Nottingham Forest 2-0 Leicester City

It's a gloomy, cloud-covered Tuesday morning, and it's bucketing it down with rain. I dash up a snicket that leads me to the bottom of Carlton Hill. The award-winning Oceans chippy is in my eyeline as I wait for the 10.15 a.m. bus into Nottingham city centre.

This will make you laugh. I have an interview with those jokers at the Department for Work and Pensions. I alight the bus at a 'bomb site' (it's called Upper Parliament Street). It is an eyesore and a blot on the Nottingham landscape. It has a sea of takeaways, scruffy pubs and 'To Let' signs. 

I dive into Victoria Shopping Centre. Folk used to travel far and wide to visit the 'Queen of Midlands' back in the day. Our city is on its arse and in desperate need of some tender, loving care. The first purchase of the day is a small Collins pocket diary from WHSmith. It'll be full of football fixtures, gigs, drinking days out, holidays and cricket matches, by close of play this evening.

A dripping wet Sticky Palms pushes open the job centre front door for the first time in 42 years of employment. I haven't worked for over 7 months (my choice). I'm due to be grilled about the 'New Job Seekers Allowance' application I've made.' I filled out all the forms and presumed it's a formality, despite declaring a small pension that I triggered 3 years ago.

I'm met by a stoney-faced receptionist who tells me I'm too early, and that I'm to wait outside in the pouring rain. My complaints fall on deaf ears. I'm allowed back in and ushered upstairs ten minutes later. Four members of staff are milling around and tossing it off. There's no meet and greet like Jet 2 Holidays. 

My name is shouted out by a bumbling, nervous wreck. A glass panel is wedged in between us. I'm informed, within the first 90 seconds of the interview, that I'm ineligible for the £75 per week allowance, due to my pension being too high. I blow a gasket and ask why I couldn't have been informed of this during the application process. The blithering idiot can only apologise.

I hastily exit this miserable building, passing a security guard on the stairs who is built like a brick outhouse. "Everything ok Bruv?", he enquires. "No it's f***ing not, mate.", I reply. I could have done with that JSA for much-needed beer money. I thought this shit show of a government were looking to help the over 50s back into the workplace. Up yours Sunak; I'm having another summer off .. lol.

There had been a bad start to the week the previous day. I was summoned up to Ms Moon's office at 10.28 a.m. for our daily fix of PopMaster on the Ken Bruce Show. I usually end up winning as I'm a few years older than the good lady, which gives me a head start in the 1970s. Rare defeats aren't taken too well by yours truly. I'm trounced 2-0. My list of excuses include that the questions are all about Westlife, Boyzone, Take That, Robbie Williams and Girls Aloud - the sort of stuff that gives one earache. I slam the office door firmly shut and threaten to never play again.

I've calmed down by the time I part with £4 at the Broadway Cinema where i watch the new Sam Mendes movie, Empire of Light. It stars the brilliant actor Olivia Colman and is set in the Kent seaside resort of Margate, which looks like the land that time forgot. I make a note to myself to visit the town during warmer times. 

Tuesday evening is spent at Notts County's Meadow Lane. Rumours are rife that their likeable and astute head coach Luke Williams is the bookies' favourite for the vacant Pompey job, following the sacking of Lincoln City legend Danny Cowley. Further fuel is added to the fire that Swansea have put a bid in for the 'Non League Haaland', Macaulay Langstaff. Surely he'd get loaned back?

Langstaff fluffs his lines early on, missing a one on one with the Boreham Wood 'keeper. The visitors grow into the game. An off-colour County fall behind on 44 minutes with Broadbent (not Jim) firing home a rebound.

The pressure is beginning to tell on the League leaders. Bostock looks to be a luxury player at this level, his movement is hampered and his physical presence is not felt on or off the ball. Add to that the risk taking of centre half Aden Baldwin, and his reluctance to use his left foot when playing out of trouble. Notts only come away with a point. Bostock, to his credit, floats in a beautiful ball which is nodded home by the Geordie, Cedwyn Scott.

Getting hold of tickets for NFFC games is proving a tad tricky this year. A mixture of having good mates, and an excellent buying history from last season, has proved fruitful. I bagged one of the last available tickets in Block 'E' of the Peter Taylor Stand. 

As usual I'm parked up in my seat in time for the warm-ups.Willy Boly will have been a tasty 33/1 first goalscorer on the betting slip this evening. He duly obliges, against his former club, to put the Tricky Trees 1-0 up. From then on Forest struggle, as Wolves dominant proceedings. They smell blood, scoring an equaliser through Raul Jimenez, but can't put the game to bed following some resolute defending, with Worrall, Aurier and Lodi all outstanding.

The game goes to penalties. Skipper Joe Worrall, on his 200th appearance, steps up to the plate and smashes home his spot kick. Not much has gone Morgan Gibbs-White's way this evening, against his boyhood club. If anything, he's tried too hard. He takes responsibility, walking to the end where a 3,000 travelling pack of Wolves fans are baying for his blood. He nonchalantly scores from the spot, where he missed for Sheffield Utd last May, before putting his fingers in his ears -"I CAN'T HEAR YOU" Henderson saves the final penalty to send The City Ground wild.

I spend Friday listening to music and pretending to look for jobs when Ms Moon peers over my shoulder. I buy a few tickets for gigs at The Bodega for Ist Ist and Pale Blue Eyes. There's breaking news coming in at teatime. Tony Mac has been left out of the Friday Club squad, with Ms Moon coming in from the wilderness.

First port of call is the wonderful Lillie Langtry's pub on South Sherwood St. I'm a bit shocked to be charged over £10 for an average pint of bitter (Black Sheep Holy Grail) and a pint of Strongbow. A few pints later we are walking past the job centre, I give the JSA building the middle finger. Ms Moon tells me to grow up.

I've booked a table for two at the highly-rated Italian restaurant Casa. It's a friendly welcome. Ms Moon has a bottle of bubbles whilst I tuck into some Malbec. A lovely evening is spent eating lobster pasta and fish stew. We finish the night off at the Fox and Grapes in Sneinton. As we wait for a late bus I mention to Ms Moon that the landlord of the pub was murdered at this very spot in 1963. The case is still open and remains unsolved. It seems to unsettle the princess a wee bit until the bus turns up.

I've been in a quandary about where to go on Saturday. I've ruled out Stocksbridge Steels v Carlton Town as it's unlikely to survive the inclement weather. Hucknall Town v West Bridgford is on the radar, but I'm doing my damndest to secure a ticket for the East Midlands derby. Good news arrives at 5pm on Friday. I'm tipped the wink about a spare, by a great friend. A phone call later, the ticket is confirmed and a rendezvous is set up. Thanks Daz.

One good thing that is happening, albeit at a snail's pace, is the Island Quarter in the eastern part of the city. I wander over the Nottingham Canal, peg it through a patioed garden with the biggest TV screen in the world. and pull open the back door of Binks Yard, a new addition to the eating and drinking scene. There's disappointment at the bar. The sparkler has gone on the London Pride cask ale and they only have cans of Gamma Ray craft ale. It's a nice enough place, but it will need to up its game on the drinks front if it's to compete with the Trent Navigation and The Embankment.

I say hello to 'Toppo', Kokins, Roger Wilson, Blackie and Gary Clarke, before settling in on a table with Forest superfan Jitz Jani, Nick Dobney and son James. All of the boys are confident of victory today, believing the Foxes are in decline. 

Jitz says something to me that sticks in my mind for the rest of the day. "I live for Saturdays; it's my day." That quote is quite poignant when you actually think about how many Saturday 3 pm kick offs have been taken away from supporters. But what a beautiful line that is.

  

I take my seat in the Upper Bridgford, above the travelling support. The atmosphere is electric as the music ramps up. The first half is tense, disjointed and littered with fouls. Harvey Barnes misses a sitter. There's a no show from Ryan Yates in the second half, he's replaced by the experienced Jack Colback. 

Barnes misses another gilt-edged chance. The Foxes are made to pay. Johnson narrowly avoids the offside trap to put the Trickies in the lead. He puts the final nail in the coffin on 85 minutes with a smart finish after an outrageous ball, from the outside of the boot, from Morgan Gibbs-White, who has covered every blade of grass - 10 km, only bettered by Remo Freuler at 11km.

I'm mobbed by the bloke next to me at the final whistle. I don't hang around for the fist pumps or the fireworks from Eva's Tavern. I walk back into Sneinton with philosophical Leicester fans who understand their plight rather than get angry about it.

There's time for a couple of pints in the Partizan Tavern before I catch the bus home and rustle up another award-winning tea for Ms Moon, who has her feet up watching crap TV quiz shows. She can't 'arf pick 'em.

Attendance: 29,301

Men of the Match Jitz Jani and Serge Aurier (Bosman signing of the season)