Goole AFC 3 Shepshed Dynamo 2

‘The Skipper’s’ headmaster is retiring at Christmas after 20 years service. We all poled up to his final Christmas play. ‘The Skipper’ played a sports reporter in the play. He had to read out the football results. There was a huge cheer from The Groundhopper when he read out out Wolves 3 D***y 0.At the end of the play the headmaster gave a moving speech, Mrs P was in tears, not because of the speech, but because I’d forgot to tape Coronation Street.

It’s Saturday morning, I feel a little fragile as I was out with ‘The Nuclear Scientist’ , ‘The Canadian’ ‘Big Al’ and ‘The Taxman’ last night. NS downed six pints of Hobgoblin. Five per cent is a wee bit too strong for Sticky Palms; I end the night shamefully drinking a couple of half pints. ‘The Comedian’ will slaughter me when he reads this blog.



I catch the 8.15am bus into Nottingham. I whizz round town, buying a few bits and bobs for Mrs P. I thoroughly recommend anyone living in the Nottingham area to pop into Hotel Du Chocolat and checkout the blonde bit on the till; what a stunner she is. I was fumbling with my money and lost for words, when buying Mrs P a huge slab of chocolate.

I stroll up Low Pavement and have a bacon and egg baguette at the awesome E@me Continental Cafe. The proprietor has Gold Radio on in the background. West Ham born David Essex is singing Gonna Make You A Star. I remember my Nana buying me that when I was a kid.



I’m back home for 10.30am. I do a few chores around the abode. I wish ‘The Skipper’ good luck; he’s playing the League leaders today in town. Sticky junior is off down The City Ground.

I take a pleasant stroll round to White Van Man’s house. I knock on his door. He looks tired; he’s been sleeping outside Woolworths all night, anticipating a 50% reduction at the pick ‘n’ mix counter.

It’s a groundhopping debut today for the legendary ‘Trumpy Bolton.’ He lives six doors up from WVM, but they don’t know one another. I spent a few years on the sauce with Trumpy before being swept off my feet by Mrs P. He’s already been to Wetherspoons at Beeston for a couple of pints this morning. It’s going to be an interesting day.



Trumpy is cramming in five years worth of anecdotes into a 70 mile journey. He’s brought a two litre plastic bottle of beer with him and is making supping progress by the time we reach the M1.

It’s driving down with rain and matches all over Notts and Yorkshire are being cancelled. The Goole secretary puts my mind at rest and says the pitch is “perfectly playable.”

We pull into the Aire and Calder Brewers Fayre Restaurant just outside Goole. Trumpy has been asking for the loo since junction 28 on the M1. He’s beginning to stagger a bit now, but thank the Lord, has a steak and kidney pie for lunch. He still manages to wash it down with a pint of Stella

.

We park outside the turnstile. It’s the closest we’ve ever parked to a ground. The PA guy is playing Adam and the Ants 1981 hit Prince Charming.

It’s £7 entrance and £1.50 for the programme. Despite a deluge of rain the pitch at Victoria Pleasure Grounds looks spot on. There are two huge covered terraces on either side of the ground. Trumpy heads straight for The Vikings Bar.



Goole is in East Yorkshire and has an inland port that handles nearly three million tonnes of cargo per annum. It has a population of 17,000. Goole has the largest water tower in England. It’s 145 feet high and can hold up to three quarters of a million gallons.

The club were originally founded in 1912 as Goole Town FC. They have just been deducted ten points for entering into administration; they owe the Inland Revenue £30,000.



Shepshed’s promotion bid is stuttering; confidence is low. They’ve lost their last two home games and also struggled to beat lowly Brigg Town. Today they are without Sticky’s favourite Ian Robinson and the influential Craig Swinscoe.

Trumpy is tucking into a couple of tins of Strongbow cider. We leave him to it and slip out the bar to watch the start of the game.



It’s obvious from the first minute that this is going to be a physical and feisty encounter. The tackles come flying in from both sides. The referee, who has history here, is soon dishing more cards out than Postman Pat. Most are for dissent or kicking the ball away.

Shepshed look vulnerable to the ball over the top and survive a couple of early scares. But on nine minutes the lively Stuart Copnell seizes onto to a Danby through ball to put the Vikings one up.

Trumpy is unimpressed with the fayre served up and decides to hunt down Rob Norris’ mum, who he knows quite well.



Benjamin goes close for Dynamo, but they’re soon on level terms. A quality ball in from the right from Norris is turned into the top corner of the goal by Shane Benjamin.

Shortly before half-time, with Trumpy lining up more Strongbow, Shepshed full back Daniel Fletcher is red-carded for a crude tackle on the Goole winger. Yes it’s a bad challenge, but the red seems harsh. Fletcher doesn’t leave the field without a few words and is still chuntering as he goes down the tunnel.



Both teams miss good chances before the half-time whistle.

At the break WVM goes on pie testing manoeuvres, whilst I shout up another couple of tins of cider. Trumpy is pretty incoherent now. He manages to slur that his beloved Foxes are 1-0 down at Carlisle.

I meet WVM, who is now sheltering from the elements on the terracing. He gives the thumbs up to the steak and kidney pie and gives the tea 7 out of 10. Trumpy is eyeing up the top shelf in The Viking Bar.



The second half is drab and dreary. It’s slinging it down with rain and the wind has picked up. The sending off has ruined the game. Shepshed have lost their balance, but still look the more likelier to score. One or two of their players look out-of-sorts today and lack belief. Their striker Ben Saunders offers very little.

Goole fail to gain the advantage of the extra player and the game appears to be petering out to a draw.

Trumpy emerges from his afternoon session for the final fifteen minutes. He’s all over the shop. The highlight of the day for him is on 83 minutes. Two old Goole supporters have seen enough and are off home for a mug of Horlicks. They’re both about aged 80 and are aided by walking sticks. They’re clearly stricken with arthritis and it’s been a magnificent effort for them to have turned out in such appalling conditions. Trumpy clocks them and bursts out into song: “We can see you sneaking out ..... We can see you sneaking out.” My sides are splitting.



The game does not deserve the grand finale it serves up. On 86 minutes former Leyton Orient and Scarborough striker Chris Tate follows up a parry from Hateley to put Goole 2-1 up. Shepshed show urgency and win a corner on the left. The resulting ball played in is met by the gangling Millns who buries his header through a posse of players. The fantastic Shepshed supporters, who have roared on their team since the first whistle, go delirious.

Deep in stoppage time a curling 22 yard strike from Brad Hill wins the game for Goole. The moment is breathtaking and a tad harsh on Shepshed.

We’re in the car within 60 seconds of the final whistle. WVM nearly ploughs into somebody whilst trying to tune into Five Live. He’s all excited about the X-Factor final that’s on tonight. Trumpy meanwhile is slumped in the back of the car talking gibberish. He has to endure a 90 minute journey without a drink for the first time today!

Attendance: 129

Man of the Match: Trumpy Bolton

Tipton Town 0 Dunston Federation 3

Mrs P is back from her girlie weekend in London. While she was swanning round The Ritz, The Wardolf and Langhams, Sticky Palms was watching the pizza boxes, Stella cans and sweet wrappers pile up. A frantic injury-time tidy up by the three of us ensured the house looked respectable on her return.

It’s Friday night and Mrs P is out on the razzle dazzle once again. Nottingham’s Ha Ha Bar is the scene of her latest born-again drinking exploits. This extraordinary role reversal continues with The Groundhopper having to drag the kids up to school for ‘The Skipper’s ‘Dickensian Evening.’ I chat away to another disillusioned former junior football team coach as ‘The Skipper’ performs his puppet show; we’re both relieved to have escaped the game and the show.



‘The Skipper’ has had the hump for most of the week and I have to think of a punishment to fit the crime. The Nuclear Scientist phones to say he’s off down to watch ‘The Pies’ at Meadow Lane. Would ‘The Skipper’ like to come? It’s like receiving a life sentence. ‘The Skipper’ takes the news badly, but hey, at least he’ll enjoy the half-time chips.

Sticky junior has gone for a kick about up the astroturf and Mrs P is baking some Viennese Whirls.

White Van Man has offered to pilot today; he didn’t think we’d make it in daylight had I been sitting in the chair. He’s the maddest driver in the world. He’s been up all night watching his Top Gear DVDs. The Taxman won’t go in the same car as him since an episode at Hednesford a year or so ago. But I am made of sterner stuff. I pack a spare pair of Calvin Klein’s and a pack of Imodium.



He arrives right on cue and is in cheerful mood. Morrisons have been blessed with his presence this morning for his monthly shop. All staff holiday leave was cancelled and emergency shelf stackers were on standby, particularly in the pie section, as he salad swerved his way around the aisles.

We go through Kegworth, onto M1 and down the M42. He briefly puts on Five Live to hear that Fulham have equalised against Man City. It makes him chuckle as he’s a closet Man United fan.



I ask him about his time in charge of the Salutation Pub FC a few years ago. They strolled their way through the Nottinghamshire Sunday football scene. He had more players signed on than Barry Fry did at Birmingham City. The Nottinghamshire FA wrote to him to enquire whether he was aware that he had 63 players registered. He replied back saying that just like Claudio Ranieri’s Chelsea; he had a squad rotation policy. I can imagine him having a Mike Bassett moment and hurling Flaming Sambukas down his throat after another good win.

We hit Tipton in just under an hour. Thankfully West Bromwich Albion aren’t at home today. I’d completely forgot that Tipton Harriers Athletic Club is at the same venue. I’m gutted when I realise we will have to view the game over eight lanes of an athletics track. I wish I’d brought my binoculars now.



We park in the sports centre and stroll up to reception to ask where the ground is. Tipton has a bit of a reputation but it looks like the ground is situated in a fairly middle-class area of town.

It’s £5 entry for this FA Vase 3rd Round clash. The programme is £1 and good value. I pay the big fellow in. There’s the main stand to our right as we head straight for the tea bar. There’s no sign of the huge away following that is expected. On making enquiries we’re told they’re all in the Tipton Sports & Social Club.



The two ladies serving tea are extremely friendly and give us the low down on the club. WVM is not particularly impressed with the size of his tea cup and marks it with a six. Sticky has an orange cordial, as he has a raging thirst still from his red hot pizza last night.

There’s an impressive steep grass bank on the opposite side of the ground. We amble over to it but can’t see the far goal as the dug outs obstruct the view. It’s the first time WVM has seen an athletics track, apart from on his TV set.



Tipton is in the Sandwell Borough of the West Midlands. It has a population of 47,000. The British National Party are popular in the area due to its high ethnic population. It is alleged that a disgruntled ex-employee, from our area, has published a list of all their members on the internet. Good one that. One or two ‘pillars of society’ are scurrying for cover.

Tipton Town were formed in 1948 and share their ground with the Athletics Club. The nineteen acre site is a multi purpose sports complex.

Wolves’ legend Steve Bull was born in the town and played for the club before joining West Bromwich Albion. He’s currently manager of cash-strapped Blue Square Conference North club Stafford Rangers.



Today’s visitors Dunston Federation are from north east England in what is now called the Metropolitan Borough of Gateshead. It’s close to the Metro Centre. Oh my brain is ticking now.

AC/DC lead singer Brian Johnson is from the area, but it is more famously known as the birthplace of flawed genius, now a tragic act, Paul Gascoigne. It’s best for us to remember all the joy he gave to us on the football field.

Dunston are amongst the fancied runners to reach the Vase final. The winners of today’s tie will receive £1300. They have only lost two League games out of sixteen.



The excitable ‘Fed’ fans begin to filter into the ground, following a few pints in the bar, swelling the small crowd. I stand close to the tunnel, cupping my ears to catch the guy shouting out the line-ups. In three years of groundhopping I have never seen a side receive such a rousing reception as they enter the field of play. It’s worth a goal start.

The first twenty minutes is scrappy affair. Neither side can string two passes together. Both goalkeepers shank, slice and scuff the ball. They both look shaky, but neither are tested.

On 40 minutes ‘The Fed’ are awarded a free-kick 22 yards out. Wells lifts the ball over the wall and Tipton ‘keeper Cox can only help the ball into the net. The game has been desperate for a goal. I breathe a huge sigh of relief. WVM doesn’t do nil nils. He’s spent most of the first half texting his mates in a desperate search for a ticket to the Carl Froch fight tonight.



‘The Fed’ don’t waste any time in doubling their lead, with Andrew Bulford smashing the ball home from ten yards. He races across the pitch towards the visiting support and hugs his father. It’s a magic moment. The over-zealous referee has done his best to spoil a stop start first half. He’s clearly not a compassionate man, or a family man, coming to think of it, and waves a yellow card in Bulford’s face on his return to the pitch.

We seek warmth with the Geordies in the social club at the break. Both WVM and I are party animals and are desperate to prove to the Geordie boys that we can sup with the best of em: “Can I have an orange and mango J2o and a blackcurrant and soda please love.”

We swap ends as we expect a rout from ’The Fed.’ They miss a few chances to wrap the game up and have a goal chalked off for offside.



Tipton enjoy their best spell of the game. Nicky Campbell’s pace begins to trouble the visitors’ defence but his partner Nathan Jones, who looked the bees-knees when I saw him at Oadby Town in September, is out of sorts today.

‘The Fed’ can relax on the hour when Wells makes it 3-0 from close range following good work from Harkin.

Tipton start to play. Substitute Morris forces Dunston ‘keeper Poskett to push a long range drive onto the post. They pay the price for a lacklustre first-half display.



There’s time for some amazing showboating from Harkin. He twists, turns and shimmies his way past two defenders on the by-line, his cross flashes along the six yard area, begging to be finished, no-one can oblige.

Young and Dixon have been par excellence in the engine room for Dunston. They break up play and pass beautifully. This team will take some beating.

The game ends they way it began with a huge roar from the visiting supporters. They remind me so much of Birkenhead outfit Cammell Laird. A group of blokes having a day out with their mates, supping a few pints of Hardy Hanson’s Rockin Robin bitter in the social club.

‘Now then pet, how do you fancy a bit of shopping at the Metro Centre while Sticky goes and watches ‘wor lads’ in the 4th Round of the Vase?”

Attendance: 120 (over half from Newcastle)

Man of the Match: Kane Young

Nottingham Forest 3 West Ham United 1

It’s taken me a few days to thaw out from the ice cold chill that drifted its way from the North Sea towards The Taxman and I at Sleaford last Tuesday.

Tonight I’m in Nottingham city centre with ‘The Skipper’s’ football team. We’ve blagged some tickets for the East Midlands Sports Personality of the Year Award. Of course the winner is a foregone conclusion, but the kids are star-struck by the high profile personalities that turn out tonight.



West Ham PA announcer Jeremy Nicholas is the warm-up man before the main event. He’s hung out to dry by the organisers. He has to ad lib for nearly half an hour as all the dignitaries dawdle down late to their seats, after an extended stay in the VIP suite. Nicholas is brilliant. He‘s sharp, witty and inventive. The kids are amused by him.

Sticky’s man of the match though is MC for the night, John Inverdale. He is a huge Lincoln City fan and complains to the audience that we haven’t scored for five League games. All the kids poke fun at me. Inverdale skilfully navigates his way through the ceremony. The guy is the consummate pro. The BBC should have discarded Des Lynam years ago and gave this housewives’ choice a chance.



We saw Olympic gold medallists, the world’s best wicket keeper : Chris Read and Forest macho man, Meadows born Julian Bennet, but the highlight of the evening, for the kids, was seeing East Midlands TV weatherman, Mr Cool himself and ex EastEnders star, Des Coleman, in the foyer of the Royal Concert Hall.

I was notified a few weeks back, by e-mail from NFFC, that they’d drawn West Ham in the Youth Cup; I immediately marked it down in the diary. Both clubs have a history of producing a wealthy conveyor belt of talent through their youth academies.

West Ham play in Upton Park in the London Borough of Newham in east London. Famous people born in the area include: Tony Cottee, Lennox Lewis and David Essex.



I’m meeting ‘Badge’ tonight; he’s a massive Hammers’ fan. He’s the father of two close friends of mine: ‘The Baker Boys.’ I only hope I turn out to be half the father he has been to his two lads. He has coached them at football and cricket.

‘Badge’ was chairman at our local football club during its most successful period. They won the Notts Alliance; beating all and sundry, including Rainworth MW and Hucknall Town. Oh, halcyon days. Players moved on to the professional game from our village team.

‘Badge’ is also an authority on African football, and predicted its market value way before the likes of Arsene Wenger took the plunge. He’s even written a book on the subject.



He is also a historian for our local cricket club and has spent countless hours going through old scorebooks, totting up all the not out noughts I scored at number eleven, to produce a brilliant website. The guy’s a giver not a taker.

Sticky junior has gone football training. ‘The Skipper’ has proper got it on him. I drive alone, with just the excellent Radio 5 broadcaster Peter Allen for company.

The snow covered town of Burnley entertain ‘The Arsenal’ tonight. Turf Moor has its undersoil heating on full blast, to ensure their League Cup Quarter Final tie goes ahead.

I park up in County Hall. It doesn’t feel like there’s a game on tonight; the streets are deserted. There’s an scary feeling around Trent Bridge as a sprinkling of people shuffle into the main stand car park.



I hang around the turnstile for ‘Badge.’ It’s close to freezing and Mrs P has zoomed off in the Rolls Royce (Mondeo) with my only pair of gloves in the boot.

It’s £3 admission, I suppose I could have acted the big time Charlie and flashed my scouting pass, but hey, some of this money must filter its way through to the academy’s coffers. ‘Badge’ pays a quid as he’s an OAP. We both grab a teamsheet on our way through the turnstile.

We take a pew in Block C; the crowd will not reach four figures tonight. There’s no PA announcer on duty; it’s a real shame as the resident Tricky Tree DJ always has a random tune tucked up his sleeve.



Sat behind us is ex- Charlton, Newcastle and West Ham midfielder Robert Lee, who is here to watch his son Oliver play for the visitors.

I’ve a good friend sat in front of me; we used to coach a junior team together. His son is now playing for the Nottingham Forest Academy Under 11s.

West Ham begin the game brightly and look a yard quicker. Forest weigh them up, but appear nervous.

Both teams field U17s players. At Forest they always challenge the youngsters to play a year up. There is no Under 15 side; the boys play instead for the Under 16s

.

London born Conor Okus is controlling proceedings in the centre of the park for the Hammers. He’s comfortable with either foot and strokes the ball in different directions, finding players in space.

Anthony Edgar is also positive on the ball for the visitors. He has the pace to outstrip defenders on either flank; his final ball is delicious. But West Ham fail to capitalise on all their pressure and possession. Forest are hesitant and nervous.

Suddenly there is a shift of balance. The much improved former Priory Celtic striker Nialle Rodney makes a run down the right and whips in a ball across the face of goal which is turned away for a corner. This results in the ball being cleared to a lurking, former Pelican Colts full back Kieron Freeman, 30 yards from goal, who allows the ball to bounce before smashing it home through a crowd of players.



The home side are lifted by the goal and gain confidence. Rodney and the very impressive Tim Hopkinson run the back four ragged. West Ham are relieved to hear the half-time whistle.

I shoot off to the tea bar, as I’ve spotted earlier that it’s only manned by two people. We have a cup of PG Tips in a customised beaker which is foul. I refuse to mark it, but it warms the cockles as the frost sets in.

West Ham don’t change their tactics and their leading scorer, the Hungarian striker, Balint Banjer, is isolated. He plays with his back to goal, with no one to react to his flick ons.



Forest continue to find joy with Rodney’s diagonal runs or Hopkinson playing on the shoulder of a fragile defence. Rodney delivers a fine cross to find an alert Hopkinson climbing above a static defence, with the ball striking an upright en-route to goal.

West Ham are on the ropes, hanging on for dear life. Forest keep their shape and look the more organised.

The Hammers reply. A ball is launched from the goalkeeper’s hands and finds the head of Bajner, who flicks it on to Saudi Arabian sub Abdulla, to lift it over Karl Darlow to reduce the deficit.

The response is immediate. Rodney and Hopkinson chase down a lost cause, there’s hesitancy in the West Ham defence, Hopkinson whips the ball away from a defender, and is gone in a flash, he finishes emphatically.

Oliver Lee forces Darlow in the Forest goal into a couple of fine saves with long-range pile drivers.

The game is over and the front two for the Reds have caught my eye. Don’t be surprised to see Tim Hopkinson on the bench before the season is out. He has stalked the Irons’ defence for most of the evening, one of them has limped off, his pride wounded.

Man of the Match: Tim Hopkinson

Attendance: 473

Sleaford Town 2 Holbeach United 1

It’s Sunday morning and tipping it down with rain. Sticky junior’s fancy feet are dancing down the wing, bamboozling the north Notts full back. I’ve pressed all the right buttons today; he is fully wound up. His team are a bunch of pretty boys. They all wear gel and look in the mirror too much. Life is too comfortable. Today is different though. There’s no bawling or yawping from the sidelines, for a change. The boys play with belief and style. They are allowed to express themselves, the transformation is astounding. Bagthorpe are passed off the park. We win 4-1. I’m made up for them. Attack is the best form of defence.

I steal away from the game before its finale. I’ve a big junior game to watch in town. A manager has tried to put me off saying the match might be off due to a waterlogged pitch. They always say that when they’re hiding a player. First rule of scouting: trust no-one. He turns out to be a beauty. I’ll go for a second viewing next Sunday.



The Taxman is back after a long lay- off. He had the mother of all Saturday’s last weekend. His lad got injured playing football and ended up in casualty. He then trooped down The City Ground and watched another miserable performance by the Tricky Trees against a ten man Canaries. To cap it all off, some low life put a screwdriver through his car door and broke in.

The Taxlady (they’re like coppers, they marry each other) is fed up with him getting under her feet, and has enrolled him on an art class, at a school, out in the Vale of Belvoir somewhere. He was late for his first lesson and had to stand outside the head teacher’s office at break time. But as you can see from the above picture, his painting is coming on a treat.

I didn’t realise that Sleaford was more than 20 miles from Newark. The ground is a piece of cake to find though, thanks to Sleaford Town’s secretary. Chris Jones’ superb instructions. Eslaforde Park is only a year old, and lies on the edge of the town.



Sleaford is in the North Kesteven district of Lincolnshire and has a population of 15,000. It once supported many of the major seed companies. The RAF airfields in the vicinity played a vital part in securing victory in the Battle of Britain, during the Second World War. Plastic surgery was pioneered in Sleaford back in the 1940s.

Famous people born in the area include: Magic Roundabout narrator Eric Thompson, Elton John’s songwriter Bernie Taupin, actress and comedian Jennifer Saunders, former Leicester City goalkeeper Mark Wallington and Brian Clough’s favourite gardener and plumber Gary ‘Bing’ Crosby. Serial maneater Abi Titmuss was also born close to the town.


I noticed on the Sleaford website that a Lincoln City fan penned a ground review for his blog on Eslaforde Park. He basically slagged the place off, very harshly in my opinion. He makes cheap jibes at the wooden fencing and modern clubhouse. He’s got some nerve; Sincil Bank is hardly the Mecca of football grounds. I support Lincoln by the way.

The Taxman and I are both impressed. It’s £5 admission and £1 for a good standard programme. There’s a column from both the manager and chairman, and also match reports from first team and youth team games.

White Van Man has failed to make the team bus tonight. He’s got his oven on gas mark 6 for thirty minutes, cooking another steak and kidney pie. Villarreal are playing his favourite team in the Champions League. Yawn yawn.



I shout the teas up. Disappointingly, a tea bag is thrown into a polystyrene cup with boiling water poured onto it from an urn. We help ourselves to milk. We mark it with a five, although it does warm the body from the biting chill blowing in from the North Sea.

The music from the PA hut is fairly random. I’d put the DJ as an over 55. He plays the Scissor Sisters. Abba and the Beach Boys.

Tonight’s visitors Holbeach are from 20 miles down the road. They have played the hosts twice already in the league this season and hold the upper hand. This evening is a County Trophy Quarter Final tie.



It’s a feisty opening five minutes. The visitors are running Sleaford ragged. Nimmo is sent crashing into the advertising hoardings by Sleaford skipper Paul Ward. The Holbeach front two are electric. Treacher pounces onto a poor back pass and finishes with ease.

The goalkeeper boots the ball away in disgust, narrowly missing my cup of tea, as I’m on the phone to Bilborough Pelican legend and Nottinghamshire’s number one groundsman: Swifty. He’s cooking a corned beef stew for him and his cat. Well there was someone meowing in the background. He hears Holbeach’s goal live and exclusive from The Groundhopper.

They could have extended their lead, but poor refereeing sees a free-kick awarded, instead of advantage being played.



Holbeach pay the price on 5 minutes, Lunn sends Dunn scurrying away down the left wing, his inch perfect cross is headed home by Shaw.

It’s a pulsating game of football, being played at a furious pace. Old scores are being settled. There’s no love lost. Sleaford’s ‘keeper Andy Scott keeps his side in the game with two magnificent saves from Treacher and Nimmo as Holbeach begin to run riot.

The Sleaford captain is the grey haired 43 year old Paul Ward. Apparently he got 100%in his referees’ exam. Well you’d have thought so the way he has tried to undermine the official. He’d have been more use donning the black outfit tonight, as his performance as a player is a joke in the first period. Treacher and Nimmo are taking the mick. He’s fortunate to still be on the field of play at the break as he constantly barracks the official.



A lady is walking around the ground selling raffle tickets, as always I oblige. We get chatting. She tells me she used to live in Melton Mowbray. It’s The Taxman’s old stomping ground. He’s terrorised many a small business in the town. It’s a small old world. It turns out her son used to play for my village team and ended up at Sheffield United.

Shaw goes close again, his shot smashing against the crossbar. Sutton heads the rebound over the bar.

The Taxman and I are turning blue by now; it’s perishing cold. I must nip on the IRA website and order a balaclava.

The clubhouse is grand. It’s carpeted and has a good vibe. There are not many goals about in the Champions (?) League. Ha ha ha. There are plenty of photos on the wall and a signed Sheffield United shirt is in a frame.



The players trot out to ‘Yummy Yummy Yummy’ by Ohio Express: Hells teeth Carruthers.

Sleaford are awarded a penalty when the Holbeach ‘keeper upends Shaw en-route to goal. Lunn makes no mistake from the spot.

The game has had an edge since the kick-off. It all boils over on the hour. Holbeach’s best player the wonderfully named Tommy Treacher leaves his studs down someone’s ankles. The referee has no alternative but to brandish a red one.

It kills the game stone dead. Gaps appear that Sleaford fail to exploit. Holbeach still manage to work Sleaford ‘keeper Scott, but without reward.

Things perk up on 74 minutes with a text from Mrs P asking me if I fancy Sunday roast at the mother-in-laws? Mrs P is down ‘the smoke’ this weekend. I reply with a ‘yes.’

Another person letting his mouth run away with him is Holbeach player manager Shaun Keeble. He's sent to the stands by the referee. It says on his profile that he enjoys watching his sons playing football, well he'll have plenty of time for that, but the bad news is kids that Santa's sack will be a little lighter this year as dad has a hefty fine to pay.

I’ve missed out on the raffle by three tickets, but hey, who cares. What a lovely family club Sleaford Town is. A change of skipper wouldn’t go amiss though.

A pint of Jennings, sat by an open fire, ends a perfect evening.

Holbrook Miners' Welfare 2 Dunkirk 0

My oh my, Sticky Palms was nursing one hell of a hangover last Sunday. I’d been to the Cricket Club’s annual dinner the night before. I caught up with a few old friends and gave the old Rioja a bit of a tonking. Sticky junior cheered me up with a spirited performance for his under 13 team, before finally going down 5-4 to the last kick of the game.

“Where’s Goole?” Flipping heck Mrs P has been reading the first paragraph of the blog again. She’s rumbled that the White Van Man and I are heading north on December 13th to watch Shepshed again. I’m surprised she didn’t interrogate WVM when she caught him at the bacon and pie counter, not for the first time, at Sainsbury’s the other evening.



Mrs P is in sparkling form at the minute. Saturday night is her Tic-Tac-Toe: Strictly Come Dancing, X-Factor and I’m a Celebrity. The Groundhopper seeks sanity in the kitchen, listening to Five Live’s Premiership evening kick-off.

I’ve sat and watched Ant and Dec, with their lame jokes, and camera crew canned laughter. I’ve racked up the creepometer points; it’s another week without a midweek game. I’ve my eye on two in two days next week.

It’s Saturday morning and I’m filling the car boot up with branches off the trees I cut a few weeks ago. I tell Mrs P I’m off down to the recycling centre. On the way back home I can’t resist popping in to West Bridgford’s West Park to watch a few junior matches.



One or two of the coaches bawl and shout at the kids. They scratch their heads in disbelief that the instructions they bellow out are not carried out by the players. Some play with genuine fear. Every coach should read ‘You’ll Win Nothing with Kids: Fathers, Sons and Football by Guardian journalist Jim White. It epitomised my one dreadful year I had in charge of a team. I couldn’t walk away quick enough.

I drive away from West Park quite upset. People often ask why I don’t always watch my sons play. The above paragraph is the answer why. When I coached, I encouraged the boys, it somehow got results.

On the way out the car park I spot the Notts County centre of excellence manager strolling around the ground: those bloody Pies are everywhere.



Eammon Holmes is on the radio. He announces that Southampton ‘singer-songwriter’ Craig David is to be a guest on the show. Holmes claims that the R&B star has sold 13million records worldwide. I nearly crash the car. Never mind naming and shaming BNP coppers on the net, let’s have a list of the idiots who bought all his albums. I bet they are going at two for 50 pence at Colwick Car Boot Sale.

‘The Skipper’ has a cup game in town today. He confesses to not having cleaned his boots. He gets the hairdryer treatment off dad. As captain he should lead by example.

Just before I leave White Van Man is on the blower. He’s all buffed up for his West Bridgford shandy bender. He’s splashed the Brut all over. He has a load of friends coming over from Norwich for the evening kick-off at the Tricky Trees.



I haven’t a Scooby Do which way to go today. I opt for the A453, A50 and A38. It takes 45 minutes. Holbrook is a charming village. There’s an array of pubs to choose from. The Dead Poet’s Inn looks the pick of the bunch, but I’m running a little late and can’t find the ground.

Holbrook is a village 5 miles north of D***y and lies on the southern tip of the Pennines. It’s close to the old mill town of Belper, which has one of my favourite football grounds.



Holbrook Miners’ Welfare FC were formed in 1996. They are nicknamed The Brookies and play on Shaw Lane in the village. I get myself in a terrible pickle and can’t find the ground. An elderly gentleman, walking his dog, guides me in the right direction. Santa, that Tom Tom can’t come soon enough!

I pull up in The Welfare car park. They’ve never had a coal mine here but apparently a lot of miners lived in the village, hence a Welfare. The views into the D***yshire hills are delightful, even on a bitterly cold day.



Dave Harbottle’s big guns, Dunkirk, have rolled into town. I spoke briefly to him last Sunday. He was bitterly disappointed with their 2-0 reverse at Blackstones in the FA Vase. They were a bit skinny that day, but are nearly at full strength today.

It’s £3 entrance. I ask for a programme. I’m told they’ve sold out. I look around the ground there are about ten people milling around. Everyone else is in the Welfare. I ask what sort of print run they have. I’m told, in fact, that the printers have let them down. Urm.



I wouldn’t fancy it here on a gusty old day. Boy, I bet it’s bleak then. The pitch is on a slope and has taken a battering from the elements and a midweek game. On one side of the ground there is shelter under the Robert Parker Stand. This is named after a player who died suddenly at the age of just 27.

I checked out the website before I came and it’s excellent. And it’s a bloody good job it is, as where else would I get my information from?



Dunkirk’s personnel are unrecognisable from the team I saw thumped 4-1 by Alvechurch in an FA Cup qualifier back in August. Carder and Soar provide strength at the heart of the defence. Ex Chasetown cup hero and Forest trainee Nick Hawkins is in centre midfield. Whilst the much travelled pairing of Aaron Brady and Alan Jeffrey provide the firepower.

Dunkirk come flying out the traps. Speed merchant Adey Bascombe really should have given them the lead in the early stages, but his shot is blocked by the ‘keeper. Tom Baker also misses two good chances. Harbottle is furious.



One or two of ‘The Boatmen’ start to bend the referee’s ear. Harbottle’s having none of it and tells his players to stop making excuses and get on with it. He manages a quick hello to me, in between snarling at his team.

Holbrook improve in the final quarter of the half and force Darren Wheater- Lowe into a couple of fine saves. Both teams look to keep it on the carpet.

I’d seen Nick Hawkins playing for Quorn a few months ago and thought he looked a bit tasty that day. No disrespect to Dunkirk, but I’m shocked and surprised he’s chose to pursue the game at this level. He’s having a bad day at the office. He’s scuffed a couple of corners and shanked a free-kick. He’s beginning to get frustrated and it’s having a knock on effect on the rest of the team.



My feet are numb and my body is shivering. I follow the 35 strong crowd into the Welfare. I’ve only got a £20 note and realise they may struggle to change this at the tea bar. They haven’t got change, and were going to let me have a freebie; thankfully a punter comes to the rescue and changes my money.

I don’t know if it’s because of the weather but I’d rank the tea with an all-time high mark of nine. Len Goodman would have given it a ten. Notts County are 3-0 down at Dagenham. Ian McParland won’t be crowing about this result, like he was at Barnet last week.

We’re all back outside again, braving the elements. I’m not really up for it and neither are Dunkirk. An alehouse ball comes sailing through the air, Carder tries to guide it back to his ‘keeper, but gets too much on it, Wheater- Lowe has raced out too far. A lapse of concentration and Dunkirk are behind.



Dunkirk withdraw their ineffective forward line, who in fairness, have received very little service. Phil Massingham shows more desire and skill. He holds the ball up, awaits support and plays people in. But they still can’t work the ‘keeper.

The winning goal is a beauty. Holbrook sweep the ball across the pitch from left to right. A diagonal long range cross is expertly headed home by Joe Ashdown.



There’s a late rally by Dunkirk but it’s not to be. Their bench is disconsolate, the players know they have under achieved. I’m hardly their lucky charm; in five attempts I’ve yet to see them win.

The game should have been put to bed in the first twenty minutes, but Holbrook rode their luck, and won comfortably in the end.