Stocksbridge Park Steels 1 FC Utd Manchester 1

I’m thrilled at seeing the ten goal bonanza at Wollaton FC. Big D and ‘Willy’ are sinking a few pints in the clubhouse. I leave them to it and make the short journey home down the A52. Sticky’s straight to the beer fridge; life has never been better. Even my old team, the team I used to support – Lincoln City – have blagged a win in north London, at Barnet.

I’m as happy as Larry. I feel like ‘Singing in the Rain’, like George Sansome did on Britain’s Got Talent. But readers, there’s always, always a dark cloud on the horizon.



The first time I notice it is when the signature tune strikes up for the show. The audience are in rapturous applause. A silver-haired fellow wanders down the studio steps; alongside him is a rather plump lady (fat lass).

Yes folks, Mrs P has struck an all-time low in her TV watching schedule – it’s ‘All Star Mr and Mrs.’ I bury my head into the world of non-league match reports and do not resurface until I hear the familiar voice of former Radio Trent disc jockey – Dale Winton – on ‘In it to Win it.’ Tell you what though folks, that Gary Lineker’s missus is worth a second look.



It’s Friday night. I’m a tad worried about the inclement weather again. I’ve earmarked Stocksbridge Park Steels ground for quite a while now. It’s rained heavily up there for most of the day. There ‘Look Local Stadium’ is situated in the foothills of the Pennines.

I’m in the kitchen, sipping a pint of Kronenberg 1664. I’m listening to Five Live’s preview of the weekend sport to come, with the brilliant Mark Poutgatch. There’s a huge thud in the lounge.

I race through the door to make sure everyone’s ok. ‘What the hell’s happened?” I enquire. “Calm down” pipes up Mrs P, “There’s no need to worry it’s only Fat Pat, off EastEnders, she’s lying in a heap on the floor, having feinted at the B&B breakfast table.”



Saturday morning follows a familiar pattern to the previous week: An interrupted night’s sleep (insomnia), an early rise and traditional poached eggs. Brian Matthew plays Diana Ross and the Supremes 1968 hit ‘Love Child’ on his Radio 2 show. The lyrics are powerful and controversial for its day.

For those that don’t know I’m the talent identification officer (chief scout in old money) for Notts County’s centre of excellence. My remit is to uncover any emerging talent in the Midlands. This morning my team of scouts are out in force in the north of the county.



I ring up my snout in the Newark area. He tips me a lad who is playing in the old mining village of Clipstone. I drive up the A614 and turn off opposite Rufford Park, passing Center Parks Holiday Village.

The towering headstocks of the old coal mine are a feature of the village. I pull into a school; the game has already kicked off. I watch the first half. The player in question is not quite what we are looking for.

I head towards Debdale Lane, to meet up with my gaffer, but I’ve just missed him. I take in another game, but there’s nothing doing. I head up towards Stocksbridge.



It’s a routine run. I join the M1 at Junction 29 and exit at 35A. Mark Pougatch’s Five Live team are talking up Accrington Stanley’s chances against Fulham at the Fraser Eagle Stadium.

There’s a steep climb on the way into Stocksbridge. This must be one of the highest vantage points in the area. I can still see a smattering of snow on the top of the Pennines.

I park Sally Gunnell (not much to look at but a bloody good runner) right outside the turnstile. A Stocksbridge official is situated in the crow’s nest on the lookout for Mancs crossing the border. It’s the Battle of the Roses.



I check the game is on. A very kind official ensures I’m fetched a programme. I decide to stretch my legs and walk into town. I’m forewarned about the 1 in 3 gradient I’m to be greeted with on my return journey.

The high street is fairly unremarkable. It’s a bit of a one horse town. There are a couple of bars, Ned’s Pizzas and Capone’s Kebabs.I’m on the verge of an about turn, when I see in the horizon a moment of beauty and class – it’s the Stocksbridge Co-op. It’d be rude not to. I snaffle up a cheddar ploughman’s sandwich as part of a £3 meal deal.



I sit on a seat opposite the old Palace Cinema, cranking myself up for the steep journey back to the ground. I’ve only walked 500 yards and I’m already fagged out – it’s like walking up Scafell Pike.I notice a cemetery to my right. I’m that out of breath, I might as well dig myself a hole and jump into an early grave readers.

I’m finally back at the ground, with a face as red as a FC United shirt. It’s £7 on the gate. I’ve already paid £1.50 for another outstanding programme. It’s a £1 for a raffle ticket.



Stocksbridge is a small town in the civil parish of Sheffield, in the People’s Republic of South Yorkshire. It has a population of just over 13,000 people. Footballers born in the town include: Oxford United manager Chris Wilder and former West Ham player Peter Eustace.

The area was once famous for its steelworks. In 2003 Corus announced proposals to transfer steel melting processes from Stocksbridge Works to Rotherham Works, entailing the closure of the Melting Shop and the Hot Rolling Mill, with the loss of 350 jobs.

I’m straight upstairs into the cosiest bar ever (apart from Wollaton FC). The place is packed with Mancs. I fight my way through to the bar and order a pint of cider – that walk and sandwich has caused quite a thirst.



Preston North End versus Chelski is on the TV set, perched up in the corner of the room. Nicolas Anelka puts the Blues two up – not one person in the room bats an eyelid. The view from the bar of the ground, with the Pennine hills in the backdrop, are spectacular.

I’ve still got my scouts’ coat on and have begun to come out in a sweaty rash. There’s nowhere to sit down, or room to take my coat off. I finish the cider off in four slurps and head outside again to cool down.



I sit alone in the main stand, listening to the sound checks. The DJ ought to audition for Heart FM. He plays three shockers in a row – ‘Love Really Hurts by Billy Ocean (Mrs P saw him live in 1980), ‘Mary’s Prayer’ by Danny Wilson and ‘Young Hearts Run Free’ by Candi Staton. It’s like being slumped against the bar in Madison’s nightclub in Nottingham circa 1980.

We’re not allowed to walk around the ground. A steward (from Sheffield Wednesday) explains that they’ve only 6 yellow coats on duty. Effectively only two sides of the ground are going to be open for their biggest crowd of the season.



I’m chatting to an FC United fan. To be honest I can’t get a word in edgeways. He’s telling me that ‘United’ only have a budget of £3000 per week. Also a lot of the revenue is swallowed up by not having their own ground or clubhouse – they play home games at Bury’s Gigg Lane.

He brags how he bought a ticket for the Champions League final on eBay. ‘Don’t tell the missus he chuckles.” Yeah and don’t tell mine mate (Mrs P) that I’m off to Villa v ‘The Arsenal’ next Wednesday at £43! Ouch!

We’re told to take our seats in the stand, as the players are ready to kick-off. The FC United fans are largely congregated behind the far goal. One or two of their flags have caught my attention. I leave the stand and head towards them to take some photos.



United flags are plastered all over the ground. I particularly like the ‘Pleasures Unknown’ one – a reference to the cult album by Manchester indie band Joy Division. I’m not so impressed with the Argentinean flag. (It’s a two fingered salute at the anti-Beckham brigade of 1998)

The United fans are class. Their repertoire of ditties amuses The Groundhopper. They change the lyrics to ‘Peaches’ by The Stranglers and ‘Anarchy in the UK’ by the Sex Pistols. They’re certainly more entertaining than players, who put in a ring-rusty performance in the first 45 minutes. FC United do chose though to keep it on the carpet.



The FC United following sing a British terrace favourite on 20 minutes and one The Groundhopper often sings at work: ‘We all hate Leeds scum.’ Everything is rosy in the garden.

The most controversial moment of the first half happens on 35 minutes with a text from Mrs P to say the boiler is kaput and is going to cost £500 to fix. Call it £543 if you include the Villa game.

United forward Joseph Yoffe races through on goal and is wiped out by Steels’ ‘keeper Ben ‘Kamkaze’ Scott. It’s only a yellow card. Phil Marsh’s curling effort is cleared off the line by a Steels’ defender.



Former Kilmarnock and Notts County winger Iain McCulloch (career finished by a collision with Man Utd ‘keeper Gary Bailey) rings me at the break. He’s been watching a game for me and has found a player. The conversation is short and sweet, as he mumbles more than Kenny Dalglish.

FC United ooze class and confidence in the second half as they attack ‘our’ end. There 4-3-3 formation begins to pay dividends. Jerome Wright and Carlos Roca run rings around the Steels. Their endless supply of crosses has no one on the end of them.

The Steels show a physical and cynical nature to their game and keep the referee busy with notebook and pencil.



United take the lead on the hour. A flowing move finds Roca in space on the right, he feints to go outside, cuts inside and buries the ball into the corner of the net. But they can’t kill the game off. Brett Lovell, a man better built for the game of rugby, is dismissed for a clumsy challenge.

FC United are running down the clock with the minutes ticking away, when a header from a free kick squirms out Ashton’s hands leaving Steels’ striker Andy Ring with the simple task of stabbing the ball into an empty net.

I’m desperately sorry for United. They’ve passed the ball beautifully but have lacked the killer instinct.

Attendance: 761 (600 + from Manc)

Man of the Match: FC United left back.

Wollaton 4 Magdala Amateurs 6 (first set)

It’s Wednesday evening and I’m driving Sally Gunnell home through a snow blizzard. I struggle up the hill towards Keyworth. I’m relieved to finally reach our road – it’s only a 4 mile trip but Sticky doesn’t like driving.

I put Sally in the garage; she’ll be nice and snug in there. I walk around the back passage of the house. For a minute I thought I’d spotted the abominable snowman. I take a second glance.. How stupid of me. Of course, it’s my furry, shivering little pet rabbit, Finley P.

He’s covered in snowflakes and is not a happy chappy. Unfortunately, for him, he’s serving a lifetime ban from being in the house, following an unsavoury incident involving Finley’s gnashers and the Sky TV cable. It ended up with an onsite visit from the NTL engineer. Mrs P was judge and jury.



But Mrs P is at work readers. She’ll never know if the youngster has one sneaky soiree in the lounge again. Sticky junior is dispatched to Finley’s crib to collect the wee man. He’s scurrying about the house and thawing out nicely. It’s all going to plan. Suddenly there’s a crunching noise. Bloody hell, he’s only found an over-hanging computer cable and took a huge chunk out of it. It’s the third red card in his short career. He’s well on track to equal Steve Walsh’s Football League record.

‘The Skipper’ is in a relationship (as they say on Facebook). It’s not just any old relationship. He’s hooked into a beauty. Her family are ‘Local Food Heroes.’ Apparently their family butcher firm is celebrating its 25th year. We’ll never have to pay for a Sunday joint again, folks. I think we’ll have a nice piece of pork belly this week ‘Skipper.’

It’s Friday night and poor old Groundhopper is feeling it. A few hours ago I had a bigger hole in my tooth than D****y County have in their defence. The numbness from the injection has faded. I crack open a Stella to celebrate.



I turn on Sky Sports News. Rafa Benetiz has produced another scrap of paper from his pocket and is apologising to the City of Liverpool. I joke with the kids that the paper is really his weekend shopping list. “Yeah, he’ll be nipping to Londis when he leaves the Melwood training ground lads,” I say. “It’ll say: Fact, paella. Fact, tapas. Fact, omelette. Fact John West sardines. “Shut up Dad” they pipe up.

Suddenly we’re all booing and hissing at the TV. The most despicable man in sport is on the box, denying he got an edge on a Ryan Sidebottom away swinger. There’s no place in our house for South African skipper G****e Smith. Lucky Finley wasn’t in the room, he’d have jumped through the TV set and Glasgow kissed him.

It’s Saturday morning and Sticky’s flapping big style. He doesn’t want a blank Saturday and pines for the non-league scene. I’ve Burton Albion or Doncaster Rovers up my sleeve, but events hinge on a 10.30am pitch inspection at the Wollaton Sports Association. It’s a re-visit, but what the hell, I love that club.



I’m in the kitchen rustling up a couple of poached eggs. I make my first brew in a week. I’ve been cleansing my liver and kidneys with hot water and lemon. It’s a pot of tea for one for The Groundhopper. It is magnifique and tastes like Bollinger. I mark it with an 8 out of 10.

I’m listening to Brian Matthew’s Sound of the Sixties show on Radio 2. He plays the occasional humdinger. Today it’s Jamaican ska singer Desmond Dekker and The Aces, ‘Israelites.’ It’s my favourite part of the day. Everyone is in bed. It’s peaceful and tranquil. Just me and Desmond.

Uh-oh, Mrs P has risen from her slumber and has a list of jobs for The Groundhopper as long as Peter Crouch’s arm.



First job is to clean all the inside windows with my proper window cleaners’ blade. Thank God Jonathan Ross cheers me up with Public Image Ltd’s first single from 1978 - ‘Public Image.’ I’m pogoing readers whilst sliding the blade across the window, mopping up any excess water.

I’ve had enough now. I’ve cleaned more windows than George Formby. I check the best message board in the world. Wollaton manager, Ian Lowe, has very kindly posted that the game is 100% on. Referee John Beckett has taken the time out to travel down to the WSA and give the game the green light. Good on you John.

My boys are off down the Tricky Trees – it’s ‘Kids For A Quid.’ Mrs P is on the hunt for a new television – G****e Smith’s appearance last night has caused a crack in the screen. The coast is clear to head down to Wollaton.



I’m walking out the house past Finley’s cage. I’ve a blue chew (for Wollo) and a yellow chew for Dala) in my hand. Which ever one he takes from my fingers first will be Finley’s prediction of today’s winner. He snaffles up the blue one. Fair play Finley lad, Magdala are 2nd from bottom of the league.

I’m in the Rolls Royce. Alan Green is complaining about how turgid the Stoke v Liverpool game is. Only 10,000 Stokies turned out when Sticky was at the Britannia Stadium a few weeks back. Predictably, it’s a full house today.

I drive down the A52 towards Nottingham. and turn left at Crown Island. I’m soon parked up in the Admiral Rodney car park. It’s a place close to my heart. I took Mrs P out for a drink here on our first date back in August 1988.

My phone goes off. It’s Mick Leonard who is head of youth at Notts County. We haven’t trained or played for nearly a month now; it’s just a catch-up call. I mention that I’m at the WSA, just around the corner from his house, if he fancies taking the game in. The Pies have just been called off at Bradford City.



I walk up the entrance to the ground with honorary secretary Frank Hunt. He’s proud of the fact that volunteers have taken three days of their time to clear the pitch of snow.

I poke my head around the door of the cosiest clubhouse in Notts. No-one is about. It’s 15 minutes before kick-off. I meander around the perimeter of the ground. I pass the cricket scoreboard and the well kept gardens of the bordering bungalows. The pitch looks great but is heavily sanded in the bottom left hand corner.

I hear my name shouted out and look up to see Big D and his faithful sidekick Roscoe. It’s our third Saturday in a row together. Roscoe had a traumatic encounter at the Ricoh Arena tea bar last week. He doesn’t appear to be ‘over it.’



I notice a lonely groundhopper sat outside the wooden cricket pavilion making meticulous notes. I have had bad experiences with ‘proper hoppers.’ I even bumped into one in D H Lawrence’s bedroom.

A good crowd begins to congregate. It’s just about the only NSL game that’s beat the elements today. Nottingham is a city full of characters and one or two have rocked up today. Hobo from Kimberley is dressed up in full Russian headgear. Eccentric Welshman, Dennis Harris (Ilkeston Town chairman) has missed out on a trip to Fleetwood to grace us with his presence. I could go on and on (you already have Sticky).

Wollaton look sharper in the opening stages. They have the pace of Adey Bascombe and the width and craft of Justin Whatmore. They’ve already made a few openings when Bascombe escapes the attentions of the ‘Dala defence to stab home from close range.




I’ve been joined by Mick (my boss) and former Pies legend Iain McCulloch (1978-83, 215 appearances). He coaches the Notts County u13 youth team. His thick Scottish accent is hard to decipher. It’s akin to watching an episode of Rab C Nesbitt.

Wollaton have the move of the match on 30 minutes. They’ve pinged the ball all over the park, Whatmore delivers a centre, Bascombe heads goal wards and only a fantastic save by the pink-shirted ‘Dala ‘keeper prevents Wollo’s lead from being doubled.

‘Dala have been edging their way into the game. They pass to feet and work the channels well. Wollaton have no-one to match the energy and tenacity of captain Richard Wyman. Flinders, the Wollo ‘keeper, has already been called into action on more than one occasion, when they restore parity on in the 44th minute through Stephen Hillier. Within a minute the visitors are a goal to the good, with a smart finish by Ashley Robinson.



Poor old Nidge, the NSL photographer, has been skiving in the clubhouse, seeking out an early brew. He’s gobsmacked when I tell him that he’s missed two goals.The catering staff are top notch and serve a sublime cuppa. It’s up there with Bardon Hill Sports and is marked with an eight.Stoke score a late equaliser in the Sky game. Rafa should add goalkeeper to his shopping list (fact).

I take a stroll around to the Wollaton dug out to see how they are taking the news of the two late goals. I’ve just positioned myself close to where Ian Lowe is standing when Ashley Robinson pops in a third.



The industrious and tireless Hillier scores the goal of the game on the hour. He outmuscles the Wollaton defender and races away. He tucks the ball into the bottom right hand corner of the goal. The guy has run his socks off.

The Wollaton assistant manager is irritated by an AWOL back four. He showers the team with foul-mouthed verbal volley. Sticky is amused, but hey, at least the guy’s got passion.

The game is played without fear. It’s jumpers for goalposts. There seems to be a goal every five minutes. The defending is comical (non-existent). The crowd are trying to work out the score. We agree on 4-6.


Big D is holed up in the clubhouse; it’s session on for him and ‘Willy’. Roscoe (‘Beadle hands’) is tasked with collecting the drinks – God help them if last week antics are anything to go by.

Sticky has time for a swift pint of Guinness before slipping away. I’m back home for 4pm, just in time to put Finley to bed and to let him know that his predictions are rubbish. “Stick to what you’re good at son - chewing computer and Sky TV cables”.

Attendance: 52

Man of the Match: Finley Palmer.

Coventry City 3 Barnsley 1

There’s a character in the cult comic Viz called Sheridan Poorly. He’s a hypochondriac and always on the verge of death. He thinks he has every disease on earth. I used to work with a guy who called me Sheridan, as I often complained of feeling unwell. This is how I’ve felt this week.

Yes readers, I’ve got the New Year’s blues. It started when I chewed on a brown-wrapped Quality Street toffee, which Robin had kindly bought in a tin of to the office. I remarked how long I’d been chewing on it, when I realised I’d dislodged a filling. Inevitably, a few days later I succumbed to toothache.



The following day I jumped out of bed like a spring chicken, only to crick my neck. I suffered the countless jibes at work like: ‘No Neck’ and ‘Gladstone Small.’ I couldn’t even turn around to remonstrate with the said perpetrators; such was the pain when turning sideways.

It’s Friday night and I’m consoling myself with a couple of Stella’s. The Taxman and Nuclear Scientist have invited themselves round to watch the West Bromwich Albion v Nottingham Forest game. The Tricky Trees are sublime and pass ‘The Albion’ to death. Moussi, McKenna and Majewski are par excellence in the engine room.

We awake on Saturday morning to further snowfall. I do my good deed of the day and heavily grit an alleyway next to our crib, so the old folk can get to the shops without fear of taking a tumble.



Finley, our pet rabbit, laughs in the face of the adverse weather conditions. He is as hard as nails and was born in the north of the county. He rolls around in the snow, licking at the melting ice. He grabs a couple of treats from The Groundhopper’s fingers. He’s my best friend.

Mrs P and I take a stroll up to the village. I’m praying to God that the Ricoh Arena survives a pitch inspection. The only other alternative is D***y Clownty v Scunthorpe United. I’ve already enquired how much tickets are in the away end.

We bump into Notts County legend Brian Stubbs in the village. He played 426 times for ‘The Pies’ before being dumped on from a great height by Howard Wilkinson – this is the same idiot who closed down Notts’ centre of excellence four years ago.



We take a wander around the new Keyworth Co-op shop. The moment should have been beautiful (Sticky loves the Co-op) but it’s spoilt by a whack RnB track on Radio Co-op. Mrs P ignores the special offers in the white wine section, but manages to bag some heavily discounted barrels of Foxes biscuits.

Coventry City confirm the game is on. Thank Christ for that. As Elvis Costello said in 1978: ‘I Don’t Want To Go To D***y.’

I sit watching Soccer Saturday whilst sharing a bowl of M&S carrot and coriander soup with Mrs P. Lord only knows what they are going to talk about, as only six games have survived the Big Freeze. They’ll probably be chatting shit for six hours, like they normally do.



I was slightly underdressed for the visit to the Britannia Stadium last Saturday and won’t be making the same mistake again. I purchased some thermal socks from Keyworth’s number one over 60s shop – Tweedies. It’s an establishment often ridiculed on this blog, but it aint arf saved my bacon today readers.

Big D has arranged to pick me up outside the HQ of Keyworth United Community Football Club on Platt Lane. He arrives bang on time.

Big D is on top form. He’s been beavering away in the kitchen all morning, preparing his lamb stew for tonight.



Roscoe has already scoffed nearly half a pack of Maynard’s Sour fruit pastills. Radio Trent is on the car radio, but thankfully the volume is switched to low.

We head up the A46, M1, M69 and M6 and park inside the Ricoh Arena within 45 minutes for the princely sum of a tenner. At least it will ensure a hasty getaway.

Coventry lies 19 miles east of Birmingham and has a population of just shy of 300,000 people. It was once well known for its car manufacturing.



The city suffered heavy bombardment from the German Luftwaffe during the Second World War. It became known as the ‘Coventry Blitz’ and was a retaliatory act by Adolf Hitler following the RAF’s aerial onslaught of Munich. Coventry Cathedral was left with just its outer walls.

Coventry was one of the world’s first twin cities, when it forged links with Stalingrad, Russia (now Volgograd) during the war.

During the late 1970s the Two Tone phenomenon helped spring up local ska bands such as The Specials and The Selector.



Well known folk born in the Coventry area include: the actor Clive Owen, Specials singer Terry Hall, music mogul Pete Waterman, Sky Sports presenter Richard Keys, Warwickshire and England cricketer Ian Bell, England rugby international Neil Back and Great Britain sprinter Marlon Devonish.

We stroll across a footbridge and are just about to enquire about tickets when a guy earwigs our conversation. He offers us discounted, unused season tickets: It saves us a few bob. Admission would have been £27; it’s another £3 for an impressive programme.

Big D heads for the food bar as Roscoe’s tummy is a rumbling. He’s told he has to purchase a credit card, they don’t take cash. It all seems a lot of faffing around to me. Roscoe is fed and watered, its cost Big D the best part of £8.



Barnsley is in the People’s Republic of South Yorkshire and is populated by 75,000 people. Local lads include: one of the first black English footballers and also a top comedian: Charlie Williams, the cricketer Darren Gough, Sticky’s favourite umpire Dickie Bird, Wolves manager Mick McCarthy, journalist , radio and TV presenter Michael Parkinson and the late great Stan Richards (Seth Armstrong) off Emmerdale Farm.

The Ricoh Arena is a cracking stadium. They have wide concourses and plenty of leg room. We sit high up on the halfway line, opposite the main stand and sponsors’ lounges.

Both teams are lower mid-table. Coventry’s form is up and down, whilst the visitors are unbeaten in their last eight league games.



The match is being sponsored by health store giant Holland and Barrett. With my stiff neck, toothache and mouth ulcers, I think they are going to be seeing a lot of The Groundhopper in the next few days.

Barnsley are first to the ball in every department. It’s kept on the carpet and spread wide. The Tykes’ grand fromage is Buenos Aries born playmaker Hugo Colace. He rocked up at Oakwell from Newell’s Old Boys in August 2008. What a coup this must have been for the club. He is the dog’s bollocks. He arrows a volley to the bottom left of the goal, somehow Westwood tips it around the post. It’s breathtaking.

Coventry’s tactics are clear for all to see – get the ball forward quickly to former Notts County trainee Big Leon Best. He’s as strong as an ox and untouchable in the air.



The Tykes are battering the Sky Blues. Foster has hit the bar and they’ve had a good shout for penalty turned down by referee Lee Mason.

I have to check it’s not an FA Cup tie, such is the flow of the game. Coventry take the lead totally against the run of play. Stephen Wright’s flighted cross is nodded into the back of the net by former Grays striker Freddie Eastwood.

Three minutes later Northern Ireland midfield Sammy Clingan scores a spectacular scissor kick from 15 yards out after Barnsley fail to clear their lines from a McIndoe corner. It’s harsh on the visitors who have been great value.



Great news arrives from Pride Park: D***y 0 Scunny 2. We do a little jig of delight. Roscoe has been dispatched to the tea bar at the break. Big D gives him strict instructions about topping his credit card up and what to order. You can see it’s all too much for the youngster.

Barnsley manager Mark Robins throws caution to the wind in the second half, he throws a few more players up top - Adam Hammill and Iain Hume. They start where they left off and pull a goal back on 49 minutes with Jon Macken converting a Hammill cross.



Roscoe re-appears on the hour. The halfwit has made a right pig’s ear of the drinks order. He’s forgot to put milk in his Dad’s tea and sugar in his own coffee. His face is a picture; he looks like he’s been sucking on a lemon.

The chances stack up for the Tykes, but they spurn them all. Hume, Hassell and Hammill are the guilty parties.



Roscoe’s got a face like a wet weekend; he’s still sulking about the tea bar running out of hot chocolate. We hot foot out the ground with a few minutes remaining and miss Clinton Morrison wrap up the game for Coventry.

The cockles of our hearts are warmed with the news that The Iron have put four past The Sheep.

Attendance: 15,031 (600 from Barnsley)

Man of the Match: Roscoe.

Stoke City 3 York City 1

“Ooh, that’s too soft. Ouch that’s too hard.” “How about now?” replies a frustrated Groundhopper. “Argh, that’s way too uncomfortable.” We are sitting on leather sofas in the CSL furniture store, at the Giltbrook Retail Park, close to Junction 26 of the M1.

I’m cold turkey readers. I’ve not seen a game since the Battle of Market Drayton on December 12th. Mrs P has hauled me around every retail park in the county. I was enthusiastic last Tuesday, but it’s now Saturday morning, and I’m about as interested in buying a sofa as James Beattie is bothered about playing for Stoke City. I tell you what readers, I’ve sat on more sofas in the last week than Richard and Judy have in a lifetime.



Yesterday was another wipe-out. I’d Hinckley United, Belper Town and Sutton Coldfield Town FC all up my sleeve. By 1.30pm they’d all fell by the wayside. I sulked and skulked about and ended up down the pub with The Taxman.

I’d made my mind up last night, that if my original choice of Gedling MW v Radcliffe Olympic fell victim to the weather, then I’d pick out an FA Cup tie where under-soil heating was involved.

I scour the fixture list on the BBC website. One sticks out like a sore thumb. Stoke City (no wins in the last six games) against Conference Premier York City (unbeaten in their last eleven games).



I’m in CSL tearing my hair out at the plethora of sofas we have to sit on. My phone goes off. It’s sweet music to my ears. “Stoke v York, game on. Pay on the gate.”

There’s just time to plonk myself on another settee, whilst listening to ‘This Charming Man’ by The Smiths on the store’s hi-fi system, before heading back home.

I squeeze in an M&S Stilton and celery soup, complete with French stick and a slab of Stilton left over from Christmas.



The Taxman is taking ‘The Skipper’ and Sticky junior down The City Ground for the cup tie against Birmingham City. I’ve decided to give it a miss.

I slip on my thermals and about four layers of clothing as the snow begins to fall heavily from the white skies.

I can barely see out the windscreen in almost blizzard-like conditions, as I head up to Bramcote to Big D’s house. His house is on a cul-de-sac and is like a skating rink.



We jump in Big D’s 4x4. Roscoe, his lad, is on board. He plays in the nets for Mansfield Town centre of excellence. Although you wouldn’t have thought so, the number of times he drops his programme, later in the day.

The game is 100% scheduled to go ahead, what could possibly go wrong? The bad news arrives via Mark Pougatch on Five Live: the York City team bus is stuck in snow on the M62. Ooh heck.

We stop off for petrol on the A50. Big D shouts up a bag of Haribo’s which last all of five minutes.



We’re in no rush to park as we exit the A500 enroute to the Britannia Stadium: the York City players are 30 miles away, stranded on the M6.

A shady-looking character fleeces me out of a fiver as we park the car at a Harvester restaurant.

Stoke is in the county of Staffordshire and has a population of 250,000. It’s famous for its pottery and coal mining. Sadly, both went into decline in the 1970s and 1980s.



Famous Stokies include: TV presenter Nick Hancock, pub singer Robbie Williams (Port Vale fan), crap actor Neil Morrissey, darts player Phil Taylor, Reading chairman John Madejski, GMTV disaster Anthea Turner, crap DJ Bruno Brookes, Sir Stanley Matthews, Mark Bright and the worst presenter/pundit in the history of television, Garth Crooks.

Stoke City chairman Peter Coates is also a local lad and the founder of the bet365 online gambling company.

The Potters are experiencing their first Premiership wobble. Cracks are beginning to appear beneath the surface. There are signs of unrest in the dressing room. Serial bad boy - James Beattie - felt the full force of Tony Pulis’ anger after a recent defeat at ‘The Arsenal.’



Players to have played for both Stoke and York include: Marco Gabbiadini, Paul Barnes, Richard Cresswell, Graham Potter and Jon Parkin.

We have a trudge around the outside of the stadium. You’re quite high up, and feel the full force of a biting wind-chill. We stand and admire the statue of wing wizard Sir Stanley Matthews.

It’s £15 cash on the gate and £3 for another top-notch programme: you’re never going to beat Manchester City or Gedling MW for a programme though. Big D has a Bovril, Roscoe a bottle of water and The Groundhopper a Coca-Cola. It has a Premiership price on its head of £5.40.



As we walk to our seats in a half-empty stadium, I can hear Melbourne singer Daniel Merryweather singing a cover version of The Smiths hit ‘Stop Me.’ It warms-up my freezing feet and gets them tapping away.

News has reached us that the York bus has arrived at the ground. It’s good of them to join us, but unfortunately it’s 2.58pm. The referee had threatened to call the game off, had they arrived a minute after kick-off time.

York has a population of 175,000 and ‘Our Mark’ lives up there. Famous people from York include, Guy Fawkes, Dame Judi Dench and Hunter from Gladiators. Dick Turpin was famously hanged on York Racecourse. New readers may want (or not want) to read my drunken day out at York races blog from July 2007, when poor old Sticky Palms was tucked up in bed before the start of Casualty.



Who on earth made the decision to leave York at 10.15am? Why no overnight stop? Surely by battling their way to the third round they’ve made a few bob on the way? They’ve already earned over £60,000 in prize money. What a way to treat your players. I bet they are livid.

It’s good of the York players to join us for a few stretches at 3.15pm. I phone Mrs P up and tell her to turn down the chilli con carne, as we’re going to be late back.

Five thousand Minstermen fans have congregated behind the goal to our left. Most of them managed to beat the team bus here. Only ten thousand of the ‘noisiest fans in the country’ have bothered to turn up.



The York City fans taunt the Stokies with a couple of amusing chants: “Where’s your famous atmosphere?” and “Shit ground no fans bring a smile to the face of The Groundhopper.

I notice in the away end there’s huge placard advertising that you get yourself checked-out for the sexual disease Chlamydia. I’m way too busy looking for sofas to even think about contemplating that.

Tony Pulis names a strong starting eleven. York City leave £55,000 summer signing from Ebbsfleet – Michael Gash – on the bench. He’s keeping Richard Pacquette company, who once scored in an FA Cup tie at Anfield for Havant & Waterlooville.



There’s little to choose between the two sides in the opening quarter. Conference leading scorer Richard Brodie hits a hopeful daisy cutter wide of the mark from 25 yards out. Stoke, meanwhile, rely on Rory Delap hand grenades to cause mayhem in the visitors’ box.

York take the lead on 22 minutes. Alex Lawless’ inswinging free-kick is flicked goalwards by the head of former Chelsea trainee Neil Barrett. It hits the inside of the upright and falls into the back of the net. There’s uncontrollable mayhem from behind the goal.

Their lead lasts barely a minute. Delap peppers the box with another missile and Daniel Parslow can only slice his clearance into the roof of the net.

Sixty seconds later and York fall behind. They fail to clear their lines from another Delap throw-in, the ball falls kindly to Jamaican striker Ricardo Fuller, who makes no mistake from close range. We all join the York City coach driver and take a breather at the break.

We watch a video on the big screen at the break of Stoke City’s League Cup final win over Chelsea over thirty five years ago. They are three of the scruffiest goals ever to grace a Wembley final.




Stoke win at a canter in the second period. Cornishman Matthew Etherington ends the contest with a beautifully flighted free-kick into the ‘keeper’s top right hand corner.

York stick to their passing game, but play a narrow formation. Special praise is to be mentioned to their powerhouse striker Michael Rankine, who looks a steal at £10,000 from Rushden and Diamonds.

It’s difficult to tell the difference between Rankine and the biggest of big-time-Charlies – James Beattie. The man has somehow commanded £14 million pounds in transfer fees and yet never really cut it at the highest level. He persists in showing the petulance of a schoolboy. He throws his arms up in the air, falls out with partner Fuller and gestures at the bench. His substitution is greeted with muted applause.

As for York, all I can I say is what Inspector Blakey used to say on On the Buses: “Get that bus of here Butler.”

Attendance: 15,586

Man of the Match: York coach driver.