Charlton Athletic 0 Nottingham Forest 2

It’s May 1st 1993. Sticky Palms has fielded for 40 overs in baking heat in the village of Aslockton, in south Notts. Ten miles down the road the greatest manager of all-time is counting down the clock, as the final few minutes of his illustrious career ticks away.

Nottingham Forest are about to be relegated from top flight football. Here is an anecdote from the best ever football book written, by Duncan Hamilton, a journalist from my village, which is titled ‘Provided You Don’t Kiss Me.’

‘During his last match in charge, Clough stood straight-backed outside the dugout like a captain determined to be on the bridge when the ship went down. After the final whistle, the crowd spilled on to the pitch. In one photograph, Clough, on the verge of tears, appears in the centre of the passionate thousands who were determined not to let him go. Afterwards, he accepted a flower from a young girl, as distraught as a mourner at a funeral. He looked at her, his head on one side, and said tenderly, 'Hey beauty, no tears today, please.’

'Can I have a word from you, Brian,’ asked a television interviewer outside the ground. 'Of course,’ said Clough, walking away. 'Goodbye.’

It’s Tuesday evening and I’m sat in the notorious and infamous ‘A’ Block. The Glaswegian, William McIntosh Davies (in real money ‘King Billy’) is back in town. There have been casualties, paths have been crossed and old scores have been settled. The media have a huddle on twitter; two of their own have been shown the door. King Billy refuses to talk to local BBC station ‘Radio Red.’

The Terriers of Huddersfield are up against the Red Dogs of Nottingham It’s one-sided in the first 15 minutes. The visitors bag one; but it really should be two. Ironically, Mark Robins is the newly appointed Huddersfield manager. It was at this very ground in 1990 that he saved Alex Ferguson’s job in an FA Cup tie.

Out of the blue Forest have an half an hour spell of mesmerising champagne football that I haven’t witnessed since the 5-1 mauling of Leicester City back in 2009. It has whetted my appetite. The Charlton tickets have been bagged. We’re off to stop at the Mayor of London’s pad in Putney Heath for the weekend.

I toss a few clothes into an overnight bag. Murphy, my budgie, sheds a few tears; he doesn’t like his Dad being away. White Van Man is revving up the car. We’ve allowed the Friday night rush-hour traffic to die down. We pick up ‘Dafty’ and the ‘Mayor of London, who is on a whistle stop tour of Nottingham. We’re soon roaring down the M1.

It’s just gone 9 pm when we rock up outside the Mayor’s swanky penthouse pad on Putney Heath. We throw our bags in and hit the town; well actually Roehampton and the swish surroundings of the recently refurbished King’s Head.

We can’t get a late beer for love or money down Wimbledon village. Much to Sticky’s disgust, we’re charged on the door at Hemmingway’s wine bar. You can’t even shout up a beer. The Mayor orders a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc for £21. It tastes revolting.

I recall New Zealand being 11-3 when I finally hit the sack. I find a twitchy and nervy White Van Man frantically scouring Ticketmaster in the morning. Beyonce tickets are up for grabs at 9 am. I casually ask how much they cost. £95 is the reply. Bloody hell, I could nigh on watch 20 non league games for that price.

We’re striding out towards Putney high street. Destination is a tidy little greasy spoon called Cappuccino. White Van Man falls in love with a rowdy Russian waitress. Egg yolk dribbles down his chin as the Bond girl brings out a production line of fry-ups. Dusty Springfield’s 1966 hit ‘You Don’t Have to Say You Love Me’ adds to the atmosphere. It’s the best £4.95 we’ll spend today.

The Mayor queues for train tickets at Putney Station whilst Sticky is accosted by an Irish ticket tout. We alight at London Bridge. Sticky has sorted out a cosy little boozer tucked away in a back street. I ignore the moans and groans of WVM as we pass the soulless chain pub All Bar One.

‘Brownie’ and a few of his pals hook up with us at the Royal Oak, an old-fashioned corner house in the London Bridge Quarter. I enjoy a pint of Harvey’s Kiss. WVM has a face like a smacked arse. The Mayor says he expects Nicholas Lyndhurst to pop in from the BBC series ‘Goodnight Sweetheart.’

We’re soon back on the overhead line and pulling into Charlton. Sticky jnr (my lad) has already tipped us the wink on an away supporters pub. A friendly policeman points us in the right direction. Young junior has been on the sauce; he fleeces ‘Hopper’ for a tenner and gets his mates a round in.

We guzzle a few 1664s and watch Jonathan Walters do what he does best. He fluffs a penalty and in general is ‘Having a Walters.’ Sticky jnr and his muppet mates lead the chanting as we amble down Valley Grove.

Charlton is a district in south-east London and part of the Borough of Greenwich. Charlton Athletic were founded in 1905 and are nicknamed the Addicks. Record goal-scorer is Derek Hales, who in 1979 was sensationally sent off for a punch-up along with his own team-mate, Mike Flanagan, by referee Brian Martin, who lived in my village.

The youngest player ever to have appeared for Charlton is Jonjo Shelvey, who was only 16 years of age. Record transfer fee paid is £4,750,000 for Jason Euell. Record transfer fee received is £16,500,000 from Tottenham Hotspur for Darren Bent.

It’s £30 for my ticket and £3 for a 60 page programme. We’ve a prime spot in the South Stand. The Charlton DJ ups the stakes with ‘London’s Calling’ by The Clash and ‘Can’t Stand Me Now’ by The Libertines featuring ex QPR programme seller Pete Doherty.

It’s an impressive stadium that has kept its looks despite the Club’s fall from grace. A huge block of high-rise flats is situated in the corner of the ground. I like Charlton Athletic. They once bought a couple of good uns from my old team – Lincoln City – Steve Thompson and George Shipley were bargain buys.

The teams walk out onto the ugly-looking playing surface. The travelling support has swelled to 3000. They salute King Billy, who is bursting with pride. It’s all Forest from the word go. It’s a return to the diamond formation that was so successful in the Paul Hart era. Ironically, Hart watches from the stands as Charlton’s Academy Director.

For all Forest’s possession they barely fashion a chance in the opening quarter. The game-changer happens on 35 minutes. Greg Halford outmuscles Yan Kermogant and ushers the ball out of play. The Frenchman has a Cantona-like moment of madness, kicking out at the Forest defender. After consulting with his assistant referee Madley waves a red card.

There’s controversial news coming from the Mayor’s twitter feed at the break. Former Charlton legend Paul Elliott has resigned from his post as FA anti-racism campaigner, following an ‘inappropriate text’ to former colleague Richard Rufus.

Forest have the momentum and turn on the style. Charlton can’t cope with their ex skipper Andy Reid. His give and go’s, marauding runs and defence-splitting passing are worth the £30 alone. He plays in ‘The Pole’ Raddy Majewski, who stays on his feet and toe pokes the ball home.

The Tricky Trees are rampant and the second one is not long in coming. Simon Cox’s shot from the right is spilt by ‘keeper Hamer, who has had a dreadful afternoon, former Gunner Henri Lansbury blasts home from close range.

The Mayor of London is delirious. He’s backed Raddy and NFFC 2-0 at 115/1. Forest look good for more though. Ward scorpion kicks one onto the post, whilst the impressive Darius Henderson sees an effort thump back off the woodwork.

Johnnie Jackson shows some quality for the Addicks. His set pieces are deadly. He had a spell at the Pies during the Munto era, but soon scarpered home when the money dried up.

The whistle goes, the Mayor’s bet has come up trumps. We sink a few more pints at a pub down the road. We’re late for the train and sprint down the steps. Some Charlton fans tease us from above a bridge I engage in banter but fall spectacularly like Devon Loch in the Grand National. Charlton station is filled with laughter. I bury my head in my hands and sit sheepishly on the train. I can’t arf pick em!

Man of the Match: Andy Reid

Attendance: 18,697

Worsbrough Bridge Ath 3 Pontefract Collieries 0

It’s Wednesday evening and I’m relaxing on the sofa watch a gripping Champions League quarter final first leg between Real Madrid and Manchester United. I hear the key inserted into the lock of the front door. Mrs P is back from the Gala Bingo in Beeston.

The kids come racing down the stairs. Mrs P raises a clenched fist. I didn’t think the Ronaldo header was that good. A wad of notes are waved in my direction. The £300 jackpot has been won. Sticky jnr gets £10 for passing his plumbing exam, ‘The Skipper’ gets a crisp £10 note for a good school report, Murphy is promised a few sprigs of millet spray and Finley a bag of Wag rabbit food. The rest is put towards her weekend away with the girls in Barcelona.

Poor old Groundhopper gets Jack diddlysquat. Not a sausage readers. £10 would have gained me entry to two non league games and also bagged me a couple programmes. It’s a bloody outrage.

Valentine’s Day is put back 24 hours. Mrs P snaps up an M&S ‘Meal Deal’ (out of the winnings). A medium rare sirloin steak is washed down with a bottle of Rioja. I rise early on Saturday morning. A bowl of muesli is accompanied by Madonna’s 1986 hit ‘Vogue’ on the 6Music ‘Breakfast Show.’

An offer of a stroll down Central Avenue, in West Bridgford, is flatly refused by Mrs P; she’s off to town with her mum. I give the ‘Rolls Royce’ a good old clean and valet. By midday I’m on the Nottingham ring road heading towards the M1.

Mark Pougatch is presenting Five Live Sport from Luton’s Kenilworth Road. The Hatters livewire winger, Andre Gray, will be asking questions of the Millwall defence with his raw pace and energy. The boy was a steal for £25k from Hinckley United. I tipped off a few clubs about him, but they’d rather buy 32 year old journeymen on two year contracts.

I’ve scoured the 2013 edition of the Good Beer Guide for a decent real ale house just off the motorway. I exit at Junction 35 and I’m soon parked up in the village of Thorpe Hesley just outside Rotherham.

I’m just about to open the front door of the Masons, when I notice a missed call from blog legend ‘Trumpy Bolton.’ The great man is propping up the bar in the ‘Stage’ on Upper Parliament Street in Nottingham. It used to be called ‘Fat Larry’s’ by the locals, as it was once owned by former Nottingham Forest defender Larry Lloyd. We firm up details for our visit to Colchester United on Good Friday.

The landlord at the Masons is right old grumpy bugger. I order a pint of Caledonian’s ‘Over the Bar’ and choose sausage, bacon, egg and chips off the menu, in an attempt to soak up that Rioja. The landlady is no Carol Vorderman, though folks, as it takes her quite a few minutes to add up £4.50 and £2.70 on a notepad.

They’re serious about their food in this neck of the woods though. I’m asked do I want my bacon plain, smokey and crispy.

The pub is low-beamed, dimly lit and has one of those patterned carpets associated with all Berni Inns in the 70s. A classic Walker Brothers track ‘Take it Easy’ is piped out of the speakers. ‘Shifty Edwards’ at work loves that track. There’s about a dozen people congregated in the bar. I’m comfortably the youngest by about 20 years. It is indeed God’s Waiting Room.

I can’t fault the snap though folks. The helpings are generous and are accompanied by a red rose left over from the previous evening (14th). A bloke comes out the toilets. He’s sporting huge sideburns and looks like the lead singer out of the Flying Pickets.

I’m soon sweeping down the A61 into the village of Worsbrough Bridge. Worsbrough is an area two miles south of Barnsley with a population just shy of 10,000. It’s built on a valley. It has the Trans-Pennine Trail, a mill, a country park and canal.

The football club were founded in 1923. Famous players to worn the red colours of the Briggers include: former Republic of Ireland manager and a personal friend of ‘Gangsta’, Mick McCarthy and ex Birmingham and WBA striker Geoff Horsfield.

Worsbrough’s most famous son is former National Union of Mineworkers President, Arthur Scargill. He led the union during the Miners’ strike 1984-85.

The car park is chock-a-block I park on a side street just spitting distance (well El Hadji Diouf would manage it) from their Park Road ground. It’s £4 on the gate and £1 for a very good value programme. It’s a cracking effort by programme editor Charlie Wyatt.

I get chatting to a jolly, bubbly old boy, who’s manning the gate. He tells me that the ground was covered in snow on Wednesday.

The ground is outstanding. I’m taken aback with the views and character of the place. It has a ground-share with the local cricket club. There’s a new brick built changing room in the top right hand corner of the ground and a lovely old rickety stand running along the near touchline. On the far side is the covered River Terrace.

Today’s visitors are Pontefract from West Yorkshire. It’s a historic market town with a population of 28,000. It is famous for its liquorice factories. Locals comically refer to the town as ‘Ponte Carlo.’

The sun is shining brightly in blue-painted skies as referee Mr D Guest whistles for the off. I’ve positioned myself in the beautiful old stand behind the dugouts. It takes a full two minutes before the Pontefract bench begin to irritate me.

‘Liner’ on the far side gets dog’s abuse. You’d need a pair of binoculars to see whether the decisions were correct or not. The pair of them bore the pants off me. They barely make a coaching point and their team can’t string two passes together. They are bloody awful.

Worsbrough take the lead on 11 minutes. Former Ossett Town forward Lee Garside clouts a 25 yard free-kick which almost breaks the back of the net. Another goal is chalked off for the Bridge for pushing, as the visitors continue to complain to all and sundry.

I bump into a ‘Dirty Dirty Leeds’ fan from ‘Ponte Carlo’ in the Gents at the break. He’s curious to know why someone from Nottingham would travel so far to watch a non-league game.

Now that sun has dropped, it’s gone decidedly chilly. I go for a warm in the tea bar. I thought I’d walked into a church hall. A piping hot coffee is served at the hatch by a chatty lady. Trade is brisk. Tray after tray of chips and curry sauce are served up. There’s a flag sat in a wooden picture frame on the wall from the Barrow Branch of the NUM.

I couldn’t stand another 45 minutes of bellyaching from the Ponte bench. I stand on the opposite side of the ground. Ponte improve slightly. On the hour Bridge double their lead with a header from the impressive Adam Podmore. The game is over on 67 minutes with Garside getting a second with a fine header. The Briggers are playing a beautiful game and cleverly use the width of the pitch.

‘Motormouth’ from the Ponte bench has come on as a sub. He clearly talks a better game than he plays. He fluffs a one-on-one with the Bridge ‘keeper as ‘Colls’ create a late flurry of chances.

As I head out the ground I notice a distinct lack of flat-cappers and four-legged friends There’s just the one, a Heinz variety.

Attendance: 65

Man of the Match: Lee Garside

Loughborough University 1 Dunkirk 1

The weekend has been kind to the team that I coach. After a fortuitous victory in the County Cup, the previous Saturday, we pinch a point at Arnold Town, to continue our rise up the table. The Eagles show a touch of class by putting food on afterwards in the Clubhouse.

Sunday morning is spent in the bitter cold and pouring rain, in a tough, uncompromising suburb of Nottingham called Bulwell. I stare out of my car window at a headstone in memory of PC Jed Walker, a police dog handler, who was killed in the line of duty in 2003, by a drug addict fleeing in a stolen car.

Murphy is proper winding Mrs P up in the afternoon. He’s parading up and down the ironing board, pecking at all the clothes she’s pressing. Despite several warnings from the good lady, my feathered friend refuses to shift. He’s treated to a steam clean as Mrs P sprays hot water in his direction. Don’t forget folks he’s from Handsworth in Sheffield and is as hard as nails.

It’s a long and lonely evening on Sunday. Dancing on Ice is followed by Call the Midwife, where remarkably a woman gives birth to a child. The ITV announcer talks up an episode of Mr Selfridge at 9pm by saying there is a ‘dramatic car crash.’ Bloody hell mate, in 1909, who between, Fred Flintstone, Barney Rubble and the Anthill Mob?

I have a long, hot, steaming bath on Monday evening. I’m listening to the Monday Night Club on the radio. Bootle-born defender Jamie Carragher has announced his retirement from the professional game at the end of the season. Ian Dennis and Mark Lawrenson tell a tale about the Reds recent FA Cup exit at Oldham Athletic.

Carragher and 19 year old Suso were unused subs. Whilst the press were filing reports and packing up their gear, the pair of them re-emerged from the Boundary Park tunnel to an eyrie, empty ground, for a 25 minute drill. The young Spaniard pulled up 10 metres short of the end cone. He turned round and ran back. Carragher dished out the mother-of-all rollockings to the youngster, for taking a short cut, to an amused and shocked press pack: Professional to the end.

It’s chuffing freezing out their folks. I wrapped up to the nines. I plonk Sticky jnr’s G-Star Raw beanie hat on my bonce and rifle through my drawers for my new Next mittens. I hear the blast of a Vauxhall horn as The Taxman chugs past our drive to spin his car round.

What’s going off here? There’s a chap in the front seat who resembles Freddie Boswell off the Scouse ‘comedy’ Bread – bloody hell it’s legendary Keyworth United Jack of-all-trades Alan ‘Jacko’ Jackson.

I have a chunter at the pair of them as I squeeze into the back seat. Jacko has the seat positioned right back. I didn’t know I’d booked a seat on a Ryanair flight. We pass the Rancliffe Arms at Bunny, a place publicly slated by Nottingham Forest defender Greg Halford on Twitter for poor service – having seen his passing range, that’s rich coming from him.

Holywell Park has only recently opened and the postcode doesn’t register on the Tom Tom. We take a punt and swing into the main gates of the University grounds and through a barrier. We ask a few dimwit students if they know where the ground is; they haven’t bloody clue readers.

We finally stumble upon the brightly lit stadium that hosted the likes of Tottenham Hotspur and Manchester United last season. We go on one of Sticky Palms’ notorious short-cuts. What should have been a two minute walk turns out to a 15 minute hike from hell. The Taxman and Jacko are puffing, panting and visibly shaken as we reach the turnstile. Jacko pulls his usual stunt of blagging his way in as a concessionary.

Loughborough has had a university since 1966, but the institution dates back to 1909. It has a track record for producing top class athletes. Notable alumni include: Steve Backley, Sebastian Coe, David Moorcroft and Paula Radcliffe. England cricketers Monty Panesar and Chris Read have also studied there. Former Arsenal goalkeeper Bob Wilson is their patron.

Notable students who have gone on to play in the professional game include: Bradley Pritchard (Charlton), Lawrie Sanchez (Wimbledon) and Leon McSweeney (Hartlepool).

It’s £4 on the gate and £1.50 for a thin, glossy programme. I’d expected a thick 50 pager with the amount of time students have on their hands. There are a few words from Aussie coach Stuart McLaren, the usual pen pics and club histories lifted from the websites.

We’re greeted with a huge stand running along the nearest touchline. The remaining sides are fenced off with wooden panels and a few concrete steps. The PA system is crystal clear as the announcer reads out the teams in a BBC trained voice.

I’m on the lookout for him. Where is the little urchin? Oh, wait a minute, here he comes, trudging down the touchline, head bowed, resplendent in his red and black tracksuit. Ian Upton is the joint manager of Dunkirk FC. If he wasn’t a non league manager, he’d be on the stage, with his cheeky grin and cutting one-liners.

I lean on the wall and let battle commence. The students are wearing an awful all-purple strip, with a hint of white. The Boatmen abandon their usual red outfit, preferring their navy blue away colours.

I used to adore watching Dunkirk when ‘The Three Degrees’ were up top, but Lavelle, Theo and ‘Jazzy’ sold out for a few extra bob and a drop in standard. A faster front three I have yet to see; their pace used to make me go goosepimply and misty-eyed.

The quality is just not here tonight. There’s no Darren Garmston with his exquisite first touch, raking passes and ridiculous long range efforts. They’ve been replaced with young legs, energy and endeavour. I admire Dunkirk for that. It’s a brave decision to take in the rough and tumble of Step 5 in the Midland Alliance.

Loughborough have one or two on show, as you would expect, that could play at a higher level. The No.4 bosses the midfield. 20 year old Daniel Nti, their leading scorer, glides along the crunching surface. The former Newport Pagnell striker has already bagged 21 goals for the season.

Josh Dixon’s early opener is cancelled out by Kieran Wells, following a wicked, dipping corner from the left. The Students look more dangerous, with the visitors relying on set-pieces.

My hands are so cold that I don’t bother fishing out my mobile from my jeans pocket, to check the scores. I normally keep my Twitter feed updated with the half-time state of affairs. Jacko has clocked that there is a lift that takes you up to the stand. I walk up the stairs and wait a few minutes for ‘Compo’ and ‘Cleggy’ to exit the lift.

There’s a fine view of Loughborough from far and beyond. The teams are back out again, but the high tempo and pace of the game has been replaced with misplaced passes and untimely tackles. There’s a clash of cultures and a bit of bother in the dugout.

Uppo has been strangely quiet all evening. There’s the occasional one-liner: “are we watching the Harlem Globetrotters, ref?”, after a blatant handball. The wind looks like it’s been knocked out of his sails. He’s lost that fire in his belly. I haven’t even seen him spark up a ciggie. Trouble though, is often lurking around the corner for the legend.

With minutes remaining and with thoughts turning to downing a real ale or two in the Rancliffe Arms (if there’s not a queue ... eh Greg) it appears that the lino and Uppo are having a nose to nose. Turns out that the Lino has been rude to Dunkirk’s young uns. Uppo’s having none of it. It’s good to see that the great man still cares.


Attendance: 65

Man of the Match: Jamie Carragher

Nuneaton 2 Braintree Town 4

I coach a team of under 15s on Saturdays. It limits the amount of groundhopping I can cram in. Today we are entertaining a team with a 100% record. Last season they won the treble. We lost 6-4 at their gaff, earlier in the season. I watch their warm-up and study their body language. They are cocksure and confident. The game appears to be won before a ball has even been kicked.

Fast forward the clock an hour and my little team, full of local lads, are two the good. Egos have been bruised. We’ve hassled and harried them - even outmuscled them. You find out so much more about a team when they are behind; particularly when it's alien to them.  My boys have been magnificent. They have footballed the opposition off the park. We score a third and put the game to bed. The beautiful game has been kind to us today.

It’s Friday evening and I’m frantically wading my way through message boards on Tony Kempster’s groundhopping forum. Heavy snow is falling in the north and east. There’s a chink of light in Warwickshire. Nuneaton are quietly confident of getting the green light for their Conference Premier fixture at the Liberty Way Stadium against Braintree Town from Essex.

I settle down to a glass of Red and chicken fajitas. Mrs P is watching EastEnders. I borrow Sticky jnr’s Beats headphone and tune into my mate’s community radio show. He’s hosting an 80s alternative Scottish music show to celebrate Burns Night. He plays The Associates cover-version of Diana Ross’s ‘Love Hangover.’ I kid you not readers, it’s better than the original. The band’s lead singer Billy McKenzie was found dead in his father’s garden shed in 1997. He was only 39 years old.

I pull back the curtains on Saturday morning to discover a dusting of snow. I poach a couple of eggs and make a brew as Five Live report on folk abandoning their vehicles on the M6 close to Wigan. I quite fancy going to Shrewsbury, as it’s the closest ground to my house that I’ve never been to. A 170 mile round trip in snowy conditions might not go down too well with the good lady.

I have a chat with Murphy my green and canary-coloured budgie He’s excited at the prospect of his team, Norwich City, advancing into the FA Cup 5th Round. He predicts a goal rout against the Hatters of Luton at Carrow Road.

I’m just about to set off when Rammers drops me a call. Do I fancy going to Sincil Bank to watch the Imps and maybe chalk off Castle Rock’s Golden Eagle real ale house on Lincoln High Street. Only the latter appeals to me. I thank him for his tempting offer.

The drive to Nuneaton is fairly uneventful. Sat Nav was taking me down the M69. I prefer the M42 and A444. Five Live are at the Britannia Stadium for the Stoke v Man City FA Cup tie. Mark Pougatch is talking about Jonathan Walters’s unfortunate own goals and fluffed penalty against Chelsea. Any moments of misfortune are now referred to as ‘Having a Walters.’

I’m not pinning my hopes on the Attleborough Arms, that the ‘Lucky Dip’ section has thrown up in the Good Pub Guide, of being much kop. Most of the inns and restaurants I pass on the A444 look tired and tatty. Dinner is a major disappointment. The main eating room is large and spacious. It’s at full capacity for a Saturday lunchtime. The barman serves without any enthusiasm or personality. There are no guest ales on. I plump for a chip butty and wash it down with a pint of Stella. The chips are bloody awful.

I swing into Liberty Way, home of Nuneaton Town. There’s a fair old crowd streaming into the industrial estate. I came 5 years ago when the Nuns entertained Stalybridge Celtic in the Conference North.

Nuneaton is a town with a population just shy of 80,000 in the county of Warwickshire. Due largely to munitions factories, the town suffered from heavy bombing by the German Luftwaffe in the Second World War. On the 17th May 1941 100 people were killed, 380 houses destroyed and over 10,000 properties damaged.

Nuneaton’s born and bred footballers include: Trevor Peake, John Curtis, Peter Whittingham, Nigel Winterburn and Matty Fryatt. Other cult celebrity are: Larry Grayson, Mary Whitehouse, Dean Richards, Paul Bradley (that dimwit Nigel off EastEnders), referee Stuart Attwell, film director Ken Loach and Victorian novelist George Eliot.

Braintree has a population of over 40,000. Notable residents include: Pineapple Dance Studios teacher Louis Spence and hardcore Rave band The Prodigy.

It’s £12 on the turnstile and £2.50 for a programme. I turn left and position myself at the top of some concrete steps. As modern stadia goes, I quite like the Triton Showers Community Arena.

I caught Nuneaton Town on a good day up at Hyde last season. I saw a virtuoso performance from troubled midfielder Kevin Thornton. According to a groundhopper I know from Nottingham, these days Thornton’s feet and sublime passing are dazzling folk at the Racecourse Ground in Wrexham.

This is my first viewing of Braintree Town. They are managed by former West Ham winger (358 appearances) and England international Alan Devonshire. Highly-rated striker Dan Holman is in the starting line-up. I saw him terror Gainsborough Trinity last season for his previous club Histon.

It’s a scrappy opening 20 minutes. Nuneaton lack energy and ideas. Only teenage striker Wes York poses any threat. This boy was a steal from Leicestershire East Midlands Counties side Anstey Town.

Braintree take the lead on 16 minutes with James Mulley heading into empty net following hesitation in the home defence. Nuneaton finally wake up and have an effort cleared off the line. They equalise on the stroke of half time. The Braintree keeper is cleaning windows from a corner and is ‘Having a Walters’, as an unmarked Simon Forsdick heads the ball home.

I remember the DJ playing a Killers track on my last visit; he obliges once again with ‘All These Things That I’ve Done.’ He follows it up with Simple Minds 1984 hit Waterfront. His only blemish is a crazy Rave song, which was probably a tribute to Braintree boys The Prodigy.

Sticky jnr will be having a Dickie fit at The City Ground. Nottingham Forest are 0-2 down to Italy (Watford). Mrs P will be removing all breakable items and covering up Murphy’s cage, in preparation for his return.

Former Long Buckby and Histon striker Dan Holman has kept the home defenders on their toes. His movement and touch are first class. He finds himself in space out on the left, there’s nothing really on. Holman knocks it out his feet and unleashes a shot with his left boot which finds the bottom right hand corner of the net. The boy is destined for a bigger stage.

On 60 minutes the visitors are awarded a free kick just inside their own half. Dean Wells spots Nuneaton’s ‘keeper doing a spot of gardening He hits a sand wedge that catches the wind, McNamara back pedals furiously, he looks like a drowning man as the ball sails over his head and just under the crossbar. It’s Beckhamesque and the goal of the season.

The Nuns make the final five minutes interesting, clawing a goal back through Delroy Gordon. Braintree score a fourth through substitute Dack to kill the game stone dead and give them a deserved victory.

I scroll down Twitter and notice the stand-out result of the day. Bloody hell, who’s going to break the news to Murphy that the Hatters have dumped the Canaries out of the Cup?


Man of the Match: Dan Walker

Attendance: 761

Sandhurst 3 Attenborough 5

Brian Clough anecdote by Ben Robinson, chairman of Burton Albion: When [Clough’s son] Nigel took the player-manager job in October 1998, Brian Clough became a regular visitor to the club. He bought a vice president’s ticket and attended virtually every home match and he also attended some away matches. The fans loved him; for every game he was inundated by people wanting to shake his hand and get his autograph. Lots of fathers would bring their sons to meet him and they’d introduce him as their hero, he was a legend.

Generally he didn’t try to offer too much advice, sometimes he’d shout from the sidelines but usually he just let Nigel get on with it. On one occasion though, when we’d beaten Torquay United away in the FA cup we were travelling back on the coach when Nigel’s mobile phone rang. After a bit he said it was his dad and he wanted a word with me. Brian came on the phone and said, 'You should take a lot of credit for this win,’ I asked why and he explained that he thought it was important that I’d taken the players down to Torquay the night before and prepared them well rather than making them have an arduous journey before the match. I said, 'Well, I think that win proves you’ve now got two geniuses in your family.’

He said, 'When you find the second one let me know.’

It’s been over a month since I last visited a new ground and wrote a blog. I’ve been coaching my team on Saturday afternoons and have thoroughly enjoyed it. Midweeks have been either wet or frozen.

I did take in the Alfreton Town versus Cambridge United fixture at North Street on Tuesday. The standard of play was high and so was the admission; £18 for Conference Football, you are having a laugh.

It’s Friday evening. There’s a howling wind and the sound of rain pitter pattering on the lounge window. I’m so proud of my boys. They abandon their X Box for a night’s dossing on Budgens wall. Top dossing lads; a commitment to the cause.

That bloody Rioja was on offer again; it doesn’t mix well with Stella. I wake up with a thumping headache. I shower and shave and head out to West Bridgford early doors. I park up outside Slades the florist on Melton Road. I collect a winter mixed bouquet of flowers. No, they’re not for Murphy, but for Mrs P, of course.

My Twitter timeline suggests there’s Bob Hope of a game on this afternoon. Please God, no. I’ll settle for anything within a 160 mile round trip. Murphy is whistling his little head off to Chris Rea’s ‘Driving Home for Christmas’ as I scour the non league fixture list. There seems to be a small micro climate up in the north Notts/Lincolnshire border. Lincoln United and Gainsborough Trinity both confirm that games are on. I’ve already blogged from both.

A tweet from legendary Notts groundhopper Rob Hornby catches my eye. He says that NSL Premier Division side Sandhurst never gets hosed off – not been there, book me in Danno. A quick phone call to Sandhurst Jack-of-all-trades, Bob Crawford, confirms that the game has got the go ahead.

I’m driving the ‘Rolls Royce’ towards the old mining village of Cotgrave. Water gushes down the hill from the village of Clipston on-the-Wolds. They won’t be doing much trade at the award-winning Harker’s Farm Shop.

Wigan versus ‘The Arsenal’ is on the radio. It’s 0-0 ‘in the most exciting league in the World.’ The worst manager in Premiership history – Paul Jewell - is summarising. He’s waxing lyrical about James McCarthy, the Latics one million pound signing from Scottish club Hamilton Academical.

I sweep through Cotgrave and head out towards Stragglethorpe. The roads are flooded and the weather is atrocious. Stuart Pearce once had a lucky escape on this very road when he wrote off his car after colliding with a dustcart.

There are speed cameras all the way up the A614. I don’t think the chuffing things work but decide to stick at 50mph. A police car comes hurtling down the road. Those boys in blue won’t have time for card schools today.

Bloody hell, I haven’t the foggiest idea where the ground is. I turn left at the Carpenter Arms and take a sharp right hand turn. A paperboy, with probably the easiest round in Notts, redirects me back up the road.

Sandhurst play in the village of Walesby, which has a population of just over 1000. It’s famous for its International Scout Camps. I only joined the cubs because they had a football team. I had the athletic prowess of Billy Casper from Kes.

I drive down a flood hit Forest Lane and pull into the car park of the Walesby Village Sports Club. I wind down the window to enquire with a linesman if the game is on. He sarcastically points at his kit and looks out towards the pitch. The car park is submerged in water. But not a drop of water is on the playing surface; it must drain like a sieve. I walk passed a couple of hosepipes laid out on the grass – is someone taking the rise?

Sandhurst are named after a local garden centre that recently closed down. They sponsored the club for over 20 years.

I hook up with Rob Hornby and another Hopper from ‘Sunny Scunny’ called ‘Colpic.’ Rob’s a bubbly character and can talk the hind legs off a donkey. He tells me he was born at Radford’s Selhurst Street ground. I said: “What, at half-time?” Apparently the ground wasn’t built then.

The man in black is Sticky Palms all-time favourite official, Andy Rolph. He stubs out a Winston Churchill cigar before entering the field of play. He doesn’t take any shit off anybody, as the young Sandhurst centre forward finds out to his cost.

I recognise a lot of the Attenborough players. I reckon they are going to be a tough nut to crack for Sandhurst. Tobias Richardson, Wes Burke and Justin Whatmore could comfortably play at a higher level.

Attenborough are managed by Roberto Pietrafort. He has had more clubs than Mark Hughes. If you asked him to name his previous clubs on Twitter, then he would struggle to fit them into the 140 character stipulation. He has more tracksuits in his wardrobe than JJB Sports. Roberto – I sound like David Platt – is always up for banter, we exchange hellos.

With Attenborough playing a high line and squealing for offside, Joe Fletcher gives Sandhurst the lead on 10 minutes. One or two hoppers frantically scribble down the goal times and scorer, they have a full list of starters and subs. Sticky doesn’t buy-in to this strange groundhopping ritual. I’ll nick it all off someone’s blog a bit later.

Ireson restores parity for the visitors. A mazy run and smart finish from the classy Whatmore puts them 2-1 up. Andy Cameron pegs it back to 2-2 on the stroke of half time. I venture into the brick-built clubhouse and despite a large queue, a cup of tea is thrust into my hand. Rob is holding court with a group of hoppers from London and Ipswich who have dropped into the ground on their way home from the Blackpool v Wolves game on Friday evening. They must be potty.

I grab a quick word with Attenborough’s Tobias Richardson, who is still stewing over the equaliser. I tell him that his team will push on in the second half.

Whatmore thumps home a third goal on 47 minutes. The impressive and talkative Wes Burke looks to have put the game beyond Sandhurst’s reach. Refereeing legend Rolph points to the spot to give the home side a chink of light. Wes Burke hits another net rippler with ten minutes to go to put the game beyond doubt.

With dark descending, I walk through the mist back to the car. Watford are beating Forest 2-0. The moaning Minnies fill up my timeline. Some folk are never satisfied.

Rob is doing an NSL Groundhop in April. For more details please visit his blog http://aroundthegrounds2012-13.blogspot.co.uk/

Man of the Match: Chris Myton (Unlucky not to score)

Attendance: 30

Congleton Town 2 Barnoldswick Town 1

Former Nottingham Forest Youth Team Manager, John Perkins, tells a wonderful anecdote about Brian Clough. The young lads were drawn away to Peterborough in the Midland Youth Cup. Cloughie announced on the day of the game for a seat to be saved for him on the coach.

The game was played and Forest were well beaten, but ‘Old Big Ead’ was supportive to the players throughout. On the bus journey home he ordered Albert, the coach driver, to stop off at the nearest chip shop. Nobody had got a brass farthing on them.

The old gal behind the counter was built like a brick outhouse and wore glasses as thick as the bottom of a milk bottle. She was not one to mess with. Clough had to use all the charm and charisma he could muster: ‘Hello Darling, my name is Brian Clough and we would like twenty portions of your finest fish and chips, but there’s a slight problem, I haven’t any money on my person. I’ll send you a cheque in the morning.”

“I’ll trust you, Mr Clough”, replied the lady. The following morning Perkins knocked on Clough’s door: “Gaffer, don’t forget to pay the lady for the fish n chips.” “Oh yes, how much was it pal?" Sixty two pounds” replied Perkins. Clough wrote a cheque out for £90 and accompanied it with a note: “Thank you Darling, treat yourself and be good. Brian Clough” As Perkins walked out the door Clough shouted out: “Hey, next time your team play like that, you can buy your own fish n chips!”

There’s a third off the price on Sticky’s favourite Rioja at Sainsbury’s on Friday evening. It’s a good start to weekend. The same cannot be said for ‘Fizz’ following a breach of health and safety at ‘Underworld’ in Weatherfield. It hardly fills you with confidence that Greater Manchester Police are investigating the incident.

Any plans of a scouting trip to Mansfield in the morning are scuppered by a night of torrential rain. Mrs P deploys me to labouring duties in assembling ‘The Skipper’s’ new bed with ‘The Angler.’ I make an award-winning cup of tea for the two of us. There won’t be a better brew made than that in England today.

Mrs P has an open day up at Sutton-in-Ashfield; it means I can slope off early today. After last week’s near miss, a confident Finley Palmer predicts another goal bonanza, 5-3 to Congleton, he predicts with his paws.

The laugh-out-loud ‘Fighting Talk’ is on Five Live. They’re talking about the time Trevor Chappell, under orders from his brother Greg, bowled an under arm delivery on the final ball in a One Day International versus New Zealand. A year later the Aussies were on tour in Auckland. A partisan crowd of 43,000 heckled skipper Greg Chappell to the wicket as he came out to bat. A wag in the crowd leapt the fence and bowled a Crown Green wood in Chappell’s direction.

I pull in at the Egerton Arms in Astbury, just a few miles south of Congleton. I’m greeted by a cheerful landlord and The Jacksons singing ‘Show You the Way to Go.’ A pub bore announces to all and sundry that West Brom have taken the lead at Sunderland’s Stadium of Light.

I select a pint of Robinson’s ‘Dizzy Blonde.’ I’ve not quaffed one of these since a weekend away in Abersoch last September. Plentiful amounts of food are on offer on the menu. Sticky loves his Somerset brie and pickle baguettes though.

The pub looks out onto the pleasant views of the village church. A Roman numerical clock is projected onto the wall. I glance at a free issue of the Cheshire Independent. Green-fingered youngsters are planting flower tubs to give the town a splash of colour over the winter months. It’s headline news in this sleepy town.

I’m anxious to get to the ground though. According to my Twitter timeline, fixtures are falling by the wayside. As I head into Congleton the skies begin to darken; bloody hell it’s starting to rain.

I park the car on a side street, opposite the cricket ground and take a peek around the place. Congleton is a town in Cheshire that lies on the banks of the River Dane, with a population of 25,000. Popular sports in the 17th Century included bear-baiting and cockfighting. Congleton is well-known for its manufacturing of airbags and golf balls. Former Manchester City defender, Ian Brightwell, grew up in the town.

Barnoldswick is a town in the Borough of Pendle in Lancashire, just outside the Yorkshire Dales National Park. It is the highest town on the Leeds and Liverpool Canal. It is home to Silentnight Beds, the UK’s largest manufacturer of beds and mattresses.

A guy on the gate gives me the thumbs up; the game is on. I pay £6 on the turnstile. The programme is good value and an interesting read. Two pieces of trivia catch my eye. There’s a report from a Bedlington Terriers FA Vase game. Former Newcastle United striker Paul Brayson is mentioned. He is the shortest footballer to have ever played in the Premiership.

The programme also reports on the resignation of former Nottingham Forest forward Peter Withe, who was until recently manager of Stockport Sports. Withe scored the winning goal for Aston Villa in the 1982 European Cup Final.

I’ve been tipped off by north-west blog supremo, Uwdi Krugg, to watch out for the Barnoldswick ‘One Man and His Dog’ away day Ultra’s –they target anyone who is not a farmer.

The DJ, who I’d put as late fifties, has already inflicted Queen and Status Quo on the perishing crowd, as I position myself on the far side of the ground, behind the away dugout, sheltering from the rain. I’m taken back at the quality of passing from both teams, particularly the Bears of Congleton.

Sticky Palms is elated on three minutes to get his hands on the match ball. I throw it powerfully into the midriff of a less than impressed visiting defender. On six minutes Congleton take lead with a net buster from the edge of the area by Matthew Worrall. Ten minutes later left back Louis James starts and finishes a fine move.

A game-changing incident takes places just yards from where I’m stood The Congleton 8 jacket goes in two-footed. It’s ankle-high and fortunately takes the ball. It is, in my opinion without malice. A pie-eating Barnoldswick supporter, next to me, begs to differ. He showers me in flaky pastry in a fit of pique. He has the diplomatic skills of I’m a Celebrity star Eric Bristow and is without compromise The visiting manager and the majority of his players try to get the boy sent off. The referee sensibly waves a yellow card at the lad.

The Bears, may regret that their dominance has only left them two to the good. News is filtering through from Guiseley’s Nethermoor Road ground that Sooty is making his debut as the supporters’ mascot.

I stand in the Club Function Room for a wee warm. I grab a cup of piping hot coffee. The lady behind the tea bar is promoting home-made vegetable soup at a bargain £1.30 per cup.

I can’t be bothered to drag my weary body over to the other side of the ground. That pie-eater from Barnoldswick looks in the mood to knock my block off. I think I’ll give him a wide berth. I stand behind the goal at the bottom of the slope, expecting an avalanche of goals from the Bears. How wrong can one be?

Barnoldswick play as if someone has put a firework up their backsides. Chance after chance is spurned, until on 63 minutes Billy Priestley nods in a header at the back stick, following a corner. They can’t turn their second half superiority into goals though. The driving, incessant rain has turned the pitch into a quagmire. The two teams put on a show though. I’ll catch up with both later in the season.

Attendance: 116

Man of the Match: Vegetable Soup