Sunday, March 26, 2017
It's Wednesday afternoon and I'm heading back into Manchester, again, after a meeting up in Runcorn. I've had a pig of a day, nowt seems to have gone right. The M62 is at a standstill. It takes 90 minutes to complete a 30-mile journey. I'm feeling sorry for myself as I flop onto my Premier Inn bed in Prestwich. I flick the TV on, to be met with the horrific news coming from Westminster. It puts all my trivialities into perspective. I notice the following day a picture of a scarf draped over a red plastic seat at Charlton Athletic's Valley ground. PC Keith Palmer, a victim of the attack, was a season ticket holder at the Club. He sacrificed his own life, to save others.
I take a stroll around Colwick Country Park late on Friday afternoon, which is adjacent to Nottingham Racecourse, allowing time to drop by the Starting Gate for a pint of Tribute Cornish pale ale. Ms Moon asks if I fancy a game of scrabble. I decline the invitation, as it usually ends up in controversy, and in my case, tears.
I'm up and away at just gone 9 am on Saturday - I have a Royal engagement in one hour's time. It will be HRH Trumpy Bolton's third outing of the season. The Audi needs a clean and valet. The Kosovan lads do a tidy job. I always enjoy some banter with their boss, because if looks could kill, he probably would.
The roadworks on the Melton Road absolutely kill me. Trumpy Bolton is loitering on a street corner on the Keyworth Bronx, swinging his Kwik Save carrier bag full of booty (Dark Fruits cider), patiently waiting for me. We greet each other with a Happy New Year greeting; it's been that long, too long in fact. He's already had a couple of Fursty Ferret and crumpet and cheese for breakfast.
Graham Norton is non-negotiable on the radio; we both can't abide the overpaid blithering idiot. We've got some dodgy radio station on. The DJ plays 'Can't Stand Losing You' by The Police. I casually mention that Sting and the lads played a gig at Rushcliffe Leisure Centre to the fur coat 'n no knickers brigade of West Bridgford back in the late 70s before they hit the big time. "Yeah, I know", replies Bolton, "I was there." California punk band, The Cramps, were supporting them that night.
Trumpy is on a high since Leicester City's renaissance. He was calling for Ranieri's head after an early exit from the FA Cup at Millwall. Last Saturday he went on the Mother-of-all benders before, during and after a 3-2 win versus the Hammers. I enquire what he had to eat that day: "one and a half doughnuts, on the train home", he replies.
The Legend announces that he will be making his debut over in the Algarve in the summer. Workers at the Superbock beer-bottling plant in Faro have been put on a seven-day working week until Bolton lands back on UK soil. Trumpy has already seen off a litre bottle of cider before we exit the M1 onto the M25.
We park up just off Chipping Barnet High Street, next to a pond awash with ducks. Barnet and Cheltenham fans, please be seated while I explain this; you may just keel over if not pre-warned. Trumpy Bolton wants to make a financial transaction (usually in a pub) in every city, town and village in England, Wales and Scotland. He has pursued this hobby for 40 years. He only has Brentford to tick off in the whole of Greater London, and that is because my old SRI Cavalier blew up en route to Griffin Park in 1988.
We've a pub sorted called The Monk. We poke our head through the door as the omens don't look too good with a 'To Let' sign erected outside. Two young lads tell us there's no food on today. A grumpy Trumpy chunters off up the street in search of another hostelry.
Bolton sniffs out another boozer up the road. He's unimpressed with a cocksure young 'un behind the bar. The lad is wearing a black leather bomber jacket. He looks like Tucker Jenkins off Grange Hill. The pub is nowt to write home about. The food is bang average, and so are Lincoln City, on the pub TV, who have fallen behind to an early Forest Green goal in their biggest six-pointer of the season at Sincil Bank. Bolton is upset again when the arrogant barman fluffs up his drinks order. We bale out while the going's good.
Barnet's ground is 6 miles down the road. Due to traffic congestion it takes an age. We drive past the John Keble Church in Edgware. Trumpy says he didn't know that the former Spandau Ballet drummer had turned to God (for older readers only).
Barnet FC were founded in 1888 and play at the Hive Stadium. They recently left Underhill, their home for over 100 years. The new ground is situated in Edgware, away from their community - work that one out. Supporters are shipped in by bus.
Former players that have gone on to ply their trade in the Premier League include: Dougie Freedman, Marlon King, Linvoy Primus, Jason Puncheon, Yannick Bolasie and Albert Adomah. Jimmy Greaves and Dutch international Edgar Davids have also played for the club. Transfer record fee received is £800,000 from Crystal Palace for Dougie Freedman and record fee paid is £130,000 for Peterborough United's Greg Heald. Notable folk born or raised in Barnet include: actress Stephanie Beacham, singer Elaine Page, broadcaster Johnny Vaughan, former BNP chairman Nick Griffin and the cricketer Phil Tufnell.
I have a bottle of water in the bar as Trumpy quaffs a couple more Dark Fruits. I check my phone. I'm delighted to see 'The Lincoln' have stormed back to win 3-1. Ms Moon and I will be at Sincil Bank next Saturday when they entertain Bromley.
The Barnet DJ is playing Fire by Leicester band Kasabian. Trumpy chuckles that the Foxes fans haven't sung this song much at the King Power Stadium until recently. I'm disappointed to see Cheltenham striker Dan Holman is on the subs bench. I've followed his career at Long Buckby, Histon and Braintree Town. He banged in 30 goals last season in the Conference.
We're sat with the Press Pack and commentators for local radio. Trumpy is amused with the two guys behind him from Radio Gloucestershire. They seem rather chipper when they take the lead in the following a smart finish by Danny Wright.
The natives are getting restless as 'Nugent Out' rings out from the terraces and stands. The Bees find energy in the second half. Sub, Curtis Weston, thumps home a volley on 70 minutes. Leading scorer John Akinde, who hardly broke sweat first half, puts the game to bed on 77 and 79 minutes following some woeful defending by the visitors.
The commentators from Radio Gloucestershire are holding a post-mortom. They are in total shock. They mention the 'Nugent Out' chants and remark that the fellow will probably be penning a two-year contract on Monday, such are the small margins in a game. Trumpy tells them that the Cheltenham skipper has had a stinker. One of the guys just shrugs his shoulders.
Rest in peace PC Keith Palmer.
Sunday, March 19, 2017
We could have got in the Arsenal end. But I've proper got the monk on with the whole saga. We tune into the game live on TalkSPORT. Lincoln give a good account of themselves in the first half. They're treading water for the final 45 minutes as the brilliant Chilean forward, Alexis Sanchez, runs riot.
It's Tuesday evening and I'm absolutely wetting myself with excitement. I'm in a 4x4 on the M6 with the 'Mayor of London' and his brother 'Big Bear Baker.' We're staying the night in Birmingham before heading over for Ladies Day at the Cheltenham Festival. We enjoy a few scoops in the city centre whilst watching the Foxes outwit Seville in the 'European Cup.' More beverages are consumed at Be At One Bar, before turning in for bed at some God unearthly hour, after Doner meat and chips.
Sticky Jnr has been texting me a few duff tips. I ignore his last one in the 5:20, due to intoxication. It duly canters up the hill to romp in at 11/1. I'm never betting again or drinking. We sink pint after pint at backstreet boozers in the town, before the night ends in utter carnage back at Be At One Bar. A surly and rude French barman is serenaded with "getting sacked in the morning" after the worst bar service seen since Rene from Allo Allo mucked up a drinks order for the Gestapo.
Jesus wept, Cheltenham has made me a broken man. I'm tired, grouchy and penniless. I just need a nice quiet weekend in. What's that 'Princess?' We're out on Friday night in Nottingham and staying over in Manchester on Saturday. Hell's teeth.
It's Saturday morning and we're both slouched on the sofa watching a re-run of The Bill on ITV Encore. PC Reg Hollis is more incompetent than the French barman. I summon the energy to scrub up, before we both jump in the car and head up the M1 North towards Manchester.
Graham Norton is doing my nut in. I scan a few stations on the whack Audi radio, before stumbling upon Murphy Palmer and Sticky's favourite artist, Jess Glynne - Murph loved her to bits.
First port of call is the iconic Salford Lads' Club on the corner of Coronation Street. It was opened in 1904 by Robert Baden-Powell, who later founded the Scout movement. It was used in the sleeve for The Smiths album The Queen is Dead. There are a few folks taking snaps in the pouring rain, coming from the slate-grey skies. The journey to Moor Lane, home of Salford City, is only a short distance away.
Salford is a city in Greater Manchester with a population of over 70,000. It was once well known for its cotton and silk spinning, and weaving in the local cotton mills. In 2011 Salford's MediaCityUK became the HQ for CBBC and BBC Sport. It is said the fictional setting of the soap opera Coronation Street is Salford. The folk song 'Dirty Old Town' written by local musician Ewan MacColl (father of the late Kirsty MacColl) is the origin of Salford's nickname.
Famous people born or brought up in Salford include: Emmeline Pankhurst, one of the founder members of the Suffragette Movement, Joy Division and New Order band members Bernard Sumner and Peter Hook, The Smiths frontman Morrissey, footballer Paul Scholes, Shaun Ryder from the Happy Mondays and the actors Robert Powell and Albert Finney.
We park up in a residential area just down the road from the ground. There's an over-the-top police presence. The lads are lined-up outside the away turnstile. Police horses parade up and down the street, leaving shit everywhere. 'The Boys in Blue' love a bit of overtime, particularly when 'United' and 'City' aren't playing at home on a Saturday. Chuffing hell; they'll only be 1500 or so supporters in attendance.
We sit in the Main Stand, sheltering from the wind and rain. I get chatting to a guy next to me from West Yorkshire, who knows Salford's George Green who's on loan from Burnley - he signed for Everton from Bradford City in a deal worth £300,000 in 2013.
I'm intrigued as to what set the Salford DJ will play. Radcliffe Borough, up the road, are this season's benchmark. The guy on Salford's decks doesn't disappoint. He spins Primal Scream, New Order, James, The Charlatans and The Smiths.
I check the full-time score from The City Ground. NFFC have scored in the last kick of the game to grab a point. There's no doubt that a seething Sticky junior will have sloped off before the final whistle to wave the Sheep off back over the cattle grid towards D***y.
Ms Moon arrives back grumbling from the Ladies toilets on the far side of the ground. There's no running water. She says that a few private number plates are parked behind the goal, suggesting that Phil and Gary Neville are in town.
Salford are rocked by the goal, as three minutes earlier Josh Hine had fluffed a sitter, when losing his footing. Salford exert pressure on the Stockport defence who remain gallant and steadfast. Half time allows both teams to rest their legs from the boggy, rain-sodden surface. The DJ continues his pre-match form with a Stone Roses track.
Hatters' substitute Kaine Felix spurns a golden chance to put the game to bed having rounded the 'keeper. Stockport are made to pay 10 minutes from time when Michael Nottingham is bundled over in the box. Sub, Richie Allen, coolly sends Hinchcliffe the wrong way from the spot kick to earn the Ammies a thoroughly deserved point.
Man of the Match: Ben Hinchcliffe Stockport 'keeper
Sunday, March 12, 2017
I'm stuffed after a large portion of mixed kebab meat and chips. It's the first Saturday night in a long time without an alcoholic beverage. I retire to bed at midnight after Barca trounce Celta Vigo and Match of the Day - today has been a footballing fiesta.
Oh, where to go on Saturday ? 'The Lincoln' are playing 'The Arsenal' in an FA Cup quarter-final. The Imps have handled the 9,000 ticket allocation badly in my eyes. There's a strict criteria set by Arsenal. They want traceability of all tickets. I'd be happy to show my driving licence, passport or any ticket from the Cup run. 'The Lincoln' choose not to go down the general sale route. Oh well, in all honesty, I never fancied a trip to the Emirates. Middlesbrough or Millwall were more my bag.
Tuesday night is spent down at Lenton Lane on the banks of the Trent, as young guns AFC Dunkirk pit their wits against a more experienced Clifton All Whites. Poor fayre is served up, with only a Niall Mellis penalty for Clifton separating the two sides.
I'm up at Heanor Town on Wednesday evening - I flipping love it up here. They're a club with a fantastic ethos and good values - not only that, the pie, chips, mushy peas and gravy are a must. It's £5 on the gate and £1 for a 46-page programme, which includes a blog written by some bloke called Sticky Palms (self-indulgent moment). I grab a quick chat with Press Officer Tony Squires and legendary 'On The Road' blogger Malc Storer, before seeing Heanor thump Leicestershire team St Andrews 4-0.
There's an SOS from Joe Palmer up at Leeds Beckett University on Thursday evening. Train fares are extortionate, any chance Dad can pick him up ? I start work at the crack of dawn on Friday, before sailing up the M1 towards 'Dirty Leeds.' It's great to spend some time with my youngest, even if it's only for a few hours in the car. Dad and lad tick off a McDonalds in Bobbers Mill, Nottingham, before I drop him off in a deserted Pear Tree car park in Keyworth.
There are more pressing issues at hand. Ms Moon and I haven't played Scrabble for a few weeks since a Sticky Palms spat following a controversial 1-0 loss. I head into town and get my ears lowered at a barbers on Mansfield Road. The lad in the chair next to me has just come out of prison. He tells the guy shaving his 'barnet' that he used to spend 23 hours a day in his cell.
I drop by at Waterstones on Bridlesmith Gate and ask for directions to the dictionary section. The dirty deed is done. I celebrate with two pints of ale in the Herbert Kilpin. It's another nasty, vicious game of Scrabble, with sledging and verbals of the highest order. I lose by 100 points. Is Ja a real word ?
We're awoken by some scruffy, little Heinz variety mongrel dog, yapping on our street, early on Saturday. I threaten to throttle the little excuse of a mutt. Ms Moon says I'll get sent to prison. I quite fancy 23 hours a day in a cell reading my Kindle.
Ms Moon goes shopping, whilst I stretch my legs around Colwick Country Park. We head towards Brackley at midday. Graham Norton and his posse are getting on my wick on Radio 2. We exit the M1 at Junction 15A and are soon pulling into the car park of the thatched roof New Inn in Abthorpe.
The homely bar is full of locals. We're reliably informed that the barmaid is having a crafty fag in the backyard. A rather flustered, red-cheeked lass sheepishly sneaks in through a side door. I enjoy a pint of Hook Norton Gold. Ms Moon opts for rump steak, whilst Sticky prefers fish 'n chips.
St James' Park is a 20-minute drive away. I came here with 'The Taxman a few weeks ago. We park up on a residential street, a few minutes' walk away. It's £12 pound on the gate. The DJ, when I came v Kiddy 10 days ago, was on flames. He played loads of Indie music as well as The Libertines and Razorlight.
I first came here 7 years ago with blog legend Trumpy Bolton. It's a wonderful club, full of friendly folk. Trumpy drank so much that day - they're still counting the takings. Sadly, no stand is named after him. Somebody ought to do that - he'd sponsor it. 'The Trumpy Bolton Stand' - it's got a ring to it.
It's my third look at Salford in the last month or so. I saw them 'throw in the towel' at The Shay and put in an inept performance at The Lamb last week. Joint-manager Bernard Morley gave an honest and forthright interview after last week's debacle. He said the game was 'lost in the warm-up.' A warm-up he surveyed from the safe haven of the dugout without intervention. Salford didn't look comfortable on the 3G - it didn't suit their style of play or tactics.
I reckon someone from Manchester has hijacked the decks as the teams walk out of the tunnel to the brilliant 'Come Home' by James. There's a lively start to the game. It's toing and froing. Salford seize upon Brackley's 3-5-2 formation and punt the football forward quickly. Josh Hine finds himself one on one, but fluffs his chance by firing straight at the 'keeper.
Morley prowls the technical area, appearing more vocal and animated. He's overseen the warm-up. Him and 'Jonno' seem more chipper as the ink has barely dried on two-year full-time contracts. The Ammies are tense on the field of play. It doesn't take long for one or two to fall out.
While you can't question the energy or effort levels, the distribution is poor. The ball is like a hot potato. Sticky's favourite, Scott Burton, vents frustration at the bench, telling Jonno and Bernard that the team have time to take a touch and get on the ball.
It's deadlock at the break. We don't do 0-0s. I saunter off to take some photos of flags behind the goal, where Brackley and Salford fans have sung and shared banter. Ms Moon brings back coffee, tea and some chocolate.
The game is crying out for a goal. Mrs Norris whips in a corner from the left, Phenix bravely heads it back, Nottingham nods it onto the bar, before slotting home the rebound from close range. The whole Salford dugout punch the air in delight.
We have more pressing matters. At half-time the 'Dogs For Good' charity had collared (get it) Ms Moon. Bless her, she only had 10p in her purse. A distraught and embarrassed 'Princess' informs me of this on my return from the toilet. I have £5 on me. She races around the ground to chuck it in the bucket.
The game fizzles out. There's endless substitutions, as Salford change formation to 4-4-2 and 4-4-1. Neither team trouble the 'keeper. But at least the Salford camp seem happier at the final whistle.
Man of the Match: Phenix
Man of the Match: Phenix
Sunday, March 5, 2017
White Van Man has organised a 10km ramble over stiles, traipsing down footpaths and through the surrounding villages of Nether Broughton and Upper Broughton. The conditions are testing and the walk exhausting, due to a plethora of puddles and mud-caked fields. Three hours later, we're both out on our feet, and close to death. We leave White Van Man to polish off a carvery at the brewery - I hope the Yorkshire puddings are spot on, or at least Aunt Bessie's.
I haven't the energy or ability to walk up to the King Billy in Sneinton for my lunchtime constitutional. 'Ms Moon Taxis' drop me off 50 yards from the pub door. I slump in my seat and down a pint of Citra from the Oakham Ales stable. There's no Ms Moon taxi home; the 'Princess' charges treble time after 3 pm on a Sunday - plus the omnibus edition of 'Come Dine With Me' is on the box.
I pick up a fragile Taxman who is still feeling the after effects of an afternoon session with the 'Monday Club' at the Trip to Jerusalem in Nottingham, yesterday. We head over to Brackley in rush-hour traffic, listening to the excellent Simon Mayo on Radio 2. We grab some tea in Silverstone at the Green Man on the A43, before the short journey to St James' Park (not the one in Newcastle).
I've already phoned up the Club, as countless games fall by the wayside due to waterlogged pitches. I'm reassured that the game is ON. I can see why; you could play Crown Green bowls on this playing surface. Trumpy Bolton reminds me on Facebook that we've been to Brackley in 2010. I reply that they're still counting the bar takings and that the Club have named a stand after him. The Harriers can consider themselves unlucky, going down to two late strikes from substitute David Moyo.
I switch on the radio on Saturday morning. Dermot O' Leary has replaced 'Sir' Brian Matthew on Radio 2 - it reminds me of when former Nottingham Forest boss Frank Clark used to draft in old 'Pineapple Head', Jason Lee for Stanley Victor Collymore, such is the gulf in class. Murphy the budgie will be turning in his grave.
Ms Moon fails to make the team bus for today's clash between Tamworth and Salford. The good lady has a sales conference up in Brigg, Lincolnshire. I tip her a visit to the White Horse Wetherspoons pub and Brigg Town football ground - both ticked off with Trumpy Bolton - before waving the good lady off, in Sainsbury's car park, on Mapperley Plains, following a hearty breakfast in the Copper Cafe. It's like a scene from Gone With the Wind.
White Van Man is called up from the substitutes' bench. First port of call for 'Hopper' is the Nottingham Forest Academy, just off Wilford Lane. The Under 18s are pitting their wits against Coventry City, who were sensationally knocked out of the FA Youth Cup earlier in the season on the banks of the River Trent by Dunkirk FC, where they found the players and locals too hot to handle.
The Sky Blues win at a canter, 3-0 - the Tricky Trees field a side with a mix of 16s and 17s. White Van Man is in his pit ('armchair') watching Man Utd v Bournemouth. He makes me a brew before we hit the A453 and M42.
A coach from St Helens has broken down on the hard shoulder. It later transpires that Marine FC, from Liverpool, were on their way to Coalville Town. Non-League family pull together as a procession of cars from Coalville Town rescue the stranded Scousers. It ended 0-0. Sticky doesn't do 0-0s.
We park in a residential area of Tamworth, close to the official car park. I saw Dagenham and Redbridge pretty much clinch the Conference title here a few years ago. Tamworth is a large market town in Staffordshire with a population of 70,000. It lies on the River Tame which flows through the town. Up until 2001 it was home to the car manufacturer Reliant, who produced the three-wheeled Robin and Scimitar. The Lamb football ground, home of Tamworth FC is next to the Snowdome, the UK's first full-sized real snow indoor ski slope. Drayton Manor Park is also close by.
One of Sticky's heroes - Teardrop Explodes lead singer Julian Cope - was raised in Tamworth. Cope was staying with his grandmother in South Wales on his ninth birthday, on the day of the Aberfan Disaster in 1966. He later described it as having a profound effect on his life - 144 people, including 116 children, lost their lives that day. Premier League winner, Marc Albrighton was also born in Tamworth.
It's £14 to sit in the stands or £12 for on the terrace. We wander across to the far side of the ground, positioning ourselves adjacent to the Salford dugout. Murphy the budgie would have loved it here. His two favourite artists - Jess Glynn and Little Mix are booming out of the PA system.
Salford joint manager, Bernard Morley, is slouched in the dugout watching his team warm-up. Their away form is a concern. Only a few weeks ago I saw them wave the white handkerchief, at The Shay in Halifax, after being 2-0 up at the break. I'm somewhat of a Jonah, having never seen them win in five outings. It will be interesting to see what tactics are deployed on Tamworth's 3G surface.
Over 1300 supporters have rocked up at The Lamb. Bernard and Jonno are already getting an earful early doors. It only takes nine minutes for the Tamworth fans to pipe up with "you dirty Northern bastards' after Priestley clatters into the back of Dyer.
The Ammies (Salford) just don't look 'at it.' They pump up endless long balls to striker Mike Phenix, a willing runner. But where are the runners to support him ? Salford fail to clear their lines properly on 40 minutes with Connor Taylor lashing home the loose ball. A miserable and fruitless 45 minutes ends in tears with the impressive Danny Newton hanging in the air at the back stick to head home a pinpoint corner.
Blimey, I can't see the Salford changing room sound system banging out the Stone Roses or Happy Mondays - it'll be Joy Division after that showing. They're shooed out onto the pitch after only a ten minute break.
Salford push the full backs on in the second half. Their talismanic midfielder, Scott Burton, is the sacrificial lamb. He's pushed back to protect the defence. They miss his energy, crunching tackles and will to win. One or two don't want to know - the Conference North isn't for pretty boys. They start to bitch and moan at one another. Phenix becomes disheartened and disinterested. There's a flurry of yellow cards brandished for indiscipline and dissent, as the Ammies lose focus.
Morley has stood stern-faced, arms folded in the technical area. 'Jonno' sits on a brick wall next to the dugout. The joint managers barely exchange a word all afternoon. Something's not ringing right about the whole day. Credit must go to Tamworth who have chased down, hustled, harried and won individual battles all over the pitch.
We're driving home when I get a text from 'Our Joe' saying that 'Lincoln are s**t." That's rather odd, as we picked up a useful point away at Aldershot Town. There's a picture of a betting slip. The Imps have cost him close on £300 in an accumulator. Joe, you can't arf pick em.
Man of the Match: Luke Jones (Tamworth)
Sunday, February 26, 2017
It's Saturday February 18th, 2;30pm. We're sat in the Audi, in standing traffic - all roads heading out of Burnley towards the M65 are gridlocked. Sticky Palms is shaking like a leaf. Not because little old Lincoln City have dumped Sean Dyche's Premier League Burnley out of the FA Cup, at juicy odds of 12/1. No, it's more serious than that. I start sweating profusely. I've dug myself a massive hole on social networks. How the chuff am I going to wriggle out of this one? The Riverside Penthouse Suites at the Lowry are £710 per night. I've just spent a King's ransom in Tenerife. Shocking hell; I blame heavy rocker, Sean Dyche for this and that bloody ref. Why didn't he disallow the goal ?
I'll try the fake phone call gag, see if that works. I fish my mobile out of my pocket and 'punch a few numbers out.' "Hello, is that the Lowry ? I was just enquiring to see if you have any *cough cough* Penthouse Suites available for this evening ? Sorry, what was that, Mr Mourinho has commandeered them all. Okay love, no worries." Phew that was a close shave.
We're back in Nottingham for 6:00 pm. Ms Moon nips down to Morrisons to fetch some tea. I peg it up to the Herbert Kilpin. I'm on Cloud Nine. I've never felt like this after a football match. I'm an emotional wreck. Following Lincoln City on and off for 45 years has seen more lows than highs. I confess to having jumped on the Cowley bandwagon. But what a journey we are having. The first Non-League club to reach the quarter-finals of the FA Cup since 1914.
On Sunday morning I drive out to what was my favourite place to scout young footballers in inner-city Nottingham. Vernon Park, now known as Queen Elizabeth II Playing Fields, is in the suburb of Basford - a place that has seen its fair share of tragedy from gun crime and drug-pushing. It's a beautiful tree-lined park and a hive of activity. I sit on a bench, basking in the sunshine, watching a Notts Youth League fixture. As I walk back to the car, a melee breaks out between two pub teams on an adjacent pitch. The referee deals with it by dishing out a flurry of yellow cards.
Lunchtime is spent in the wonderful King Billy on Eyre Street, in Sneinton. I down a couple of Oakham Ales before the long slog home. I write up the Burnley v Lincoln blog. What a weekend we've had.
It's Tuesday evening and I'm back in Lincoln again, this time to watch the Whites of Lincoln United. The Ashby Avenue ground is close to Hartsholme Park, and is dwarfed by a block of high-rise flats. The Taxman pays me in. I get gassing to a few parents that I know, who have travelled from Nottingham - Basford United are the visiting team.
To be honest the game is bloody awful. Lincoln have more craft and guile. I'm really disappointed with Basford and their direct style of play, particularly when you consider that they play on a 4G surface. Their owner, Chris Munroe, is frustrated by what he's seeing. He shouts from the stands, "Get the ball down, and start playing." The highlight of the night is when we win first prize in the raffle - a box of McVitie biscuits.
We have a quiet night in, on Friday evening, apart from a quick tea-time beverage at the 'World Renowned Trent Bridge Inn.' I dash out of the house at 10:00 am on Saturday morning. I've only had time for two slices of toasted Warburton fruit loaf, accompanied by some Gouda cheese and a strong cup of Nescafe Alta Rica coffee.
I flick on Radio 2, it's the dying embers of Brian Matthew's last ever Sound of the 60s Show. I'm not sure which sacking has cheesed me off the most: 'Uncle Brian' or 'The Tinkerman' ? I drive up the Trent Embankment and onto the Nottingham ring road, before turning off up University Boulevard. I take a left turn into Highfields Park. Nottingham City Boys are playing. I like to keep my hand in, and ear to the ground; you never know when you are going to be called back into action, do you ?
I drive back home. Chichester-born singer Tom O'Dell is on the CD. Murphy the budgie used to love Tom. I miss my little lad so much; he was great fun, and a good companion, when you work from home. Tom's finished, so I switch onto Five Live's 'Fighting Talk.' A Blackburn Rovers fan and panellist is explaining to Colin Murray that he received a condolence card from a mate when Tony Mowbray was appointed as manager this week following Owen Coyle's sacking.
It's a short drive over to the West Midlands, after the long trek to Burnley last weekend. Gambaccini is having a 'mare on Pick of the Pops. He plays a load of soft American rock pants from 1985 like Journey and Chicago. I threaten to jump out of the window if he spins another chuffer - it's a close call as he plays 'Run For You' by the Canadian singer Bryan Adams.
Shirley, in Solihull, where Highgate United play, has a population of over 35,000. Notable people to have grown up in the area include: Mandy Rice-Davies, the British model famous for the 'Profumo Affair', former England rugby captain Martin Johnson and Top Gear talentless smug TV presenter Richard Hammond.
I was aware of a footballer being killed after being struck by lightning during a Cup game at Highgate many years ago. What I didn't realise was, that it's 50 years to the day. In 1967 the Club were playing Enfield in an FA Amateur Cup quarter-final when a bolt of lightning sent several players to the ground. Defender, Tony Allden, aged 23 years old, never regained consciousness and died the following day in hospital. As an act of goodwill, Aston Villa staged the replay, with over 30,000 people attending.
Within the hour we're on Tythe Barn Lane and pulling into the ground, where there is limited car parking space, due to a rugby game. Ms Moon gets herself wrapped up to the ninepins, whilst Sticky has a stroll about the joint. I poke my head into the Clubhouse. A lady is making a speech. I put two and two together. It is the widow of Tony Allden, who tragically died in the game 50 years ago. It's a beautiful, heart-warming, touching, moving moment. Players from both teams that day are in attendance.
We stand next to the home dugout, opposite the newly named 'Tony Allden Stand.' The guy next to us strikes up a conversation. He was a committee member, but just likes to write up the match reports for the website. I mention that we're from Nottingham and like to visit a different ground each week and write a blog. "Are you the bloke with the budgie ?" "I am mate, he sadly passed away a few weeks ago."
The pitch resembles something from the 70s Sunday afternoon TV show Star Soccer - think of a mud-clogged Baseball Ground, and you won't be far off the mark. We hold a minute's silence for Tony Allden. I catch a small boy out of the corner of my eye, stood next to a junior goal net. He has his foot resting on a ball, arms behind his back and is stationary - it's a beautiful moment.
Long Eaton take an early lead. Moments later the most extraordinary incident I've witnessed in 10 years of watching Non League football happens. The Gate right back, who I've seen somewhere before, and reminds me of former NFFC full back Viv Anderson, powers down the wing before delivering an inch-perfect cross which is spooned over the bar from eight yards out by the centre forward. The full back boots an advertising hoarding in frustration and is immediately shown a Red card for 'violent conduct.'
The pitch has become a quagmire. Highgate never give up and deserve what would appear to be a consolation goal, with ten minutes remaining. With a few minutes left, Highgate's best player, the left back, floats a cross in which the No.11 somehow heads wide of the post.
The referee, who has had a torrid time, brandishes another Red card to the Long Eaton No.6 following a two-footed lunge. At least he got that one right, as even the referee's observer is mystified by the first Red card of the afternoon.
Man of the Match: Highgate Left Back (Quality)
Sunday, February 19, 2017
'The Lincoln' are 1-0 up with two minutes remaining. Dad announces he's off to the chippy on Shakespeare Street for a fish supper - before they start queuing out of the door - he had a habit of leaving games before the final whistle. He's barely exited the stadium when a huge roar comes from the Claret and Blue Army. 18-year-old Trevor Steven has broken my heart by grabbing a late equaliser for Burnley. It effectively ends our promotion hopes. Burnley are soon crowned League champions. Trevor Steven goes on to win 36 England caps. In 1987 the Imps are relegated, out of the Football League. Burnley finish a point above us. "Funny old game Saint."
35 years later and I'm heading up to Burnley on the M6. Ms Moon is riding shotgun. I'm still devastated by the death of my little budgie, Murphy Palmer, last weekend. I named him after legendary City manager, Colin Murphy, who was in charge that night, 35 years ago.
It's like having a driving lesson when Ms Moon is in the passenger seat. A few words are exchanged in the lorry car park at Lymm Services just off Junction 20. We swap seats. The next few miles are driven in silence. The only voice to be heard is Sir Tim Rice on Radio 2's Sound of the 60s show.
Murphy the budgie died of a broken heart - regular readers of this blog will concur with this statement. 24 hours before his death, news was leaked of Brian Matthew's unceremonious sacking by Radio 2's programme controller. Murph worshipped Uncle Brian. He even used to send him birthday cards each year with a green and canary-yellow coloured feather placed in the middle of the card. He'd drop them off at 'Wogan House' before the 120-mile flight home.
Following peace-keeping negotiations, that Kofi Annan would be proud of, speaking terms are resumed in McDonalds at Blackburn and Darwen services. Ms Moon grabs a much-needed coffee, whilst I have my annual Big Mac meal.
Burnley town centre is gridlocked as 'The Lincoln' and a convoy of coaches roll into town. We stick the Audi in a car park at £4 per pop down Plumbe Street. We wander past Burnley Miners' Social Club. I need a pint to settle my nerves. But have to say that they don't look particularly welcoming on the door. 20 members of the Burnley hooligan firm the 'Suicide Squad' were jailed in 2014 following a melee in the Club.
Burnley is a market town with a population of 70,000. It was a prominent mill town during the Industrial Revolution. Its local brewery is Moorhouses, which was founded in 1865 and whose award-winning brews include the Pride of Pendle.
Famous folk from the town include: Sir Ian McKellan, TV writer Paul Abbot, Chumbawamba, broadcaster Tony Livesey, cricketer James Anderson, Jay Rodriguez and Sticky and Murphy's favourite TV character, Norris Cole (Malcolm Hebden). Tony Blair's spin doctor, Alastair Campbell is a big Clarets fan and was a colleague and friend my late father - they both worked on the Daily Mirror.
Burnley were founded in 1882 and are a founder member of the Football League. They won the old Division One in 1960 and were European Cup quarter-finalists in 1961. Highest transfer fee paid out is £13 million for Norwich City's Robbie Brady (Murphy the budgie was quite cross about that one). Highest transfer fee received was £7 million from Southampton for Jay Rodriguez. The youngest player to have represented the Clarets is legendary striker Tommy Lawton.
I'm already a jibbering wreck as we join the crowds strolling towards Turf Moor. My anxiety is heightened knowing that once again, during this Cup run, we'll be sat with the opposition. We pass a group of Burnley supporters from France who look to be parading the FA Cup. It was £10 for the ticket (thank you so much, you know who you are). I'm delighted to see we are seated adjacent to the Lincoln end.
The DJ is on flames as he plays the Stone Roses and 'Reward' by the Teardrop Explodes. They know how to build up a game in the North. I chance upon the guy who got us the tickets and express our gratitude. Ms Moon is being chatted up by a steward, who asks her whether she has been skiing, when we've actually just returned from Tenerife.
The turnaround in Lincoln City's fortunes is remarkable and down to two men - former PE teachers Danny and Nicky Cowley. They've tinkered with the side - only three out of the starting eleven are Cowley signings, but boy oh boy are Sam Habergham, Sean Raggett and Alex Woodyard vital cogs in the Lincoln engine room.
We both like Burnley and particularly their manager Sean Dyche. We had the pleasure of being in his company up at the Hand in Heart, on Nottingham's Canning Circus. The guy was first class and just wanted to reminisce with Ms Moon about pubs back-in-the-day in Nottingham, as Dyche was once an apprentice at Nottingham Forest.
My stomach churns, my spine tingles and my nerves jangle as the teams emerge from the tunnel. We're sat with the 'Darby and Joan', so don't anticipate any issues. The 3,210 travelling Imps are housed in the David Fishwick Stand. They're in fine voice; easily outsinging Burnley.
Jack Muldoon spurns an early chance, ballooning his effort over the bar, following good work by the dangerous Nathan Arnold. Lincoln match Burnley all over the park, although the Clarets have the clearer chances. We take 0-0 at half-time. Someone remarks on my facebook page that Sticky doesn't do 0-0s - I'll chuffing well settle for one today.
The highlight of half-time is a little lad behind me using a plastic knife to draw a smiley face in his Hollands pie before demolishing it. He's quite sharp for a little 'un. Lincoln fans sing "We're top of the League." The boy replies, "Yeah, top of the Non-League." He particularly enjoys the 'No They Never No More' song, referring to Blackburn Rovers as "Bastard Rovers."
Joey Barton is up to his usual antics in the second half. I'm not sure who he has bet on to win the game. He has more than met his match in Lincoln Heavyweight Champion Matt Rhead, who has terrorised the Scouser all afternoon. A deserved booking comes his way, after shoving Top Valley boy Terry Hawkridge in the face and trying to con the ref into red-carding Rhead. Barton's legacy will be being remembered for stubbing out a cigar in a colleague's face and for the cowardly assault on a teenager in a Liverpool street, resulting in a six-month prison sentence.
Burnley striker Andre Gray is having one of them days - he couldn't hit a cow's arse with a banjo. He scuffs, shanks and balloons shots high, wide and handsome. Lincoln have gone toe to toe with Burnley, a team who have the best home record in the English leagues.
They're not robbing me of my moment of glory. We remain silent, dignified and respectful. Burnley's fans are leaving in their droves, with hushed tones. City are magnificent in the final five minutes of the game; it's pure theatre as Burnley pepper the Lincoln goal. Special mention must go to Waterfall and Raggett. They deal with everything that's thrown at them. Towering headers, shuddering challenges, with the heart and courage of lions - how on earth are these boys playing in the Conference?
The final whistle is blown. I can't take it in and I'm shaking like a leaf. Fair play to the Clarets fans, many stay behind to clap the Lincoln players off. I break down in tears in the car park. It's too much to take in. Who says the FA Cup is dead ?
Man of the Match: Team Lincoln
Sunday, February 12, 2017
It's Saturday February 4th at 04:30 am. I jump in the shower and scrub up, before flicking on the kettle for a brew. Murphy the budgie has already been transported to his Auntie Val's for a week's holiday, although he's not too chuffed about the 'broccoli shortage,' I knock Ms Moon up for our early morning flight to Tenerife. The journey to East Midlands Airport is silent apart from the dulcet tones of Chris Hawkins on Radio 2. The good lady can be a tad grouchy without her Costa Coffee fix.
I lug the suitcase across the tarmac from a nearby business park. It's flipping freezing and all I'm sporting is a short-sleeved shirt. We breeze through the Thomas Cook check-in desk and a minuscule queue in security. We wolf down a bacon and egg cob and down a much-needed coffee in Frankie and Benny's.
I'm a nervous flier. I bury my head into a paperback book called 'Chasing Shadows - The Life and Death of Peter Roebuck' - it's a disturbing read and not for the feint-hearted. We touchdown at 12:30pm at Tenerife South, collect our luggage off the airport carousel (no Ryanair hiccups this year) before checking in at the Hotel Malibu Park, in the resort of Costa Adeje.
The meet and greet is with 'Pep Guardiola.' We don't even get our feet through the front door of the hotel. The news is grim: "Senor, the apartment is being refurbished, you have to relocate to a different hotel." I'd have normally kicked-off, but saw this coming a mile off, from recent reviews on Trip Advisor.
We're soon unpacked down the road at the Altamira Hotel, adjacent to the beach and a choppy Atlantic Ocean. We walk the five miles into Los Cristianos, calling by for scoops in the varying bars and cafes that litter the pavements, looking out towards the spectacular views of the coastline. We return to the hotel in the late evening, worse for wear. before retiring to bed after an exhausting day. But looking forward to ticking off our second Canary League ground at midday on Sunday.
I pull back the curtains and slide open the patio door. I'm greeted with clear blue sun-soaked skies. A wander is taken down to Harriet's Tea Room at Playa Fanabe, where we tuck into a hearty full English breakfast. The added bonus today, is that it's my 53rd birthday. We're made very welcome by front-of-house, Will, who grew up in Malvern.
The taxi ride inland is only 10km to the village of Buzanada. We're dropped off right outside Campo Municipal de Futbal Clementino de Bello. There is already a hive of activity and buzz around the place as we part with 8 Euros each on the gate - there's little point in buying a programme. A guy on the gate, who is also selling water melons, apples, pears and oranges, very kindly arranges for a taxi to pick us up after the game.
The ground is a belter. There are extraordinary views out to the nearby hills and mountains. Half a dozen supporters are already perched high above the furthest goal with a bird's eye view of proceedings below.
There's an open-air bar and changing facilities behind the nearest goal. We opt to stand on the far side at the top of some concrete steps where you can lean on a wall and shade from the scorching sun. Supporters get stuck into a few local beers as Sticky untwists the top off a bottle of water before taking a large swig in an attempt to re-hydrate his body.
The game is played on an artificial surface, which is desperately in need of relaying. It's saturated in water from sprinklers. It's more 0.01G than 4G. The players might as well wear trainers.
U.D. Lanzarote are today's visitors. I've no idea if they've flown in or hopped on a Fred Olsen ferry. They look well fed and watered, with at least seven of them well over 6' 4". They will be wary of C.D Buzanada who ended their 43 match unbeaten home record with a 5-1 gubbing earlier in the season.
In the opening exchanges the visitors look to bully Buzanada, particularly from corners, set-pieces and long throws. Slowly Buzanada inch their way into the game. The 11 jacket is like a whippet. He shows the full back on countless occasions a clean pair of heels and has a good delivery too.
It's 0-0 at the break and Ms Moon is already fretting that it might end up goalless. I take a few snaps of the folk sat up on the hill above the far goal. There's little point in striking up a conversation with any of the supporters, as it's clear that not too many can speak English. I can do a 'Manuel' from Fawlty Towers, or an impressive Inspector Clouseau - neither are much use.
U.D. Lanzarote play like they've had a night on the tiles in nearby Playa de Las Americas in the second half. C.D. Buzanada, urged on by an excitable coach, run them ragged and are 2-0 up on the hour following some fast-flowing football, with the visitors chasing shadows in the searing heat. The game is put to bed with 8 minutes remaining with a far post finish from a substitute.
We spend the rest of the holiday relaxing by the pool or walking up and down the coastline. I get through a trilogy of football books written by the excellent Calvin Wade, who for the past three seasons, with a number of pals, has followed every round of the FA Cup, FA Trophy and FA Vase. The tales are heart-warming, with humour and right up my street.
The plane lands early Saturday evening at East Midlands Airport. We're both tinged with sadness and already missing Tenerife. I drop Ms Moon off before shooting down to Morrisons at Netherfield to buy some provisions. I call in at Auntie Val's to pick up Murphy who has been unusually stressed whilst we've been away.
Back at home I top up his food container and promise him I'll nip to Aldi in the morning to see if any broccoli has arrived from southern Spain. I turn in for bed after a couple of games on Match of the Day. I whisper goodnight to Murphy who already has his head tucked into his wing and is fast asleep. I carefully place the towel over his cage and quietly close the lounge door.
Ms Moon comes into the bedroom in the morning looking shaken and visibly upset. She doesn't need to say anything, as a picture paints a thousand words. My little lad, Murphy, has passed away during the night. I just hope he wasn't in any pain. I loved him to pieces and will miss him so very, very much.
Rest in Peace, Murphy.