Colchester United 0-1 Bournemouth

Brian Clough anecdote by Archie Gemmill “In September 1970 I was playing for Preston North End when my manager, Alan Ball [father of the World Cup winner] told me Derby were interested in signing me. Ball and I, Brian Clough, his assistant manager Peter Taylor and the Derby secretary Stuart Webb all met at the Pack Horse Hotel in Bolton. There was no doubt who was in charge from the moment he swept into the lounge bar. Clough dominated the room, deciding exactly how he wanted the bar staff to arrange the table for our negotiations.

Brash, big-headed, just as he had appeared to me on television, Brian had everyone running around after him. There was another offer from Everton, but Clough was determined to sign me. After the hotel, he came back to my house. I said: 'I’m away to my bed. I’m signing nothing tonight.’ With that, Clough plonked himself down on the fireside rug, took off his shoes and announced he would sleep there for the night.

In the morning, Betty [Gemmill’s wife] was preparing breakfast when she heard someone come into the kitchen. Clough was standing there rubbing his hands together, dressed in no more than his boxer shorts. He ate a hearty breakfast and then, before I had a chance to put my last forkful into my mouth, he dragged me into the sitting room to finalise our negotiations and sign all the papers.”

It’s a quick getaway for Trumpy and Sticky from Warrington Town’s Cantilever Park. Trumpy is crying his eyes out into his empty one litre plastic bottle, which only hours ago was full of cider. Two pieces of bad news have just been relayed to the legend: Lewis McGugan has notched a late winner for the Tricky Trees, a team Trumpy despises and his beloved Foxes from Leicester are 2-0 down at Pride Park.

We agree on a 9.30 am meet for our trip to Colchester on Good Friday. “Don’t come any earlier, as the pubs aren’t open till midday”, remarks a sulking Bolton.

It’s been a miserable, tiring week at work. We settle around the TV on Tuesday evening and watch a performance with blood, guts, courage and spirit; sadly it’s in the operating theatre of Holby City and not England on the pitch in Montenegro.

I quaff a pint of Sanctuary from the Blue Monkey Brewery on Thursday lunchtime in the picture postcard village of Wysall, as we bid farewell to my old boss, who is moving to pastures new.

I pull up the blinds in the kitchen on Friday morning to be greeted with blue-painted skies. I pour myself a strong cup of coffee and rustle up a couple of poached eggs. New York indie rock band Yeah Yeah Yeahs are belting out their new single on 6Music.

I notice on the Colchester United message board that a very friendly U’s official has kindly offered to usher Trumpy and I pitch-side for a few photo opportunities before the game. It’s a lovely touch.

BBC Five Live’s northern football reporter, Peter Slater, has invited me to link in with him on LinkedIn. Trumpy and I met Peter a few seasons ago at Bury’s Gigg Lane. Perhaps he’ll offer Trumpy a job fetching beer and sandwiches from the corporate hospitality suite.

I’m outside Bolton’s house at 9.30 am on the dot. His set doesn’t look too good folks. The ‘Primarni’ shirt hangs below his charity shop blue jacket. He swings his East Midlands Airport carrier bag, where a bottle of Bulmer’s pear cider is buried at the bottom.

A cheese onion toasty has already been washed down with a bottle of Tanglefoot ale. As we pull on the A1 southbound, Ken Bruce’s Pop Master is about to start on Radio 2. Sticky storms into a healthy lead in the first round; Trumpy is aghast. There’s a Montenegro type comeback from Bolton in the second round, as honours end even.

Trumpy tells an extraordinary tale from last Saturday. He nipped into town (Nottingham) at 10 am and was back home for 4 pm. In that time he downed pints at the following watering holes: The Roebuck, Joseph Else, Coach & Horses, Yates’ Wine Lodge, The Bank, the Bell Inn, the Canal House, the Monkey Tree and finally the Stratford Haven. It’s a session that Best, Reed, Katona and Denise Welch would have struggled to live with.

We cruise past the sugar beet factory at Bury St Edmunds and chug down the bustling high street of Long Melford, where Bolton brags how he downed a pint in all eight pubs in a lunchtime session.

First port of call today is a Chef & Brewer establishment in the village of Great Horkesley. Trumpy shouts up two pints of Asphall Cyder and a pint of Adnams Southwold. Yes readers, he always drinks 2 pints to my every one. Scampi, chips and mushy peas are a steal at £4.95.

Next stop is the Three Horseshoes in Fordham. The landlady queries why I’m taking photos of the joint. She’s well tidy and makes a real fuss of Trumpy, who has bought 2 pints for himself, a Pepsi for me and a take-out bottle of raspberry and lime Kopparberg cider.There’s a Brat Pack evening in the pub tonight. Trumpy remarks that his uncle does a Frank Sinatra tribute act. “Both are shite”, he remarks.

The Weston Homes Stadium is plonked in the middle of nowhere. It’s the completely different experience to my usual non-league soiree. We have to part with £6 to park the car on an industrial estate, a 15 minute walk away from the ground.

Bolton requires a hip replacement and is none too chuffed with the hike to the ground. He has a drunken rant about Mark McGhee, Steve Wright, Adrian Durham and Sarah Cox It brightens up the day.

Colchester is a historic town in the county of Essex with a population of 100,000. It claims to be the oldest Roman town in Britain. Brit Pop duo Damon Albarn and Graham Coxon met at Stanway School, in the town, to form the band Blur.

Other notable personalities from Colchester include: ‘and in no particular order’ Dermot O’Leary, cricketers Neil Foster & Graham Napier, love rat Darren Day, and snooker player Ali Carter.

Colchester United were formed in 1937 and are nicknamed The U’s. I nipped into their old Layer Road ground on my charity tour of 108 grounds back in 2000. Capacity at their new ground is 10,000. Record signing is Steven Gillespie £400,000 from Cheltenham. Record fee received is £2,500,000 for Nottingham Forest cult hero Greg Halford from Reading.

Former Republic of Ireland international and Charlton Athletic midfielder Mark Kinsella is the Joe Dunne’s assistant manager at Colchester United.

I’ve arranged for a couple of tickets to be left on, unfortunately there appears to have been as they say on Fawlty Towers ‘a bit of a cock-up on the catering front.’

After queuing for an eternity we finally bag two tickets for the South Stand at £20 a piece. The programme is £3 and is a good read. The teams are just kicking off as we take our seat behind the goal the Cherries of Bournemouth will be attacking.

There’s an icy blast blowing down the ground. It’s not long before Trumpy is shivering. We’ve both under clubbed on the amount of clobber we are wearing.

Bournemouth soon find their groove after a bright opening by The U’s. League One Player of the Year, Matt Ritchie is tormenting the Colchester defence. He has a low sense of gravity and a beautiful touch. He always wants the ball and is rarely wasteful in possession. Ritchie shows the full back a clean pair of heels on 18 minutes; his cross is bundled into the back of the net by Brett Pitman.

Poor old Colchester, not sure if the wind is playing a factor, but I can’t see them scoring in a month of Sundays. The Cherries are wasteful in front of goal. No-one is more guilty than former Brentford and Rotherham striker Lewis Grabban. He misses a hatful of chances as on loan Chelsea ‘keeper Sam Walker single-handedly keeps his side in the game.

We both dive down to the soulless concrete concourse for a warm. There’s no cosy-carpeted clubhouse with character like you get in the Non League. ‘Jerk it Out’ by Swedish rock band Caesars blasts out the ground’s speakers, as we view the half time scores.

Colchester look hungrier with the wind at their backs, but take an age to deliver the ball into the box. On the hour journeyman striker Clinton Morrison is removed from the attack; we didn’t even notice he was playing.

The Cherries are dangerous on the counter-attack. Harry Arter forces Walker into action on two separate occasions. Colchester’s Billy Clifford clips the ball from the edge of the box; it curls agonisingly the wrong side of the post with the ‘keeper beaten.

We don’t hang around for injury time; there’s plenty of that due to Bournemouth’s time-wasting tactics and play-acting dramatics. Bolton endures a 15 minute hobble back to the car.

Attendance: 4727

Man of the Match: Sam Walker (Colchester)

Warrington Town 2-1 Salford City

It’s Saturday March 2nd and Sticky Palms is pacing up and down the touchline at Keyworth United’s Platt Lane complex. The reason my groundhopping has tailed off is because I coach ‘The Skipper’s’ team. We are drawing 2-2 in the Nottinghamshire County Cup semi-final. The final minutes of the game are ticking away. Dunkirk are our opponents. They are revered and feared in junior football.

The Skipper’ hits a slide-rule pass to a boy that’s been with us since he was eight. Adam scurries away from a tiring defender. He holds his nerve and blasts the ball into the back of the net. I can’t look at his Dad because I know I’ll burst into tears. What a journey we have had. I will make sure we enjoy the final at Arnold Town’s Eagle Valley ground on April 13th.

It’s Friday evening and I’m mooching about in the wine section at our local Sainsbury’s. That blooming 12% rocket fuel Rioja, that did for me the other week, is on offer again. I give it the swerve and plump for a bottle of Hardy’s Stamp. Mrs P has fallen victim to the dreaded lurgy. It means we can tuck into a fish n chip supper.

I’m down in the kitchen for 7.30 am on Saturday. I put my headphones on and do some research on the Cheshire town of Warrington, whilst listening to ‘Gravel Pit’ by American East Coast hip hop group Wu-Tang Clan. I was reminded of the song yesterday on 6 Music’s Radcliffe and Maconie show.

Twitter is reporting on the death of ‘faulty microphone’ comedian Norman Collier. The north west’s top blogger, Uwdi Krugg, tweets that the ‘Samba Boys’ of Runcorn have landed in Manchester for the NWCL top of the table clash with Maine Road.

We have royalty travelling in the ‘Rolls Royce’ today. Mr Trumpy Bolton is aboard the team bus, following a three month spell on the sidelines. The upholstery is treated to some lemon fresh spray that will hopefully overpower the cider fumes from his trusty litre plastic bottle of Bulmer’s.

Mrs T is giving ‘Trumpy Towers’ a lick of paint. “Get me out of here” says Bolton, “and if you get the chance love, the lawns need cutting." He slams the door and makes a hasty getaway. The legend has had two rounds of pate on toast for breakfast, washed down with a tin of McEwans.

He confesses to having successfully completed the ‘Dryathon’ in January. A stone has been shed and a penchant for green tea has been discovered. He claims that a sniff of the barmaid’s apron today may have him doing hand-stands, following a week off the sauce.

Warrington and Runcorn fans please remain seated while I reveal that Trumpy Bolton’s sole mission in life is to complete a financial transaction, usually involving a pint of cider, in every village, town and city in England, Wales and Scotland. He has a dog-eared, crumpled old atlas with each place visited highlighted off.

He has rediscovered his zest for the Foxes of Leicester. Recent away trips have doubled-up into binge-drinking weekends away in Ipswich, Blackpool and Huddersfield. He even bagged two tickets in Suffolk to see cheery Cockney duo Chas n Dave.

There’s almost a multiple pile-up on the A50 when the legend announces he is getting wed next year. Plans are afoot for a stag weekend in the Isle of Man – I’ll be checking out the local non-league scene in Douglas.

I chuckle at a tourist sign in Stoke that says Cultural Quarter.Ironically it’s close to Stoke City’s Britannia Stadium.

First port of call is the Queens Arms, a Wetherspoons in the town of Winsford. We park in a ropey area of the town. A battle-scarred youth passes us on a dodgy back street. It’s only midday and trade is already brisk. Trumpy shouts up a pint of cider and two pints of Oracle from the Salopian Brewery in Shropshire.

He sits gooey-eyed, in silence, admiring the drinking prowess of a young girl, who effortlessly downs 3 bottles of WKD in the space of half an hour. I wolf down a chicken and bacon salad before departing to our next watering hole.

I flick the radio on to hear Darren Fletcher describe the opening goal for Wigan-born Everton midfielder Leon Osman against Man City. David Platt has missed it; he’s preparing the oranges in the away dressing room.

Trumpy has sniffed out a Marston new build in the middle of nowhere. It’s a soulless joint. Sticky’s on Coca Cola now as Bolton ups it a gear in the drinking stakes. I’d put him in the same bracket as Best, Burton and Reed.

We hit the town of Warrington, on the banks of the River Mersey, at 2.15pm. The town embraced the industrial revolution and exploited the nearby Manchester Ship Canal, close to where the local football is situated. Back in the day, steel-making, brewing and textiles were the biggest employers in the area. IKEA opened its first store in Britain in Warrington.

On March 20th 1993 the IRA detonated two bombs on Bridge Street, in the town, the day before Mother’s Day. Two young boys tragically lost their lives. 56 people were injured, 4 seriously.

A list of notable people from Warrington include: Stones Roses lead singer Ian Brown, the recently deceased actor Pete Postlewhaite, Brookside’s Sue Johnston, Radio 2 breakfast DJ Chris Evans, Kerry Katona, BGT winner George Sampson, ex-England cricketer Neil Fairbrother, flat race jockey Paul Hanagan and former News of the World editor Rebekah Brooks.

 We cross over the Cantilever Bridge and park the Rolls Royce outside the Latchford Baptist Church. A group of lads point Trumpy in the general direction of another hostelry. Steely Dan is blasting out the juke box of the Cheshire Cheese as the legend necks another.

What a pair of buffoons we are, a wrong turning out of the pub door causes a 20 minute diversion. I pay my £7 on the gate and £2 for an informative programme. I notice an excellent stat in the programme. Two European Cup winning captains went to the same school: Phil Thompson (Liverpool) and Dennis Mortimer (Aston Villa).

We all stand in silence to remember those that lost their lives or were seriously injured 20 years ago. It’s a moving and special moment.

Warrington Town is a lovely club. They have Ollie the Owl as a mascot and attract loads of kids in club colours. The ground is neat and tidy. There’s a club shop and a modern brick-built clubhouse. There are seated areas on both sides of the ground.

Bolton checks out the opening hours in the Social Club, while I take my customary stroll around the ground. The home fans are in good voice. Lyrics are used to the tunes of Coronation St, The Beatles, Bananarama and Depeche Mode.

I find Trumpy slumped in a seat on the back row of the stand, stuffing his face with a steak and kidney pie. The game is nothing much to write home about. All the action seems to take place off the field of play.

I’ve clocked former Barnsley and Wigan midfielder Darren Sheridan to my left. The woman in front of him has stood up. Sheridan politely asks her to sit down as she is blocking his view. Unpleasantries are exchanged. The woman storms off eventually. Trumpy is captivated by it all.

The Warrington left winger skins a defender and pops a shot off. The ‘keeper can only push it out to former Bury and Morecambe striker, John Newby, who stabs the ball home for the opening goal.

Darren Sheridan’s mood hasn’t improved much. He’s fished a few betting slips out of his pocket and has got Sticky on the phone checking the latest scores. He takes the news badly that Liverpool, Villa and Alfreton are all behind. He scrunches up his coupons.

Bolton has purchased another pint and half from behind the bar. It could be a no-show in the second from him as Italy entertain Ireland in the Six Nations. I have a quick chat with the ‘Salford Three’ behind the goal. Apparently the team are in transition.

I also bump into Jon Newby’s father who is distraught that his lad has been subbed off. He proudly tells me how his lad scored Morecambe’s first ever League goal. His other son, a marketing manager at Chelsea, has just phoned in from Cowdenbeath where he is groundhopping.

I find Trumpy studiously looking up and down at Warrington’s manager, Shaun Reid (brother of Peter). Reid’s face is twisted and contorted. At no time does he appear to enjoy the game.

Warrington are 2-0 up by now. A nervy last 15 minutes are endured after Adrian Bellamy pulls a goal back for the visitors.

Attendance: 190

Man of the Match: Salford ‘Keeper

Charlton Athletic 0 Nottingham Forest 2

It’s May 1st 1993. Sticky Palms has fielded for 40 overs in baking heat in the village of Aslockton, in south Notts. Ten miles down the road the greatest manager of all-time is counting down the clock, as the final few minutes of his illustrious career ticks away.

Nottingham Forest are about to be relegated from top flight football. Here is an anecdote from the best ever football book written, by Duncan Hamilton, a journalist from my village, which is titled ‘Provided You Don’t Kiss Me.’

‘During his last match in charge, Clough stood straight-backed outside the dugout like a captain determined to be on the bridge when the ship went down. After the final whistle, the crowd spilled on to the pitch. In one photograph, Clough, on the verge of tears, appears in the centre of the passionate thousands who were determined not to let him go. Afterwards, he accepted a flower from a young girl, as distraught as a mourner at a funeral. He looked at her, his head on one side, and said tenderly, 'Hey beauty, no tears today, please.’

'Can I have a word from you, Brian,’ asked a television interviewer outside the ground. 'Of course,’ said Clough, walking away. 'Goodbye.’

It’s Tuesday evening and I’m sat in the notorious and infamous ‘A’ Block. The Glaswegian, William McIntosh Davies (in real money ‘King Billy’) is back in town. There have been casualties, paths have been crossed and old scores have been settled. The media have a huddle on twitter; two of their own have been shown the door. King Billy refuses to talk to local BBC station ‘Radio Red.’

The Terriers of Huddersfield are up against the Red Dogs of Nottingham It’s one-sided in the first 15 minutes. The visitors bag one; but it really should be two. Ironically, Mark Robins is the newly appointed Huddersfield manager. It was at this very ground in 1990 that he saved Alex Ferguson’s job in an FA Cup tie.

Out of the blue Forest have an half an hour spell of mesmerising champagne football that I haven’t witnessed since the 5-1 mauling of Leicester City back in 2009. It has whetted my appetite. The Charlton tickets have been bagged. We’re off to stop at the Mayor of London’s pad in Putney Heath for the weekend.

I toss a few clothes into an overnight bag. Murphy, my budgie, sheds a few tears; he doesn’t like his Dad being away. White Van Man is revving up the car. We’ve allowed the Friday night rush-hour traffic to die down. We pick up ‘Dafty’ and the ‘Mayor of London, who is on a whistle stop tour of Nottingham. We’re soon roaring down the M1.

It’s just gone 9 pm when we rock up outside the Mayor’s swanky penthouse pad on Putney Heath. We throw our bags in and hit the town; well actually Roehampton and the swish surroundings of the recently refurbished King’s Head.

We can’t get a late beer for love or money down Wimbledon village. Much to Sticky’s disgust, we’re charged on the door at Hemmingway’s wine bar. You can’t even shout up a beer. The Mayor orders a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc for £21. It tastes revolting.

I recall New Zealand being 11-3 when I finally hit the sack. I find a twitchy and nervy White Van Man frantically scouring Ticketmaster in the morning. Beyonce tickets are up for grabs at 9 am. I casually ask how much they cost. £95 is the reply. Bloody hell, I could nigh on watch 20 non league games for that price.

We’re striding out towards Putney high street. Destination is a tidy little greasy spoon called Cappuccino. White Van Man falls in love with a rowdy Russian waitress. Egg yolk dribbles down his chin as the Bond girl brings out a production line of fry-ups. Dusty Springfield’s 1966 hit ‘You Don’t Have to Say You Love Me’ adds to the atmosphere. It’s the best £4.95 we’ll spend today.

The Mayor queues for train tickets at Putney Station whilst Sticky is accosted by an Irish ticket tout. We alight at London Bridge. Sticky has sorted out a cosy little boozer tucked away in a back street. I ignore the moans and groans of WVM as we pass the soulless chain pub All Bar One.

‘Brownie’ and a few of his pals hook up with us at the Royal Oak, an old-fashioned corner house in the London Bridge Quarter. I enjoy a pint of Harvey’s Kiss. WVM has a face like a smacked arse. The Mayor says he expects Nicholas Lyndhurst to pop in from the BBC series ‘Goodnight Sweetheart.’

We’re soon back on the overhead line and pulling into Charlton. Sticky jnr (my lad) has already tipped us the wink on an away supporters pub. A friendly policeman points us in the right direction. Young junior has been on the sauce; he fleeces ‘Hopper’ for a tenner and gets his mates a round in.

We guzzle a few 1664s and watch Jonathan Walters do what he does best. He fluffs a penalty and in general is ‘Having a Walters.’ Sticky jnr and his muppet mates lead the chanting as we amble down Valley Grove.

Charlton is a district in south-east London and part of the Borough of Greenwich. Charlton Athletic were founded in 1905 and are nicknamed the Addicks. Record goal-scorer is Derek Hales, who in 1979 was sensationally sent off for a punch-up along with his own team-mate, Mike Flanagan, by referee Brian Martin, who lived in my village.

The youngest player ever to have appeared for Charlton is Jonjo Shelvey, who was only 16 years of age. Record transfer fee paid is £4,750,000 for Jason Euell. Record transfer fee received is £16,500,000 from Tottenham Hotspur for Darren Bent.

It’s £30 for my ticket and £3 for a 60 page programme. We’ve a prime spot in the South Stand. The Charlton DJ ups the stakes with ‘London’s Calling’ by The Clash and ‘Can’t Stand Me Now’ by The Libertines featuring ex QPR programme seller Pete Doherty.

It’s an impressive stadium that has kept its looks despite the Club’s fall from grace. A huge block of high-rise flats is situated in the corner of the ground. I like Charlton Athletic. They once bought a couple of good uns from my old team – Lincoln City – Steve Thompson and George Shipley were bargain buys.

The teams walk out onto the ugly-looking playing surface. The travelling support has swelled to 3000. They salute King Billy, who is bursting with pride. It’s all Forest from the word go. It’s a return to the diamond formation that was so successful in the Paul Hart era. Ironically, Hart watches from the stands as Charlton’s Academy Director.

For all Forest’s possession they barely fashion a chance in the opening quarter. The game-changer happens on 35 minutes. Greg Halford outmuscles Yan Kermogant and ushers the ball out of play. The Frenchman has a Cantona-like moment of madness, kicking out at the Forest defender. After consulting with his assistant referee Madley waves a red card.

There’s controversial news coming from the Mayor’s twitter feed at the break. Former Charlton legend Paul Elliott has resigned from his post as FA anti-racism campaigner, following an ‘inappropriate text’ to former colleague Richard Rufus.

Forest have the momentum and turn on the style. Charlton can’t cope with their ex skipper Andy Reid. His give and go’s, marauding runs and defence-splitting passing are worth the £30 alone. He plays in ‘The Pole’ Raddy Majewski, who stays on his feet and toe pokes the ball home.

The Tricky Trees are rampant and the second one is not long in coming. Simon Cox’s shot from the right is spilt by ‘keeper Hamer, who has had a dreadful afternoon, former Gunner Henri Lansbury blasts home from close range.

The Mayor of London is delirious. He’s backed Raddy and NFFC 2-0 at 115/1. Forest look good for more though. Ward scorpion kicks one onto the post, whilst the impressive Darius Henderson sees an effort thump back off the woodwork.

Johnnie Jackson shows some quality for the Addicks. His set pieces are deadly. He had a spell at the Pies during the Munto era, but soon scarpered home when the money dried up.

The whistle goes, the Mayor’s bet has come up trumps. We sink a few more pints at a pub down the road. We’re late for the train and sprint down the steps. Some Charlton fans tease us from above a bridge I engage in banter but fall spectacularly like Devon Loch in the Grand National. Charlton station is filled with laughter. I bury my head in my hands and sit sheepishly on the train. I can’t arf pick em!

Man of the Match: Andy Reid

Attendance: 18,697

Worsbrough Bridge Ath 3 Pontefract Collieries 0

It’s Wednesday evening and I’m relaxing on the sofa watch a gripping Champions League quarter final first leg between Real Madrid and Manchester United. I hear the key inserted into the lock of the front door. Mrs P is back from the Gala Bingo in Beeston.

The kids come racing down the stairs. Mrs P raises a clenched fist. I didn’t think the Ronaldo header was that good. A wad of notes are waved in my direction. The £300 jackpot has been won. Sticky jnr gets £10 for passing his plumbing exam, ‘The Skipper’ gets a crisp £10 note for a good school report, Murphy is promised a few sprigs of millet spray and Finley a bag of Wag rabbit food. The rest is put towards her weekend away with the girls in Barcelona.

Poor old Groundhopper gets Jack diddlysquat. Not a sausage readers. £10 would have gained me entry to two non league games and also bagged me a couple programmes. It’s a bloody outrage.

Valentine’s Day is put back 24 hours. Mrs P snaps up an M&S ‘Meal Deal’ (out of the winnings). A medium rare sirloin steak is washed down with a bottle of Rioja. I rise early on Saturday morning. A bowl of muesli is accompanied by Madonna’s 1986 hit ‘Vogue’ on the 6Music ‘Breakfast Show.’

An offer of a stroll down Central Avenue, in West Bridgford, is flatly refused by Mrs P; she’s off to town with her mum. I give the ‘Rolls Royce’ a good old clean and valet. By midday I’m on the Nottingham ring road heading towards the M1.

Mark Pougatch is presenting Five Live Sport from Luton’s Kenilworth Road. The Hatters livewire winger, Andre Gray, will be asking questions of the Millwall defence with his raw pace and energy. The boy was a steal for £25k from Hinckley United. I tipped off a few clubs about him, but they’d rather buy 32 year old journeymen on two year contracts.

I’ve scoured the 2013 edition of the Good Beer Guide for a decent real ale house just off the motorway. I exit at Junction 35 and I’m soon parked up in the village of Thorpe Hesley just outside Rotherham.

I’m just about to open the front door of the Masons, when I notice a missed call from blog legend ‘Trumpy Bolton.’ The great man is propping up the bar in the ‘Stage’ on Upper Parliament Street in Nottingham. It used to be called ‘Fat Larry’s’ by the locals, as it was once owned by former Nottingham Forest defender Larry Lloyd. We firm up details for our visit to Colchester United on Good Friday.

The landlord at the Masons is right old grumpy bugger. I order a pint of Caledonian’s ‘Over the Bar’ and choose sausage, bacon, egg and chips off the menu, in an attempt to soak up that Rioja. The landlady is no Carol Vorderman, though folks, as it takes her quite a few minutes to add up £4.50 and £2.70 on a notepad.

They’re serious about their food in this neck of the woods though. I’m asked do I want my bacon plain, smokey and crispy.

The pub is low-beamed, dimly lit and has one of those patterned carpets associated with all Berni Inns in the 70s. A classic Walker Brothers track ‘Take it Easy’ is piped out of the speakers. ‘Shifty Edwards’ at work loves that track. There’s about a dozen people congregated in the bar. I’m comfortably the youngest by about 20 years. It is indeed God’s Waiting Room.

I can’t fault the snap though folks. The helpings are generous and are accompanied by a red rose left over from the previous evening (14th). A bloke comes out the toilets. He’s sporting huge sideburns and looks like the lead singer out of the Flying Pickets.

I’m soon sweeping down the A61 into the village of Worsbrough Bridge. Worsbrough is an area two miles south of Barnsley with a population just shy of 10,000. It’s built on a valley. It has the Trans-Pennine Trail, a mill, a country park and canal.

The football club were founded in 1923. Famous players to worn the red colours of the Briggers include: former Republic of Ireland manager and a personal friend of ‘Gangsta’, Mick McCarthy and ex Birmingham and WBA striker Geoff Horsfield.

Worsbrough’s most famous son is former National Union of Mineworkers President, Arthur Scargill. He led the union during the Miners’ strike 1984-85.

The car park is chock-a-block I park on a side street just spitting distance (well El Hadji Diouf would manage it) from their Park Road ground. It’s £4 on the gate and £1 for a very good value programme. It’s a cracking effort by programme editor Charlie Wyatt.

I get chatting to a jolly, bubbly old boy, who’s manning the gate. He tells me that the ground was covered in snow on Wednesday.

The ground is outstanding. I’m taken aback with the views and character of the place. It has a ground-share with the local cricket club. There’s a new brick built changing room in the top right hand corner of the ground and a lovely old rickety stand running along the near touchline. On the far side is the covered River Terrace.

Today’s visitors are Pontefract from West Yorkshire. It’s a historic market town with a population of 28,000. It is famous for its liquorice factories. Locals comically refer to the town as ‘Ponte Carlo.’

The sun is shining brightly in blue-painted skies as referee Mr D Guest whistles for the off. I’ve positioned myself in the beautiful old stand behind the dugouts. It takes a full two minutes before the Pontefract bench begin to irritate me.

‘Liner’ on the far side gets dog’s abuse. You’d need a pair of binoculars to see whether the decisions were correct or not. The pair of them bore the pants off me. They barely make a coaching point and their team can’t string two passes together. They are bloody awful.

Worsbrough take the lead on 11 minutes. Former Ossett Town forward Lee Garside clouts a 25 yard free-kick which almost breaks the back of the net. Another goal is chalked off for the Bridge for pushing, as the visitors continue to complain to all and sundry.

I bump into a ‘Dirty Dirty Leeds’ fan from ‘Ponte Carlo’ in the Gents at the break. He’s curious to know why someone from Nottingham would travel so far to watch a non-league game.

Now that sun has dropped, it’s gone decidedly chilly. I go for a warm in the tea bar. I thought I’d walked into a church hall. A piping hot coffee is served at the hatch by a chatty lady. Trade is brisk. Tray after tray of chips and curry sauce are served up. There’s a flag sat in a wooden picture frame on the wall from the Barrow Branch of the NUM.

I couldn’t stand another 45 minutes of bellyaching from the Ponte bench. I stand on the opposite side of the ground. Ponte improve slightly. On the hour Bridge double their lead with a header from the impressive Adam Podmore. The game is over on 67 minutes with Garside getting a second with a fine header. The Briggers are playing a beautiful game and cleverly use the width of the pitch.

‘Motormouth’ from the Ponte bench has come on as a sub. He clearly talks a better game than he plays. He fluffs a one-on-one with the Bridge ‘keeper as ‘Colls’ create a late flurry of chances.

As I head out the ground I notice a distinct lack of flat-cappers and four-legged friends There’s just the one, a Heinz variety.

Attendance: 65

Man of the Match: Lee Garside

Loughborough University 1 Dunkirk 1

The weekend has been kind to the team that I coach. After a fortuitous victory in the County Cup, the previous Saturday, we pinch a point at Arnold Town, to continue our rise up the table. The Eagles show a touch of class by putting food on afterwards in the Clubhouse.

Sunday morning is spent in the bitter cold and pouring rain, in a tough, uncompromising suburb of Nottingham called Bulwell. I stare out of my car window at a headstone in memory of PC Jed Walker, a police dog handler, who was killed in the line of duty in 2003, by a drug addict fleeing in a stolen car.

Murphy is proper winding Mrs P up in the afternoon. He’s parading up and down the ironing board, pecking at all the clothes she’s pressing. Despite several warnings from the good lady, my feathered friend refuses to shift. He’s treated to a steam clean as Mrs P sprays hot water in his direction. Don’t forget folks he’s from Handsworth in Sheffield and is as hard as nails.

It’s a long and lonely evening on Sunday. Dancing on Ice is followed by Call the Midwife, where remarkably a woman gives birth to a child. The ITV announcer talks up an episode of Mr Selfridge at 9pm by saying there is a ‘dramatic car crash.’ Bloody hell mate, in 1909, who between, Fred Flintstone, Barney Rubble and the Anthill Mob?

I have a long, hot, steaming bath on Monday evening. I’m listening to the Monday Night Club on the radio. Bootle-born defender Jamie Carragher has announced his retirement from the professional game at the end of the season. Ian Dennis and Mark Lawrenson tell a tale about the Reds recent FA Cup exit at Oldham Athletic.

Carragher and 19 year old Suso were unused subs. Whilst the press were filing reports and packing up their gear, the pair of them re-emerged from the Boundary Park tunnel to an eyrie, empty ground, for a 25 minute drill. The young Spaniard pulled up 10 metres short of the end cone. He turned round and ran back. Carragher dished out the mother-of-all rollockings to the youngster, for taking a short cut, to an amused and shocked press pack: Professional to the end.

It’s chuffing freezing out their folks. I wrapped up to the nines. I plonk Sticky jnr’s G-Star Raw beanie hat on my bonce and rifle through my drawers for my new Next mittens. I hear the blast of a Vauxhall horn as The Taxman chugs past our drive to spin his car round.

What’s going off here? There’s a chap in the front seat who resembles Freddie Boswell off the Scouse ‘comedy’ Bread – bloody hell it’s legendary Keyworth United Jack of-all-trades Alan ‘Jacko’ Jackson.

I have a chunter at the pair of them as I squeeze into the back seat. Jacko has the seat positioned right back. I didn’t know I’d booked a seat on a Ryanair flight. We pass the Rancliffe Arms at Bunny, a place publicly slated by Nottingham Forest defender Greg Halford on Twitter for poor service – having seen his passing range, that’s rich coming from him.

Holywell Park has only recently opened and the postcode doesn’t register on the Tom Tom. We take a punt and swing into the main gates of the University grounds and through a barrier. We ask a few dimwit students if they know where the ground is; they haven’t bloody clue readers.

We finally stumble upon the brightly lit stadium that hosted the likes of Tottenham Hotspur and Manchester United last season. We go on one of Sticky Palms’ notorious short-cuts. What should have been a two minute walk turns out to a 15 minute hike from hell. The Taxman and Jacko are puffing, panting and visibly shaken as we reach the turnstile. Jacko pulls his usual stunt of blagging his way in as a concessionary.

Loughborough has had a university since 1966, but the institution dates back to 1909. It has a track record for producing top class athletes. Notable alumni include: Steve Backley, Sebastian Coe, David Moorcroft and Paula Radcliffe. England cricketers Monty Panesar and Chris Read have also studied there. Former Arsenal goalkeeper Bob Wilson is their patron.

Notable students who have gone on to play in the professional game include: Bradley Pritchard (Charlton), Lawrie Sanchez (Wimbledon) and Leon McSweeney (Hartlepool).

It’s £4 on the gate and £1.50 for a thin, glossy programme. I’d expected a thick 50 pager with the amount of time students have on their hands. There are a few words from Aussie coach Stuart McLaren, the usual pen pics and club histories lifted from the websites.

We’re greeted with a huge stand running along the nearest touchline. The remaining sides are fenced off with wooden panels and a few concrete steps. The PA system is crystal clear as the announcer reads out the teams in a BBC trained voice.

I’m on the lookout for him. Where is the little urchin? Oh, wait a minute, here he comes, trudging down the touchline, head bowed, resplendent in his red and black tracksuit. Ian Upton is the joint manager of Dunkirk FC. If he wasn’t a non league manager, he’d be on the stage, with his cheeky grin and cutting one-liners.

I lean on the wall and let battle commence. The students are wearing an awful all-purple strip, with a hint of white. The Boatmen abandon their usual red outfit, preferring their navy blue away colours.

I used to adore watching Dunkirk when ‘The Three Degrees’ were up top, but Lavelle, Theo and ‘Jazzy’ sold out for a few extra bob and a drop in standard. A faster front three I have yet to see; their pace used to make me go goosepimply and misty-eyed.

The quality is just not here tonight. There’s no Darren Garmston with his exquisite first touch, raking passes and ridiculous long range efforts. They’ve been replaced with young legs, energy and endeavour. I admire Dunkirk for that. It’s a brave decision to take in the rough and tumble of Step 5 in the Midland Alliance.

Loughborough have one or two on show, as you would expect, that could play at a higher level. The No.4 bosses the midfield. 20 year old Daniel Nti, their leading scorer, glides along the crunching surface. The former Newport Pagnell striker has already bagged 21 goals for the season.

Josh Dixon’s early opener is cancelled out by Kieran Wells, following a wicked, dipping corner from the left. The Students look more dangerous, with the visitors relying on set-pieces.

My hands are so cold that I don’t bother fishing out my mobile from my jeans pocket, to check the scores. I normally keep my Twitter feed updated with the half-time state of affairs. Jacko has clocked that there is a lift that takes you up to the stand. I walk up the stairs and wait a few minutes for ‘Compo’ and ‘Cleggy’ to exit the lift.

There’s a fine view of Loughborough from far and beyond. The teams are back out again, but the high tempo and pace of the game has been replaced with misplaced passes and untimely tackles. There’s a clash of cultures and a bit of bother in the dugout.

Uppo has been strangely quiet all evening. There’s the occasional one-liner: “are we watching the Harlem Globetrotters, ref?”, after a blatant handball. The wind looks like it’s been knocked out of his sails. He’s lost that fire in his belly. I haven’t even seen him spark up a ciggie. Trouble though, is often lurking around the corner for the legend.

With minutes remaining and with thoughts turning to downing a real ale or two in the Rancliffe Arms (if there’s not a queue ... eh Greg) it appears that the lino and Uppo are having a nose to nose. Turns out that the Lino has been rude to Dunkirk’s young uns. Uppo’s having none of it. It’s good to see that the great man still cares.


Attendance: 65

Man of the Match: Jamie Carragher

Nuneaton 2 Braintree Town 4

I coach a team of under 15s on Saturdays. It limits the amount of groundhopping I can cram in. Today we are entertaining a team with a 100% record. Last season they won the treble. We lost 6-4 at their gaff, earlier in the season. I watch their warm-up and study their body language. They are cocksure and confident. The game appears to be won before a ball has even been kicked.

Fast forward the clock an hour and my little team, full of local lads, are two the good. Egos have been bruised. We’ve hassled and harried them - even outmuscled them. You find out so much more about a team when they are behind; particularly when it's alien to them.  My boys have been magnificent. They have footballed the opposition off the park. We score a third and put the game to bed. The beautiful game has been kind to us today.

It’s Friday evening and I’m frantically wading my way through message boards on Tony Kempster’s groundhopping forum. Heavy snow is falling in the north and east. There’s a chink of light in Warwickshire. Nuneaton are quietly confident of getting the green light for their Conference Premier fixture at the Liberty Way Stadium against Braintree Town from Essex.

I settle down to a glass of Red and chicken fajitas. Mrs P is watching EastEnders. I borrow Sticky jnr’s Beats headphone and tune into my mate’s community radio show. He’s hosting an 80s alternative Scottish music show to celebrate Burns Night. He plays The Associates cover-version of Diana Ross’s ‘Love Hangover.’ I kid you not readers, it’s better than the original. The band’s lead singer Billy McKenzie was found dead in his father’s garden shed in 1997. He was only 39 years old.

I pull back the curtains on Saturday morning to discover a dusting of snow. I poach a couple of eggs and make a brew as Five Live report on folk abandoning their vehicles on the M6 close to Wigan. I quite fancy going to Shrewsbury, as it’s the closest ground to my house that I’ve never been to. A 170 mile round trip in snowy conditions might not go down too well with the good lady.

I have a chat with Murphy my green and canary-coloured budgie He’s excited at the prospect of his team, Norwich City, advancing into the FA Cup 5th Round. He predicts a goal rout against the Hatters of Luton at Carrow Road.

I’m just about to set off when Rammers drops me a call. Do I fancy going to Sincil Bank to watch the Imps and maybe chalk off Castle Rock’s Golden Eagle real ale house on Lincoln High Street. Only the latter appeals to me. I thank him for his tempting offer.

The drive to Nuneaton is fairly uneventful. Sat Nav was taking me down the M69. I prefer the M42 and A444. Five Live are at the Britannia Stadium for the Stoke v Man City FA Cup tie. Mark Pougatch is talking about Jonathan Walters’s unfortunate own goals and fluffed penalty against Chelsea. Any moments of misfortune are now referred to as ‘Having a Walters.’

I’m not pinning my hopes on the Attleborough Arms, that the ‘Lucky Dip’ section has thrown up in the Good Pub Guide, of being much kop. Most of the inns and restaurants I pass on the A444 look tired and tatty. Dinner is a major disappointment. The main eating room is large and spacious. It’s at full capacity for a Saturday lunchtime. The barman serves without any enthusiasm or personality. There are no guest ales on. I plump for a chip butty and wash it down with a pint of Stella. The chips are bloody awful.

I swing into Liberty Way, home of Nuneaton Town. There’s a fair old crowd streaming into the industrial estate. I came 5 years ago when the Nuns entertained Stalybridge Celtic in the Conference North.

Nuneaton is a town with a population just shy of 80,000 in the county of Warwickshire. Due largely to munitions factories, the town suffered from heavy bombing by the German Luftwaffe in the Second World War. On the 17th May 1941 100 people were killed, 380 houses destroyed and over 10,000 properties damaged.

Nuneaton’s born and bred footballers include: Trevor Peake, John Curtis, Peter Whittingham, Nigel Winterburn and Matty Fryatt. Other cult celebrity are: Larry Grayson, Mary Whitehouse, Dean Richards, Paul Bradley (that dimwit Nigel off EastEnders), referee Stuart Attwell, film director Ken Loach and Victorian novelist George Eliot.

Braintree has a population of over 40,000. Notable residents include: Pineapple Dance Studios teacher Louis Spence and hardcore Rave band The Prodigy.

It’s £12 on the turnstile and £2.50 for a programme. I turn left and position myself at the top of some concrete steps. As modern stadia goes, I quite like the Triton Showers Community Arena.

I caught Nuneaton Town on a good day up at Hyde last season. I saw a virtuoso performance from troubled midfielder Kevin Thornton. According to a groundhopper I know from Nottingham, these days Thornton’s feet and sublime passing are dazzling folk at the Racecourse Ground in Wrexham.

This is my first viewing of Braintree Town. They are managed by former West Ham winger (358 appearances) and England international Alan Devonshire. Highly-rated striker Dan Holman is in the starting line-up. I saw him terror Gainsborough Trinity last season for his previous club Histon.

It’s a scrappy opening 20 minutes. Nuneaton lack energy and ideas. Only teenage striker Wes York poses any threat. This boy was a steal from Leicestershire East Midlands Counties side Anstey Town.

Braintree take the lead on 16 minutes with James Mulley heading into empty net following hesitation in the home defence. Nuneaton finally wake up and have an effort cleared off the line. They equalise on the stroke of half time. The Braintree keeper is cleaning windows from a corner and is ‘Having a Walters’, as an unmarked Simon Forsdick heads the ball home.

I remember the DJ playing a Killers track on my last visit; he obliges once again with ‘All These Things That I’ve Done.’ He follows it up with Simple Minds 1984 hit Waterfront. His only blemish is a crazy Rave song, which was probably a tribute to Braintree boys The Prodigy.

Sticky jnr will be having a Dickie fit at The City Ground. Nottingham Forest are 0-2 down to Italy (Watford). Mrs P will be removing all breakable items and covering up Murphy’s cage, in preparation for his return.

Former Long Buckby and Histon striker Dan Holman has kept the home defenders on their toes. His movement and touch are first class. He finds himself in space out on the left, there’s nothing really on. Holman knocks it out his feet and unleashes a shot with his left boot which finds the bottom right hand corner of the net. The boy is destined for a bigger stage.

On 60 minutes the visitors are awarded a free kick just inside their own half. Dean Wells spots Nuneaton’s ‘keeper doing a spot of gardening He hits a sand wedge that catches the wind, McNamara back pedals furiously, he looks like a drowning man as the ball sails over his head and just under the crossbar. It’s Beckhamesque and the goal of the season.

The Nuns make the final five minutes interesting, clawing a goal back through Delroy Gordon. Braintree score a fourth through substitute Dack to kill the game stone dead and give them a deserved victory.

I scroll down Twitter and notice the stand-out result of the day. Bloody hell, who’s going to break the news to Murphy that the Hatters have dumped the Canaries out of the Cup?


Man of the Match: Dan Walker

Attendance: 761