club.

A Forest fan, who is now based in Hull, tells me a good anecdote on twitter. Forest fans on a visit to the KC Stadium a few years ago were singing the old "Hull's a shithole and I want go home" chant. Tigers supporters responded with "City of Culture  ... you'll never sing that" .. lol. 

The first half is a cracker for the neutral. It's a shaky start for the Tigers as WBA swarm forward. It was only a matter of time before Karlan Grant opens the scoring on 17 minutes, sweeping home an Alex Mowatt cross. At least it isn't going to be a dreaded 0-0.

We've both forgotten our gloves and have under-clubbed on the clothes front, as we suffer in Baltic conditions. The away fans do the 'Boing Boing' and ask Brucey for a wave. He duly obliges. I was hoping Sue and I might get one off him but there's nothing forthcoming despite our brief encounter in the Algarve, 2016.

Ms Moon sneaks out for a crafty smoke at the break. I'll leave it for another 27 years. I try to keep warm in the concourse. My team Lincoln City are holding Sheffield Wednesday 1-1 at Sincil Bank. The Tigers make another slow start to the second half and literally pay the penalty with Grant doubling his tally with a cool finish from a spot kick on 48 minutes. I liked the look of Grant when I saw him on loan at Crawley Town and at his parent club Charlton Athletic a few seasons back.

Despite City's best endeavours they rarely test the visiting 'keeper Sam Johnstone. The Tigers' best player Lewis-Potter spurned a couple of chances in the first half as does sub Tom Eaves in the second half. Ms Moon comes out in a hot flush with the emergence of Andy Carroll from the bench. It's a cameo role as Bruce runs down the clock.

I check my phone as we struggle to fight the elements on our walk back to the hotel. Lincoln have beaten Sheff Wed 3-1. I'm cockerhoop despite the squally conditions. We spend the evening in the wonderful Old Town. I tick a few good alehouses off including: Ye Olde White Harte, Vintage and The Lion And Key. I'll be back with Tony Mac and will do the city justice on the pub front. It's another hidden Northern gem of a town, steeped in history. We loved it!

I can't 'arf pick 'em.

Attendance: 13,643

Man of the Match: Karlan Grant