Harborough Town 1-2 Deeping Rangers

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Man of the Match: Jonathan Mitchell

Attendance: 53

Farsley AFC 2-1 New Mills AFC

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Attendance: 216

Man of the Match: Finley Palmer

Nantwich Town 4-0 Droylsden

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

Man of the Match: Domaine Rouse

Attendance: 284

Barrowby 4-0 Blidworth Welfare

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Attendance: 31 (Head count)

Man of the Match: Ned Ludd

Clay Cross Town 2-0 Phoenix FC

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Newcastle Town 2-0 Carlton Town

It's approaching midday on a Saturday morning. I heard Sticky jnr crash through the door at 07:00 after a heavy session in town. He's fumbling around the bedroom, getting ready to watch the Tricky Trees of Nottingham. His glum face appears in the kitchen, accompanied with a hacking cough. He slopes off down the alley towards Sainsbury's to purchase 20 tabs.

He returns moments later in all of a fluster. Smoke is coming out of his ears, readers, but it aint from cigarettes. The lass on the till has challenged his ID and called it fake (it was his 18th birthday a month ago). He's bashing away at the keypad on his phone. I check my timeline on Twitter to read his outrage "Absolutely disgusted with #sainsburys telling me my ID is fake #w***ers." Fair play to Sainsbury's though, they tweet him within seconds to ask if he would like to make a complaint. My boy doesn't want to get the girl in trouble though, so he declines #class.

It's been almost a month since I last ticked a ground off. I've not been myself recently, the strain of running two football teams is taking its toll, as is also a 10 day detox programme I'm putting myself through. I'm in desperate need of a football fix.

The console on the phone lights up with the words 'Trumpy Bolton.' He's necking a few in a Wetherspoons in Brighton, before his beloved Foxes take on the Hove Albion. I arrange to pick him up at 3pm on Tuesday.

I leave the office just before noon. There's a dreadful beginning to my half day's holiday, when I switch the radio on to hear the 'Greatest Love of All' by Whitney Houston. I skip down the drive, through the back door and immediately make a beeline towards his cage. Murphy Palmer, the budgie, and Norwich City's number one fan is two years old today. I unwrap a 45p treat I've bought from Wilko's in Clifton: I like to spoil the little fella.

He's still sulking about The Zuffler's remark on Facebook. He reckoned that WBA chants of "You Fat Bastard" during the Canaries 2-0 win at The Hawthorns, were directed at the wee man. I've got to admit he has put a bit of timber on. It's his winter coat.

Trumpy calls to say the BT Broadband engineer has completed the installation and that he's ready for collection. I clock him walking out of the 'Bronx.' Regular readers my recall him in tears as we walked (he limped) back to the hotel in Yeovil. It's now six weeks since his hip replacement.

The ruddy face and faithful plastic litre bottle of dry cider are on his person. He enquires whether we have got tickets for the Carlton end. He's proud to announce he can now put his own pants on, without Mrs Trumpy having to give him a helping hand. He tested his new hip out on Lincoln's notorious Steep Hill. He passed with flying colours, having had a tipple or two at the many hostelries in the City.

Trumpy has been up since the crack of dawn waiting for the BT engineer to bring him into the 21st Century. His late arrival scuppered any chance of a lunchtime session at the Keyworth Tavern. He waxes lyrical about the weekend in Brighton. He chanced upon Mr and Mrs Nugent, the parents of Leicester star striker David Nugent. "What a charming and down to earth couple they were" he remarks between large swigs of cider.

Trumpy has a Marston's new build in Uttoxeter to chalk off. He sinks a couple of real ales as Sticky Palms stares vacantly into his glass of apple and raspberry J2O. We have a round of sandwiches and listen to the 'Office prat' on a Christmas party deliver an endless stream of boring and predictable double entendres with the lasses in tow. Trumpy taps his toe to David Essex's Christmas classic, 'Winter's Tale.'

We've soon spotted signs to the ground of Newcastle Town, which is actually situated in Clayton. Newcastle under-Lyme is a market town in the county of Staffordshire, with a population of 73,000. Cricketer Dominic Cork and footballer Robbie Earle are one of their own. The town, back in the day, was well known for hat-making, silk, cotton mills, coal mining and brick manufacturing.

We can see the well lit ground, with the stand-out feature being the velodrome, in the distance. After doing a couple of laps we finally chance upon a turning into the ground.

The car park is dimly lit. It doesn't stop Bolton scurrying across the car park, diving into the Clubhouse and shouting up a pint of draught Bass. Just my luck, Bass on draught and I'm on a health kick. Club officials in jackets and ties appear all hot and bothered. It transpires that only half the Carlton team have rocked up, with further bad news that the kit is in the secretary's car, who is stuck in traffic. It gives Bolton the chance to neck a few more, to add the two he had in some characterless Fayre and Square pub close by.

I leave Trumpy watching Munich v City as I start to make my own enquiries. Carlton manager Les McJannet says that kick off will be delayed by half an hour. The ground is gobsmacking, with its panoramic views and quirky stands. It looks even better under the lights.

Bolton staggers out the bar as the teams kick off, I've already walked the circuit once. If I'd bought my bike I could have cycled the velodrome. He scans the teamsheet and enquires where Shearer and Ginola are. I have to explain it's Newcastle Town and not United we're watching.

He starts chatting to an elderly gentleman from Nottingham, who bless him, has forgot to put his teeth in. Neither of them can understand a word they are saying. Newcastle (Town) take the lead with a cleverly executed goal. A corner is played back towards the full back, who smashes his shot through an army of players and past an unsighted 'keeper. Sticky and Trumpy don't do 0-0s.

The Millers (Carlton) play some good football, but are toothless and without energy or aggression in the final third. The temperature begins to dip as we return to the bar again, allowing Bolton to rekindle his love affair with the Bass handpump.

We watch in disbelief as City overturn a two nil deficit with a James Milner winner. "This is taking the match-fixing saga a bit too far" remarks a sozzled Trumpy. Newcastle score early doors in the second half  and also see a penalty attempt screwed horribly wide. Carlton continue to look lacklustre. Their best attempt, from former Notts County scholar Alex Troke, is beaten away by the home 'keeper.

Trumpy has caused quite a commotion amongst the home officials when enquiring about the purchase of a hot pie. The blazers start to squabble with one another on why they have run out. We sneak out with five minutes to go, as Carlton are never going to trouble the scorers this evening.

Attendance: 64

Man of the Match: Trumpy Bolton

Stevenage 2-1 Portsmouth

 

It's Sunday October 25th and I'm stretched out on the sofa, with Murphy the budgie perched on top of my head. Gerard Houllier and Ray Parlour are performing the FA Cup first round draw from the Grand Connaught Rooms in central London. The Mayor of London and I have struck a deal to attend a tie at a ground that neither of us have ticked-off before.

The draw is complete, Murphy has flown back to his cage; he wasn't particularly interested as Norwich City won't be rocking up until the third round. I peruse the draw, excitedly, looking for a romantic tie in the North. A game suddenly catches my eye: Stevenage v Portsmouth. It will be another chalk-off in my quest to join the 92 Club. The romance is that Pompey won the Cup in 2008 but now lie in 16th position in League Two. I punch out the Mayor of London's number on my phone. It's booked in our diaries for Nov 9th.

 

I'm driving across the Vale of Belvoir towards 'Southfork' where the Mayor lives. He's back in town following 20 years of hustle and bustle in the City of London. I pick him up just before midday and head out towards the A1 at Grantham. Fighting Talk is on Five Live. They've had to draft in Sticky P's favourite comedian, Leyton Orient fan Bob Mills, as a late replacement. He's talking about last Sunday's game between Cardiff and Swansea - he calls it 'El Taffico.'

The Mayor is chattering away about a forthcoming question and answer evening at Cotgrave Golf Club that he is organising as a fundraiser for our local cricket club. It's called 'Lifting the Lid.' starring  Derek Randall, Chris Read and Mick Newell.

We breeze down the A1, sweeping past Peterborough. Within 90 minutes the 'Rolls Royce', despite it's serious health problems, is rolling into the huge free car park on Broadhall Way opposite the Lamex Stadium.

Stevenage is a town and borough in Hertfordshire, 30 miles north of London. It has a population of 80,000. It was designated as a 'New Town' in 1946. Notable folk born in Stevenage include: Lewis Hamilton, Ashley Young and Jack Wilshere. Well known former players include: Steve Morison, Barry Hayles, Lionel Perez and D J Campbell. Record transfer received is £260,000 from Peterborough Utd for the services of winger George Boyd.

We have some craic and banter with a few old boys from Stevenage and Pompey. We dash across the busy carriage way. I clock Pompey's most famous supporter climbing out the back of a van. John Westwood is covered from head to toe in Pompey tattoos. He poses for a photo before continuing to put all his clobber on including his stove pipe hat.

The social club is packed to the rafters with both sets of supporters. We down a couple of 4% Stella's as we watch Reading v QPR. Well known philosopher and professional thug Joey Barton bags a sublime free kick. A blue replica football shirt sits in a frame on the wall. It has the number 21 on it with the name Cole above it. It's in memory of former player Mitchell Cole who died suddenly at the age of just 27 years old. He left a young family and a wife named Charly, the sister of West Ham midfielder Joe Cole.

I'm keen to stand near the huge away following. We pay £22 on the turnstile and a further £3 for the programme. We accidentally find ourselves in the 'Away End.' I like the low roofs on the stands and how close you are to the pitch.

We're both a bit peckish. The Mayor splashes out on a couple of double cheeseburgers piled high with onions. Staff, stewards and catering staff are all obliging. It's a friendly club which still has its Non-League values The turnout from Pompey is staggering. The posh PA announcer plays a couple of foot-tappers from Moloko and S-Express.

Stevenage manager Graham Westley is having his third spell at the Club following an unsuccessful stewardship at Preston North End, where his unconventional style of management didn't go down too well with the players. Portsmouth are managed by former goalscoring legend Guy Whittingham. A minutes' silence for Remembrance Day is a beautiful and moving moment. The shrill of the referee's whistle and the roar of the crowd make the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.

Pompey start like the clappers. They soon have John blowing his bugle and ringing his bell as a strike from Jed Wallace bounces off the upright. Stevenage striker Francois Zoko, recently released by Notts County to free up the wage bill, pounces on a loose ball following a cracking save from Trevor Carson; he buries his shot into the corner of the net.

Stevenage are direct from the back but play some neat football in the opposition's half. Portuguese wingers Bruno Andrade and Filipe Morais switch wings and torment the Pompey full backs.
Michael Doughty, the son of the late Nottingham Forest owner Nigel Doughty, is pulling all the strings in midfield. Ivorian forward Zoko makes it 2-0 with a left foot drive on 38 minutes.

I like the little touches that Stevenage as a club make. In the toilets there are pictures of Portsmouth players and management and one with the slogan 'Play Up Pompey.' I take a snap on my phone infront of a couple of baffled visiting supporters.

 

The Pompey faithful are sobering up from their beer-fuelled lunchtime. They don't hurl abuse at their team though, as they still believe. The bloke behind me is uncooth and without banter. He has a foul-mouthed rant at Stevenage 'keeper Chris Day for no apparent reason. John's bugle is out of tune and the drummer is missing a beat.

Another former Magpie makes the headlines for all the wrong reasons. Gavin Mahon is deemed to have left an elbow in after a clattering aerial challenge in midfield. He is dismissed from the field of play.

Robert Carlisle lookalike David Connolly has replaced the ineffective Patrick Agyemang. He acts as a catalyst, springing new life into the visitors as they up the their energy levels and tempo of play. Pompey are given fresh hope with a close range finish from Connolly. They are camped out in the opposition's half as they search desperately for an equaliser.

The Mayor and Groundhopper don't hang around for stoppage time as that bloody car park and road will be a bottle neck. We're on the A1 by the time referee Mr Sutton blows for full time in what has been a splendid cup tie for the neutral.

Attendance: 2829

Man of the Match: Michael Doughty