Eastbourne Borough 2-4 Torquay United

Ms Moon mentioned a month or so ago that her brother's 40th birthday celebrations would be taking place in Burgess Hill, Sussex, in mid-October. I couldn't crank up the computer quick enough to peruse the fixtures and towns in the county on google maps. The fixture list threw up an interesting Conference South game between Eastbourne Borough and a beleaguered Torquay United.

Monday evening is spent in the northern city of Carlisle following a windswept journey up to Scotch Corner and onto the exposed A66. My boss and I have a meeting in the morning with a rail company in the area. We jump into a taxi outside the 'Purple Palace' and head into the city centre. We have a quick jar in the Kings Head on Fisher Street before legging it up to The Thin White Duke - named after a David Bowie persona in 1975 and 1976. It's a converted monastery building which is now a fashionable bar. My ears prick up when I hear a familiar tune coming out on the Spotify playlist. It's 'How Much Are They?' by Jah Wobble (ex-Public Image bassist) from 1981, a record I bought as a kid on 12" from Selectadisc on Nottingham's Market Street. The barman says it was a hit on the New York club scene.

I'm fagged out on my return to HQ, the following day and decline an invite to Owen Street to watch Coalville Town v St Neots Town in an FA Cup replay. The game is an epic with the visitors clawing back two goals at the death to make it 3-3. They eventually win on penalties - I can't 'arf miss 'em.

Wednesday evening is spent on the training ground, introducing myself to the Keyworth United Development team, who I'll be managing in the New Year. The lads enjoy a great session that leaves me bursting with pride on the short journey home.

I pick up Ms Moon's mum, Val, at just gone twelve bells on Friday lunchtime, as a convoy of cars head 'down 'Sarf.' Sat Nav is predicting a three and a half hour journey. We're sailing along the M1 with not a worry in the world, and only two miles away from the M25. I'm dreaming of slumping on my 'Purple Palace' double bed for a lovely cat nap when suddenly the traffic comes to a grinding halt during Terry's weekly allotment update from Merthyr Tydfil on the Jeremy Vine Show. We don't move for two hours as a seriously injured lorry driver is air-lifted to hospital by a helicopter.

We've pretty much polished off the mint imperials and Murray Mints by the time we get going again. The torture continues with the Steve Wright Show on Radio 2 - I didn't think Val would appreciate Hawksbee and Jacobs on TalkSport. I wince and shake my head in disbelief and embarrassment at 'Silly Boy' and his Serious Jockin' - and no, I'm not saying it.

The Beefeater bar at the Burgess Hill Premier Inn is in disarray. They've no Guinness on and only Gordon's gin. Big Tony shouts me up a Doom Bar - it tastes like dirty washing up water (sorry Tony). The meal is top notch at Buon Appetito. I'm on Amaretto, Aperol Spritz and an expensive Merlot - as you probably realised there was no real ale on.

I feel sick on Saturday morning. Scoffing that birthday cake on top of everything wasn't a good idea. The service at the breakfast bar is nothing short of a shambles. Waiting staff play with their hair, giggle at hushed conversations and saunter around. I twice have to chase up coffee and breakfast  - Ms Moon can be a madam without her early caffeine fix.

The sleepy village of Rottingdean is our first port of call. The purpose of our visit is to pay our last respects to Thin Lizzy, Belfast-born guitarist, Gary Moore, who died in Estepona, southern Spain, a resort we stayed at a few weeks ago. Moore is buried in the churchyard at St Margaret's.

Our timing isn't great, it looks like a funeral is about to take place, as we snoop about the graveyard, before Ms Moon frantically waves at me from the far corner. I'm quite cross, as I like to find the celebrity headstone first as a rule (we have done this a few times - gravehoppers). Ms Moon clocks Kipling Gardens. I mention that they sell exceedingly good cakes there - it falls on deaf ears. Jungle Book author Rudyard Kipling lived in the village for several years.

We by-pass the channel ferry port of Newhaven, where the abandoned car of Lord Lucan was found in 1974 on a residential street following the murder of the nanny of his children, who was bludgeoned to death with a piece of lead piping in Belgravia, London.

We arrive on the seafront at Eastbourne with plenty of time for a mooch around. The pier is a beauty, despite being seriously ravaged by fire in 2014. It was bought by a local hotelier a year later for a reported £5 million. Ms Moon and I part company for a while (Caffe Nero). I peg it up through town before turning onto Lushington Road. There's a blue plaque on a property at No.7 (now a dental surgery) where Alice in Wonderland author Lewis Carroll used to holiday in the late 19th Century. I manage a quick pint of lukewarm London Pride ale at The Marine, a cosy residential pub tucked away on a back street off the front.

As we stroll back to the car, two yellow Coastguard vans with flashing beacons accompanied by a police car are speeding up to Beachy Head, where we later hear a glider has crashed-landed into the sea, with no injuries reported.

Eastbourne Borough's ground is a short three-mile ride out of town. Eastbourne is a seaside town and resort in East Sussex with a population of 100,000. It's east of Beachy Head where I'll be visiting later today if 'The Lincoln' come away from Port Vale empty-handed. The MP for Eastbourne is the Liberal Democrat, Stephen Lloyd, who holds a 1,609 majority - the party only have twelve seats. Eastbourne Pier was built between 1866 and 1872 at the junction of the Grand and Marine Parades.

German philosopher Friedrich Engels' ashes were scattered from Beachy Head at his request and the author of The Graduate, Charles Webb, is housed in a far-from luxurious hotel, in the town, by social services. Current (not for long) British Prime Minister, Theresa May, was born in the town along with BBC weatherman Michael Fish, as were footballers Joel Lynch and Solly March (a bargain buy from Non-League, Lewes) and cricketer Ed Giddins. Legendary Radio 2 presenter Charlie Chester resided in the town -one for the kids there. Eastbourne Borough FC were formed in 1964 and play at Priory Lane. Notable former players include: Ashley Barnes, Carl Jenkinson and Lyle Taylor.

It's £13 on the turnstile and £2.50 for a programme. It's Non-League Day today, but I'm not aware of any discounts. Ms Moon notices that I have a face like thunder and that I'm pointing at the playing surface. It's 3G - Sticky doesn't do 3G. Oh well, it's a decent tick off. We stand on the opposite side to the dugouts, nearer to the goal the Gulls will be attacking. Their large following are housed behind the far goal. The DJ is in fine fettle. He plays Modjo, David Guetta and Babyshambles - no relation to Omnishambles at the Beefeater 'restaurant.'

The first half is nowt to write home about. Torquay are toothless in attack. Eastbourne work the 'keeper and thoroughly deserve to take the lead shortly before half-time through Alfie Rutherford. Torquay United manager Gary Johnson will be blow-torching the paint off the dressing room walls after witnessing that lacklustre display; they are sent out early onto the pitch.

I fancy Torquay will win this one. We decide to move up to where their following are gathered. Ms Moon has heard a couple of racist remarks made by a moron next to her (Eastbourne fan). Had I heard them I would have sparked the bloke flat out. It's for the best we stand elsewhere.

A Jake Andrews wonder strike from 25 yards with a wand of a left foot restores parity for the visitors and has the Torquay supporters mobbing Ms Moon. Minutes later a tap-in from Jamie Reid puts the Gulls 2-1 to the good. They are pegged back to 2-2 when their fragile defence leak another goal, scored by the excellent Dean Cox. A stonewall penalty is dispatched by Jamie Reid, who completes a hat-trick in the dying embers to give Torquay a flattering victory.

Attendance: 929

Woman of the Match: Ms Moon's Mum, Val

Magdala Amateurs Res 3-2 Keyworth Development (Match Abandoned on 85 mins)

The trip back home from Wrexham is a darn sight quicker than this morning's hard slog - Ms Moon handles the car like she's a competitor in the RAC Rally. I'm soon slurping a few sherbets in one of my favourite haunts, a Flipside tap called the Old Volunteer, on Burton Road, Carlton at just gone seven bells. I arrive back at HQ just in time to see Graeme Swann score some low marks in Strictly Come Dancing. I'm fuming folks, I've had 50p on the former England and Notts off-spinner at odds of 25/1 to win the competition. Craig, in particular, is scathing of Swanny's hips.

I put my headphones on as Ms Moon catches up with Bodyguard; everyone's chuffing talking about it. I shed a little tear as 'Troublemaker' by Olly Murs appears on the YouTube shuffle. Murphy Palmer my old budgie, used to whistle his wee head off to that tune. He never liked the bit where Flo Ryder starts singing in riddles - he only had ears for Murs.

On Sunday, after a morning's graft in the garden, I saunter down to the bus stop on Carlton Road and head up into town. I alight the bus opposite Nottingham Arena, before crossing over London Road and pegging it up towards the railway station. There's a lovely little pub, licensed for 36 people, called the BeerHeadZ at the Cabman's Shelter, on Queens Road. Next port of call is Castle Rock's VAT and Fiddle, an open plan 1930s brick pub on Queensbridge Road. I was going to risk the wrath of the good lady by potting a third pint at the Barley Twist on Carrington Street, but the place is closed on a Sunday.

Tuesday is spent up at Kimberley Miners' Welfare's Stag Ground, where table-topping Selston FC are the visitors. The Taxman and Johnny Buttery are also in attendance. We witness a poor game, with plenty of huff and puff from both dugouts and loads of 'handbags.' Priory Celtic legend John Harris wanders over at half-time with his wife and daughter, who I 'accidentally' blanked when I arrived at the ground earlier. I get a good telling off - sorry Jackie and Lucy. The game ends in a 1-1 draw.

Wednesday evening is the highlight of the week. I'm loitering outside the Nottingham Forest ticket office, having, a few days earlier, snapped up a couple of tickets at £20 a pop to sit in the notorious 'A' Block in the Peter Taylor Stand; my favourite area of the ground, where you can hear boot on leather and the players shouting. A pumped-up Sticky jnr has a quick jar in the Hubble Bubble bar just around the corner on Pavilion Road, before hooking up with Dad.

We bump into East Midlands Today sports reporter Angela Rafferty who is hanging around with a camera crew outside the turnstile. Angela's husband, Johnny Haslam, is a good friend of mine and an 'A' Block diehard.

We're sat in the ground (stood actually, as you do) half an hour before kick-off because Dad likes to watch the warm-ups, see the crowd file in and listen to the tunes on the PA system. The Forest DJ loves his alternative music. He plays snippets of 'Gangsters' by The Specials and 'I'm Free' by The Soup Dragons.

Millwall, tonight's visitors, have had somewhat of a rough ride this season, which finds them languishing in nether regions of the Championship. The atmosphere is terrific in the 'Main Stand' as I like to call it. The Forest faithful sing a little ditty about manager Aitor Karanka to the theme tune of Heartbeat. It goes on for about 15 minutes and makes me chuckle. How Millwall aren't 3-0 up in the first 20 minutes, Lord only knows, as the Tricky Trees have no answer to the Lions' aerial bombardment.

Sticky's favourite Championship striker is Millwall's Lee Gregory. I've always had a soft spot for him since I saw him playing for Staveley Miners' Welfare up at Borrowash Victoria in 2008, whilst on loan from Sheffield FC. I stood chatting with Lee's Dad at that game, aghast at why he was playing at such a low level when it was clear to see that he had all the right tools for the job. I phoned a well known and respected Midlands Non-League manager after the game to tip him the wink. His reply was "Nick, if he can't get in Sheffield FC's side, what chance has he got in getting in mine?" In 2011 Millwall paid Halifax £250,000 for his services. 57 goals in 146 appearances is a great return on investment. Gregory sees a header bounce off the bar in the opening minutes of the game.

Livewire, Joe Lolley, puts Forest ahead with a low shot that nestles into the bottom corner of the net. Everything is going to plan until with 25 minutes remaining some of the floodlights go out."We'll play in the dark" rings out from the 'A' Block. The players return after a short break with the result a formality after a 25-yard free-kick from a largely anonymous Joao Carvalho crosses the line after hitting the underside of the bar.

Neil Harris throws on a few subs, with Karanka slow to react to the visitor's aerial supremacy. Romanian 'keeper Costel Pantilimon is having a 'Weston Super Nightmare.' His kicking has been skew-whiff and his distribution, in general, is appalling. He hesitates as a cross is swung in for an alert Shaun Williams to head home. Michael Dawson is thrown on to soak up the pressure and win a few headers; he performs heroically. One final ball is driven in from the left for poacher Lee Gregory to stab home at the far post. Sticky jnr boots the seat in front of him before exiting the ground - he best be fit for Saturday.

I'm desperately trying to get a large deal over the line at work in time for the weekend. I inch towards it as I have my hair cut at a.j.richardson just off Mapperley Tops. It's a well cool barber that has 'I'm in Love With the German Filmstar' by The Passions piping out of the speakers on the Steve Lamacq Show on 6 Music. I share a drink with Ms Moon at the Woodthorpe Top before settling in for the evening.

There's a change of plan to the Saturday schedule. We were planning to travel up to Sheffield to watch Swallownest v Armthorpe Welfare (birthplace of Kevin Keegan). Duty calls to watch the 'Keyworth Georgie Best' aka Sticky jnr. He currently plays for the Keyworth Development team in the Notts Senior League. I have agreed with the club to run the side from January 2019 in an attempt to keep hold of the flowing production line of youngsters that the club produces. Don't worry, I'll still keep knocking the blogs out to report on junior's latest yellow card.

A busy day lies ahead. I have time for a couple of crumpets with smoked salmon (sell by date is today) smeared in horseradish sauce (weird I know). First port of call is the Highfield Sports Complex, just off University Boulevard. Notts County Under 18s are playing Preston North End. There are quite a few boys still playing that I've scouted over the years. A young Pies team concede two late goals, whilst chasing the game and end up losing 4-1.

My new team are playing Magdala Amateurs at the back of ROKO gym on Wilford Lane. It's a bolthole for blog legend 'The Big Man' who has just completed a ten-day tour of Scotland - think they call it NC500 - basically it's a 516-mile scenic route in his camper van. We catch up for coffee in the bar along with Fod and Lou, who have come to watch 'Sizzers' (Fod's lad).

As we stroll towards the touchline my stomach begins to tighten and my heart starts thumping, just like it did four years ago when I coached the 16s and 18s in my final season. Today I'm just observing, as Chris Thompson has kindly stepped into the caretaker role until January.

Sticky jnr is captain (nowt to do with me) and looks fired-up. I immediately phone up Sky Bet to see what odds he is for a yellow card. Keyworth set about Magdala, refusing to be muscled off the ball by their older opponents. The Green Army survive an early onslaught and begin to settle into a rhythm. 16 year old Ben Antcliffe opens the scoring with a delicious curling shot that goes into the bottom corner of the net. Just after half-time Antcliffe becomes the creator supreme, setting up Tom Siswick to fire home from close range.

The team have conceded 50 goals in nine games, morale has been low in the camp. Statistics suggest they meet need another goal. Sadly they come thick and fast and at the wrong end. The third goal is a smart finish with our 'keeper stranded.

We're running out of legs, gas and air. Milo the Jack Russell has been told to warm up. The game is abandoned on 85 minutes with a horrific knee injury to the game's best player, young Ben, who is carted off to the Queens Medical Centre in the back of an ambulance. Get well soon, Son.

Our young guns retire to the Tailors Arms for a drink and some food with the opposition. The team-bonding has started. I can't wait for January 5th 2019, when the journey begins.

Man of the Match: Ben Antcliffe

Yellow Card for Sticky junior on 70 mins - Sky Bet refused to give me odds.

Gag of the day:

Fod to Lou: "She's come out of her shell."
Lou: "Who?"
Fod: "Amy Turtle."

One for the kids there!

Wrexham 1-0 Barnet

We're tucking into breakfast on a sun-drenched patio at the H10 Estepona Palace in the Costa Del Sol. I don't recall Ms Moon and I chatting about anything in particular when the good lady suddenly drops out a pearler: "I used to love watching Soldier Soldier on ITV; it won lots of TV Times Awards. Robson and Jerome did a brilliant version of Unchained Melody; it blew The Righteous Brothers' version right out of the water."

A piece of bacon dangling from my mouth drops onto my plate. I have a coughing fit and wave frantically in the direction of waiting staff, gasping for air and a glass of water. It's a good half an hour before I get my breath back. I spend the rest of the day shaking my head in disbelief. NB 1,872,000 copies of THAT song by those two Herberts were sold in the UK (don't drop your bacon sandwich or Five Guys burger when you read this fact).

On Saturday teatime I get a clear run down the A1 southbound, after attending the Auckland derby, and arrive back home at 7pm, following my County Durham footballing weekend bonanza. I adore the Northern League, and can't wait to get back up there again, before winter sets in. I'll sling some bait out to see if Ms Moon fancies an overnight stay in Corbridge or Hexham.

Tuesday evening is spent at Owen Street, home to Coalville Town, who are playing Buxton in an FA Cup replay. I pop in en route to see my old mate, Coops, who is recovering well after major heart surgery. The two teams failed to trouble the scorers up at Silverlands, in the first game. The Ravens have Buxton on toast, and coast into the next round with a 4-1 victory and a £9,000 winning check. They play the game at a furious tempo and press' their shell-shocked opponents 'Our Joe's' old team-mate, Tim Berridge, fires home the winning goal.

I'm down at Carlton Town's Stoke Lane ground the following evening, watching a new-look Millers put in a five-star performance. Sticky's favourite, tigerish and tenacious midfielder Oliver Clark, scores a brace.

I'm drip feeding myself the behind the scenes documentary at Manchester City called All or Nothing. It certainly gets across how passionate and caring their Catalan manager Pep Guardiola is. The star of the show, without doubt, is the Belgian, Vincent Kompany. One of the most heart-warming moments of the fly on the wall doc' is when a group of young children are interviewing Kompany. He is asked who he would spend one day with, dead or alive. He says it would be with Nelson Mandela and goes on to explain his cause and that Mandela served 27 years in prison for a crime he committed. A little boy asks Kompany what his crime was. Kompany pauses for some time and swallows before saying "his crime was being black." The room is filled with silence, sadness and bewilderment.

We have coffee and crumpets smeared in Marmite for breakfast on Saturday morning, as we listen to Dermot O'Leary on Radio 2 playing 'Aint No Pleasing You' by Chas 'n Dave, following the passing of Chas Hodges. I noticed on the Nottingham Post Facebook feed that a ten-mile stretch, west and east, on the A50 from Uttoxeter to Stoke, is closed for the entire weekend - this will cause havoc with the schedule. Forget 'Sally Traffic' and Lynn Bowles, there's only one person to put a call into during my hour of need.

'Trumpy Tours' tells me to pull off the A50 onto the A38 towards Rugeley and then pick up the A34 to Stone and onto the A51 to Nantwich. Sounds easy enough but when you've got the irritating Graham Norton on the radio for company, you can soon flip your lid.

After a painstaking two and a half hours we finally pull into the Egerton Arms in Broxton, just shy of the Welsh border, in Cheshire. It's a neatly kept mock-Tudor dining pub. The Welsh Pride ale is spot on; the same can't be said about the snap. We're not perennial moaners or groaners about restaurant food, but the steak sandwich is cold, as are the 'French fries' and Ms Moon's coffee. A waitress asks if everything is ok, I reply, "No, not really, the food is stone cold and so is the coffee, but hey, que sera", and leave it that. A fussing restaurant manager deducts the drinks from the bill. I don't make a song and dance about it and thank him for his gesture. A Will Young tune on the pub iPod shuffle hastens our departure.

It's £3 to park in the neighbouring Glyndwr University, adjacent to Wrexham FC's Racecourse Ground. Wrexham is in Clwyd, in the north of Wales and has a population of 60,000. It is well known for its Wrexham Lager brewery that was established in 1862 and became the first brewery in the U.K. to produce lager beer. Notable folk from the town include: footballers Mark Hughes, Joey Jones, Jason Koumas, Robbie Savage and Tom Lawrence, presenter Tim Vincent and the dance band K-Klass (Rhythm is a Mystery).

Wrexham FC were founded in 1864 and are nicknamed the Dragons. They are the oldest club in Wales and the third oldest professional club in the world. This will be their tenth consecutive season in England's fifth tier of football. Highest transfer fee received is £800,000 from Birmingham City in 1997 for Bryan Hughes. Highest transfer fee paid is £212,000 for Joey Jones from Liverpool in 1978. The Dragons goalkeeping coach is Finland's Jussi Jaaskelainen, who made 474 appearances for Bolton Wanderers.

Well known former managers include: Brian Flynn, Brian Little, Dean Saunders and Gary Mills. Back in 2004, I visited the Club whilst raising money for the British Heart Foundation. Despite their precarious financial position they still donated a signed football which I was able to raffle off - Geraint Parry, the gentleman who helped me with this, is still the club secretary.

Ms Moon nips to the garage to stock up on chocolate and water, whilst a very helpful cashier sorts out our tickets to sit in the Yale Paddock at £19 a pop, right behind the dugouts. A well-produced programme is £3. It's a wonderful old ground that has kept its character despite modernisation. To our left is the sad view of an empty Kop end, with a plethora of red-painted crash barriers. It's hard to believe that over 13,000 people packed this ground out to the rafters in 1992 when the Dragons knocked out a full-strength Arsenal in the third round of the FA Cup.

I saw Barnet  at Lincoln City's Sincil Bank twelve months ago; they played some smashing football and were unfortunate to lose 2-1. Not long after, their young coach, Ross Eames, was replaced by Mark McGhee. They've won three games on their travels and will be a threat today, despite missing a number of key personnel, including star striker Shaquille Coulthirst.

The Dragons are on the back of a 3-0 reverse down 'the Smoke' on Sutton Town's artificial surface and a goalless midweek draw up in Harrogate on the same surface with a 700 following.

To say that the first half is lacklustre and dull as dishwater is an understatement. It's cat and mouse as nobody puts a tackle in. Barnet's colossus is 21 year old on loan Shrewsbury defender Zak Jules. Dragon attackers bounce off him or are ushered out of play. The boy can play too; he has a cigar on, a wand of a left foot and never breaks sweat. The game is desperate for a goal. Wrexham get the ball down and a well-worked move is finished off with a Stuart Beavon daisy-cutter, who is drifting in from the left-hand flank.

The Bees of Barnet are urged forward by their 77 following who have made the 360-mile round trip. Despite a good spell of possession, they rarely trouble the Wrexham 'keeper. We scarper on 85 minutes, confident in the knowledge that nobody could hit a cow's backside with a banjo if they tried.

Attendance: 4,727

Away Folowing: 77

Man of the Match; Vincent Kompany

West Auckland Town 1-1 Bishop Auckland

It's 8:30pm on Sunday 16th September. A stressed-out and bad-tempered Sticky Palms is slumped in seat 15C, with his hands covering his ears, on a TUI 737 jet, on Malaga Airport's runway, in the Costa Del Sol. Not only has our 10-day sojourn in Espana come to an end, but there's further bad news to report. The Captain has announced over the tannoy that we ain't going anywhere soon and I'm (we are) surrounded by crying babies screaming the plane down.

Jesus wept, just get this big bird in the sky, son. I can't even seek solace by burying my head into the Non-League Paper, as the squealing and squawking arrives in stereo sound. The main perpetrator is a four-month-old baby girl on the seat next to me, who's from Dirty Leeds. I mention to Dad as to whether she knows that their 'Dirty Lot' grabbed a last-gasp equaliser at Millwall's New Den yesterday afternoon, hoping it would cheer up the little Tyke. Dad says she was as 'good as gold' on the journey out here - well she bloody would be mate! I ask him whether I can borrow her dummy as I feel a tantrum coming on.

We're in bed for just gone twelve bells - the holiday is a distant memory. I taught Ms Moon how to play the card game, cribbage, on sultry gin-swilling evenings on the hotel balcony - another bad move, as I lost the first game 2-0, which resulted in me taking the defeat quite badly, locking her out of the hotel room, leaving the good lady at the mercy of the blood-sucking Spanish mosquitos.

We stayed in the resort of Estepona, not far from Marbella and Puerto Banus. We tried to hunt down the Big GC from TOWIE; but she was still mopping up an all-inclusive full English breakfast. Estepona is where both the singer Cilla Black and Thin Lizzy guitarist Gary Moore had unexpected deaths. Whilst we were out there a drug dealer from Leeds was mowed down by the Spanish plod, just a mile down the road from our hotel.

I managed to get a game in, up at the Estadio Municipal Francisco Munez Perez Stadio (that's easy for you to say) a lung-bursting 50-minute walk away from the H10 Estepona Palace. The first half was abysmal and, Surprise Surprise, Cilla, it's 0-0 at the break. It livens up in the second period with three goals, two sendings off and a penalty miss. I did another Facebook Live which was the usual omnishambles.

I plan my working week out meticulously on Monday morning, which ironically includes an overnight stay at the Manchester Airport Premier Inn. The thought of staying in the hotel room for the evening would have had me climbing the walls. I take a ride out into the Cheshire countryside, get completely lost with my hopeless Sat Nav, before picking up two Runcorn Linnets supporters wandering down a dusty road track. It's £8 in on the gate as the hosts take on Northern Premier League opponents Warrington Town in the League Cup. It's sheeting it down with rain as a healthy 228 supporters (not bad as Liverpool are playing PSG in the Champions League) witness a 1-1 draw. A penalty shootout sees the Linnets win 4-3 on penalties.

I've conjured up a hare-brained scheme that needs the Royal seal of approval from the Princess. 'She' mentions a 'Girly Night' on Friday evening with her best friend Jill. I immediately crank up the laptop and navigate to the Northern League website, which covers mainly County Durham and Northumberland. "Erm ... any objections if I stay over in the North East on Friday evening, Pet?"

Hell's teeth, the A1 is an absolute pig on Friday teatime. The Doncaster by-pass is a car park. I'm booked in at the Darlington town centre 'Purple Palace', but can't find it for love or money as Sat Nav disappoints again. I abandon the 'Rolls Royce' in the Feethams Car Park (is this near the old Quakers football ground?) I bolt some tea down me in the Thyme restaurant before jumping back into the car and heading up to Crook.

I get in a right old flap as I'm met with an abundance of 'road closed' signs - flipping heck Sat Nav is having a Dicky fit. Google maps get me out of the mire and into the Tom Cowie Millfield Ground in the nick of time.

Crook lies 9 miles south-west of the historic cathedral city of Durham and has a population just shy of 15,000. Former Crook Town player, Jack Greenwell, was born in the town. He served as Barcelona manager for over seven seasons, a record that can only be beaten by the Dutch legend Johan Cruyff. He made 88 appearances for the Catalan giants between 1912-1916 after guesting for West Auckland in the 'World Cup.' Former Nottingham Forest manager and European Cup winner, Frank Clark, began his career at Crook Town in 1961.

I've been tipped the ground by northern groundhopper, Paul Brockett; it doesn't fail to disappoint with its two old rickety stands, steep grass bank and concrete steps on the terrace. It's £5 on the gate and £1 for the programme. The floodlights are enormous but not all are functioning. Holey Moley, all this way and the ref might call the game off. The Crook chairman is dashing around desperately trying to get the two remaining lights on - you've got to feel sorry for the poor fellow.

The game is a belter which I witness at the top of the grass bank with an elderly diehard Crook fan called Bob. The home side are 3-0 down in the first 14 minutes courtesy of some slapstick comedy defending. Poor old Bob isn't too chuffed, despite Crook pulling a goal back on the stroke of half time. They are unlucky not to win the game in the second half after fluffing two late chances having pulled the score back to 3-3 in a pulsating finish. Bob bids me a fond farewell and safe travels - what a lovely chap.

Crikey Moses, I've had more full English breakfasts than Gemma Collins in the last two weeks, as I polish off some bacon, hash browns and poached eggs in Darlington, before heading off to the village of Hurworth-on-Tees. I turn right into the grounds of Rockcliffe Hall with its spa and golf club. It's Middlesborough chairman/owner Steve Gibson's manor and is where 'Boro under 18s will play their Sunderland counterparts at 11am.

The game is tasty and played at a fast pace. I get chatting to a football agent who is full of bullshit. The scorer of the first ever goal in the Premier League, Brian Deane, is stood next to us wearing a flat cap. The Mackems take the lead against the run of play with a brilliant counterattack, before 'Boro deservedly equalise. I tick off the Bay Horse in the village where I quaff a pint of  Black Bull bitter from the Theakston Brewery before driving up to West Auckland.

West Auckland is a village with a population of 8,500.  It's steeped in coal-mining history, with the Colliery opening in 1838 and closing in 1967. The village team is famous as the 'Home of the First World Cup' - winning the Sir Thomas Lipton Trophy (the Tea man) in 1909 and 1911. The coal miners pitted their wits against the football associations of Italy, Germany and Switzerland in the city of Turin. They retained the trophy in 1911 beating Italian giants Juventus 6-1 in the final. They were to meet Juventus 100 years later for a rematch  I remember seeing the film The World Cup: A Captain's Tale, starring Dennis Waterman and Tim Healy. A replica of the trophy sits in a cabinet in the West Auckland Working Men's Club.

The Club was founded in 1893 and play at the Wanted Metal Stadium, which is tucked away to the rear of a new housing estate. I take a stroll into the village, admiring the beautiful, long village green and War Memorial. I take some snaps of the 'World Cup' statue, before wandering past the derelict Queens Head and up to the Spar shop. A cheese and onion sandwich is a ridiculous £3; sod it I'll spend some dollar at the Club snack bar.

It's £6 on the turnstile and £1 each for a raffle ticket and golden goal ticket. I snaffle up a hot pork pie for £1.50. It's another ground to die for, with its old wooden stand and panoramic views. A plethora of signage is a photographer's dream. I sit in the back of the stand as Cry Me a River by Justin Timberlake crackles out of the PA system - there certainly will be a river of tears from me if this ends up 0-0.

A 0-0 is off the cards after 9 minutes. West Auckland take the lead; quite how the visitors aren't 3-0 up after 6 minutes remains a mystery to the 474 supporters who have turned out in their droves. The first half is as good as it gets. Parity is restored by Chris Winn, who bulldozes his way through a flaky defence before firing home the equaliser. God, I love the Northern League.

We draw breath at half-time to reflect and ponder. Four old guys behind me are getting excited that Manchester United under 23s are travelling up to Bishop Auckland tomorrow for a lunchtime kick-off against Middlesborough. I was expecting some Cheryl Cole (Tweedy or Hernandez) on the decks at the break, instead it's Love Me For a Reason by The Osmonds - get me back on that 737.

The second half is a non-event. Bishop Auckland can't get on the ball, and when they do they are on the receiving end of many late, crunching tackles. They are indebted to their 'keeper Nick Liversedge who pulls off some fine saves and commands his area in general with some impressive punches.

Man of the Match: Bob at Crook and the friendly secretary at West Auckland who gave me a free team sheet.

Credit and thanks to Katie and Lee for the photo from Crook.

Attendance: 474

Eccleshill United 0-1 Hebburn Town

It's Sunday afternoon and I'm slouched in a Chesterfield leather armchair in the window of the wonderful Embankment pub in 'North Bridgford', scrutinizing the Non-League Paper, whilst poring over a pint of Elsie Mo from the Castle Rock Brewery. Ironically, 'Love Will Tear Us Apart', by Joy Division, is on the pub jukey. Hearts have been shattered and broken over the road at Notts County's Meadow Lane. The big love-in between Pies' owner Alan Hardy and 'future England manager' Kevin Nolan has come to an abrupt and sorrowful parting of the ways. Furthermore, there seems to be unrest in the boardroom with the immediate resignation of Nolan's drinking buddy, Non-Executive Director, Jon Enever, who churlishly announces it on his Twitter account. Vice Chairman, Darren Fletcher, the Five Live and BT football commentator, has also taken down any association with the World's oldest Football League Club from his Twitter profile.

The pub doors swing open and in waltzes an unshaven Charlie Slater from BBC East Midlands Today - probably called into action on his day off. He scouts the pub looking for folk to interview, to seek opinion and get a reaction. Customers shy away and politely decline to 'say a few words.' His eyes meet mine. "Mate, don't suppose you'd like to say a few words?" "No problem", I reply, "We're Lincoln City, we're top of the League." Slater shakes his head, about-turns and returns to his camera crew waiting patiently on Arkwright Street.

Bank Holiday Monday is spent up in County Durham at Spennymoor Town's glorious Brewery Field. I pay £1 for a bag of liquorice allsorts at a sweetie stall and stand on the raised terrace as Moors batter an out-of-sorts F.C. United of  Manchester 2-0 - their player-manager, Tom Greaves, walks a few days later. It just leaves me with Hereford FC to tick off in the National League North to complete the set - that's right, Hereford is proper oop North innit .. lol.

On Tuesday evening I witness a 2-2 thriller at Radford FC's Selhurst Street with Mr and Mrs John Harris and their daughter, Lucy, for company. Wednesday is spent at the World- famous Clifton All Whites watching my two lads play for their village team. They lose 5-3, but both get 90 minutes in the bank. I love to see my eldest lad taking people on. He's an old-fashioned winger with the fastest feet in south Notts; but needs to work on his tracking back and general fitness. 'Our Joe' is back in Leeds at Uni soon, for his final year, so I guess football isn't on his list of priorities.

Ms Moon and I enjoy tea at The Railway in Lowdham on Thursday evening. I make the short journey to Arnold Town's ground on Friday to see Gedling Southbank and Keyworth United draw in a six-goal thriller. The Green Army (players and supporters) seem to think the game is won before a ball has been kicked. The Taxman rocks up 20 minutes into the game, escaping the £2 admission charge. Is it a general rule of thumb to charge for an NSL game? Keyworth only spend five minutes in the changing room at half-time, following a lethargic and inept 'performance.' Young Sam Foster and seasoned campaigner Scott Litchfield come out of the game with their heads held high.

Ms Moon misses out on the trip up to Bradford due to holiday shopping and ironing (I do my own before all you Loose Women viewers pile in). The Big Man is drafted in after passing a late fitness test following a 48-hour stomach bug. I try to not to mention that the game is close to the 'Emmerdale Farm Experience' in Leeds - he hasn't missed an episode in over 30 years.

Within a few hours we're parked up at The Hop in the village of Saltaire. It's an old, converted tram shed with a two-tiered bar. Tourists and locals are in the beer garden basking in the late summer sunshine. The Big Man treats me to lunch and a pint of Silver King from the superb Ossett Brewery. He demolishes two brisket-wrapped in Yorkshire Puddings. There's nothing on the jukey; it's been replaced by Leicester City and Liverpool. The Foxes are 2-0 down; Trumpy Bolton will be drowning his sorrows on an all day sesh in Worcestershire.

Having made good time, we pop down to the Salt Mills. Saltaire is a Victorian model village located in Shipley. The Victorian era Salt's Mill and associated residential district located by the River Aire and Leeds and Liverpool Canal, is a designated UNESCO and World Heritage Site. Sir Titus Salt opened the woollen mills in 1853 and built the village of Saltaire to house his workers. He died in 1876. It is said that 100,000 lined the streets for his funeral. Bradford born artist David Hockney has a permanent collection of his work on display. 

We wander down to Roberts Park and its 14 acres. It's alive, kicking and has a cricket match taking place. We only have time to watch a couple of balls. The first is despatched back over the bowler's head, clearing the perimeter rope for a straight six. The second is feathered by the batsman into the keeper's hands.

Parking is easy-peasy outside Eccleshill United's Plumpton Park ground. The Club was founded in 1948. There is evidence that it was formed before this, but was disbanded due to the Second World War. They have played here since 1963.

It's £5 on the gate (thanks Big Man). I grab an excellent programme for £1 and a couple of raffle tickets. A very kind official gives us the lowdown on the club, as we admire the pristine condition of the playing surface. A stray shot from the Hebburn Town warm-up grazes the top of the Big Man's head, sending his sunglasses ten yards down the terracing. Despite being smothered in sun cream we use the stand as a hidey-hole from the baking, sweltering sunshine.

It's an FA Vase cup tie, at the Mitton Group Stadium with the long journey ending at Wembley Stadium. Hebburn is situated on the south bank of the River Tyne, sandwiched between the towns of Jarrow and Gateshead. Notable people from the town include: long-distance runner Brendan Foster and footballers George 'Geordie' Armstrong and Chris Basham. 

I'm sat next to Eccleshill diehard fan Marley the Cockapoo, dog. He's wide-eyed, bushy-tailed and donning his bandana. His bottom lip is quivering on 17 minutes when a cracking 50-yard cross-field ball by the visiting skipper is headed onto the crossbar, the 'keeper saves the rebound before the ball loops up for Armstrong to head Hebburn into the lead.

A large group of kids from a junior football team have added to the ambience and atmosphere with their chanting and clapping. Unfortunately for the Big Man they are all in the queue at the snack bar, preventing him from a much-needed full fat Coca-Cola. Sticky Palms ventures into the social club, where one or two visiting fans are worse for wear - not as bad as Corbridge-born Aston Villa manager Steve Bruce must be feeling right now, whose team are 4-0 down at Sheffield Utd. 

Eccleshill huff and puff but fail to blow the house down in the second half as the visitors put all the men behind the ball. The final whistle is blown, poor old Marley looks down in the dumps and off his food. I daren't look him in the eye.

Attendance: 111

Man of the Match: Marley and Charlie Slater the TV reporter.

Wednesfield 2-2 Chasetown

It's 10:30am on Sunday morning and I'm lurking about on Fox Road, outside the Larwood and Voce pub - don't worry folks, it's not a secret rendezvous with blog-drinking legend Trumpy Bolton. Today is the second day of the third Test between England and India at Trent Bridge. I take my pew in the Fox Road Stand with the Bakers (thanks for the ticket Rob) and 'Barthez.'

India have racked up 329 runs. England's reply is a pitiful and pathetic 161 - narrowly avoiding the follow-on thanks to a quick-fire 39 runs from a hard-hitting Jos Buttler (he's only 27 years old and seems to have been on the scene for years) I actually get confused on whether I'm watching England or Nottinghamshire CCC bat; both are as equally incompetent with willow in hand. England are rolled out in two and a half hours.

I wave the lads off and saunter up London Road towards the Fox and Grapes in the 'Creative Quarter.' I was going to have a swift one, but I might miss Songs of Praise, and besides, I've had enough 'Irish Champagne' to sink a battleship. I'm still feeling the after-effects of a late YouTube session with 'Taggart' last night. I'm tucked up in bed by ten bells after a superb Sunday roast dished up and cooked by Ms Moon. The highlight of the week is Aggers reading out a tweet I sent into Test Match Special saying I've had 50p on Graeme Swann to win Strictly Come Dancing at 25/1. Swann says he'll go halves with me, as I should be able to get four pints of beer for £12.50 in Carlton - the cheeky sod, unless I'm tooled up with 'Spoons vouchers.

On Tuesday evening I have a chippy tea on Rookery Lane in Lincoln. It's my first viewing of the Imps this season. They've made a steady enough start without setting the house on fire. I take my usual seat in the Selenity Stand - I've not seen them lose when I've been housed up here for the last 20 games I've watched. Our talisman skipper, Alex Woodyard, has jumped ship and done a runner to nasty Steve Evans' Peterborough United. We miss his legs, leadership and energy, as Bury give us the runaround in the first half; taking a deserved 1-0 lead into the break.

The only thing that has cheered me up at Sincil Bank this evening is a supporter's playlist booming out of the speakers prior to the game. He's picked some cracking tunes including,  The White Stripes and Stone Roses.

Danny Cowley tinkers with his starting line up and makes a tactical change in the second half; it's a managerial masterstroke. Big John Akinde strokes home a penalty, with 'one of our own', Lee Frecklington scoring a late winner which has me dancing in the aisles with joy. My unbeaten run in the Selenity continues.

I witness an exciting finish, the following evening, at Quorn's Farley Way, in Leicestershire, shared with good friends from Shepshed Dynamo, including Chairman Mick Sloan, Big Sean and White Van Man. Dynamo are 2-1 up with seconds remaining when Quorn have a goal chalked-off after a second opinion by the referee's assistant. The victory is fully deserved and it's great to see the beaming ear-to-ear smiles on the faces of folk from Shepshed.

The weekend starts late for Sticky Palms as I have a conference call with clients in New York - I'm gutted to miss Emmerdale Farm. In hindsight, I should have watched a re-run of Amos, Mr Wilkes and Seth, rather than watching the dire football dished up by Middlesbrough and WBA in an overrated Championship. An out-of-favour Craig Dawson is on the bench for WBA. He was discovered by Bernard Manning junior playing parks' football in Rochdale on a Sunday morning, whilst being a glass collector at the Dog and Partridge pub in the town.

I love how football comes together in someone's hour of need. 'Forza Garibaldi', a Nottingham Forest supporter driven movement, has sent out an SOS to folk that HOPE, a Nottingham Christian organisation, are appealing for food bank donations, as emergency supplies are running low. I clock this on Jitz Jani's Facebook feed. Ms Moon kindly shoots over the road to Tesco Carlton on Saturday morning, to jam pack a couple of bags of Red Alert items. We drop them off at the Trent Navigation pub, on Meadow Lane, adjacent to Big Alan Hardy's Notts County ground. Today they are playing an in-form Lincoln City - I would seriously have a cardiac arrest if I attended that game, so give it the swerve and head towards the Black Country in Wolverhampton for FA Cup action.

The Bank Holiday traffic is a blooming nightmare. Sat Nav is having a dicky fit down the A453. Five Live are reporting that some poor soul is threatening to jump off a bridge on the M6 and there is a 90-minute delay between junctions 8 - 10 on the M42. We jump off onto the A5 and skirt around the back of Tamworth.

Sticky Palms has a cracking Good Pub Guide entry lined-up in the sleepy village of Codsall in Staffordshire, where the broadcaster and presenter Jacqui Oatley MBE was brought up. There's a beer festival being held at Codsall Station as we roll into the car park. I'm not too chuffed that there's no food on today, just a burger van outside the pub. A cracking pint of Hereford Pale Ale makes up for the disappointment of no snap.

Ms Moon slams the brakes on halfway down Stubby Lane, just outside Bargain Booze. I dash across the road and take a snap of the street sign, with bemused onlookers giving me the odd eyes. Flawed genius Kevin Rowland, the frontman of Dexys Midnight Runners, lived on this road as a kid. Wednesfield is two miles outside Wolverhampton with a population of 22,000.

We park outside an old people's complex just off Amos Lane and take a short stroll to the turnstile. It's £7 entry and £1 for a programme. I'm up for banter on the gate; the chap clearly isn't. We're both 'Hank Marvin' - the snack bar is just opening up for trade. Two small hot dogs and a tray of chips are served up by a cheery lady for £5.50.

We chance upon a couple of 'Northern exiles' from Darlington who are Chasetown followers. The Scholars are winless this season and they are cautious and nervous about this afternoon's outcome. Wednesfield are two steps below Chasetown, they play with freedom, confidence and desire.

Ms Moon and I hook up with 'Blackpool Jane' who is Matchday Secretary with Chasetown. Jane has seen Blackpool play at an astonishing 90 League grounds - she just has West Ham's new ground and The Lawn at Forest Green to chalk off, to complete the set. Jane is concerned that the visitors only started their season last week, so a lack of game time may hinder their progress.

Blimey Charlie, Wednesfield look hungry; particularly wing wizard 'Harry' with his mazy runs and silky skills. In contrast, Chasetown have little to offer and it's no surprise that they go a goal down following a smart finish by Pond.

Chasetown lack leaders and play without heart. They are fortunate to go into the break with just one goal separating the sides, after a glaring miss by the bald-headed Ben Wilkins. Ms Moon and I have a sugar rush. I take a stroll across to the social club to grab a bar of chocolate; the place is heaving with folk. I return empty-handed; the Princess has the face on.

Jane has positioned herself next to the visitor's dugout so she can accurately write down the substitutions for the FA match report she has to submit. Chasetown restore parity with a brilliant finish by Jacob Lovatt, who has put in a performance worthy of a place in the Chasetown Amateur Dramatic Society, with his rolling around and theatrics. They take a 2-1 lead and look to be cruising into the next round with a £2,890 winning cheque.

A melee ensues following a bad challenge just outside the area. I've seen more handbags at Harvey Nicks. Wednesfield's 4 jacket is churlish and cowardly, as he runs 15 yards to push an opponent over, before hiding on the touchline. The referee correctly brandishes a Red card. The 9 jacket for Chasetown is a lucky lad to only see a Yellow waved in his face.

It's getting tasty where we're stood. A gang of sewer-mouthed youths appear from nowhere and start hurling abuse at the Ref's assistant, as does a track-suited Wednesbury official. Incredibly the Cottagers equalise to force a replay that they certainly deserve.

Attendance: 105

Man of the Match: Forza Garibaldi