Irchester United 2-2 Oadby Town

My 50th birthday has been and gone. We had a little shindig at ours. All the characters from the blog were in attendance apart from Trumpy Bolton, who was holed-up in Bournemouth after watching the Foxes beat the Cherries.

The Zuffler very kindly bought me a ticket to watch my favourite Geordie funk 'n soul band, Smoove and Turrell at The Donkey Pub on Welford Road in Leicester. It was another night to remember.

The following Saturday I'm up at the windswept old pit village of Rainworth near Mansfield, where the armed robber and murderer 'the Black Panther' was famously pounced upon by the afternoon shift of Rufford Colliery in 1976.

My Under 16 team have had the misfortune to draw Mansfield Town in the semi-final of the Notts FA Shield. John Ramshaw is their Head of Youth and a good friend of mine. We're hanging in there at 1-0 when I clock 'Rammers' on the touchline. We exchange plesantries. I ask him who the Stags are playing later in the day. Turns out it's the Shrimpers of Southend. Old Rammers will be able to compare false tans with Phil Brown.

It's Saturday morning and Brian Matthew is on fire on his Radio 2 Sound of the 60s Show. He plays two corkers on the bounce - 'Homeward Bound' and 'Last Train to Clarksville.' Murphy the Budgie is not impressed. The green and canary-coloured budgie is tense and moody ahead of Norwich's clash with Spurs on Sunday.

Folk have asked why Chris Hughton hasn't taken a punt on Murphy and chucked him straight in the first team on the wing. Sadly, his disciplinary record for head-butting has seen countless appearances before the Budgie FA.

Sticky junior has woken up with a hacking cough and tight chest. It means the mighty Keyworth United Under 18s will be down to the bare bones for the visit to Beiruit (Netherfield) tomorrow.

Mrs P has gone on one of those team-bonding thingies at a spa in Northamptonshire. I scour the interweb over a bowl of porridge. The Ukrainian President has done a bunk. It's like a scene from the film Mrs Doubtfire as Sticky Palms vaccs up, cleans the bathroom and washes the 'Rolls Royce.'

I'm on the road to Northamptonshire, a county that has never really captured my imagination. I've got behind a lass on a horse that has a bigger arse than Heather off Eastenders. I finally find my way onto the M1. Smoove and Turrell's 'Eccentric Audio' is blasting out the speakers.

I pull into the Stag's Head in Great Doddington for a bite to eat. I have a pint of real ale and a Brie and bacon wrap. It's an old stone-built pub, with a split-level dining area. The only downside is the droning voice of Middlesbrough pop singer James Arthur.

Irchester has a population of 5000 and lies two miles from Wellingborough and Rushden. Its best known feature is the country park, where Groundhopper makes a unscheduled pit stop for the toilet. Former Liverpool penalty king and Graham Taylor's assistant, Phil Neal, was born in the village. He won a staggering 8 League titles, 4 European Cups, 4 League Cups and a UEFA Cup.

Irchester United's Alfred Street ground is only a few miles away. There's ample parking. It's a bargain £3 on the gate. A wafer-thin issue of the Romans Review is £1. I head to the Social Club to avoid the biting wind.

I already like the joint and its community-shared vibe. The club has gaming machines, a pool table, dart board, jukebox and table skittles. A rock band called Empire will be head-banging like Murphy Palmer later this evening. It's time to venture out, though. There's a small stand behind the nearest goal with three rows of seats that are so close to the goal you would feel the full force of a shot from leading Oadby goalscorer Courtney Meade.

The ground is shared with the Cricket Club, which is roped-off. Irchester took a 9-0 gubbing off the United Counties League Division One leaders Oadby Town less than a month ago. They should be 1-0 down after 15 seconds with Meade lifting the ball the wrong side of the post.

Irchester make them pay moments later with what appears to be an own goal following a free-kick from the right. Courtney Meade has banged in 25 goals this season and has begun to attract the attention of higher League clubs. He glides along the tacky surface and has a change of pace. His body language and lack of aggression are clues to why he still plies his trade at this level. He equalises on 15 minutes with a thumping shot into the roof of the net.

The Irchester coach is cheesing me off. He hurls a torrent of abuse at the Oadby centre half and referee following claims of a kick-out by the defender. His language is foul, abusive and unnecessary. Women and children are close by. The official takes no action against him.

I go for a warm in the Clubhouse. King Billy's Nottingham Forest have thrown the towel in at Turf Moor. Notts County are 2-1 up in a relegation battle with Shrewsbury Town. Former Leicester City player Jon Stevenson nudges Oadby ahead two minutes into the second half. Oadby press forward but can't find the winner. I grab a quick chat with former Leicester City and Aston Villa centre forward Julian Joachim. He's still turning out at the age of 39.

Irchester score out of the blue at the death. As I walk out of the ground I overhear a guy in a Hertfordshire FA coat being quite rude to a punter who was only asking a polite question.

Man of the Match: Jon Stevenson

Ashton United 2-0 Rushall Olympic

I'm in a reflective mood on Friday evening as I sink a bottle of Yellow Tail Merlot, not on offer from Budgens (£7.49). On Sunday I'm having a little soiree to celebrate my forthcoming fiftieth year on planet Earth. Close friends and family will be joining me for a special 'Stella Sunday.'

My boss has invited me to watch Lincoln City v FC Halifax on Saturday. He used to play for the Shaymen. I'm hearing the Imps just launch it these days, so turn down his kind offer. The little U16 team I run on Saturday's have been rained off against Mansfield Town in the Notts FA Shield. Lord knows why they are in the competition, as most of their boys will be offered scholarships next season, while we're just a village team. I rib their Head of Youth, John Ramshaw, who is down in Devon with the First Team for the Stags' clash with Plymouth Argyle.

The weather forecast looks depressing with wind and rain sweeping in from the west. News looks encouraging from Ashton under-Lyne though, with both their Evostik teams hopeful of some play tomorrow. The Tameside Stadium and Hurst Cross have been on my radar for some time now.

 

It's Saturday morning and time for a birthday haircut. I can't be bothered to drive to Ruddington to get it chopped. I drop into a local barbers. I mention to the lass cutting my hair that I'm 50 next Wednesday, foolishly expecting a compliment. Not a sausage readers. Not a tip for her either.

Mrs P will be sauntering around some dreadful retail park in Thurmanston, near Leicester as I get to grips with cleaning the bathroom - it's the only job I'm any good at. Murphy is rocking on his swing to 10CC's 'Life is a Minestrone.'  All's good on the M1. I turn off at Junction 35A and by-pass the town of Stocksbridge. What a super ground they have there. I've fond memories of seeing FC United of Manchester play there a few years ago.

I head up the tight back streets in the High Peak village of Tintwistle and sling the 'Rolls Royce' in the car park of the Bulls Head. A familiar figure comes bounding up to me. It's Stanley the mongrel from four years ago. I order up a ham sandwich and some hand-cooked chips. Stanley perches his chin on my knee and slavers down my jeans. He about takes my fingers off when I offer him some ham. I wash it down with an award-winning Wren's Nest from Howard Town in Glossop.

The market town of Ashton under-Lyne is only a short drive away. It has a population of over 40,000 and sits on the River Tame in the foothills of the Pennines. Ashton United were founded in 1878 and were previously known as Hurst FC. Legendary forward Dixie Dean ended his career at Surrey Street, whilst World Cup winner  Alan Ball played here as a teenager.

Rich and famous born in Ashton under-Lyne include: Britain's first Foreign Secretary, Margaret Beckett, Arthur Brooke, founder of the Brooke Bond Tea Company, singer-songwriter George Formby, Sir Geoff Hurst, Last of the Summer Wine actor Brian Wilde, 'Tracey Barlow' off Corrie, actor Ronald Fraser, cricketers Andrew Harris, Harry Pilling and Gary Yates and the footballers Alan Wright and Mark Robins.

It's a bit ropey for parking. I squeeze the car in the last available spot, smack opposite the Social Club. I have another pint. The dying embers of QPR v Burnley are featured on Sky. The room is full of noise and laughter. I really like the joint.

It's £7 on the turnstile and £2 for a programme. The ground is a belter, with sweeping views of the hills. I immediately recognise a Rushall Olympic player warming-up. It's none other than Dele Adebola. I once saw him go toe-to-toe with Middlesbrough's version of Jean-Claude Van Damme - Emanuel Pogatetz.

Chuffing hell it's blowing a gale. I need to find a bolt-hole to escape from it. I stand in front of a brick wall that shields me from the elements. Christ on a bike, how old is this referee? He looks about 16 years old.

There's a guy behind the far goal dressed in coaching gear bawling out instructions to the Ashton players. In eight years of groundhopping I've never witnessed this before. He's like Brian Glover in Kes.

 

Ashton are leading Rushall a merry dance. Their right winger is rinsing his full back. They take the lead on 18 minutes through Aaron Chalmers. An extraordinary thing happens moments later. Ahmed Obeng breezes past an Ashton defender, only to be blatantly pushed to the ground inside the area. The paperboy looks at his assistant for help, but receives no communication. The ref reluctantly blows for a free-kick. I'm giving the linesman pelters. "How can you have not seen that?" I enquire. An elderly, distinguished gentleman, suited and booted asks if it was a penalty. "Not even a free-kick, Sir," lino replies. Holy smoke.

Poor old Rushall's luck worsens on 45 minutes with Martin Pilkington finishing for the second time of asking. Jesus wept, the DJ plays two in a row from Olly Murs and Robbie Williams. I hide in the Club Shop, which is an Aladdin's Cave of it's own. I clock a guy at the tea bar pouring half a pot of pepper into a polysteyrene cup of steaming hot Bovril - it must be a northern delicacy.

There's a late start to the second period as the 22 year old referee finishes delivering Saturday's edition of the Manchester Evening News. It hoses it down for the second half as Ashton continue to pour forward. They hit the woodwork twice as Rushall throw men forward and chance their arm. I exit at bang on 90 minutes to thaw out in the Rolls Royce.

Attendance: 139

Man of the Match: The Ref (He was really good)

Harborough Town 1-2 Deeping Rangers

It's lunchtime on Wednesday January 15th. I've got to say I'm not enjoying my 'Three Bean Be Good' soup from Sainsbury's. Sticky junior is taking his driving test at 1.20pm; we're hoping it's a case of third time lucky. My nerves are jangling as a message alert goes off on my mobile: "He's passed!!"

He's been down on his luck of late. The previous Saturday it all kicked off in our front room following the classified football results. Eleven out of twelve forecasts have dropped in on his £1 accumulator, we're just waiting on struggling Notts County v Sheffield United for a £500 windfall. Surely a Blades away win is a shoe-in. Junior is already doing the Highland Fling whilst downing a glass of Pomagne when news filters through from Radio Nottingham's Colin Slater of a shock win for the Magpies.We all have to run for cover, including Murphy the Budgie. Papers are flung from the magazine rack and the air is blue. Trust County to upset the applecart.

It's Saturday morning. I'm hooked up with Notts County Academy Manager, Mick Leonard at Arnold Town's Eagle Valley ground. I've under-clubbed on the clothes front, as a bitter chill blows in off the fields. My phone goes off. The Skipper's game at Lowdham is off due to a waterlogged pitch. A wry smile comes over my face. I say cheerio to Mick and head over to Leicestershire.

Lutterworth Athletic have been on Sticky's radar for a considerable amount of time now. I've never even driven through the quaint town with its old coaching inns and half-timbered buildings. Hall Lane is out of town. There's plenty of activity in the car park. I catch a club official wandering back to his car. "Game's off mate, it's too muddy to mark out the pitch."

It's last chance saloon. I fish my phone out of my pocket and furiously punch away at the keypad. "You beauty." Neighbouring Harborough Town are at home to Deeping Rangers in the United Counties League. I've seen some cracking games at this Step 5 level.

Within 20 minutes I've pulled up at Bowdens Park on the Northampton Road. It's looking hopeful as I spot a rugby game being played in the vicinity. One of the players gives me the thumbs up - the game is on.

 

Market Harborough has a population of 20,000 and lies on the River Welland, close to the Northamptonshire border. The centre of the town is dwarfed by the steeple of St Dionysius Parish Church. The square in the town is mostly pedestrianised, with an abundance of Georgian buildings. The name Harborough is derived from Anglo-Saxon 'haefera-beorg' meaning Oat Hill. The market has been established since 1204 and has been held every Tuesday ever since 1221.

Thomas Cook, who was a wood turner and cabinet maker in the town, organised the first group travel by rail from Leicester to Loughborough and went on to found the travel agency bearing his name. The Grand National Hunt Steeplechase was held in the south-west of the town in 1860, 1861 & 1863. The race and meeting was eventually developed into Cheltenham Festival.

 The food bar is serving a variety of nosh. It's not usually my bag, but I've had nothing to eat since breakfast. A lady serves up some cheesy chips. I nearly put sugar on instead of salt on my chips. I sit in the bar. Snooker is on the box. It's being presented by Hazel Irving. I didn't think the likes of her, Peter Beardsley and Claudia Winkleman were allowed on TV until after the watershed. 'The Jester from Leicester' - Mark Selby is beating Sean Murphy by four frames to nil. My budgie loves Sean.

A group of lads behind me are discussing the best player D***y County have ever had - got to say I'm struggling to name one. A lad comes up with the Croatian Aljosa Asanovic.

It's £5 on the door. The programme is not a bad effort for a quid. I've scouted here before, but never blogged. They held a national u15 11 a-side tournament a few years back called Aces.

There's a small stand to the right hand side which has yellow and black tip up seats. The top end is open, with the dugouts to the left of the clubhouse. On seven minutes I attempt to play an ale house clearance back into the arms of the Harborough full back. I've proper shanked it with my Winkle Pickers back over his head. He doesn't half give me some pelters. Like I said to him, "I've had more touches than you son."

It's been an immense effort by Harborough to get the game on. The going is already heavy. Deeping are two up within half an hour thanks to a disputed penalty and a close range finish. I'm impressed with the hunger, energy and pace of Harborough. 7 jacket and a pocket rocket up front called 'Scouse' pose plenty of problems. I'm no Inspector Morse but I reckon that lad could be from Liverpool.

I'm back in the bar at the break. There's no Mellow Birds or Maxwell House in this gaff, we're talking Nescafe. It's Leicestershire's version of West Bridgford - minus the fur coat and knickers.

Harborough deservedly peg one back with 10 minutes to go, after earlier smashing the upright with a thumping shot from the No.7. It's an important tick off for Sticky Palms, which doesn't leave me with many to do in Leicestershire above Step 6.

Man of the Match: Jonathan Mitchell

Attendance: 53

Farsley AFC 2-1 New Mills AFC

I'm sat in the dug-out watching Sticky junior's under 18s. It's the 2nd round of the Cup. We've avoided all the big guns, but are pitting our wits against the table-toppers from the League below. The carrot being dangled for all of the boys is that the final is to be staged at Nottingham Forest's City Ground (they've won the European Cup twice you know).

We're getting a good doing-over. The craic with the visting team's manager remains good-natured and light-hearted though. I've taken over this team from former Magpies and England under 21 forward Gary Lund. I felt the boys deserved one last year, as it looked like the team would fold.

I've already subbed Sticky junior, who has sloped off for a crafty fag. Our opponents send on their reserve 'keeper as an outfield player; he's not that mobile folks and has appeared more interested in the smell of bacon wafting over from the Clubhouse food bar. He picks the ball up 25 yards out and hits a shot with the inside of his boot, which sails over my 'keeper's head into the top corner of the net. It's his first ever goal.

 

All five of their subs race onto the pitch for an enormous pile on - I bet he's lost his appetite now. Their manager is fuming at the antics of his subs. He shouts to the ref to book all 5 players for entering the field of play without his permission. I am roaring with laughter and so is the referee. It's another comedy moment in Sunday morning football.

I spend Friday evening flicking through the Nottingham Evening Post whilst downing a bottle of Bordeaux won in a raffle at work. Finley, the rabbit, will be tossing and turning in his hay, mulling over another crap Non League score prediction. I unlock the back door in the morning to serve my furry friend some breakfast. He's flat out on the concrete, not moving a muscle. Mrs P has forgotten to put him to bed. It's a disgrace. Poor old Finley has been shivering for most of the night. What if 'Freddie the Fox' had rocked up?

He finally comes round after 7 or 8 strokes of his fur. The little lad is that cold that I nearly have to fetch the scraper out of the 'Rolls Royce.' Finley says that Farsley will win 4-0. Bloody hell son, I don't think New Mills are going to be chuffed to hear that. Sue and the gang made us feel really welcome up in High Peak a few years back.

I leave the nastiest budgie in Keyworth, Murphy Palmer, whistling and chirping away to Simply Red's "Something Got Me Started." I drop 'The Skipper' off at a village close by, where he is refereeing. I inspect the pitch with him and ask the team manager to fork a large area of standing water.

First port of call this morning is Kimberley Leisure Centre, close to Junction 26 of the M1. I've been tipped a lad to watch. The boy doesn't look particularly interested. I cross him off the list and head up the motorway towards Leeds.

Hells teeth, I've forgotten the Sat Nav. After a couple of false starts I finally leave the M621 in Leeds and drop onto the A647. There are no signposts for Farsley, but I somehow stumble across the commuter town. I'd got my beady eye on a boozer in Town Street, the traffic is gridlocked. A car has been abandoned at a busy crossroads. I squeeze past the vehicle but end up out of town and in a place called Pudsey where the cricketers Raymond Illingworth and Matthew Hoggard were born, as well as the BBC bear.

I pull into a parking spot adjacent to the canal and slip into a pub called the Rodley Barge. I quaff a pint of Pennine 2014 accompanied with a sausage and bacon cob. A family of goths call in for lunch as Kasabian blasts out of the speakers

I take a peek down the canal as a chap appears from out of the door of his barge. I exchange in some small talk. He tells me he's recently split up from his wife and that he's trying to sort out their financial affairs - bloody hell pal, I didn't ask for your life story, after all I've a match to go to.

The Throstle's Nest is a short drive away. They very kindly tweeted earlier in the day that the game would be going ahead. Farsley are nicknamed The Villagers. They rose from the ashes of Farsley Celtic who were formed in 1908.

 

It's £7 on the gate and £2 for the programme, which is well worth the read. I take an envious look at the 'Growlers Pie and Pastry' shop. You can hear a pin drop in the Clubhouse - 'Dirty Dirty Leeds' have been thumped 6-0 by Sheff Wed. A little boy sits in the corner, draped in a Leeds scarf - I think he might need counselling.

I order a cup of coffee and peel off a few layers of clothing. I'll knock the ladies dead in West Yorkshire with my new beige jumper from Next. I watch the fag end of Hull City v Chelsea.

I love the ground. It has a real feel of football about it. The H.A. Fox Jaguar Stand runs along the nearest touchline, with a smaller seated stand to it's left. The dug outs are on the far side. The music from Radio 5 Live's Sports Report is played as the teams emerge from the tunnel.

New Mills begin the game at a lively canter, their number 9 spoons a sitter over from 8 yards out. They're made to pay for it on 3 minutes with a close range finish from Farsley captain Rob O'Brien. A Daniel Grimshaw own goal on 12 minutes puts the home side two to the good.

I'm back in the Function Room at the break for a soft drink. The place is bustling with folk. What the hell is going off at Sincil Bank, my team, Lincoln City, are 2-0 down to Conference North side North Ferriby from Hull.

There's not much doing in the second half. Farsley's leading scorer Aiden Savory runs down cul-de-sacs. They hit the woodwork twice. New Mills pull one back with a neatly worked goal by Chris Baguley. The Farsley 'Baby Squad' behind the goal aren't half giving the New Mills 8 jacket some pelters for carrying a bit extra. The highlight of the day though is on 80 minutes when Sticky Palms gets his grubby mitts on the match ball - mission accomplished. I can't arf pick em.

Attendance: 216

Man of the Match: Finley Palmer

Nantwich Town 4-0 Droylsden

It's 8.30pm on Sunday January 25th 1989. I'm lying on my bed, drifting off to sleep. I've a 6 o'clock start in the morning. All hell has let loose in our house. The telephone is ringing off the hook. My Dad hurriedly changes into a suit, rummages around his office for a notebook and pen, before grabbing his car keys and heading out the door towards Kegworth.

He's the East Midlands reporter for the Daily Mirror, whose London news desk have just called him about a Boeing 737 which has reportedy careered across the M1, whilst attempting an emergency landing at East Midlands Airport. Forty seven people died, with a further 74 sustaining serious injuries. I'm reminded of it all on Breakfast TV this morning. It will be 25 years ago this Wednesday since the 'Kegworth Air Disaster.' He was one of the first journalists on the scene, due to the close proximity of where we lived.

A blade detached from a fan on the port of the left hand engine. The Captain, mistakenly shut down the wrong engine. It was a miracle that no cars were on the M1 motorway when the plane crash-landed.

Christmas has been quiet and uneventful. I've been streaming with cold since Boxing Day. I gave 'Gangsta' and my Godson Will a good hiding at ten pin bowling on Christmas Eve. I then saw Nottingham Forest football 'Dirty Dirty Leeds' off the park. Michael Brown doesn't fail to disappoint by picking up the game's first booking. The Tricky Trees Matt Derbyshire scores a goal that is worth the £28 gate money.

There's been no Non League football fix over the Christmas period. The Skipper's team's fixture on Saturday afternoon has fallen victim to a waterlogged pitch. It's an unexpected bonus to get a new ground in.

Murphy the budgie has had a bollocking for swinging on his perch whistling loudly to Cher's The Shoop Shoop Song. He's still sulking about me forgetting to buy him a Christmas present. I'm out the door at 12.30pm. I head down the A453 towards Kegworth, just like my father did 25 years ago.

I cruise down the A50 towards Stoke. Hoards of Foxes fans are enroute to the Britannia Stadium for the FA Cup third round. I'm on the M6 for one junction. Nantwich is literally 8 miles off the motorway. I notice a signpost that says Wrexham 28 miles. I make a mental note. I need to chalk-off the Racecourse Ground this season.

Five Live's Mark Chapman is broadcasting live from Grimsby's Blundell Park, ahead of their cup clash with the Terriers of Huddersfield. He remarks that the actor Sacha Baron Cohen was recently spotted in the stands of the Club during a 1-0 reverse against leaders Cambridge United. Apparently the actor is penning a new movie called Grimsby. He has been sighted in pubs, clubs and even chip shops in the town.

Leicester comedian Jim Smallman has selected Kidderminster v Peterborough as his groundhop for the day. I recommend their infamous Cottage Pie at £4 a portion. Trust me, you won't eat for the rest of the day.

 

Blimey Charlie, I'm going to have to update the old Tom Tom; it doesn't even recognise the postcode of the Weaver Stadium. Nantwich is a market town in Cheshire with a population of just under 15,000. The town has been a salt-producing centre since the 10th Century.

The first person to captain England at rugby and cricket, A N Hornby, is buried in a graveyard in the town. Aston Villa midfielder and former Crewe Alexandra player Ashley Westwood was born in Nantwich.

The Dabbers were founded in 1884. They were shunted out of their 123 year old Jackson Avenue ground, to make way for luxury housing, to the out-of-town Weaver Stadium in 2007. The year previous they won the FA Vase.

 

The club's car park must act as a park and ride during the week. Parking is free today. It's £9 on the gate and £2 for the Dabber programme, which is fairly thin on content. I head up to the top of the Main Stand and into the Fairfax Suite. It has a stage and wooden dance floor. The chairs are mauve-coloured as is the carpet. I grab a latte for £2. I sit at a table in the corner of the room perusing the programme, occasionally people-watching.

I'm bloody starving readers. I've had nowt to eat since my bowl of porridge. I don't usually partake in snap at non-league stadia, as on the whole it's unedible. Today is no different. My steak pie is pale in colour and dry in the mouth. The frozen chips are tasteless. The plastic prong on my fork shatters as it is drawn into the pie.

An army of volunteers have ensured that the game will take place. Plenty have bit the dust in these parts (games not people). The surface looks heavy, but the pitch appears to have been rolled after their late call-off last weekend. I have Trafford or West Didsbury as back-up.

 

Poor old Droylsden are in the doldrums. Two points from 28 games, with 112 goals shipped. In their last fixture Ashton put nine past them at the Butcher's Arms. I took Trumpy Bolton to Droylsden once. I recall him doing the Conga with the 'Eastwood Town Booze Cruise' following a 1-0 win. Rumours on the 'Net' suggest that manager Dave Pace has put seven days in for 21 players.

I sit behind and above the Nantwich ‘Technical Area.’ The DJ has banged out a few 80s toons from Deacon Blue and U2. He saves Cantrill Farm’s finest until shortly before kick-off –‘Groovy Train.’

The Dabbers are ahead within two minutes with a smart finish from Ben Deegan. The feeling in the ground is it could be a cricket score. Amazingly Droylsden increase in confidence and begin to play the better football. They have the game’s best player in former Bury striker Domaine Rouse. He has an outrageous touch and glides past defenders. His attitude towards his own team-mates is poor though.

Substitute Max Harrop thumps an effort into the roof of the net on the stroke of half time. His Mum, Dad and girlfriend, sit the row infront of me and celebrate vociferously. There's a reversal of fortune on the DJ's decks at the break with the dreadful 'Happy New Year' by Abba - topical, but bloody awful. The game is over with 20 minutes to go with further goals from Burns and Foster.

Man of the Match: Domaine Rouse

Attendance: 284

Barrowby 4-0 Blidworth Welfare

It's the evening of the Real Ale Trail Christmas Party. I'm dabbing on some of the lads' Shockwaves gel. There's just time for a quick spray of the old Joop, before scurrying down the alley and hopping onto the Trent Barton rush-hour bus to Nottingham.

A smirking Zuffler is already quaffing a pint of Shipstone's bitter in the Ned Ludd on Friar Lane. They have a fine selection of premium lagers, rocket fuel ciders and micro-brewed real ales. We trudge up Maid Marian Way towards Canning Circus. Taggart joins us in the Organ Grinder, where we enjoy a couple of Blue Monkey ales. Much of the night is a blare. I recall Taggart clearing one pub, not with his party-piece fart, but by playing B A Robertson's 'Bang Bang' on the jukey.

My head is certainly bang banging on Saturday morning and so is The Zuffler's, who according to Twitter gossip didn't turn in until 02:00am. Mrs P is watching the BBC News. I sit silently on the sofa reading Hope and Glory by the journalist and broadcaster Stuart Maconie on my Kindle. There's a fascinating chapter about 'Thankful Villages.' Fifty one villages in England and Wales have no war memorial because their soldiers sent to war returned home alive. One of these is Wysall, just over a mile from my home.

Those jokers from the BBC Weather Centre are predicting a sea of blue all over England today. It'll scupper any hopes of Trumpy and I visiting St Ives in Cambridgeshire. He texts in to say he'll be viewing Leicester at QPR in the lunchtime kick-off.

I scour the Interweb to see where the nearest ground in the Non League Pyramid is, that I've yet to chalk off. Barrowby FC, of the Central Midlands League South, are entertaining Blidworth Welfare from north Notts. I put a call in to the Mayor of London at his Southfork Ranch, just a few miles away from the ground. It's a date.

I abandon the cleaning of the inside windows. "Half-a-job again", remarks Mrs P. Murphy the budgie is swinging on his perch. He's listening to Stevie Wonder's 'Yesterday' on Radio 2's Sound of the 60s show.

I'm in the 'Rolls Royce' enroute to the village of Harby in the heart of the Vale of Belvoir. I'm playing 'Radio Roulette.' I chance upon Radio Leicester who are at Loftus Road. I recall their hilarious commentary from Vicarage Road at the fag end of last season, when the Foxes missed a penalty and Watford raced-up the otherend to score.

I drive past the Stilton cheese creamery and into the village of Colston Bassett. I'm soon pulling into 'Southfork.' 'The Mayor' has just returned from a cricket coaching session at Trent Bridge. I'll be assisting him with running an under 10s side at Keyworth next season.

I'm in 'The Mayor's' study, glancing at his bookcase. He is a True Blue (Tory). He has every Conservative MP's autobiography that has been published since 1725. It makes me weep. He only moved back here from London to be near the birthplace of Margaret Thatcher. We'll probably have to lay some flowers outside her old green grocers in Grantham. I'll lob a lump of coal through the front window, for old times' sake.

'The Mayor' fancies the first half of Liverpool v Cardiff. We drop into his local - the Nags Head. I enjoy a pint of Jennings Cumberland. Luis Suarez, once again is in superlative form. We depart at half time, to make the short journey to Barrowby, 2 miles west of Grantham. The village is in the South Kesteven district of Lincolnshire with a population just shy of 2000.

As we drive through the village we notice the fire-ravaged remains of the Royal British Legion. "I bet there is a story to tell there", says 'The Mayor.' We pass the White Swan and The Cakehole cafe and deli. The ground is situated on the edge of the village. I'm not saying it's a hike from the visitors' car park to the main pitch, but we considered booking a cab.

We make a detour to the brick-built, Football Foundation funded clubhouse to pay our dues. Today's attendance will just about cover the three officials. It's £3 entranance, including an excellent programme.

I've already warned 'The Mayor' about the standard of football. Step 7 ain't been at its best this season. I notice a little bloke in a Blidworth tracksuit directing traffic from the technical area. It's Mickey Gould who used to work with me at Meadow Lane. We have a chinwag between breaks in play.

'The Mayor' is having a tough induction with Step 7. He lets a ball go through his legs and chases one or two stray ale-house clearances to retrieve the ball. Barrowby are bossing it and are 3-0 up at the break. I bump into my old boss at Notts County Youth, Darren Heyes. He invites us back to the boozer for a swift one. I take a look around the cottage he's bought adjacent to the pub. It'll take more than Nick Knowles and the DIY SOS team to put it right.

Conversation in the pub turns to the fire at the Royal British Legion two years ago. Darren asks the landlord if he has benefitted from it. He nods in agreement. I start to make a few routine enquiries (PC Palmer) but I'm met with a wall of silence. It's like Royston Vasey, readers. The fire is shrouded in mystery. A committee member was bailed over  a year ago on fraud and embezzlement allegations.

We have a sweepstake on what the score is going to be as we walk back to the ground. A jockey is riding a racehorse up the street. He stops for a natter. Tommy Hawkins is an 8 year old point to pointer, who races at nearby Garthorpe. He used to live at Jonjo O'Neill's yard.

Barrowby are in a cruise control and have already bagged another goal. Poor old Gouldy. The only thing we can both talk about is the fire, though. New Scotland Yard are going to have to drop the Lucan Case for now, remove Clouseau and Cato and wheel out Hercules Poiroit from retirement in Brussels. Who, if anyone, torched the Royal British Legion?

Attendance: 31 (Head count)

Man of the Match: Ned Ludd

Clay Cross Town 2-0 Phoenix FC

It's a blustery Sunday morning at Keyworth United's Platt Lane ground. I'm setting up for my under 18s. I've already spotted the referee in the car park. I don't rate the guy; he has no connection with the lads. I'm usually positive in my match reports about refs.  I rarely speak to officials apart from to welcome them and pay them. This guy loves to get his notebook out and wind the boys up.

He wanders across to me to ask who will be running the line. I take the flag off him and he remarks to be careful as the black plastic cap keeps falling off it. The game is played and managed badly. He'll be using his pencil sharpener when he gets home. There's no dialogue from me with him during the match. He collects the flag off a parent and marches towards me. The black plastic cap has fallen off and he wants to charge me £10. I burst out laughing. He says he's going to report me to the Notts FA. Where do they get these guys from?

It's Friday evening and the 11 day detox is complete. No more celery, raw carrots and Greek yoghurt. I sample a couple of Stella's and some red wine. It's an early start on Saturday morning. Murphy the Budgie is squawking and chirping at a reckless shot played by England's Kevin Pietersen, who has once again thrown away his wicket.

 

I'm on a scouting mission for the Pies in the old mining town of Hucknall. We've been tipped a boy. The reception on Five Live is dreadful. I can barely hear the squeaky dulcet tones of South Londoner Danny Baker.

I pull into the car park of former FA Trophy finalists Hucknall Town. I bump into an acquaintance. We chatter away as I view the game. I form an opinion quite quickly on the intended target and report in to the Head of Youth.

I've plenty of time to kill, but decide to head up to North Derbyshire as quickly as possible. I join the M1 motorway at Junction 27 and exit at the next turn-off. I skirt through the town of Alfreton, passing its War Memorial as the skies darken and the wind picks up. I'm on the A61 travelling through the village of Shirland. There's a table-top sale at the Village Hall as an alternative if the game is not up to scratch.

 

Bloody hell, there are speed cameras everywhere. There's no way I'm going to contribute towards  the Derbyshire Constabulary Christmas party. I got nicked for speeding for the first time in over 30 years of driving the other day.

I clock the old winding wheels of Parkhouse Colliery in the town of Clay Cross. I park up the Rolls Royce and take a few snaps. There's a memorial for the many men and boys to have died at the mine. Forty five lost their lives in an explosion underground back in 1882.

The town has a population of just under 10,000. In 1969 the coal mine closed. 'The Beast of Bolsover' - Dennis Skinner was born here in 1932. He has been Member of Parliament for Bolsover since 1970.

 

The High Street is crammed full of take-away establishments. There's Kathmandu, Pirate Pizza and Mr Wongs. The town has sold its soul to Tesco and its £22 million re-development. If I'd chanced upon a decent pub I'd have grabbed a sandwich and a soft drink. Hey-ho, it's a West Country Cheddar cheese and pickle sandwich, a bag of crisps and a bottle of Tropicana in the £3 'Meal Deal.'

Tony Blackburn's 'Pick of the Pops' is on Radio 2. I once went to an 'Abba Tribute Night' in a hotel in Nottingham. Blackburn was the compere. He was bragging about huge listening figures on his Gold Breakfast Show. He asked the audience if anyone listened to it. I shouted out "No, it's crap." I wasn't invited back by Mrs P's boss the following year.

I leave the car in the community hall. I can see the players warming-up at the 'I Want Pet Foods' ground on Mill Lane, just a short walk up the road. The club's stadium was re-named 'The Devil Made Me Do It' ground back in July 2012 after a local tattoo studio won a raffle to provide a new name. I can remember this making the headlines on East Midlands Today.

 

I'm greeted by two jolly fellows on the gate. It's £3 admission, including a free programme, with over 40 pages packed with information. No wonder it wins Programme of the Year for the Central Midlands League, with it also climbing to 12th position in the National Listings. Well done lads, it's a cracking effort. I enjoy the piece on Celtic and their Intercontinental Cup game against Racing Club of Argentina in 1967. Five players were sent off in a stormy encounter.

"Enjoy the game" says the gateman. I love the personal touch. I pass a wooden table with boxes full of old programmes. There are badges and Clay Cross merchandise on offer. I buy a 50/50 ticket. Domino's Pizza's are donating some prizes.

The crystal clear PA is banging out Shane McGowan and Kirsty MacColl's 'Fairytale of New York.' I walk past the ground's one and only covered stand. Housing from the old pit estate backs onto the far goal. The remaining three sides are open, with 'The Tunnel Cafe' tucked away to the left of the main gate.

The pitch is rolled and in immaculate nick for this time of year. Clay Cross Town believe in tender loving care. I do two laps of the ground before settling in my grey tip-up seat, shielding myself from the gusty conditions.

I'm not expecting much, as it's a League that often falls short on quality. At least the home side try to play it on the carpet. How the Phoenix Club are above them, Lord only knows. Max and Paddy are disappointing, and there's a no-show from club mascot Gerry the Berry.

The visitors' goal has led a charmed life, when the Millers finally take the lead following a corner which hangs in the wind and is nodded in at the back stick by the big number nine.

The West Country Cheddar has caused quite a thirst. I shell out £1.10 on a Lucozade Sport at the cafe. Slade are blaring out of the PA. I hook up with a guy in the second half who lives up at New Mills. He has a good geographical knowledge of the Manchester and Cheshire non league scene. He tips me grounds at West Didsbury and Maine Road, which are now on my to-do list.

We're joined by Clay Cross Jack-of-all-trades committee member 'Martin.' His passion for the club is awe-inspiring. I get a run-down of the club's history. He invites me up to the Woodthorpe Inn for some after-match hospitality. What a splendid gesture. We applaud loudly at the stunning second, and what turns out to be, winning goal. What a day out I've had. All for £3.