Eastwood Town 4 Alfreton Town 2

It’s the 18th December 1982. Sticky Palms is loved up to the eyeballs. The Steward’s daughter, at my local golf club, has caught my eye in the 19th hole. She is a lovely little birdie. A romance blossoms, football is put on the back burner.

I enjoy late night drinking sessions with her father in the bar. Her mother is on hand to rustle up pie, chips, peas and gravy from the golf club kitchen. Life is a bed of roses.

The time has come though, to introduce her to my first real love: Lincoln City Football Club. I hoodwink her into a Christmas shopping trip around Lincoln City centre. I wine and dine her at the famous Wig and Mitre public house, in the charming historic Steep Hill area of the city. We stroll together around the Castle grounds.



We drop into Grandma and Granddads and Nana’s on the High Street. “Well blow me down”, says Sticky browsing through the Lincolnshire Echo, “Lincoln City are at home this afternoon.”

“Why don’t we go and watch them?” says my new love. We walk hand in hand down Shakespeare Street. I pay her in on the turnstile and treat her to a steaming hot cup of Bovril. The Salvation Army brass band play Christmas carols on the pitch.

We lean together on a red-painted crash barrier on the Sincil Bank terrace. Here I am with my two big loves. Does it get any better than this? You old romantic Sticky.

Bournemouth are today’s visitors. They are managed by a virtual unknown called Harry Redknapp. It’s his first taste of management and his first game at the helm.



Colin Murphy’s Lincoln are in a rich vein of form. Our strike force is frightening – Derek Bell and Gordon Hobson are backed up by free-scoring midfield general, Glenn Cockerill.

Lincoln win the game 9-0. It could have been 20-0 but for the brilliance of Cherries’ ‘keeper Kenny Allen.

It inspires me to follow the Imps home and away again. The romance fades. I’m finally and unceremoniously dumped. Lincoln City is all I have left. I wonder what happened to that Redknapp fellow? He’s probably the sponge-man at Poole Town by now.

I spend Tuesday night in the delightful surroundings of Gedling Miners’ Welfare’s Plains Road ground. It’s an entertaining 2-2 draw, in what I have to say is my favourite League of the season (EMCL). Heanor Town are the visitors.



I bump into ‘Beardy Malc’ and ‘Daft Lad Kev’ from the On the Road blog. I also spend the second half in the company of Welfare official and Web Master, Tony Hay.

It’s Friday evening. I’ve mowed both the front and back lawns. It’s like a bowling green, readers. You could play a frame of snooker on it. I’m sat on the patio necking a pint of Stella, feeling pretty pleased with myself.

He’s trying to catch my eye. His ears prick up. He’s on all-fours, showing his sad eyes.I ring up the Rabbit FA. They confirm his six month garden hopping ban and shed hiding ban is at an end.

I put on my i-Pod, The Beloved’s ‘The Sun is Rising’ is on ‘shuffle.’ I lift him out the cage and place him on the top step. Finley Palmer is back in action. He scurries straight down the garden and shoots under the shed.



It’s Saturday morning. There’s an awful start to the day. My boss (Mick) from Notts County phones me ‘early doors.’ The reception is poor. I walk into the garden with my slippers on. There’s a heavy dew on the freshly cut lawn.

Twenty minutes later there’s a huge squeal. Somebody has traipsed mud all over the cream coloured lounge carpet. Forensics on my footwear are the perfect match. Oh bollocks, I’m in massive trouble.

It’s a packed footballing schedule. Sticky junior and his pals cadge a lift to the Cattle Market on Meadow Lane. The biggest wheeler and dealer in Keyworth is spending the morning at Arthur Johnson’s auctions.

I roll up in the car park of the World’s oldest Football League club. I nip into the Club Shop. The forecast is for a warm and sunny day. I bag a Magpies baseball cap and then head off to the Munch Box in Ruddington for a breakfast cob.



Forest are snooping about at the game I scout at. He doesn’t hang around for long though, he’s probably shooting off home to watch James Martin’s Saturday Kitchen.

I help coach ‘The Skipper’s team in the afternoon. We don’t do enough to win. but are gracious in defeat. Our opponents have no discipline and are unsporting. Their time-wasting tactics are an embarrassment and their manager is unpleasant. They question every decision. Never at anytime do they appear to be enjoying the beautiful game, like we do.

I enjoy a tea-time real ale with Mrs P at a countryside pub in the affluent village of Wysall. Chick flick Mamma Mia is on the box at night. I bury my head into a Non League publication.

It’s Tuesday evening. I’ve just left ‘The Skipper’s training session early. We have practised set pieces on the playing field in Tollerton. Notts County’s new incumbent, Martin Allen, also tried this earlier in the day, in a field off the M5, near a service station, on the way to Yeovil Town’s Huish Park.



Peter Allen and Anita Anand keep me amused on the short 25 minute journey north. I turn left just past the now derelict Man in Space pub. A flustered steward waves me away. I end up parking on a grass verge.

It’s 40 minutes until kick off but people are pouring down Chewton Street. There’s a bright, beautiful evening sunset over D H Lawrence country.

Alfreton lead the Conference North league by a country mile. Eastwood have one loss in the last 18 games. The televised Champions League game at Old Trafford and vital Npower Championship games at The City Ground and Pride Park will have a bearing on tonight’s attendance.

I’ve been itching to watch this reverse fixture, as the 2-2 draw at the Impact Arena on New Year’s Day was full of thrills and spills.



I take a stroll around Coronation Park. It has bags of character. The Clubhouse is raised above the ground. Two stands run along both sides of the halfway line. There is covered terracing behind both goals.

The PA guy is playing The Damned’s 1986 hit ‘Eloise, as I take a pew in the small stand on the far side of the ground.

I bump into Danny Boyes from Dunkirk FC, who I used to work with. I think The Boatmen are due to play The Badgers in the next round of the Notts Senior Cup – he is clearly here on a spying mission.

The teams enter the field of play. The Eastwood backline are huge. At least three must be over 6’ 4”. The biggest guy on the pitch must be referee Mr C Grundy of Sheffield. He must play rugby or be a policeman.



I’ve had a quick scout around for Parker and Walters, who I said I would hook up with. But a majority of the crowd (1112) have an Eastwood haircut (skinhead). It’s like being in the moshpit at a Bad Manners gig.

The game lives up to its billing and keeps me on the edge of my seat. Alfreton kick down the slope. The blue-booted, Nottingham born striker, Liam Hearn, shows a nice turn of foot. The 24 year old has already bagged 25 goals this season.

There has been chances and hesitancy from both goalkeepers, when the Badgers take the lead on 9 minutes. Lindon Meikle outstrips the full back and fires a cross in, Chris Shaw thumps a shot that hits the bar, big Matt Rhead heads home the rebound.

Two minutes later and Alfreton are level. The ever alert Hearn taps home a rebound after a fumble by Eastwood ‘keeper Danby. A Badger’s fan next to me is so furious he boots his Thermos flask and spills its contents.



Hearn is pulling the home defence all over the pitch. He wins a penalty moments later, Josh Law (son of Alfreton manager Nicky Law) sees his spot kick brilliantly saved by Danby.

You just don’t want the half to end. More and more chances are created at both ends. The football is exciting, fast and has an end product. I’m mystified why Hearn, and on this performance, Meikle, ply their trade at this level.

On 27th minutes Michael Simpson puts the Badgers’ noses back in front with a clinical finish after a poor clearance by the Reds.

Danny has been making notes on his scouting mission. Dunkirk are going to have to build a brick wall to keep Eastwood out in their forthcoming cup game.

The second half is as equally entertaining. Nathan Arnold wastes a glorious chance straight from kick off. Minutes later Dan Haggerty gives Eastwood a two goal cushion.



Twenty two goal leading scorer, Lee Stevenson makes a couple of lung-bursting runs, but lacks the composure in front of goal.

Texts are flying in from Big D. The Tricky Trees are one up and the Pies are on their way to a record eighth consecutive defeat.

Alfreton pour up the hill like an advancing army, as the chances come thick and fast. Hearn and Clayton just can’t find their radar.

With eight minutes remaining former Nottingham Forest trainee Andy Todd puts the game to bed, walloping a shot into the roof of the net from 12 yards.

The Reds pull back a late goal. What an advert this has been for Non League football.

Attendance: 1112

Men of the Match: Meikle and Hearn.

Staveley MW 2 Louth Town 2

It’s a gorgeous, beautiful sun drenched Sunday morning. I’m stood at Ravenshead Leisure Centre in picturesque north Nottinghamshire. My mood is good. Yesterday, in the Nottinghamshire Young Elizabethan League Division One, our village U13 team, full of local lads, beat our relegation rivals, convincingly, away from home. The clean sheet has me beaming from ear to ear.

Today ‘The Skipper’ is playing for Clifton All Whites. Former Nottingham Forest and England international Des Walker is amongst our crowd on the touchline, watching his lad play.

I like the manager at Clifton. He is in it for all the right reasons. The boys respect him. His team have had a wretched run and are winless in their last seven outings. ‘The Skipper’ comes off the bench with 25 minutes to go.



He’s somewhat of a lucky charm. He’s already bagged six goals this season from full back and right midfield. He takes his position in the penalty box as Clifton are awarded a corner. We are one nil down and chasing the game.

The corner is whipped in from the right, a white shirted, unmarked player, rises like a salmon between two defenders and plants a firm header into the roof of the net. I’m asking whose scored. Is it Blair or Nick? And then I see that familiar cheesy grin. It’s goal number seven for my lad.

‘The Taxman’ and I drive out to Arnold Town’s Eagle Valley ground on Tuesday evening. There is a heavy and prolonged spell of rain which lasts over half an hour. On arrival I say a quick hello to Eagles’ manager Chris Freestone, who once appeared in an FA Cup semi-final at Old Trafford for Middlesbrough.

Next thing I know is some big fat hairy-arsed South Yorkshire centre half has sent a clearance sailing over my head and into a farmer’s field. I decide to fetch the ball. I stumble into a five foot deep ditch. I’m soaked to the skin and covered in mud.



In the distance is the sound of gunshot fire. Am I the intended target? Bloody hell, I was only retrieving a football. I return to my spot, damp and soiled. How the hell am I going to explain to Mrs P about the state of my clothes and footwear?

It’s Friday evening. I’m in Nottingham, at a real ale house called Fellows Morton’s & Claytons. My old boss is retiring. He is legendary within our Company. ‘Shifty Edwards’ has cried off last minute with a feeble excuse. The turnout is excellent though, better than the warm ale that’s served up.

I finish off the evening by having two pints of the Portuguese lager, Sagres, in the Canal House. Before slipping away and catching the 11.30pm bus home. I’ve a busy un scheduled for tomorrow.



Sticky jnr and his mate ‘Chicken George have to be at The City Ground for 9am. They’re off to ‘Dirty Dirty Leeds.’ I ask Mrs P if she fancies a stroll around West Bridgford. The good lady has never turned down a shopping trip in her life.

We nip into Central News on The Avenue. It’s a paper shop that’s owned by Brian Clough’s son. You’d often find old Cloughie sat on a stool behind the counter, charming all the customers.

The skies suddenly darken and there is a heavy downpour of rain. I only came for the Farmers’ Market, but it appears we are a week too late. I bump into ‘Fletch’ in Marks and Spencer’s. We have a quick catch-up; I’ve not seen him in years.



I’ve got to be at Calverton for 11am; it’s Finals Day. I go plain clothed. I’ve one specific target and don’t want people knowing I’m here. Forest scouts strut around in their Tricky Tree tracksuits, with initials on their tops. I make sure they don’t spot me and keep my distance. I watch a cracking game of football. It’s cost me £2, I could have flashed my scouting pass but I like to contribute towards the upkeep of the Notts FA.

I drive back home. It’s all kicking off at the cricket in Mumbai. They’ve had to toss the coin twice as the match referee Jeff Crowe didn’t hear the captain call because of all the hullabaloo. Boycott and Vaughan are having a field day about it on Five Live.

I have some mushroom soup with bread and cheese. I catch the first half of Leeds v Forest. Mum is whittling. Junior had phoned in earlier to tell her he was walking around Leeds city centre with his pal. Bloody hell, I thought official supporters’ coaches ferried fans straight to the ground. Oh well, he should be OK, he’s not badged up or anything. “What’s he wearing love?” asks Sticky. “His Nottingham NG1 fleece.” She replies. Oooh heck, I hope he’s got his trainers on.



Forest control the game until Chris Cohen commits hari-kari with a desperate, unnecessary lunge on the half-way line. It looks a shocker on real time TV. Slow-motions are more forgiving. It’s a match defining moment. Cohen is shown a red card.

Billy Krankie gestures to the away following to increase the volume. Sticky jnr does his bit by text. I will have to check the Urban Dictionary for his lyrics on referee Mark Halsey. They are often heard on programmes such as Shameless and The Only Way Is Essex.

Is that a car horn I can hear? The ‘Blue Rocket’ is purring outside my drive. The White Van Man is furious about the Cohen sending off. A leggy, long-haired blonde, strolling down the street, soon has a calming and soothing effect on the Big Man.



Forest leak four goals whilst we are on the M1 and so do West Ham. We pull into the Inkersall Road car park 15 minutes before kick off. We came here 18 months ago and were treated like royalty by Staveley Chairman, Terry Damms.

I first viewed Staveley MW a few seasons ago at Borrowash Victoria. Lee Gregory led the line that day. He’s banging goals in right, left and centre for The Shaymen of FC Halifax. I’m convinced that he’ll one day play in the Football League.

It’s £4 on the gate and £1 for an excellent programme. Terry is delighted to see us and lines up the drinks. Top Tweeter, Daisy Bruce, is in the bar too, I introduce myself to her.

Staveley are runaway leaders of the NCEL Division One. They require just a point from today’s game to clinch the Championship.



The new Clubhouse is first class. The attention to detail is incredible. There are four flat screen TVs on the wall, trophies sit on the bar and the walls are filled with memorabilia. I notice a signed photo of World Cup final referee – Rotherham born Howard Webb.

Daisy’s Mum asks if I want to pick a Golden Goal time. I fancy an early goal and plump for three minutes.

Staveley MW are awarded a penalty after three minutes, sadly for Sticky it takes an age to take; I just miss out on the jackpot. Ryan Damms (Terry’s lad) sends the Louth ‘keeper the wrong way.



Ten minutes later Jordan Eagers is unfortunate to hit the upright, as Louth begin the game tentatively.

Staveley left winger Chris Coy goes on a mazy Ronaldo type run, amazingly his close range shot is superbly turned onto the post by the pink-shirted ‘keeper.

Louth weather the storm and gain confidence. Daniel Pawson converts a flick on from a corner to restore parity. The game is nearly as entertaining as Sticky junior’s texts. I can’t be held responsible for any Facebook status or insulting Tweets he’ll be sending on his Blackberry from the NFFC supporters’ coach.



I upgrade to a Stella at the break, WVM stays loyal to his Diet Coke. The Big Man has his eyes on a bowl of Roses chocolates that sit on the bar. They are meant to be for the kids. His shovel size hands scoop up four or five sweets. Terry will have to nip out to the Staveley Co-op to buy another tin.

Terry’s got a bad feeling about the game and appears nervous. Daisy is biting her nails and looking stressed. Me, I’m just enjoying the people watching.

The champions elect, assisted by the wind begin to pepper their opponents goal. We’re stood on the balcony outside the Clubhouse. WVM brilliantly catches a stray Staveley shot. He hurls it back to the Right Said Fred lookalike goalkeeper.



Staveley strike the woodwork for a third time. Twenty minutes from time Terry’s lad (Ryan) scores his 100th goal for the Club, nodding home at the far post.

The White Wolves don’t know when they are beaten. The Staveley ‘keeper is cleaning windows as a corner comes sailing in, Martin pounces on a loose ball to smash home the equaliser.

The game is in its dying embers when another excellent Louth corner sees a Carl Martin header crash off the underside of the bar. For once the woodwork helps and doesn’t hinder.



Terry dashes onto the pitch with bottles of Champagne. The League Chairman presents the Staveley skipper with the trophy. We quietly slip away before Terry notices that White Van Man has mopped up all the Roses chocolates.

Attendance: 123

Man of the Match: Sticky junior.

Shepshed Dynamo 0 Lincoln United 2

We’re ambling along the bottom of the Main Stand at Hinckley’s Greene King Stadium. Gresley have conceded a 95th minute equalizer. One or two Moatmen supporters shower abuse on the referee. Their coaching staff are waiting for a quiet word with the man in black about the amount of added time.

Some guy has phoned his missus up to complain about the injustice of it all. I bet she’s holding the phone away from her ear whilst she watches those two clowns off Masterchef.

I’m anxious to know the score from the Withdean Stadium. Table-topping Brighton Hove Albion are entertaining Notts County. I fire up the ‘Rolls Royce’ and switch on the radio. Mark Chapman is presenting a show all about ‘Dirty Dirty Don Revie.’



Five Live wheel out a few of Revie’s foot soldiers - Eddie Gray and Peter Lorimer sing his praises. They talk about the team spirit, the bingo, the crazy golf and carpet bowls. They don’t mention the bribes and the match-fixing allegations. We finish the night off with a pint of London Pride at the Plough Inn at Normanton on the Wolds. The Pies come back from Brighton empty-handed.

I spend an hour on Thursday evening sitting in the White Horse at Ruddington, whilst ‘The Skipper’ runs his butt off at training for Clifton All Whites. I’m reading the 2009 William Hill Sports Book of the Year. It’s a biography of Bodyline Test bowler Harold Larwood, superbly written by former Nottingham Evening Post journalist Duncan Hamilton.

Hamilton grew up to in our village and was the son of a coal miner, as was Larwood. My father taught him shorthand. He’s probably the best sports-writing author in the business right now.



He tells a story of how Larwood walked 14 miles to Trent Bridge one day, just so he could see his hero Jack Hobbs. He paid his money at the gate, and took his seat in the Parr Stand. Hobbs was out first ball. He walked the 14 miles back home to Kirkby in Ashfield.

It’s Friday, and I excitedly wait for my first trip to The Dovecote this season. I spend a few hours in our Warehouse at work with Ergo legend ‘Shifty Edwards.’ It’s ‘Funky Friday’ and he’s spinning a few Northern Soul classics. He comes over all emotional when I present him with some marble cake I’ve bought from a bakery in Ruddington.

I’m back in the White Horse again at lunchtime. ‘The Reaper’s dog, Betty slurps half a pint of real ale down her neck. She’s zonked out in the back of the car for the rest of the afternoon.



New Zealand are through to the Cricket World Cup semi-finals. South Africa have choked more times than White Van Man has on a beef and onion Pukka Pie.

I enjoy the cycle home from work, despite the unforgiving steep hill into Keyworth. I’m buzzing, and so is Mrs P; she’s having a night out in D***y with all her friends she used to work with at the Equitable Life Assurance. I was hoping Sticky junior and ‘The Skipper’ would join us at The Dovecote, but they’ve about as much interest in Non League football as David Cameron has in the Public Sector.

Sticky jnr has nipped into town to collect some tickets to watch Plumstead rapper Tinie Tempah in concert at the Capital FM Arena. All his mates are coming round ours tonight. Bloody hell, I best hide all my beer away or they’ll trash the joint.



I don’t bother asking Finley for a score prediction, after his pathetic attempt at the Stalybridge v Hinckley game. Anyway, he despises teams from Leicestershire, because that is where lots of foxes live.

White Van Man arrives executive style. I throw my gear in the back. We head up to Selby Lane to pick Screats’ Dad up. His lad, Iain Screaton, is Shepshed captain and a close friend of WVM. He’s a cracking lad.

WVM has got Gem/Heart FM on. He shouts out “Toon” as Leicester bad boy Mark Morrison’s ‘Return of the Mack’ blasts out the speaker. It’s a short 20 minute drive through the rolling Leicestershire countryside.



It’s £7 on the gate and £1.50 for a disappointing programme that’s half-full of adverts. I shell out £1 for a Golden Goal ticket. You’re guaranteed to hear the ball rattle the net at The Dovecote. It’s normally the opposition that score though.

Shepshed have had an annus horribilis. Money has been tight and there has been a management merry- go- round. Dave Frecklington (brother of Lee) has just been relieved of his duties. At the minute, I think the Secretary is in temporary charge.

Was not Was is on the PA system. I notice that top woman referee Sian Massey is taking charge tonight. I double- check the programme to see if Keys and Gray are her assistants. “Do me a favour love.”



I saw Sian, notice how we’re on first name terms, have a cracking game at Rugby v Bedworth back in the autumn. She and Screats have previous. I’ve had a soft £5 at Corals that Screats will get booked. He doesn’t normally let me down.

The first half is an open and entertaining affair. I’m stood with Big Darrell. We’re laughing about our trip to Market Drayton last season, when the referee sent three players off.

Shepshed give a good account of themselves. Brewer screws a shot horribly wide when it looks easier to score. Hodgson forces a good save from Turner, whilst Sam Carter fires an effort inches over the bar.

Lincoln take the lead on 20 minutes (I’m ten minutes out on the Golden Goal ticket). Scott Coupland beautifully threads a ball through to an unmarked Jack McGovern, who dispatches a shot into the bottom left hand corner of the net.



I’m taking a stroll round this wonderful old ground. The air is still and the church bells are chiming. Leylandii tower above both goals. Huge nets are erected behind each goal to stop stray balls from leaving the ground. White Van Man has missed out on a viewing of the Shepshed WAGS.

I have a chat with a few disillusioned supporters, who are hurt by the perilous position the Club is in. I used to enjoy the message board that Andy Mac ran, but a few idiots from other clubs ruined that too.

Screats has clattered into the back of someone and has given away a needless free kick. McGovern bags his second of the evening, lifting the ball over the wall and into the top right hand corner of the net.



I find White Van Man sitting in the corner of the Social Club drinking a can of Diet Coke. Coronation Street is on the box. Top trainspotter Roy Cropper makes a welcome return to action. I notice a chap dressed in a green crocodile suit queuing at the bar. He’ll probably just want a snack.

Sticky jnr texts in asking if he can open a bottle of beer he’s discovered in the kitchen. For any policeman or social services people who read this blog, I reply with a firm NO. He’s a good lad. I know he won’t try it on.

I leave WVM to watch part two of Coro. The Shepshed DJ is playing the dreadful ‘Every Loser Wins’ by Nick Berry. He should be lined-up for the firing squad, not the Shepshed strikers though, as tonight they couldn’t hit a cows backside with a banjo.

The second half is as bad as the first half was good. Neither team makes any impression. Lincoln don’t need to as they are condemning Dynamo to their seventh consecutive defeat.



The moment I have waited for arrives on 80 minutes. Screats has clattered another opposing player and Sian has had enough. After being grassed up by the Referee’s Assistant, Sian invites Screats into the office. She correctly waves a yellow card. I’m laughing my head off.

We finish the night having a couple of jars in the Club. Screats joins us. He’s always got a smile on his face, even in defeat.

The Lincoln players drink in a large group. Former Lincoln City legend Terry Fleming is amongst them. He was a crowd favourite at Sincil Bank because of his never-say-die attitude. He’s manager now, but still turns out at full back at the age of 38.

Attendance: 146
Man of the Match : Sian Massey

Hinckley FC 1 Gresley FC 1

It’s a Monday evening in autumn 2002. Sky Sports cameras are at Nottingham Greyhound Stadium in Colwick Park. Smooth operator Jeff Stelling is presenting the show. I have a vested interest in tonight’s proceedings; I’ve bought the back leg of a greyhound for £200, plus monthly training fees.

The dog is called Prince Red Inca. It’s a play on words for a ‘red inker’, in cricketing terms (not out*). ‘The Prince’, if he gets a good start, is like shit off a shovel. It’s Finals Night; the prize money is £1500.

All the lads are trackside. Sticky is laid up on the sofa, streaming with cold. The trainer has told us we’ve got ‘Bob Hope’ of winning the race. Our dog is priced at 16/1, the rank outsider.

The owner of the track has a dog running in our race, he’s a firm favourite. He patronises the boys during his interview with Sky. “Yeah, they’re a bunch of locals who are just having a bit of fun”, he remarks about our syndicate.



It’s time for the feature race and the hare is running, ‘The Prince’ flies out the traps and hits the first bend in front. I take a sip from my hot toddy and begin to focus on the TV set.

Prince Red Inca is on full power. He’s still in the lead on the second circuit as he approaches the final straight. I’m now jumping up and down, Mrs P is doing a Highland fling and the kids are bouncing off the walls.

He’s under pressure from the favourite just metres from the finishing line. ‘The Prince’ and his opponent cross the line neck and neck. It’s too close to call. It’s a photo finish. Mrs P is all over me like a rash, the kids are telling me they love me.

The stadium announcer declares the result as a dead heat. They’ll still be paying out on odds of 8/1. “How much Dad? How much have we won?” shouts Sticky junior. “Erm, erm, nothing, the trainer said not to bother putting a bet on.” It’s three days before anybody bothers speaking to me again.



The weekend is a football fiesta. I spend Saturday morning in the company of former Notts County forward Iain McCulloch; he is proper funny. He tells me a few anecdotes from the Jimmy Sirrell era, as we view a schoolboy tournament at Highfields Sports Fields, in Nottingham.

The Notts County Youth Team, coached by former Pie legend Michael Johnson, are playing at the training ground, just a five minute stroll away. We take in the second half. Our youngsters are fortunate to come away with a 1-0 victory.

I help coach ‘The Skipper’s’ team in the afternoon as they pick up a valuable point in their fight against relegation.

The highlight of the day is a curry and a good film on Saturday evening. Taggart has recommended I watch ‘In Bruges’ on Film Four. It’s a black comedy directed and written by the Irishman. Martin McDonagh. You have to cusp your ear to catch the softly spoken Irish accent of Colin Farrell.



I manage to see Sticky jnr and his box of tricks on Sunday. He performs a couple of nutmegs and deals with a wind-up merchant in a street-wise kind of way. The talented head-strong teenager is booked in for his first Tricky Tree solo mission. It’s a rather low-key affair at ‘Dirty Dirty Leeds’ on April 2nd. His mum will be having kittens.

It’s Tuesday, the day of the game. I’m having a running battle with a supplier at work and have just about reached the end of my tether. I’m on Day 6 of cycling to work. The ride home is relaxing. I shower, shave and feel fully refreshed.

Mrs P has cooked us up some meat balls and spaghetti in tomatoes and chilli. We mop it up with garlic bread. The good lady is not best pleased, Sticky jnr’s team are down on the rota to clean out the KUCFC Clubhouse and changing rooms. It’ll be the same old people turning up, with the shirkers shirking.

‘The Skipper’ and I jump in the ‘Rolls Royce’ and head up to the ‘astro’ at Keyworth Leisure Centre for his team’s training session. Snooksey and ‘The Skipper’ are made to run two circuits of the pitch for fooling around.



I slip away at 6.45pm to pick up ‘The Taxman.’ Within minutes we are heading down the A46, onto the M1 and along the M69 towards Hinckley.

‘The Taxman’ has been toiling away all day at his art class. His latest effort is a painting of the picturesque North Devon fishing village of Clovelly.

Barking born John George Terry (a player Chelsea nicked from the West Ham Academy) is on Five Live, trying to justify his reappointment as England skipper.

The Tom Tom has a bit of a wobble as we approach Hinckley, but we finally find the Leicester Road ground after mistakenly pulling into the Rugby Ground.



Hinckley is a town in the south west Leicestershire, with a population of 43,000. It’s well known for its history of making hosiery and stockings. Castle Street is the first known location of ‘Luddism’, where disgruntled workers took sledgehammers to their machines. The Ashby Canal passes through the town.

Notable people born or have lived in the area include: Human League front man Philip Oakey, actress and dancer Una Stubbs and Coronation Street fruit-cake John Stape (Graham Hawley).

Hinckley FC (previously Hinckley Downes), ground share with Blue Square Conference North team Hinckley United (who I recently saw share the spoils at Stalybridge), at the Greene King Stadium.



It’s a top class venue where Aston Villa and Leicester City's second string play their reserve games. We enter from behind the goal, where there is covered terracing. It’s £5 on the turnstile. To our left is a large main stand, whilst another covered terrace runs along the opposite touchline. The far end is open; making it to all attempts and purposes a three-sided stadia.

Both teams appear to be shelling out some dough and are in a rich vein of form. It’s a game for the football purist. Hinckley have already had Julian Joachim and Tony Thorpe turn out for them this season.

I’m stressed out readers; my new camera is playing up. Or should I say the buffoon who attempts to take the photos has pressed the wrong button and can’t get the viewfinder to boot up.



Gresley FC, attack our end and are already pleasing on the eye. Their Number 10, Brian Woodall has impressed ‘The Taxman.’ I make some discreet enquiries with some neighbouring Gresley supporters. It appears the young man has bagged a deal with top talent spotter John Still at League One’s Dagenham and Redbridge.

Hinckley keeper’ and skipper, Elliot Shillam, is a busy bee in the first period. He might have a voice like a foghorn and appeared to have enjoyed ‘National Pie Week’, but he’s no mug in the nets. He saves bravely at the feet of Spencer. Shilliam also has a kick like a mule; it’s something I remember about him from his previous clubs Kirby Muxloe and Anstey Nomads, as well as his constant droning.

The home team have a golden chance to take the lead, totally against the run of play. Jermain Gordon pounces onto a through ball but is wiped out by Gresley stand-in keeper’ Darren Keeling, with two Gresley defenders protecting the goal.

Keeling is correctly shown a yellow card by referee Kevin Allen and saves a poorly struck penalty.



Shortly before half-time, with ‘The Taxman’ poised for a trip to the tea bar, Gresley take the lead with a beautifully executed free kick, curled over the wall by Dagenham bound Woodall.

We can’t mark the tea as it’s a DIY effort. If any non league club, within reasonable distance of Nottingham, would like my services, free of charge, so I can show you how to make endless pots of piping hot tea, then please leave me a message on my blog and I’ll draw one out a hat.

We’re perched up high in the stand. The winning programme (I use that word loosely) number has been shouted out. My five year barren run continues; I’m seven off the winning prize.



Gresley have to clear off the line as Hinckley press for an equaliser. Gaps in the midfield encourage Gresley to return to their fluent passing game. Brian Woodall nonchantly flicks a cross in with the outside of his boot, Spencer’s downward header bounces up onto the underside of the bar.

The visitors waste endless time. They disrupt play with substitutions. The player coming off takes an age to trudge to the bench.

Rob Spencer shows all his studs in challenging the Hinckley 5 jacket, who retaliates by shoving the forward in the chest with both hands raised. Both are cautioned, the latter’s a lucky lad.



Gresley are desperately running the clock down when the 5 jacket heads home an injury (added on) time equaliser right at the death.

A small, unsavoury element of away fans, abuse the referee. The blame lies squarely at the feet of their team, who have missed enough chances to win a hat-trick of games.

Attendance: 100

Man of the Match: Rob Spencer (despite poor finishing).

Stalybridge Celtic 1 Hinckley United 1

Mr and Mrs Trumpy Bolton are travelling back from Reading after a romantic weekend in Berkshire. The legend is in fine fettle after chalking off a few new pubs. New readers may not know that his sole mission in life is to make a financial transaction in every village or town in England.

They pull into the Lamb Inn, in Oxfordshire, for some Sunday lunch. The pub is nothing out of the ordinary; the food is plain, unimaginative and overpriced.

After swilling a few real ales and a pint of cider Trumpy peruses the bill and spots a service charge of £3.95. He’s having none of that. The landlady is called over to his table. “Scrub that off the bill love, I could have fetched my own food from the kitchen if you’d asked” says Trumpy.



There’s a standoff at the bar as his credit card goes through the machine, minus the service charge. Trumpy has a final pop at mein host as he heads out of the pub door. He turns to all the remaining diners and shouts at the top of his voice: “make sure you’re not screwed for £3.95 as a service charge.”

He is escorted off the premises. It’s the first time in 35 years of professional drinking that he has been asked to leave a hostelry. Good on yer Trumpy lad.

It’s 4.20pm on Friday evening. I’m racing out the Ergo Computing car park. I’ve a hot date with Mrs P at the Apple Tree. The England v Bangladesh game, in the most exciting Cricket World Cup in ages, is reaching a crescendo.



Despite the array of real ales on show Sticky plumps for a pint of Stella, Mrs P has a medium glass of dry white wine. She pulls a face at every sip. Sticky’s face is also screwed up: one, there is no cricket on the TV and two that clown Ollie Murs is on the jukebox. ‘The Skipper’ saves my bacon by texting in: England have lost by two wickets.

I’m on the paper round again. I enjoy it in a perverse sort of way. The biggest earthquake in Japan, since records began, dominates the front pages. I’m just delivering my final paper, when the front door viciously swings open. The paper is snatched out of my hand: “better late than never”, smirks the customer. It’s typical behaviour of a Daily Mail reader.

It’s a rare day off from scouting for youth. Before my pass out is rubber stamped by Mrs P I’ve a few chores to do. Finley’s cage requires a spring clean. He has a little ball that he plays with (humps). He rolls onto his back and does a few keepy-uppies. He has more tricks in his locker than Nani. It bad news for Hinckley Utd fans though, Finley predicts a 4-0 drubbing.



Mrs P has very kindly knocked me up a bacon and sausage sandwich. I wash it down with an award-winning pot of Yorkshire tea.

Trumpy is just screwing the top on his faithful plastic bottle, which is filled to the brim with Bulmers Pear Cider. He has a couple of pubs lined-up for us in High Peak, Derbyshire.

I switch on the Graham Norton Show on Radio 2. I find the Irishman amusing. Trumpy is not a fan. Although as quick as a flash he identifies the song Norton is playing as “Bridge to Your Heart” by Wax from 1987.



We drive through Chesterfield and up through the Peak District. We discuss the Council cuts and the new levy on recycling green bins. Trumpy’s blue bin (cans and plastic bottles) tends to gets more hammer than his green one.

The first pub we rock up at is The Vine near to New Mills. Trumpy is flapping that they don’t do credit card transactions: he’s right on the money, they don’t. It’s a relief as it felt like we’d walked into God’s waiting room.

The second pub, called the Pack Horse Inn, is situated on top of a hill. It has spectacular views over the rolling countryside. There are four different ales on draught, we plump for a pint of Pirate’s Gold from the Wooden Hand Brewery in Truro.



The legend has a cider to accompany his chicken baguette. The Stowford Press cider is from Much Marcle in Herefordshire, the birthplace of serial killer Fred West.

The pub has a plethora of antiques and nick-nacks hanging from the varnished wooden beams. I ask Trumpy if he knows what they are: “I’m not David Dickinson” is his reply.

By now we are in the third pub of the day – the Moorfield Arms - Trumpy is giving the attractive, curly-haired blonde barmaid some of his best lyrics (sorry Mrs Trumpy).



The highlight of the day is when we finally hit the town of Stalybridge. We park at the train station and head up to the world renowned Stalybridge Buffet Bar, which is situated on the station platform.

We sample a pint of First Light from the York Brewery. The place is mobbed out with Man Utd fans waiting for the train. A group of Scousers are in a huddle, doing what they do best, chatting. Trumpy says they are the Liverpool Branch of the Manchester United Supporters’ Club.

En-route to the ground we pass the Stalybridge Labour Club. I ask the legend if he fancies popping in for a swift one. He declines the offer, he’s a true Blue. We park the ‘Rolls Royce’ on a cul-de-sac, a mere five minute stroll from the Bower Field ground.



Stalybridge is a town in the Metropolitan Borough of Tameside. It has a population of just over 20,000 and lies 9 miles to the east of Manchester.

During the Industrial Revolution the town was at the centre of textile manufacturing. According to Wikipedia (not always the most reliable of sources) the song “It’s a Long Way to Tipperary” was created in the town’s Newmarket Tavern by Jack Judge.

Stalybridge has a public house with the longest name in Britain: The Old Thirteenth Cheshire Astley Volunteer Rifleman Corps Inn – I wouldn’t fancy waiting for Trumpy to write out a cheque in there after his liquid lunch.

The film Yanks, starring Hollywood actor Richard Gere, was shot in the town in 1978.



It’s £10 on the turnstile. Trumpy snaps me up a programme for £2. I’m disappointed there are no pen pictures or career statistics for either team.

The DJ is playing Now 23. Rick Astley, Chesney Hawkes and a cheesy Iron Maiden toon blares out from the speakers, whilst Trumpy downs a pint of Thwaites bitter in the Social Club.

The ground would pass Football League standard, it’s an absolute beauty. Two big stands run along the touchline, with covered terracing behind both goals. The pitch looks in fine fettle after a harsh winter.

The teams walk out to the New Order anthem, ‘Blue Monday’, a song I’ve not heard in ages. I lean on a blue-painted crash barrier. Next to me a young woman rolls up a cigarette and tries to spark up, a slight breeze keeps blowing out her lighter.



Celtic look to play it out from the back. In contrast the Knitters ping the ball forward towards their giant orange-booted journeyman Gary Ricketts. (Trumpy calls him Pierre Van Hooijdonk).

There’s absolutely nothing doing. Trumpy has been booted out another bar; they’re not open again until half-time. We’re both chuckling about the young lady who’s now trying to light up a nub end.

The game livens up on 24 minutes with the opening goal. Ricketts finds Sam Belcher in space on the edge of the area. Despite not connecting properly with it Stalybridge ‘keeper Jan Budtz (who looks like Van der Saar) can only help the ball into the net.



The game really is dire. Trumpy is happy enough that his adopted county are one to the good. He waltzes off to the Social Club to join the orderly queue that is waiting for the shutters to come up.

Celtic spurn a couple of decent chances before the break. I’ve noticed that former Nottingham Forest player James Reid is playing for the Knitters. He was often talked up whilst I worked at the Academy, but I often questioned his fitness and engine. The game passes him by today.

Leicester, Lincoln and the Pies are all one to the good at the break. It will be a particularly sweet moment for Lincoln’s manager, Steve Tilson, whose side are playing Southend United, a club he was sacked at, and not fully compensated.



Trumpy strikes up a conversation with an elderly lady who is tapping away on her laptop. She explains that Jim Harvey’s young charges have only lost once in their last ten outings. She expects a marked improvement when they kick down the slope.

The legend enquires how old Celtic’s bald headed 11 jacket is. He remarks that the poor fellow looked fagged out after 15 minutes.

The DJ is thankfully fading out the dreadful ’Uptown Girl’ by Billy Joel, as I return to my spot to view proceedings.



Stalybridge dump their passing game. They shove a big fellow (Hobson) upfront and go route one. It’s ugly and unproductive until the 56th minute, when another long ball is headed home, following hesitation by the Hinckley goalkeeper, by 34 year old silver haired striker Lee Elam.

Celtic increase the tempo, with 21 goal leading scorer Phil Marsh looking dangerous. He darts in from the left and fires shot inches over the bar.

Remarkably one or two Celtic fans begin to leave the ground as the home side begin to turn the screw. “We can see you sneaking out” sings T Bolton, who is now making enquiries about a Hinckley Utd season ticket.

There’s still time for Trumpy to dish out a bollocking to the young Hinckley stopper who stupidly fires the ball twice at Hobson’s back whilst twice trying to clear the ball.

Attendance: 448

Man of the Match: Cyrus Christie