Barnsley 0-1 Lincoln City

It's Tuesday, 25th Oct. I'm sat in a carriage on the EMR 13.45 from Nottingham to Barnsley. They must rate as one of the most underperforming rail operators in the U.K. Actually they aren't, but folk have short memories. Turn the clock back to May 2022 when they hung out to dry those poor Tricky Trees fans on their big day out to Wembley. Taking money from passengers, and then not giving two hoots when not enough carriages were put on. One customer service person had to break the news to the thousands of queuing fans that EMR had mucked up. Another gripe I have is that their ageing rolling stock doesn't have power points or a reliable Wi-Fi connection.

Anyway, I digress. The Mighty Lincoln (1,231) are descending on the town of Barnsley, in the Republic of South Yorkshire. The Imps are on a roll. Big players have returned to the squad, free from injury. I change at Sheffield and hop onto a proper train, government-owned Northern Rail have got the lot including some beady-eyed ticket inspectors. Two passengers are caught red-handed without a ticket. They are fined £20 on the spot and have to pay for their fare too. I peer over my Shankill Butchers book and start to giggle at the pathetic excuses they give the guard for not buying a ticket. Our man from Northern is having none of it.

I want to pay my respects to another Busby Babe whose life was cruelly and tragically taken away on Feb 6th, 1958 in the Munich Air Disaster. Two of the players were from Barnsley - one of them is Tommy Taylor, who was laid to rest at Monk Bretton Cemetery, a two mile walk from the station. I pass a sea of ugly, soulless, characterless retail parks on the way to pay my respects. 

The final mile is uphill and leaves me sweating and gasping for air. Tommy Taylor scored 159 goals in 237 appearances for Barnsley, Manchester United and England. A blue plaque was unveiled by the former umpire Dickie Bird, a school friend of Taylor's, in 2011, at the lodgings where all the United players stayed at in Stretford.

I feel really sad on my walk back into Barnsley town centre. I noticed that Taylor's mother died aged 61 and that his brother also passed away at the age of 46 years old. You're never going to get over that sort of loss, are you?

I have a mooch around Oakwell, home to the Tykes, so I can familiarise myself with the area. I have visited the ground on two occasions - in 1987 with freelance photographer Robert Rathbone, for an FA Cup replay versus Caernarfon Town and in 1992 for a League Two game versus Wolves.

I slog it back uphill into town. I visit the statue of Billy Casper holding the kestrel from the film Kes. I took Ms Moon on a tour of where the film was shot. It included the common where Billy trained the bird and the chip shop, in Hoyland. There is also a blue plaque on a pub wall honouring the local actor Brian Glover, who plays the PE teacher in the film, whilst dressed up as Bobby Charlton.

It's a Greggs pepperoni pizza for tea, washed down with a pint of local bitter from the Acorn Brewery at the wonderful pub, Old No.7. I take my seat in the East Stand with the home fans. 'The Lincoln' always seem to win when I use this tactic, and the view is better than where the visiting fans are housed, behind the goal. The DJ's set isn't a patch on Carlton Town's. The guy does play a few good 'uns from Fat Boy Slim, Elbow and Swiss electronic band, Yello.

I've a few moaning Minnies sat around me. The glass is half empty. Can't say I blame them, to be honest, as Barnsley are bloody awful. Lincoln grow into the game, their impressive on loan winger, Jack Diamond, from Sunderland, strikes the base of the post, following a mazy run, after latching onto a superb ball thrown out by alert 'keeper Carl Rushworth. The Imps take the lead with a stunning goal from Danny Mandroiu, with Diamond once again heavily involved. Former League of Ireland player, Mandroiu has caught the eye (my good one) and looks a steal from Shamrock Rovers.

The second half follows a familiar pattern. Lincoln play a beautiful passing game, that falls short with the final ball. My stomach churns and aches as the minutes go slowly by. We see the game out easily during the five minutes added time. I walk briskly back to the station to be greeted by the Barnsley Big Baby Squad on the opposite side of the platform. They've got some brass neck to rock up after a sub standard performance like that. Their taunts and insults are ignored by the Imps fans. I travel home smiling from ear to ear. Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, jingle all the way, oh what fun it is to see Lincoln win away.

I continue my walk around the old pit villages on Thursday morning. I chance across a CAMRA Heritage pub in Woodthorpe a few miles outside the city centre, called The Vale. I down a diet Coke as I admire the structure. I stroll up to Bestwood Country Park, dropping onto a bridal path that takes me down to the village and the pit memorial where the winding wheel stands. I glance at the old South Notts Coal Board offices opposite the Welfare, where I spent my first day at work in September 1981. You can't beat a trip down memory lane. It fills my soul with happiness.

There's no pub meet up with Tony Mac on Friday night. The blog legend is down 'the Smoke' watching punk rock band The Damned. I blow a gasket from my armchair. That Al bloke off Emmerdale has pulled more women than Georgie Best. He has the worst chat up lines on earth, and his acting skills aren't much cop either. This is followed by Corrie which features that irritable 11 year-old little know-it-all, Sam Blakeman. The last time I saw the spoilt, little brat he was bound, gagged and in the boot of a drug dealer's car heading towards, hopefully, the Manchester Ship Canal. He somehow wriggled his way out of it. 

It's 8.30 a.m. on Saturday. Ms Moon and I drive to Copper Cafe up on Mapperley Tops. We've had many a fine breakfast up here when it was part of the Great Northern Group. Ms Moon's poached eggs are firm and not runny and my sausage cob isn't all that. Standards have dropped since being acquired by Redcat Pub Company. We won't be bothering again, anytime soon.

I wave off Ms Moon just before lunch. She is spending time with her sisters and brother at a spa in Northamptonshire to celebrate the life of her mother, who passed away in September. I've a couple of games to go to today. 'The Keyworth Georgie Best' (my lad) is playing for Keyworth Ressies, a fifteen minute walk from my crib, at Burton Road Jubilee Park, against Greyfriars - the artist formally known as Netherfield Seniors. It's a ground I need to tick off.

They're kicking off as I walk over the main road. I'm alarmed there is no Josh Stolworthy in the Keyworth starting line up. The 27 year old is a man mountain of a centre-half. They miss his imperious, dominant presence. In a battle you'd want him by your side. At any other club, such as Dunkirk or Clifton All Whites, where they give youth a chance, he would have made over 300 first team appearances by now. Circumstances currently prevent this from happening. 

Honours are even at the break although the Keyworth managers aren't happy with the performance or by some of the backchat. I wouldn't argue with the referee, who has been excellent by the way. He's harder than any player on the pitch and will probably be running the doors at a pub in town later.

'The KGB' isn't getting the rub of the green. He shines on a wider pitch, when in space. He somehow ends up at right-back when Keyworth have to chase the game at 3-1 down. It's 3-2 in the end and a deserved victory for Greyfriars. The lads retire to the pub whilst Dafty drops me on Stoke Lane outside Carlton Town's ground. His Son, Will (my Godson) has been a colossus in the last 20 minutes.

The Millers are deadlocked at 0-0 against the seaside town of Cleethorpes. I bump into 'friends to the stars', Jitz Jani. I mistakenly thought he was on the sauce in north London prior to NFFC's visit to 'The Arsenal' tomorrow lunchtime. He's chatting to former Forest legend Ian Storey-Moore. 

Dan Thorpe is playing a Northern Soul set in the clubhouse. The tunes are outstanding. You can't beat a Hammond organ. I stand with him and Nige in the second half. Carlton are chasing the game after going a goal down on 80 minutes. There's a melee close to the dugouts. It doesn't look all that. A player from both teams are shown the red card. There's an extraordinary goalmouth scramble in the dying embers which results in Brad Wells poking home a last gasp equaliser.

I run down the road and board the No.26 bus which drops me close to home. I shower up and change, putting on my best Adidas Hamburg trainers. I neck a couple of craft ales at Neon Raptor. I'm joined by the Horsburgh family. I tip Jay the wink on some good watering holes in Liverpool, as he's going to the races there next weekend.

I hook up with Dringy, his two lads and Jitz at The Dragon on Angel Row. We end the evening at some swanky cocktail bar called Six Richmond House, on Hurt's Yard.. It's where Jitz drinks with his rich and famous friends. He knows it'll be too pretentious for me. But every cloud has a silver lining. The bar sells craft IPA.

We can't 'arf pick 'em.

Player of the Match 10 Jacket for Greyfriars