Parkgate FC 2 Runcorn Town 3

I wheel my suitcase down the drive and fumble in my shorts pocket for the front door key. We’re back in Blighty after ten nights in the Algarve.

My heart is beating ten to the dozen. What reaction will I get? Is he going to turn his back on me and have the cob on? I race into the lounge. How did he take the news that Ken Bruce had put in a week’s holiday to be replaced by the atrocious Zoe Ball? Will Murphy have mental health issues? My poor little budgie; all alone for ten days, with only Radio 2 for company.

He flies out of his cage like Usain Bolt, landing on me and wrapping his claws around my neck. He’s tweeting and I’m blubbering like a baby. “Daddy’s home, Murphy lad.” He spends the remainder of the evening perched on my finger watching the Olympics.

It’s Tuesday evening and I have a dilemma. Notts County, a club I don’t support, but work part-time for, are playing their fierce rivals from across the water. Sticky junior and his pals are going, but I just can’t crank myself up for it.

A far more entertaining evening is spent down Lenton Lane, watching a feast of football served up by Ian Upton’s Dunkirk and Leicestershire’s Kirby Muxloe. ‘Uppo’ is on fine form and is sporting a pair of Bradley Wiggins sideburns. The Boatmen cruise to a 4-1 victory. I love every minute of it.

I pick up ‘junior’ and his pals from outside the Nottingham Forest Ticket Office. The Magpies have clawed back a two goal deficit. ‘Junior’ doesn’t want to talk about it. He has more excuses than BBC athletics pundit Michael Johnson.

I wine and dine Mrs P at our favourite hostelry – the Plough Inn at Normanton-on-the-Wolds - on Friday evening. We’re tucked away in a corner of the restaurant. A table for two, with a window view. The beer garden is stacked out on a gorgeous, sultry summer’s evening. One pint of Timothy Taylor’s and a glass of red wine ensure a rare night of undisturbed sleep.

I rise at 8am and prepare a pot of Yorkshire Tea for one – after all I’m visiting the People’s Republic of South Yorkshire later on today. I switch the DAB radio on to hear the fag end of ‘Good Morning Judge’ by Stockport 70s band 10CC, on the Anneka Rice show on Radio 2.

Brian Matthew’s Sound of the 60s has gone off the boil, folks. Apart from The Kinks, the first half an hour is dross. I switch off and listen to the brilliant Third Degree, Smoove re-mix of Kylie Minogue’s ‘Can’t Get You Out of My Head.’ It’s the coolest track on the planet.

Mrs P is off shopping again folks, to the big city of Nottingham. I’ll tell you what Lord Coe and your filthy rich Tory mates; if there was an Olympic sport called ‘Shopping’ then Mrs P would have bagged us another Gold by now.

I take the short drive down to Keyworth United’s HQ on Platt Lane. Sticky junior is making his debut for the ressies today. Occasional groundhopper, Alan ‘Jacko’ Jackson, is the manager and he’s none too pleased at the abuse aimed in his direction on last week’s blog. I give him a wide berth. Junior looks sharp and in the zone.

I nip back home and knock up a ham, cheese and coleslaw sandwich on Tiger bread. I root around in the fridge and find a ‘reduced price’ egg custard. All my postcodes are sorted and punched into the Sat Nav. I head out towards the M1 North.

I wearing that trendy little white number that I snapped up in the ‘Next Summer Sale.’ I‘ll knock the ladies from South Yorkshire dead in this outfit. Mrs P has done a good job of cleaning the blood from the shirt, following ‘the prawn incident’ in Albufeira.

‘Chappers’ is fronting the Olympics radio coverage for Five Live. He’s giving the ‘Performance Director of Swimming’ a grilling over the dismal displays from GB in the pool. The guy sounds Australian; no wonder we were sub standard.

Roddy Forsyth is reporting in from Peterhead, where Lee McCulloch has just scored Rangers’ first ever goal out of top flight football. Forsyth describes the pitch as one of the best he’s ever seen. The groundsman doubles up as a greenkeeper at Royal St Andrews Golf Club.

The motorway is empty. I’ve earmarked a pub to tick-off in the village of Wentworth, 4 miles outside of Rotherham. Sat Nav takes me off the M1 at Junction 35A. I swing the ‘Rolls Royce’ into a tight space in the car park of the George and Dragon.

Families are sat on a terrace, at the entrance of the pub, having a spot of lunch. I order a pint of Golden Pippin from the Copper Dragon Brewery, near Skipton. I walk into the sumptuous back garden. There’s a brick built bar and barbecue area called the ‘Dragon’s Den.’ The smell of cooked onions drifts across the garden.

The church bells are chiming and kids are clambering around on the adventure playground. The barman at the ‘Dragon’s Den’ brags about Yorkshire’s performance at the Olympics. I perform six three point turns in the pub car park. It’s straight out of the Reginald Molehusband school of driving.

It’s a short 4 mile drive in the rolling countryside before I hit the town of Parkgate. I pass the Music Factory Entertainment Group which is owned by 80s and 90s novelty pop act Jive Bunny.

The Roundwood Stadium on Green Lane is just up the road in Rawmarsh. It’s one of those complexes that are at the heart of a community. There’s an 18 hole parkland golf course, with a bowls club adjacent to it. Rotherham United uses two neighbouring, immaculately turned-out pitches as a training ground.

I stroll up a narrow pathway towards the turnstile. It’s £5 on the gate and a further £1.20 for a 16 page programme.

I fall in love with the ground immediately. It’s on high ground with Rotherham city centre forming the backdrop. I walk past the tea bar and a small stand with blue tip up seats.

I get chatting to an affable fellow whose lad plays centre half for The Steelmen. I amble up the nearest touchline past a blue-painted covered terrace. Concrete steps create a panoramic view of the steelworks. Modern housing backs onto the ground. The far end of the stadium is open. The opposite side of the ground has a neatly trimmed privet hedge running approximately 100 metres. Standing is not permitted.

What the hell is the referee phaffing about at? The game mysteriously kicks off at 3.06pm. I thumb through the programme to see who the officials are. All is explained; they are from Mansfield.

The pitch is immaculate; Lee Westwood could practise his putting on it. I’m later told that the Club have a full-time groundsman; he spreads fertiliser on the surface every four weeks. It’s nearly as good as my front lawn.

I get chin-wagging to a couple of friendly officials from Runcorn. I mention former Nottingham Forest winger Ian Woan, who Brian Clough paid the paltry fee of £80,000 for his services from Runcorn FC in 1990. Can you imagine a twice winning Champions League team dipping their toe into the lower leagues these days?

Parkgate are denied a cast-iron penalty when Cusworth is hauled to the ground when through on goal. Moments later a Runcorn forward rounds the keeper and falls to the ground as if shot by a sniper, the referee waves play on.

Runcorn race into a three goal lead. Shanley smashes home a loose ball from 20 yards. McShane doubles their lead with a header at the back stick courtesy of a pinpoint free-kick from Scott Burton. It’s game over shortly before the break, with Potter converting from close range. Forbes- Swindells rattles the woodwork before the referee blows for half time.

I take a wander around the Pavilion Bar. Disgruntled golfers chatter about fluffed chips and lipped-out putts. Parkgate supporters sit in disbelief at their team’s first half horror show. I walk down the stairs and notice a poster advertising a ‘Sportsman’s Evening With Tommy Docherty.’

The Steelmen make a spirited come back. The crossbar is rattled again with Forbes-Swindells guiding home the rebound. The same player curls home a free-kick to set up a grand finale.

Runcorn hang on in ‘mystery time.’ They have the game’s outstanding player in Scott Burton, who at 24 years of age, was recruited a year ago from the Cheshire Sunday League. He has an edge to his game, is light on his feet, moves into space and has a turn of pace.

Attendance: 94

Man of the Match: Scott Burton

Holwell Sports 0 Basford United 2

It’s Sunday lunchtime and I’m sat in a Portuguese bar in the resort of Balaia, in the Algarve. Sticky jnr, ‘The Skipper’, Will and ‘Gangsta’ are playing darts. ‘Dafty’ and Sticky are chatting to a dad and lad from Doncaster, who are slumped on a sofa watching the Hungarian Grand Prix.

A picture hangs on the wall of former Portuguese international winger Luis Figo. I mention to ‘Dafty’ that seven years ago, at a supermarket just round the corner from this bar, I nearly bumped into Figo, who passed me as I entered the shop front door. He clearly thinks this is a tall story.

 I shout to the barman: “Hey mate, is it true that Figo has a villa round here somewhere?” Yes”, replies ‘Manuel’, “he owns a property across the road behind Club Med. He was here a couple of weeks ago. He once came in my bar with Raul and Zidane.”

It’s a drop-your-bacon-sandwich moment. Can you imagine dropping into a deserted bar, on your way home from the beach, for a thirst-quenching beer, to find three Galacticos sat on bar stools chewing over the crud. Now that would be a story to tell.

The ten day stay in Portugal went without incident. ‘The worse skin rash in the world’ failed to make an appearance (a Portuguese pharmacist’s words from 2010, not mine). I had a slight skirmish with a king prawn, whilst sharing a dish of Paella with ‘Dafty’ in some posh gaffe in Albufeira old town, close to the water’s edge. Blood spurted out of the prawn splattering flecks all over my brand new white cotton shirt (from Next, £25 in the summer sale).

Mrs P and I spend a pleasant Friday evening together. We have a tea-time beverage in the picturesque setting of the garden of the Plough at Normanton on-the-Wolds. I successfully manage to negotiate a Marks and Spencer’s Paella without any further spillage to report. Insomnia rears its ugly head; fortunately Sticky junior is on a sleep-over in Cotgrave. I leave Mrs P in peace and grab a couple more hours in ‘Angry Kid’s’ bed.

I wake up to the news on the Lincolnshire Echo’s sports reporter’s Twitter feed, that on police advise, Lincoln City have been forced to postpone their pre-season friendly against Leicester City. Police intelligence (I didn’t know they had any) suggests that the ‘Baby Squad’ intend to wreak havoc in the city centre.

I make a brew and have a bowl of Mrs P’s Special K Red Berries. 6 Music’s Breakfast Show is playing Lush’s 1996 Brit Pop hit ‘Single Girl.’ Murphy is banished to his cage after dive-bombing Mrs P during the Women’s Double Sculls.

I rouse ‘The Skipper’ from his coma. He’s blagged a ticket for the Olympic football quarter final clash between GB and South Korea at the Millennium Stadium. I drop him off at JK’s, who I’ve not seen in ages. We have a catch-up and watch a re-run of the Olympics opening ceremony. I’m tickled by the Daniel Craig sketch at ‘The Palace’ and Mr Bean at the concert.

Thought I’d keep it fairly local today as I’ve a heavy schedule coming up. I’m planning on going to Parkgate, nr Rotherham, for their FA Cup extra preliminary round tie with Runcorn Town next week, and then up to Fleetwood for the Carling Cup game versus the Tricky Trees of Nottingham.

I scour the internet looking for a game to view on my long weekend away in north Wales at the beginning of September. White Van Man and I were banking on Caernarfon Town being at home on the Saturday. Our plans have been scuppered, as they’ve brought the fixture forward to Friday evening.

Bloody hell is that Mrs P’s car pulling in the drive? I best look busy. I dead head the marigolds, feed all the hanging baskets and give the bathroom a good old rub down. I wolf down a bacon sandwich. Murphy is perched on the clothes horse in the lounge having a good old peck at someone’s underpants.

Mrs P says goodbye; she’s off for some retail therapy with her mum in Newark. I’m soon tooting my horn outside the house of the Daily Mail’s number one reader. A rather trendy bloke, wearing a fetching green sleeveless jacket, steps out of the back door. If I didn’t know him better I’d have thought he was going clay pigeon shooting rather than a football game.

Semi-retired Jacko complains that domestic chores have interrupted his hectic Olympic Games TV coverage. He’s spent more time in his armchair this week than Jim Royle. Next pick-up is a chap I’ve not seen in months. I’ve missed his moaning, groaning and complaining: It’s The Taxman of course. Coming to think of it I’m surrounded by the Revenue, as Jacko too, is on the payroll.

There are tales of woe from the pair of them as we travel onto the A606, driving through the villages of Upper Broughton and Nether Broughton. We take a right hand turn and head towards Old Dalby, passing the Belvoir Brewery on our left.

The Taxman shouts the round up at The Crown Inn. We guzzle a pint of Wainwrights golden ale from the Thwaites Brewery in Blackburn. We’re sat in the beer garden for all of five minutes before scurrying back into the pub to avoid a sharp shower. The Taxman announces that his son has just signed on for the Holwell Sports youth set-up.

We tip up at Welby Road five minutes before kick-off. Melton Mowbray is in north-east Leicestershire and has a population of 25,000. Famous people from the town include Monty Python star Graham Chapman and former NFFC winger Paul Anderson. It’s the home of the pork pie. Stilton cheese is made down the road at Long Clawson. Pedigree Pet Foods are a major employer in the town.

Jacko waves a £5 note at the gateman, believing that he’ll be admitted at the concessionary rate of £3. “How old are you mate?” “60”, replies Jacko. “Sorry, it’s 65 for an OAP mate”, says the turnstile operator, snatching the fiver out of Jacko’s grasp.

I came to Holwell a few years back for a pre-season friendly against Huntingdon Town. The impressive ground remains pretty much the same. The changing rooms are tucked away in the corner of the ground. A green-painted rail runs along the pitch perimeter. A small stand with blue tip-up seats is situated along the nearest touchline, adjacent to this is the tea bar. There is an open end behind the far goal. The dugouts run along the opposite touchline, with a covered terrace behind the nearest goal. It’s still pelting down with rain as we take our seats in the stand.

I notice Basford secretary Chris Munroe sitting with his son. Holwell Sports play in Murphy’s favourite kit, green and canary-yellow stripes, (WBA away) while Basford wear an all navy blue strip. Basford United are from inner city Nottingham. They are hot favourites to win this league after gaining promotion from the Central Midlands League. In their ranks they have a player called Darren Garmston, who a few seasons back scored one of the best goals I’ve ever seen hopping for Dunkirk away at Stratford Town.

The Taxman has seen enough after ten minutes and retires to the lavatory. He’s missing nowt, as the game has no pattern or quality. ‘Gammo’ is denied the space he thrives upon as a youthful-looking Holwell close Basford down. The best chance of the half falls to Holwell. A left footed in swinging cross from the right wing is wastefully glanced wide by the Holwell forward.

Where the hell has ‘Captain Slackbladder’ disappeared to? Oh no, I don’t believe it, he’s only gone and bumped into another taxman. Three of the buggers, out of a crowd of 50. They’ll be talking about P60s, P46s & R40s .

 I fancy Basford to push on. I make my excuses and head over towards the goal they will attack. I grab a quick chat with one of their coaching staff, Danny Boyes, who is a well known figure on the local football scene. Former Sheffield Wed and Huddersfield Town defender Craig Armstrong is amongst their coaching staff.

Soon after the restart Basford take the lead. Theo Smith rounds the ‘keeper and rolls the ball into an empty net. Smith scores his second of the afternoon shortly after, tucking away his chance at the far post following a cross from the right.

‘Jazzy’ Westcarr runs riot down the right wing, having switched positions with Theo Smith. 22 year old centre forward Aaron Hooton has also caught the eye, with his clever hold-up play and deft touch. A 25 yard thunderbolt from rookie Holwell midfielder Tom Muggleton (son of former Foxes ‘keeper Carl) is tipped over the bar by Jake Want. I’ll definitely be viewing Basford again, now where’s the toilet?

 Man of the Match: Jarrod Westcarr

Attendance: 52

Sporting Club Braga 1 Newcastle United 2

I’m in the kitchen at work pouring out from the pot another award-winning brew. I feel my phone vibrate. I fish it out from my pocket. The text is greeted with a smile as wide as the Tyne Tunnel. It reads: “Newcastle United are playing in the Algarve Cup when we are on holiday in Portugal, shall we take the kids?” It’s never a good time to broach the subject of groundhopping with Mrs P, particularly when we are on holiday.

“I’ve heard Vilamoura is a classy joint love, perhaps you and Wendy can spend the evening there, strolling around the shops and sampling the fine restaurants that are on offer, whilst ‘Dafty’ and I entertain the kids.” Hook, line and sinker, readers!

It’s Saturday morning. We’ve been holed out at the Balaia Golf Village for nearly a week. Tears streamed down Mrs P’s face last Tuesday when sea blue skies were replaced with cotton wool coloured clouds for the day.

The Estadio Algarve is an awkward bugger to get to, but Reception have kindly arranged a taxi with a local firm (“Anna’s husband”). We’ve been stung for 50 euros each way. The kids spend the first few hours of the morning trying to catch a glimpse of our neighbour, Sam Oldham, who has made it into the Olympics gymnastic squad. GB perform well and qualify ahead of China.

‘Dafty’ and I slip away for a few hours and sink a couple of pints of Super Bok at a local Portuguese bar. There’s time for some horseplay in the pool before a pre-match meal of pizza and chips.

‘Gangsta’ is wearing his new blue Michael Jackson hat that he has been hanging his nose over the last few nights on the local Strip. “Anna’s husband” asks if we’re sure if there’s a game on tonight, as we sweep off the A22 and into desolate stadium car park. Suddenly an opening appears where a small gathering of Toon fans are milling around a ticket booth swilling pints of Carlsberg lager (Newcastle Brown not available).

I part with 20 euros for an adult ticket. The kids cost 10 euros a piece. The boys squeeze through turnstile number six. Suddenly a bespectacled, moustachioed, jumped-up security guard, resembling Captain Mainwaring from Dad’s Army, places his arm across my chest. “Non camera.” I try to explain that it’s only a friendly and that half the crowd have camera phones. But he’s having none of it and points towards a prohibited camera sign hanging on an adjacent wall.

I’m ushered into the ‘Supervisor’s Office’, where I’m greeted by an attractive, slim Portuguese lady. I arrange to collect my belongings after the game. I’m flipping fuming, readers.

The kids and ‘Dafty’ are in hysterics. They merrily snap away as we take our seats on the upper tier. Hopper has proper got the bottom lip on. ‘Live is Life’ by Austrian pop-rock band Opus is bouncing out of the stadium’s speakers.

There seems to be more atmosphere in the lower tier. We sidle past a distracted steward, who is less vigilant than the fool who confiscated my camera, so we’re closer to the action. The stadium announcer tries to pump up the crowd that has now swelled to nearly 1000, with hits from Queen, Rolling Stones and Beach Boys.

The Estadio Algarve was purpose built for the 2004 European Championships. It hosted three games including a quarter final match between Sweden and Holland which ended goalless (Sticky doesn’t do 0-0s). A taxi driver told me it’s mainly used for pop concerts and cultural events. I remember on a previous holiday in the Algarve that Sean Paul and Simple Minds played here.

It has a capacity of 30,000. It has two huge curve-covered stands running along both touchlines. Both ends behind the goals are open. It would be a schoolboy error to forget the sunscreen on a sweltering Saturday or Sunday afternoon. It’s the third consecutive game tonight. Panathinaikos are also competing in this round robin tournament. The pitch looks worn and is cutting up.

The boys are hanging over the tunnel high-fiving all the players as they walk out onto the pitch to another god forsaken tune. If you want to make us feel welcome how about a bit of funk and soul from Geordie duo Smoove and Turrell.

Braga is a city in north west Portugal with a population of 170,000. They have qualified for this season’s Champions League. In 2011 they reached the Europa League final where they lost 1-0 to rivals Porto.

Newcastle upon Tyne is in north east England with a population of 280,000. It is famous for its wool trade, coal mining and ship building. Famous custodians include: Sting, Neil Tennant, Mark Knopfler, Cheryl Cole and Ant and Dec. It’s a hotbed for producing brilliant footballing talent. Alan Shearer, Paul Gascoigne, Peter Beardsley, Chris Waddle, Andy Carroll and Michael Carrick are all from the area.

There are a group of four Geordies sat in front of us. One of the guys enquires whether former Toon midfielder Hugo Viana is in the SC Braga line-up. ‘Dafty’ informs him that he is on the bench. The guy says that his daughter (Laura) has a huge crush on Viana, and promises to hound him for an autograph at the break.

Everyone in the stadium is taking photos now apart from Sticky, who has even left his malfunctioning HTC phone back at the apartment. What a miserable beginning to the evening this has been. I’m cheered up by the flashing white teeth and permanent smile of Newcastle’s 20 year old winger Sammy Ameobi. He’s as tall as a giraffe but has legs like pencils. He’s sharp out of the blocks but is inclined to turn inside onto his favoured left foot.

Braga play keep ball for the first 20 minutes as the Magpies chase shadows. Ivory Coast international Cheick Tiote looks sullen and moody. He loses possession and fakes an injury. He takes an age to get to grips with the pace of the game. Demba Ba drops deep as Pardew plays Cisse on the shoulder with Ameobi wide right and the impressive Sylvain Marveaux on the left.

Good news arrives on 25 minutes with the official opening of the first bag of Haribo’s that 'Gangsta 'and Will have smuggled in past that miserable dumb-ass of a steward. On 35 minutes Cisse blazes over following good work by Danny Simpson and Ameobi. On the stroke of half time good chances fall to Braga’s Amorin and Cesar.

At the break Shola Ameobi is wheeled out to sign autographs and pose for pictures. He says that former Tricky Tree James Perch is the best golfer in the Club. Looking at his playing time last season I’m not least surprised. Sticky Junior attempts some banter with ‘Perchy’ but the miserable sod is having none of it.

‘Laura’s Dad’ is waving what appears to be some old fish n chip paper in the air. Hugo Viana has scrawled a personal message to his daughter. “She’ll be made up marra.”

There is an increase in tempo and tempers in the second period. Tiote gets hold of the game by the scruff of its neck. He breaks the world record for the number of fouls in a ten minute period. The referee’s patience finally snaps. He waves a yellow card in Cheick’s direction.

The Toon are awarded a penalty following a theatrical dive by Marveaux. Demba Ba, who has spent most of the evening bad-mouthing the officials, steps up to take the spot kick, only to see the keeper make a great save. He coolly rolls in the rebound. “You’re not singing anymore” chant the ‘Toon Army’ in the direction of the four Braga fans who have made the long trip south, and who are congregated in the stand on the opposite side of the ground.

Braga equalise immediately, must to the disgust of perennial moaner Alan Pardew, who has been meticulously penning notes all evening. A fine move is finished off by Amorim.

Both teams go for the jugular in a very entertaining 45 minutes. The winning goal arrives on 75 minutes following a moment of brilliance from former Tranmere and Wigan full back Ryan Taylor. His 25 yard floated free-kick leaves Beto rooted to the spot.

There’s still time for Braga to smash an effort off the post and for their 6’ 4” Brazilian defender Douglao to be dismissed for bawling in the assistant referee’s face. Four bags of Haribos have been demolished: Now where’s that bloody camera of mine, Mainwaring, you stupid boy. Man of the Match: Fabricio Collocini

Hucknall Town 3 Lincoln City U19s 2

The summer has been a washout. It’s hosed it down for days now. Sticky, ‘The Reaper’ and ‘The Auctioneer’ need cheering up, and have earmarked Saturday June 30th for ‘Real Ale Trail Part Two.’ Part one was the Mansfield Road run, in Nottingham, with The Gladstone on Loscoe Road easily winning the pub of the day award.

Maid Marian Way has sun-kissed blue skies as we traipse up to Ye Olde Trip to Jerusalem, reputedly the oldest inn in England. Next stop is the Blue Monkey’s Organ Grinder on Alfreton Road. We laugh, joke and take the rise, on the open sun terrace.

The Reaper takes us on a tour of Radford, an often troubled area of Nottingham. I recognise the street names and associate them with shootings that have occurred here over the years. We bump into former Nottingham Forest and Sampdoria defender Des Walker in the Tap Room of the Pheasant Inn in Radford. The swanky, cool bars of Hockley and West Bridgford are not for ‘Our Des.’

Four more pubs are chalked off in Basford, before we stagger onto a tram into town before catching the ‘Keyworth Connection’ home. I am buzzing and steaming. It is by far the best afternoon of the year. Cheers Reaper, for the social history tour.

It’s nearly 90 days since I last did a groundhop. I spot that my old team Lincoln City (I used to support them until Chris Sutton rocked up with his daft mate and ruined our Club) are sending their young uns to the old mining town of Hucknall. I book myself in.

The comedy moment of the week arrived last Sunday. I’m on a three mile circular walk of our village. ‘The Skipper’ is having a ‘Sunday snooze’ in his bro’s bed, following a late-night sleepover at a pal’s house. An hour later he walks into the lounge, where Mrs P is doing a spot of ironing. “What’s for breakfast Mum?” The fool is dressed in his full school uniform. He thought he’d slept through and it was Monday morning.

The Arabs have swept into The City Ground. Tricky Trees fans are on the crest of a wave. And why not, after 15 years of mediocrity? Steve Cotterill was wearing dead man’s shoes, just like former Notts County manager Ian McParland was when Munto and Sven rolled in.

It’s Saturday morning and I’m regretting that special offer bottle of red wine I saw off last night. Bad news folks, Sticky Junior has ragged in the paper round, and boy do I miss it. I flick on the radio to find Danny Baker in fine fettle. His intro music is ‘The Headmaster’s Ritual’ from Meat is Murder by Manchester band The Smiths.

I spend a few hours in the garden to show willing. I am unquestionably the best weeder in Keyworth. Mrs P arrives home from West Bridgford Farmers’ Market with my favourite cake, which is accompanied by a ciabatta for lunch. I’ve a night out at the Brazilian restaurant Tropeiro on King Street in Nottingham with White Van Man and the gang this evening.

I sit watching Sky Sports News before the short drive to Hucknall. There’s speculation that Canadian-born striker Junior Hoilett could be on his way to Loftus Road. I do hope so; I loved his speculative efforts on goal last season. I also notice that former Notts County full back Chris Short (brother of Craig) has joined Neil Warnock’s coaching staff at ‘Dirty Dirty Leeds.’

I make the short journey over to Hucknall via the village of Watnall. Priory Celtic’s John Harris has suggested I drop into the Royal Oak on Main Road, close to the Hovis Bakery. I am the pub’s one and only customer. Feeling a tad delicate from last night’s session, I select a half pint of St Edmunds bitter from the Greene King brewery and take a seat in the corner of the cosy bar. ‘A Town Called Malice’ by The Jam is on the jukebox.

A couple of locals sidle in through the front door. They exchange small talk with the landlady. One of them pours money into the fruit machine, whilst the other more wisely plays the trivia quiz game. “What’s the nickname of Charlton Athletic?” shouts out the guy. “The Addicks” a smart-arsed Groundhopper replies. “I’ll buy you a pint if I win”, remarks the punter. He’s knocked out on his next question.

Oooh, is that Lily Allen I can hear on the jukebox? Time for a sharp exit. Thank God that press conference has finished at Nottingham Forest. It went on longer than the EastEnders omnibus edition.

A couple of stewards rob me of £1 to park my car at the rear of Hucknall’s Watnall Road ground. “How much is it to get in?” I enquire. “£7” one replies. “What, to watch the Lincoln City youth team?”

It’s actually a fiver on the turnstile, with a further 50 pence shelled out on a programme, a piece of A4 paper folded in two. Team-sheets are free gratis. There are more stewards and Hucknall Town officials in the ground than supporters.

The first thing that strikes me is how long the grass is. I walk in an anti-clockwise direction. Former Lincoln City defender Grant ‘Hoof’ Brown’ is youth team coach at Sincil Bank. I can’t understand a word he barks out at the scholars; he’s from Sunderland. Brown made a club record 405 appearances for the Imps.

I notice a bald man, sporting a Lincoln tracksuit, studying the warm-ups. I wander towards the guy and attempt to strike up a conversation. I recognise him and I’m immediately in awe of him. He has twice managed ‘City’ and has legendary cult status in our household. Christ, I even named my budgie after him (he’s called Murphy .... not Colin). I ponder on whether to tell Colin Murphy that he’s my hero and that I named my feathered friend after him. I choose not to, in case he is offended by it. I miss my chance as ‘Murph’ walks away. I notice he is limping heavily.

I bump into Malc and Kev from the ‘On The Road Blog.’ We enjoy a bit of craic and catch up on all the gossip. ‘Rock DJ’ by the Burslem pub singer is booming out the PA system. “Thank Christ that has finished”, remarks an elderly gentleman. “Too right pal”, says Sticky.

Lincoln start the game like a house on fire. They have good movement and are a yard quicker than their more experienced opponents. They open the scoring through Karl Cunningham, son of former Lincoln, Newcastle and Manchester City striker Tony Cunningham. TC is now a Lincoln-based lawyer. I notice him chatting to Colin Murphy in the stands. ‘The Murph’ signed TC from Stourbridge back in 1979 for £20,000.

The Imps are totally bossing the game and increase their lead on the half hour, with captain Kieran Walker thumping a shot home from close range. I walk past Malc and Kev with a smile like a Cheshire cat – I’m a Lincoln fan again.

On 35 minutes the visitors concede a sloppy goal. The full back is dispossessed following a throw-out by the ‘keeper. The cross is steered home by striker Julian Topliss. On the stroke of half-time the Yellows restore parity with a good finish by striker Theo Sanderson.

Brett Marshall is the new incumbent in the Hucknall Town managerial hot-seat. He’s arrived from Retford Town, along with half of their squad. He’s either been to one of John Ramshaw’s tanning salons or recently returned from holiday. He’s dressed in a sharp pin-striped suit that he recently purchased from Oxfam on Hucknall High Street. I once saw him celebrate a Scott Pratt 45 yard winner, whilst at Kirkby Town, by running a full 50 yards down the touchline. I thought the guy was going to drop dead on the spot.

Marshall inspires his newly-assembly squad in the second period. The Imps play as if they’ve been given a half-time pep talk by Chris Sutton. Joel Goodacre puts Hucknall in front, lifting the ball over an advancing goalkeeper.

They spurn further chances to put the game beyond doubt as the Imps run out of steam. Lincoln’s impressive forward Jordan Thomas scuffs a penalty which rebounds off the Hucknall ‘keeper’s trailing leg.

Heavy black clouds begin to empty their load. I glance over my shoulder as a steward opens a side exit door. The ‘Rolls Royce’ is in poll position. I race home down the ring road, burst through the front door and head towards his cage. “Murphy ..... you’ll never guess who I bumped into this afternoon?”

Man of the Match: Colin Murphy

The Groundhopper Awards 2012

Goal of the Season: McCabe for FC Khalsa (from inside his own half)

Favourite Team: Nuneaton

Best Team Performance: Dunkirk away at Heather St Johns

Worst Game: Rothley Imps v Thurmaston Town

Best Pub: The Hollow Bottom, nr Cheltenham

Miserable Landlord of the Year: The Hollow Bottom, nr Cheltenham

Brew of the Year: (Tea) Clipstone Miners' Welfare

Best Playing Surface: Hyde

Most Welcoming Club: Histon

Best Programme: Hyde

Foul Play Award: FC Khalsa or Clipstone Miners' Welfare

Best Clubhouse: Staveley Miners' Welfare

Best New Ground: Heather St Johns

Best Pro ground: Wycombe Wanderers

Best Pro Player: Paul Taylor, Peterborough United

Best Non League Player: Kevin Thornton, Nuneaton

Favourite League: Conference North

Best PA Announcer: Heather St Johns

Favourite Blog: Where's The Tea Hut

Favourite Character: Trumpy Bolton

Total Football: St Neots Town

Most Picturesque Ground: Cheltenham Town

Best Supporters: Nuneaton

Keyworth United 2 Linby Colliery Welfare 2

We spend a couple of days in York over Easter at my brother’s house. We pound the pavements of the enchanting city centre during a miserable, rainy Bank Holiday Monday. I miss out on my usual pint at the delightful Maltings pub, situated across the road from the railway station.

Despite a Twitter appeal and a plea for a budgie-sitter to family and friends, poor old Murphy Palmer spends two nights home alone. I pine for the little fellow. He’s bouncing around his cage when we arrive back on Tuesday lunchtime.

Nothing catches my eye on the midweek non-league schedule. I opt to scout a few rearranged Young Elizabethan League games.



It’s Thursday evening. ‘The Skipper’s’ team, Clifton All-Whites are playing in town. The game is being played at a comprehensive school at the back of an old pit estate. I stand with a mate at the top of a grass bank.

‘The Skipper’ fires a shot into the roof of the net from 35 yards out. Suddenly a stray boot thuds into the ground from behind me. I glance around to see a group of youths loitering on a balcony of a first floor flat, laughing and gesticulating. Suddenly we are showered with cans, and bottles full of water.

There’s a scream from some parents from the other side of the pitch, as a four foot piece of timber whistles over my head landing at the foot of the bank. I race round to the front of the shops but the cheeky scampsters have scarpered up the hill. It’s a good old half an hour before Plod roll up.



The weekend is a football bonanza. ‘The Skipper’s’ team grab a vital point against Dunkirk. I drive over to St Anns immediately after the game to catch the silky skills and quick feet of Sticky Jnr. They run out 4-2 winners. I’m disappointed in the lack of discipline on both sides.

It’s déjà vu on Sunday with ‘The Skipper’s’ team getting well beaten in the Nottinghamshire County Shield final. The winning side play a beautiful game but they lack class and etiquette in other areas. They are disrespectful and bad-mouth the man in black. One calls the ref a “cheat.” They have three lads booked; Lord only knows how they would behave if they were to lose.

I slump in the bath on Monday evening, and tune into Five Live’s analytical Monday Night Club. Roberto Martinez’s Wigan Athletic weave their magic at the Emirates Stadium, as they inch their way to Premiership safety.



I ring legendary KUCFC reserve team manager Alan ‘Jacko’ Jackson first thing on Tuesday morning to check on pitch conditions at the ‘Theatre of Dreams.’ It appears that he is to be elevated to 1st team assistant manager this evening as ‘Webbie’ is working away.

I wile away the afternoon in the Warehouse, estranged from work buddy Shifty Edwards. I listen to Ratcliffe and Maconie on 6 Music. They play ‘Don’t Talk To Me About Love’ by Scottish post-punk band Altered Images. I used to have a huge crush on their lead singer Clare Grogan when I was a kid.

Sticky jnr wanders into the kitchen at tea-time waving a match ticket at me for the Hull City v NFFC clash at the KC Stadium on Saturday. Schoolboy pranks, latest girlfriends and football business are discussed during chicken and mushroom pie with mash and veg.



Mrs P slopes off to the gym. Murphy asks if he can give a score prediction for tonight’s game. “Not on your Nelly son, you’re not muscling in on Finley Palmer’s (rabbit) territory.” Old ‘Finners’ goes for an upset: “2-1 to Keyworth.” Don’t worry Linby fans, his forecasts are crap.

Platt Lane can be a cold, desolate, bleak place to watch football. I dress for the occasion, slipping on some thermals. I sling my camera bag over my shoulder and head off towards the ground. Mrs P drives by shaking her head in disbelief at sad old Groundhopper.

I stroll onto Normanton Lane and pick up the pace. I take a right hand turn onto Nicker Hill. Back in October 1983, 16 year old trainee hairdresser Colette Aram was abducted from this road and later raped and strangled. It was the first case to appear on BBC1’s Crimewatch programme. On 25th January Paul Hutchinson was sentenced to life imprisonment for her murder.



I turn left down Platt Lane. The sky for the first time today is sea blue. I’m sweating up like Grand National winner Neptune’s Collonges by the time I walk through the main entrance to the ground.

Keyworth lies 6 miles south east of Nottingham. It has a population just shy of 7000. Keyworth United Football Club is adjacent to the British Geological Survey, which is the village’s major employer. Notable current and former residents of Keyworth include: Shadow Chancellor Ed Balls, cricketers Franklin Stephenson and Sir Richard Hadlee, Nottingham Forest Chairman Frank Clark, postman Neil Webb, and former Pies’ defender Brian Stubbs.

A local historian and good friend of mine, Barry Baker is currently compiling a history of KUCFC. It is suggested that a club may have been in the village as far back as 1876. The first League goal ever scored at Everton’s Goodison Park was by Nottingham Forest’s Horace Pike, who was born in Keyworth.



Players to have played for Keyworth United and then moved on to professional clubs include: Brian Stubbs, David Riley, Chris Freestone and Mick Waite. Former Aston Villa, Notts County and Hull City defender Dave Norton is on the bench this evening.

Linby is a village next to the town of Hucknall. It has one of the most picturesque grounds in the county, with St Michael’s Church forming a backdrop. I ‘worked’ at Linby Colliery from 1982 to 1985. It was one of the happiest times of my life.

I’m led to believe that Linby have been accepted into the Central Midlands League for the 2012-13. Keyworth continue with the club ethos of playing boys who have risen from the youth ranks. Their oldest two players in the starting line-up this evening are just 24 years of age. I applaud this policy. Right midfielder Sam Wood is just 16 years old; he’s a big pal of Sticky junior’s.



Behind the far goal is a disused railway line. To the left are three 11 a-side pitches and small sided areas. On the opposite side are two brick dugouts, with the modern clubhouse situated behind the nearest goal.

Jacko is busy handing in team sheets as I take my spot to the left of the Keyworth dugout towards the top of the slope. I’ve been joined by The Taxman, ‘Snatch Randall’ and ‘Woody.’ One job Jacko has forgot to do is pump up the match ball, the ref insists on a swap.

Linby look a slick outfit. I notice the familiar figure of former Dunkirk and Gedling MW attacker Barry Payne. He’s partnering the stylish Matt Murphy up top.



Twenty one year old Damian Mann looks a slip of a lad down the Linby left wing. He dances, jigs and shuffles his frail body along the touchline. His movement is light and his feet are electric. Linby take the lead from a Barry Payne shot on 20 minutes after Keyworth fail to clear a cross. A lady Linby supporter close by produces a rattle to celebrate the goal.

Keyworth restore parity immediately, a ball played down the left is pounced upon by Ben Hanrahan who smashes a shot past the keeper’s inside post.

I have a quick chat with Linby secretary Ade Ward. He is accompanied by his wife who is overwhelmed to meet me having been awarded 2009/2010 Brew of the Season. I’m keen for info on Mann, who has been pleasing on the eye.

On 35 minutes the Greens take the lead against the run of play, with a cracking header from Ian Marley following good work by Elliott Roulestone down the left.

A speculative shot from Marley from miles out is waved onto the bar by the Linby ‘keeper. ‘The Taxman’ and 'Woody' are bleating about the biting wind and showery conditions, so we head to the best clubhouse on the circuit for a hot drink.



Damian Mann, who has ran Keyworth ragged on the left, is mysteriously shunted out on the right wing. Linby begin to look disjointed. They look to blame others. The referee and linesman are called an “embarrassment”

Mann is withdrawn on 70 minutes. He peels off his shirt and heads off back to the changing room. His replacement earns the visitors a deserved draw in the closing moments, striking a shot from the edge of the area which creeps into the left hand corner of the net.

Brain against brawn has resulted in a very entertaining draw. Keyworth’s young guns have battled from start to finish. The craft and guile of Linby can only be rewarded with a point.

Attendance: 37 (head count)

Man of the Match: Damian Mann

Cheltenham Town 2 Barnet 0

It’s Thursday evening, I’ve broken up from work for five days. I unlock the back door and race into the lounge to see if Murphy Palmer (baby budgie) is okay. He is having a dicky fit, readers. He’s fluttering and flapping around his crib. He’s squealing and crying. “Calm down son, what’s the matter?” He’s staring at the DAB radio that I leave on for him each day. He loves a bit of Ken Bruce and Jeremy Vine.

This doesn’t sound like Simon Mayo; the DJ is saying ‘safe’ ‘sound’ ‘reem’ and ‘innit.’ What’s going off? I get on all-fours and rummage around in my pocket for my glasses. I stare at display unit on the radio in disbelief. Sticky jnr is summoned downstairs. I tell him that if I find out that he ever upsets Murphy again by switching channels to BBC 1Xtra I’ll stop his pocket money for a week.

I spend the late evening downing a bottle of ‘on offer’ Rioja whilst watching the US Masters on Sky. Local lad, Lee Westwood leads the field.

I’m wide awake by dawn. I make an award-winning brew and treat myself to some fresh pineapple for breakfast. Murphy is whistling and chirping to Donna Summer’s ‘Loves Unkind’ as I waltz out the door.



There’s an appalling start to the day. I switch on the radio to hear Phil Collins and Philip Bailey singing ‘Easy Lover.’ I drive up through ‘the Bronx’ to pick up blog legend Trumpy Bolton. He’s switched carrier bags to an upmarket little orange number from Sainsbury’s. He unearths a litre bottle full of Stella Artois Cidre. Trumpy is sporting a Dunlop t-shirt as a tribute to Lee Westwood.

He’s quickly into his stride with anecdotes and tales from recent trips (weekend benders) to Thame, Lincoln and Leeds. We avoid the motorway and stick to the A46. We’re soon driving through the beautiful scenery and picture postcard villages of the Cotswolds. I spot a sign for Bourton on-the-Water. It’s where Mrs P and I spent our first wedding anniversary.

We start reminiscing about a stag weekend in Amsterdam back in 1990. Trumpy says he has a photo of me in a New Order ‘World in Motion’ t-shirt posing outside a brothel. I must have mistaken it for an art gallery.

Ooh, I recognise that theme tune. It must be time for Trumpy and Sticky to fight it out on Radio 2’s Pop Master. We rack up an easy 28 points. We can’t arf pick em. The winner has ten seconds to name three Bay City Rollers hits. Trumpy and Sticky do it in five seconds: Sad, but true.



It’s just gone 11am as we pull up outside The Hollow Bottom country pub in Guiting Power. It’s the Gloucestershire Dining Pub of the Year. Horse racing from yesterday’s meeting at Ludlow is on TV. We have two pints of a local brew. I tell a lie, Trumpy has two; I didn’t see the first one touch the sides.

The pub was once owned by Peter Scudamore and Nigel Twiston-Davies. It’s like visiting a steeple-chasing museum. The pub is decorated with photos, memorabilia, newspaper clippings, horseshoes and racing silks. Smoke smoulders from some logs on an open fire.

The beer is good and the vibe is fantastic. But the landlord really is a miserable sod. Trumpy tries to strike up a conversation with the guy. He’s more interested in repairing a broken high chair than socialising with a customer.



Next stop is the less impressive, but more customer friendly Half Way House in Kineton. It like God’s waiting room as a group of pensioners huddle around the bar. They are advertising a Disco tonight from 9pm. Looking at the average age I suspect Frank Sinatra may feature quite heavily.

Dinner is good though and the service is brisk. I have a bacon and Stilton baguette with home-cooked chips. Trumpy has another couple of pints. We’re parked up a five minute walk away from Cheltenham’s Whaddon Road ground half an hour later. The legend has sniffed out another pub up the road called the Fox and Hounds. Four Barnet fans are in the back room playing a game of pool.

They have resigned themselves to defeat and relegation. They are unimpressed with former Northern Ireland manager Lawrie Sanchez and would have Martin ‘Mad Dog’ Allen back at the drop of a hat. Allen was also manager at Cheltenham for a short spell.



We weave our way through a residential area. Trumpy has one of his legendary sneezing fits, caused by gating his final pint. We’re soon outside the Abbey Business Stadium. Cheltenham, also known as Cheltenham Spa, is on the edge of the Cotswolds. The borough has a population of over 115,000 people.

Notable folk born in Cheltenham include: the golfer Paul Casey, Killing Joke lead singer Jaz Coleman, Nottingham Forest manager Steve Cotterill, ‘ski jumper’ Eddie ‘the Eagle’ Edwards, actors Robert Hardy and Sir Ralph Richardson, composer Gustav Holst, presenter and writer Richard O’Brien and former X-Factor host Kate Thornton.

I must have been to the Gold Cup at Cheltenham Racecourse six or seven times. I’ve some happy memories and bulging pockets. Trumpy has been with me a few times too, but he remembers very little of the day (cider binge drinking).



Cheltenham Town were founded in 1887. They are managed by the highly-rated Mark Yates. Former managers of note include: Steve Cotterill, Bobby Gould, John Ward and Martin Allen. Record transfer received is £400,000 from Colchester United for Steven Gillespie. Record transfer laid out is £60,000 for Aldershot’s Jermaine McGlashan.I grab an excellent programme for £3. It’s £20 to sit in the Main Stand. Trumpy remarks he pays that to watch Leicester City at the King Power Stadium.

The legend sinks a few more in the Club bar as we watch Reading and Leeds players rolling around on the floor faking injury. We take our seats to the rear of the stand. I’ve had more leg room on a Ryanair flight. I sit at 90 degrees.

The views are breathtaking. In the distance is Cleeve Hill and Cheltenham Racecourse. The Club DJ plays a Ska track that gets Trumpy tapping his feet. The players emerge from the tunnel to ‘Insomnia’ by Faithless.

The Robins haven’t scored for nearly 10 hours and Barnet only have one win in fourteen games. But remember folks, Trumpy and Sticky don’t do 0-0’s. (very often).



I’m impressed with the touch and movement of both teams. Having watched so much non league football, it’s almost become alien to me. Trumpy has befriended a scout from Colchester, who lives in Stamford. He’s a lovely chap but he probably hadn’t planned on Trumpy chewing on his ear for 45 minutes.

19 year old Jack Butland is in the nets for Cheltenham. The England under 21 international is on loan from Birmingham City. He’s kept busy in the first period, producing fine saves from the former Nottingham Forest Dublin-born midfielder Mark Byrne and the impressive, impish left winger Ricky Holmes.

‘Big Ben Burgees’, on loan from Notts County, is toiling away up top for Cheltenham. He has aerial supremacy and a terrific first touch. He is no danger to the goal though. His strike partner Darryl Duffy is short on confidence. He dithers and dilly-dallies on the ball. Duffy couldn’t hit sand if he fell off a camel.

Barnet play some beautiful passing football. It mocks their lowly position. Holmes hugs the touchline and 22 goal leading scorer Izale McLeod is a handful. They hit the post on half time from a header by Kamdjo.



T Bolton scurries off back down to the bar, a relieved ‘Colchester scout’ retreats to the back row for more ‘leg room’ Bolton has bored the poor bloke to death. A freestyler does football skills in the centre circle. Eric Prydz ‘Call on Me’ booms out of the PA system.

Barnet can’t get going in the second half. Cheltenham play at a higher tempo. A dreadlocked-haired Jermaine McGlashan is introduced on the hour. Trumpy is back from the bar. “Is this Terence Trent D’Arby coming on?” quips the legend.

Sanchez looks disinterested and disheartened. There’s no encouragement, pats on the back or camaraderie with his staff. The Barnet fans salute his assistant ‘Grazioli’ throughout the game.

Butland makes an instinctive, brilliant one-handed save from McLeod. Yates’ final throw of the dice is a double substitution with 15 minutes to go. Mohamed and Spencer form a three man attack. It pays dividends immediately.

McGlashan plays a give and go with Mohamed, he leaves the full back for dead, the cross is inch perfect, Mohamed buries his shot into the roof of the net. It’s a moment of brilliance. Trumpy and I stand to applaud. Bolton disappears to the bar for a final pint.

Moments later its game set and match to Cheltenham with substitute Spencer seizing upon a Burgess flick-on to finish emphatically.

Barnet have played some neat and tidy football, with little reward. They are dropping like a stone, just like Lincoln City were last season.

Attendance: 3319 (173 from Barnet)

Man of the Match: Sam Deering (Barnet)