This truncated blog post originally appeared across five pages in issue 64 (April 2004) of No Idle Talk fanzine, which was dedicated to the Heart of Midlothiam FC and "Written by Hearts fans for Hearts fans".
The name of No Idle Talk, is an extract taken from a verse in the clubs rousing signature tune:
. The publication, that was edited by Craig Young and Grant Thorburn, produced sixty eight issues all told.
By way of a massive coincidence, Idle Talk was considered as a prototype title for
, given that the River Idle runs through the middle of my hometown of Retford (formerly known as East Retford when I was growing up... if I ever actually did).
But I decided that the seeing as the content of that publication wouldn't be solely concentrating on football and music events within the locality of the north Nottinghamshire conurbation, that idea was scrapped.
I'm told that there is a village newsletter in Mattersey Thorpe (9 miles from Retford) called 'Idle Talk' these days... though I've never actually seen one, but I digress.
"You're doing what?" She doesn't look ever so happy.
"Erm, five matches in one day. It's never been done before... the Guinness Book of Records have been contacted and..."
"Five f*cking matches in one day. Have you gone completely mad?"
Tut, this angry potty mouthed outburst is emanating from the lips of a woman that never swears, has the patience of a saint and who regularly turns a blind eye to my football travelling excesses so often that she must be partially sighted and nauseous with dizzy spells by now.
I shrugged off her rebuke, but to keep the peace I conveniently
forgot to mention that the real total for my marathon football watching stint is actually six games in twenty-six hours, because there would also be a game on the Friday night, as a prelude to the eagerly anticipated all day event.
This kind of ritualistic behaviour, that encompasses an obsessive need to visit as many obscure 'stadia' as is humanly possible, goes by the name of 'ground-hopping' and the people who indulge in these sort of practices, are known as 'ground-hoppers'. I am not one! Though I recognise that the only person that I might still be kidding with such a bold statement is myself.
Oh my god! She's back: "And what exactly do you get for all that? A Blue Peter badge? A Crackerjack pencil? A photograph of your house so that you can find your way home every now and then... y'know, on those few days of the year when you put your family before football!".
Now I already have a Blue Peter badge
and a Crackerjack pencil, so she's just being melodramatic and silly now. Besides, there is nothing, absolutely nothing at all, to stop any of them travelling with me if they crave my company so much. But I figured that this possibly the right time to raise such a moot point.
Smiling benevolently, I explained that the games were all being played close to each other to minimise the travelling between grounds and the kick-off times would be staggered accordingly too: "Look, I'll be back home at exactly the same time that I would've been from my previously planned excursion that day, to Motherwell v Hearts".
Alas, my perfectly rational response must have pushed her
really stroppy button: "Oh that is sooooo generous of you... and where are these stupid games being played then? The Outer Hebrides? Timbuktu? High on a hill with a lonely goat-herd? Mars!?"
Yep, I was right: melodramatic and very, very silly too.
I cleared my throat, took a deep breath and read out the list for my planned agenda.
"They're all matches in the Central midlands League... that is to say, it's called Central but it's more like the North Midlands, y'know that bit that we live in".
"It was a rhet-ori-cal ques-tion" she replied phonetically.
Without even looking up from my piece of paper, I could tell that she wasn't amused, because her teeth were grinding together and I think by the noises that were emitting from her nostrils that she might well have been breathing flames too... as a rule, dragons are clever like that.
I plucked up the courage to carry on: "The schedule for the Saturday is: Greenwood Meadows v. Radford at 11AM, Pelican FC v. Dinnington Town at 1PM, Dunkirk FC v Retford United at 3PM, Sandiacre Town v. Nettleham at 5.30PM and last but not least, Graham St. Prims v Blackwell Miners Welfare, which is an 8PM start, so it'll all be done and dusted by a quarter to ten, by which time you'll be married to someone who is an official world-record holder for having attended so many games during such a short space of time".
I'm assuming here that she will still be married to me by then and won't have packed my bags while I've been away completing my quest.
Don't worry yourselves too much if you have never heard of any of these teams, only one of the ten names was familiar to 'our lass' too (Retford United, who play a few hundred yards from our house) even though the rest of them are only a thirty minute drive (maximum) away from our home-turf.
"Well, they all sound like factory or coal mining teams to me, not proper ones!"
"Being named after a factory never did Arsenal any harm", I offered meekly, by way of a flimsy defence.
"Oh just do what you want to do! Like you always bloody well do anyway!"
"If you insist!" I thought... but not out-loud.
Thank goodness that both parties have reached a mutually agreeable understanding and compromise in the end. Domestic bliss, you can't beat it, eh!?
Let it be known: I wear the trousers in this house, I'm the dominant alpha-male, the hunter, the provider and it's my job to make all of the real decisions (and mine alone). My word is final, always and in all ways. Also, for the record, it's just a massive coincidence that I'm going to forget to take issue sixty-four of this fanzine that you are currently reading home with me, so don't go thinking that I'm attempting to hide the fact that I ever made such a declaration in public away from her prying eyes.
And so it came to pass, that despite her misgivings about the situation, I put my foot down firmly and sneaked out via the back-door under cover of darkness to attend all six games.
Herein is my blow by blow account of how I ended up being in the Guinness Book of Records and the circumstances that have led into me getting roped into an appointment with a marriage guidance counsellor next Tuesday afternoon, in between finishing work and going to watch Alfreton Town v Gainsborough Trinity afterwards.
The CMFL is approximately ten (and eleven) rungs down the ladder from the English Premier League in football's pecking order, it consists of two tiers, the lowest of which is called the Premier Division and the upper echelons go by the grandiose title of the Supreme Division. Apparently the league committee wanted it this way because they felt that it stands out as 'something a bit different'.
Personally, I think it seems ever so slightly pretentious, possibly even a bit daft too, but each to their own, innit?
And when all is said and done, I'm a bit of a Luddite myself, who would prefer it if the top four divisions in English football were still called one, two, three and four. Change is the route of all evil in my book.
But either way, without further ado:
![]() |
The Stag Inn.
Next door to the Stag ground. |
Friday 19th March 2004CMFL Vipond Premier Division
at the Stag Ground
Kimberley Town 2C.Hallam
C.Longmore
Rainworth Miners Welfare 1R.Sharman
Attendance: ?Last Saturday, I'd been in Edinburgh to help out with the stewarding at the 'Save our Hearts' protest march through Gorgie, while distributing the literature that's been produced to drum up support for the cause at the Hearts v Rangers game later that afternoon.
Now I'm not one for name-dropping, as I was only saying to: Jarvis Cocker, Derek Randall, Les Dennis, both Chuckle Brothers, Bob Carolgees, Lionel Richie and my old mate Rainy (the bass player out of the Stoke-on-Trent based hardcore punk band Discharge) in Larry lloyd's pub last night, but: by way of thanking me for having undergone such a mammoth journey at silly o'clock in the morning, so that I could liaise with the event organisers at our rendezvous in the Wheatsheaf public house; the legendary, one and only:
Gary Mackay, paid for my slap up feast of a breakfast. Around 3,000 people turned up for the protest, hence the Lothian and Borders police insistence on stewards being required at the eleventh hour, before they also amended the original route for the march even later than that... helpful bastards!
Anyway, following a 1-1 draw at Tynecastle, I was on the train home later that night when, as we pulled into York, the carriage we were in, was invaded by a marauding gang of noisy drunks, hell-bent on causing destruction and announcing themselves to the world as part of the Leeds United Service Crew. They weren't!
Actually they were amusing enough in their own way, posturing bravely with the OTT excesses of a confidence born out of being a part of a 'safety in numbers' and near-paralytic mob. But we've become indifferent to this frequent kind of Saturday night interruption on inter-city trains, so we just ignored their presence until they piled off at the next station after somebody had pointed out that this train was heading south and didn't actually go to Leeds. Don't worry you plebs, there are plenty of decent pubs in Doncaster.
But never mind the wannabe version of the 'LUSC' (I actually know a good few of the real ones and they're 'nowt like this embarrassing rabble) who we were briefly acquainted with last weekend; as we entered the Stag Ground tonight, we were confronted by the worrying sight of an entire collective mob-handed turnout of the 'GPF'. AKA the 'Ground-hoppers Poundstretcher Firm', it was initially a tense and scary stand-off for few moments as they checked out who our quartet of interlopers were.
I've never so seen many cheap kagouls (mandatory washed out pastel colours), greasy and dandruff flecked pudding basin haircuts, shiny-arsed polyester school trousers and two sizes too big supermarket bargain-bin trainers ("Wear two pairs of big socks with 'em, they'll be alright!), since the Hibs Casuals made their first tentative steps along London Road into Edinburgh and towards the Mound.
I seriously thought that we might have actually passed through a black-hole and fallen into a time-warp when I'd hit the brakes abruptly after spotting that snide speed camera on the A610 bypass road at the very last moment, on our way over here tonight.
The GBF were all armed to the teeth with thermos flasks, spiral-bound notebooks, sharpened pencils and pockets full of 'change jar' shrapnel, so that they could buy up trinkets to commemorate each and every visit to a different ground.
It's a shame that somebody hadn't hit on to the idea of producing a range of souvenir toiletries. I would happily have chipped into any collection going to provide some of these specimens with a squirt of deodorant or a squeeze of toothpaste.
"Excuse me, will you take a picture of me in front of the ground sign, you just have to point it and push the button that says 'push' on it" one of the reprobates asked me.
"Sure, do you want to brush all of those crumbs from your hair first? Oh shit! They're not crumbs, they're moving!"
"Say cheese and stand as far away from me as possible... I'll throw the camera back to you."
A demographic breakdown of the 'GPF', would suggest that 99.73% of them are white males, aged roughly anywhere between their late thirties and the upper end of infinity. They're completely unselfconscious, by nature, which is probably just as well, even though that's not recognised as a real word by Google spellchecker. There were a handful females in attendance, but their presence seemed to provoke an other-worldly response of wonderment from the majority of those present, who probably had no concept of the protocols of social intercourse of any kind with the opposite sex. There was one person present, who I couldn't determine the gender of, who I thought might have been halfway through a transformation from either male to female, or vice-versa, each to there own, live and let live n' all that, but think Anne Widdecombe with stubble and you'll get the picture. Then he spoke and it became apparent that he was from Burnley, so hey! Sideshow over! Cut the guy some slack and make some allowances, it can't have been easy for him. And it would be a boring planet if we were all the same.
![]() |
| Edgar Street, Hereford 1972 |
It occurred to me that the 'Anoraky in the UK' apparel that the 'GPF' and the threads that those trendy young things purporting to be Leeds hooligans on the train a week ago, weren't exactly poles apart. Maybe the latter group have failed to cotton onto the fact that some entrepreneur has found a whole warehouse full of this tat that he's rehashed as a latest fashion. But lads, it's not cool to be sporting the same gear that your dad hated having to wear to go to school in thirty years ago. Those snorkel-parka hoods that restricted ones scope of vision by at least three quarters were consigned to the dustbin of history for a reason.
Think Hereford United fans celebrating on the pitch after their team had just dumped 'mighty' Newcastle out of the FA Cup in 1972... is that really the look you were going for?
There is a bijou shelter that stands behind the goal nearest to the changing room and cafe area at the Stag Ground, but not much else by way of any cover elsewhere, for on the days that spectators will be exposed to the elements. The weather forecast for the weekend round these parts had warned of high-winds, but you know what the weathermen are like, with their scare-mongering, so we paid little heed.
Evidently the meteorologists do actually know their stuff around here and if anything, they were underestimating the gale-force conditions that had first threateningly shown their teeth and had a nip on this breezy Friday night, in advance of arriving with a vengeance on Saturday. Bugger!
Having paid for the £15 Saturday admission pass up front, I discovered that tonight's game would be included as a freebie for all pre-ordered ticket holders and that the programmes for all six games were included in the price too. What a bargain!
Tonight, for whatever reason, Kimberley had two different choices of programmes covers available, including one that depicted a painting of Sheffield United's Bramall Lane ground. The Blades play the best part of fifty miles away from this particular corner of Nottinghamshire, so I have no idea what the thinking was behind such a design.
Seeing as I hadn't expected the ex-gratis entry tonight, I bought one of the 'different' programmes and had a fivers worth of raffle tickets too, that I chucked away and still have no idea if I actually won a tin of Quality Street or not.
![]()
I just thought that it was only fair to give the host club something in lieu of the hospitality and entertainment on offer. Which is at odds with my usual edict of not buying golden goal, half time draw or 50/50 tickets, because they represent a surcharge on top of what I've already paid, or the other monies that I have already donated to a number of local non-league clubs via other ways and means. But I made an exception to my usually stringent rule tonight.
Having snuck out of the house before I'd had any tea I was quite peckish by half-time, but lost my appetite when I saw one of the the top lads from the 'GPF' losing his battle to penetrate what appeared to be a semi-cremated tortoise that had fallen on it's back inside the pie-warming oven, with plastic fork... "Here mi' duck, put us some peas and gravy on this pastie to soften it up a bit", he grunted, spraying around half a pint of saliva all over the poor woman serving refreshments, before emptying virtually all of the contents of a tomato-ketchup bottle all over the culinary concoction and stuffing it into his face. Did he close his mouth while he was chomping away? What do you think!?
Hmm, maybe I'll pick up a fish supper from somewhere on my way home.
Kimberley won tonight's opening 'Football Bonanza' fixture 2-1. It was a game of an unexpectedly and surprisingly high quality, in which both sides created a whole host of chances to test each others respective short-arsed keepers.
The crowd must've been at least tenfold what the home side would've usually expected to turn out, even on a Friday night, when supporters of other local clubs might use the opportunity to squeeze an extra game in before their regular Saturday afternoon fix, but a large number of them seemed to only be paying a scant regard to the game itself and were only actually there to 'experience' the ambience of being present at a game in yet another ground. In fact by the eightieth minute, quite a few of them had retired to Stag Inn to tick to quaff ale and add another name in their 'beer-ticking' journals. 'Beer-tickers', there's another new breed of obsessive compulsives that I must cover at length for you some other time.
FT: Kimberley Town 2 v Rainworth Miners Welfare 1Some people talk of the close proximity of Tannadice and Dens Park in Dundee, or of how it's only a park that separates Anfield and Goodison Park in the city of Liverpool, while others will lay claim that just up t'road from here: Nottingham Forest and Notts County, who play on the opposite sides of the River Trent to each other are supposedly the two closest grounds in the country, but elsewhere in that latter city, we have today's starting point: Lenton Lane, where three neighbouring grounds stand right next to each other, side by side.
Greenwood Meadows are book-ended by Dunkirk FC (which is the first ground you come to on the lane) and Pelican FC who live at the bottom end.
Saturday 20th March 2004CMFL Computer Products Supreme Division
at Lenton Lane
Greenwood Meadows 1A.Beech
Radford FC 2D.Hopley, R.Wooldridge
Attendance: 302
By heck! That wind's starting to pick up.
Standing by the entrance to the bar, which had a bit of a talking point feature inside it that everybody wanted a photograph of (including me), namely a sign that said: 'No Loaded Firearms In The Clubhouse', I surveyed the scene as the assembled hordes gathered around the hastily erected blackboard to studiously copy the team line-ups that were chalked on it into their notebooks.
I waited until they had moved on to the collection of badge and programme stalls, before making good my escape and scurrying past them all to a vantage point beyond the two ramshackle stands that stood either side of the dug-outs.
![]()
As I was passing by, en route to my destination, one individual, wearing an emerald green and white scarf (FFS! You can't go anywhere without encountering one of these gob-shites) spotted my tasteful No Idle Talk t-shirt, adorned with the traditional and old style Hearts crest (i.e. their proper badge) and sarcastically commented. "Ooh look Hearts! I hope that they build flats on their ground soon, so that I can visit a new ground at Murrayfield", as he guffawed at his own wit along with his miscreant chums. "Bloody hell mate, it's only banter!" he said, trying to deflect the possibility of a row away, by suddenly dropping his confrontational and sneering tone, after I'd stopped in my tracks to engage in a 'polite discussion' with him. I told him that if wanted to go to Murrayfield, he'd have to go to a Scottish rugby match there, because even if Hearts are going to play a couple of European games there, they aren't moving away from Tynecastle, not now, not ever.
"But hey! Thanks for your interest... I think! And by the way, I'm not your mate!"
For the record, my other plans for today, had this 'Football Bonanza' not have been taking place, unfolded thus: 1) Motherwell and Hearts was postponed, 2) Middlesbrough v Birmingham City ended up 5-3 and was, by all accounts, 'a wind dictated farce'... and twelve miles away from Lenton Lane, 3) Mansfield Town v Oxford United was abandoned at half-time, with the score standing at 0-0. Apparently the visitors manager had asked the referee to call it off after his side had failed to score in the opening forty-five minutes, despite having had the wind behind their backs. Yes folks, having failed to take advantage of the conditions, he'd bottled it!
But, enough of this 'big-time Charlie' football for one day, I'm here to digest a large portion of the grassroots variant of the game.
Present today for this momentous occasion was legendary non-league institution that goes by the name of 'Wolfie' (I learned later in the day, that he is actually called David Roxborough, which isn't anywhere near as awe-inspiring superhero moniker). His unkempt beard and hair, gave him the appearance of the 'Werewolf by Night' Marvel comics character of legend, although thankfully apparent reports of any lycanthropy and rampant blood-lust later in the evening when the moon appeared over the Asterdale Sports & Social Club in Spondon are grossly exaggerated. Dave's particular fetish is: he must touch the match-ball, when it goes out of play during each and every game he attends at a new ground, or he has to re-visit the same place again, for however many times it takes for him to succeed in his quest.
![]()
'Wolfie' raced around like a headless chicken behind the goal that Radford were attacking, vying with a gang of local schoolkids for any stray shots, until he finally and triumphantly copped for a miscued half-volley into his midriff, raised the ball symbolically above his head, dropped to his knees (he might have been winded) and let out a howling sound, before consulting his stopwatch and recording his goal time in his dog-eared old notepad.
Jesus wept! What on earth is this spectacle that I've just witnessed about!? Who are these people? Where does this subculture of misfits actually live? It's got be somewhere dark, damp, underground and outside the parameters of our understanding, that's for sure.
The cult celebrity 'Wolfie' received a heartfelt round of applause for his efforts... in contrast there was a barely audible ripple of applause, whenever a goal was scored throughout all five (or even six) games. The football itself appeared to be merely a peripheral distraction for a lot of those present. Who were infinitely more interested in their surroundings than anything that might be occurring out on the actual field of play.
For the record, the visitors won 1-2, all the goals were scored while the attacking team had the wind behind them, a statistic that would only be contradicted once between the hours of 11AM and 9.53PM today... and you know what? In having duly noted and recorded such a thing, I have started to realise what I'm gradually becoming too, although their are many people who would claim that I've been living in denial to that end for long enough now and it is high time that I embraced the inevitable.
I wonder what my wacky party-piece should be?
FT: Greenwood Meadows 1 v Radford FC 2
![]() |
| Cuttings from the Non League Paper |
Saturday 20th March 2004CMFL Computer Products Supreme Division
At the Brian Wakefield Sports Ground
Pelican FC 1
A.Frawley
Dinnington Town 2
G.Clarke, J.Saville (surely not!)
Attendance: 312
One of the assembled reprobates, traditionally walks all the way around the (inside of) the ground just after kick-off, receiving cheery encouragement as he strides on from his peers. He seemingly never tires of telling anybody who is willing to listen that: "You can't really claim to have visited a ground unless you seen the game from all four sides of it", before adding the punchline (although he wasn't joking) of: "And have touched all four of the corner flags!".
Some might say the kind of quirks that these people display are mere humorous eccentricities, but I would suggest that there were more people actually laughing at him than with him.
"Is anybody actually here to watch the football!?" I exclaimed, rather a bit too loudly for the liking of a nearby huddle of 'cheese-rangers', who frowned upon me with their mean as hell Paddington Bear stares while tutting their obvious disdain. Why am I calling them 'cheese-rangers' you might ask... well, this particular group, had bought along a set of foldaway tables and chairs, along with vast selection of their favourite dairy products for each other to sample at games.
No harm in that you might think, as did I until I heard one of them declare, with a simpleton cheery glow upon his ruddy face: "You can't claim to have visited a ground unless you've had a nice slab of goat's milk cheese within it's boundaries".
Go on, you think I'm making this all up now, don't you!? But I have witnesses who will back up my every word... on condition that their faces can be hidden and voices altered if they're providing video evidence, lest the elders of the 'GPF' should seek retribution against them at a later date.
The game itself was completely ruined as a spectacle by the ever-worsening weather conditions, another 1-2 away win that included that aforementioned only goal of the day that was scored by a team playing into the wind (in case anybody is still reading this overview of events, or still gives a shit).
There was a loud bang like a bomb going off, "Don't worry yourself chaps, it was just a small uprooted tree bouncing off of the roof of the stand" boomed a man wearing an oversized Fedora hat adorned with a very fetching display of pheasant feathers and a collection of East German non-league badges. Once again, I have people that can verify this version of events.
And for the record, it really was the sound of a sapling in flight, falling onto the corrugated roof.
The game was descending into farce, as twigs and debris blew across the by now litter strewn pitch.
The sight of several fence panels, that appeared from a nearby building site and crashed into an undignified heap behind one of the goals, would have marked the end of the game for me, if I was was refereeing, but hell no! Mr Washington and his assistants were having none of it and the game was completed.
Had it not have reached a genuine conclusion, then the majority of those present would have declared their visit null and void and insisted on visiting Pelican FC. Likewise, there were a good number in attendance who would have had to return if no goals had been scored, because: "You can't count nil-nil draws". In fact, there were also people here, who would have turned around and gone home, without even watching any of the game, if the host club hadn't produced a programme, or had sold out of them by the time they had arrived (well, get here earlier then you daft 'owd chuff-pieces).
![]()
Late in the game, the stray ball nestled in a nearby tree... cue 'Wolfie' furiously shaking it's bows to dislodge the prized Mitre size 5... a resounding cheer filled the air as the leather sphere broke free and bounced towards it's rescuer. What happened next was pure pantomime, as 'Dave' broke into a jog towards the ball, a big lump of a guy playfully cut across his path and tackled him before playing a slide-rule pass to his even chunkier mate, they were only toying with the wolf guy and would've surrendered the ball to him after tormenting the harmless bloke for a while longer, but diligently sticking to his task 'Wolfie' panicked and fought back so hard that he lost his jacket, before lunging headlong into an attempted tackle, but in doing so went over awkwardly and instead of howling with delight at retrieving his raison d'être, he let out a bloodcurdling scream as his ankle swelled up to the same size as his treasured orb, he was obviously in a lot of pain.
Truly a 'hopper' in every sense of the word now, he'd have to circumnavigate the remainder of the days activities on one leg, 'Wolfie' brushed aside the advice of several concerned onlookers to visit a hospital ASAP, and said he would wait until after the final game to get it seen too. My friend suggested that it would be pointless going to the Queen's Medical Centre in Nottingham anyway, because the psychiatric ward was closed at the weekend.
FT: Pelican 1 v Dinnington Town 2
Saturday 20th March 2004CMFL Computer Products Supreme Division
at the Ron Steels Sports Ground
Dunkirk FC 0
Retford United 1
G. Castledine
Attendance: 270
Leaving Pelican FC behind, we retraced our steps back past Greenwood Meadows enclosure and were soon at the Ron Steels Sports Ground
It was my last chance to make a bid for freedom and an early exit from the 'Bonanza', because several people from down our street (it's where today's visitors to Dunkirk: Retford United, live too) are over in Nottingham for this game (and this game alone), so there were several escape pods lined up in the car-park, offering me the option of a quick getaway. But Hey! I'm made of sturdier stuff than that and I'm going to tough it out until after the final final whistle tonight. Truth be told, I was genuinely enjoying myself anyway.
The pitch boundary walker had taken on the guise of some Peter Pan type character and now had a dozen or so equally silly and giddy companions joining him on his route march. It was akin to that scene in Forrest Gump, when his growing army of disciples following him cross-country for no apparent reason other than that they needed something (anything) to fill a void in their otherwise empty lives... I suspect the comparison today was slightly more than a mere coincidence.
This game marked a showdown between the league's top two sides and was probably selected for a 3PM start, just ten minutes after the previous game had finished, so that the sneaky and contrary clique of holier than thou puritanical hoppers, could leave the main party and bugger off somewhere else for the remainder of the afternoon and then reappear at Sandiacre later on, showing us all their
Gedling Miners Welfare v Heanor Town programme to prove how special they were for being so hip and cool to go their own way. I bet their mums were always telling them they were special back in the day too.
It's a curious way to go about one-upmanship if you ask me, but you didn't so moving swiftly on. Retford cemented their lead at the top of the table with a 0-1 win, when a free-kick, taken by the former Mansfield Town player, Gary Castledine, moved about like buggery in the swirling wind and confused the hosts goalkeeper so much he could only palm the ball into his own net.
And here's a picture of young Mr Castledine, standing outside Mansfield Town's Field Mill ground, with my eleven year old daughter, when the Stags had an open day (in 1993), she's taller than him nowadays.
The weather veins on local churches were glowing red hot and showering their parishioners with sparks by now... it was pointless trying to write anything about any of the football on display, because it was all being played out in a manner that resembled a 'Sunshine Bus' full of special needs kids chasing a balloon about on a very windy beach.
By way of an example of just how bad things had got, the Dunkirk keeper launched a goal-kick towards the centre circle with all of his might, only to see the ball stop dead in the oncoming wind, before doing a complete u-turn in midair and heading straight back towards it's original take off point and bouncing over the crossbar... what an own goal that would've been!
FT: Dunkirk FC 0 v Retford United 1
Saturday 20th March 2004
CMFL Computer Products Supreme Division
at St. Giles Park, Sandiacre
Sandiacre Town 2
N.Ghislanzoni D.Hale
Nettleham 0
Attendance: 284
"So then, how do you spell it? Is it just one word as in 'groundhopper', or two as in 'ground hopper' or is it more of a 'ground-hyphenated-hopper'? These things keep me awake at night, don't they you?"
I had no idea who the person talking to me while I queued at the bar was, nor have I ever seen him again, thankfully, but I bet the hours just fly by when you're sandwiched in between him and a window-seat on a train.
I pretended to be hard of hearing, in an attempt to fend off his attention, so he repeated all of the above, very loudly. "Oh, I don't have a word for what we're doing", I replied "I just like football".
"I've just been to Gedling y'know!" He cheerily responded (I'd guessed as much) "Have you ever been there?"
"Yeah, loads of times, one of the linesmen there today was a mate of mine". 'Shouty Man' (they'll all have new nicknames by 10PM tonight, eyed me suspiciously and consulted his programme before quizzing me to check out the authenticity of my claim. "His name's Darren Wragg, top lad, he will have been using the red flag today".
"Wow! I thought I was a sad bastard!" he said and turned his back on me.
Cheers Wraggy! You just rescued me from an audience with Mr Goddamn Boring (and the more annoying ones will have two nicknames before 10PM.
I get the emails detailing all of the match officials in this league, in readiness for the days that I stand in and help my mate out at a CMFL club (who shall remain nameless), with his admin duties. I can write his signature without even looking, but that sort of thing is common practice at this level of the game, so I'm not exactly talking out of turn and grassing anybody up here.
At one of today's games, my mates wife who is partial to a bit of this football travelling malarkey had asked me: "Hey Rob, didn't we see him over there playing for somebody else earlier on?" and we most certainly had, but he wasn't using his own name the first time around, so Que sera.
He wasn't involved in this game I hasten to add... but even though that narrows it down quite a lot, I've forgotten the who, where, when and why-fore of the situation if the league registrar ever happens to want to pull me up about the matter. It's one of my pet hates in local non-league football, when I hear certain sanctimonious chairmen and managers gobbing off about any of the aforementioned methods of 'cheating', when I know full well that they're just as guilty as anyone else. You know who you are... and so do I mi' duck, so dismount that high horse and shut thi' sen up. There are leagues higher up football's food-chain where all of this naughty stuff goes on too, but you'll have to wait until I publish the forthcoming warts n' all book.
![]()
St. Giles Park has a sheltered standing area at one end and is based on a field that is cut out out of an escarpment along one side, it's a really nice setting for a ground and the natural landscape makes for a great windshield. I was quite taken with the place actually and very impressed with the clubhouse and the range of beer and food on offer.
The fact that you were only supposed to use three sides of the ground to watch the game from, for health and safety reasons, must've complicated things for 'Walking Man' and his merry bunch, but clubs bend over backwards to accommodate the invading masses at these sort of events, given that they probably receive the same amount in takings as they usually would over an entire season, in one single day, so it's good business to turn a blind eye to a few excesses... particularly the perfectly harmless and daft ones.
![]()
I took a phone call asking how my day was shaping up, it was Mrs W cheerily telling me how much she had spent in Meadowhall today and asking me if the hoppers had been as odd as all the myths make them out to be... "I'll tell you what love, I think Roy off of Corrie and his odd-looking transsexual bride have just walked past us", I turned to see what my mate was nodding towards while coughing profusely. Whoops! They hadn't walked by yet, but had stopped to admire the view instead
... and I was now in real danger of coming a cropper. I tried to backtrack: "When I say odd-looking, I mean different, not conventionally beautiful but quite stunning in their own way!" I didn't convince anybody and mi' Julie said "I'll talk to you when you're not so drunk and talking gibberish!"
I wasn't drunk.. and I always speak complete and utter gibberish, it's my second language.
Mr and Mrs C glowered and walked away, they had the proper strop on too... but seriously, was there really any need for anybody to start 'der-derring' the Coronation Street theme out loud?
I'd seen Nettleham play a few weeks ago and had arrived at the conclusion that it had been the most awful and mundane spectacle I'd ever seen on a football pitch.
Suffice to say, I've watched an awful lot of football over the years and a lot of awful football, but that night at Mulsanne Park had been especially hideous. In actual fact the highlight of the night had been comparing mosquito bites with my mate on the drive home, the lights there don't half attract the annoying bitey things.
So, in all honesty, I wasn't expecting anything even tenuously resembling any sort of a riveting game to unfold before our eyes, but the ambience of the place, along with the respite from the Tsunami that had hit the Notts/Derbs border today, helped to ease the pain a little.
![]() |
| It's a nettle, not a ganja-plant. |
I got chatting to 'Ann Widdecombe with stubble' and a couple of guys who'd travelled up from Somerset and had booked into a hotel in Nottingham so that they could attend all six games... and I was very impressed with their extensive knowledge of all things football related, particularly when they criticised one Chris 'Pieman' Robinson for his heinous suggestion that the only way that Heart of Midlothian FC could survive was to sell their ground and move up the road to the local rugby stadium. They asked about the details of the fans protest to save the old ground... it's a good job that I'm never off duty and don't ever leave the house without the apt literature upon my person and pretty soon they all had more shiny paper things to stuff into their carrier bags with all of the other mementos of the day.
Sandiacre strolled to a comfortable two-nil win in an unspectacular game. While Nettleham provided most of the unspectacular bits.
FT: Sandiacre Town 2 v Nettleham 0
Saturday 20th March 2004
CMFL Computer Products Supreme Division
at Asterdale Sports & Social Club, Spondon
Graham St. Prims 1
D.Cole
Blackwell Miners Welfare 0
Attendance: 301
"And now the end is near"...
First things first. It's Graham Street Prims, not Graham Saint Prims, because I knew you'd all been wondering about it..
The club badge is a dead giveaway to this end. They play next door to Borrowash Victoria y'know (well, you do now).
I was feeling mischievous as the players warmed up and pondered, how great it would be to remove a couple of the corner flags from the far end of the pitch, thus finally scuppering 'Walking Man' and his ambitions for the day/night, along with wiping the smiles off of the faces of those aimless creatures who'd taken to parading around the various pitches with him... thus denying them their last lap of honour.
Looks can be deceptive and though I might come across of some kind of jovial type, I'm a right horrible little bastard when the mood takes me.
However, I didn't want to incur the wrath of the entire 'GPF', AKA three hundred of them, with their patience stretched to the breaking point by a whole day of lacklustre football and crap weather, all combined with the harmful side effects of a near lethal and toxic mix of the numerous E numbers in all of those bottles of Panda Pop, the dubious content of the unfit for human consumption burgers at a couple of places today (definitely not Sandiacre though, their steak sandwiches were superb) and the UHT milk in those Styrofoam cups of tepid tea.
I chickened out. And you would have done too!
I was expecting a grand finale of a goal-fest. I've only seen Blackwell in action once before, when Retford United had played there... and having lead by two goals to one at half-time, they became a slapstick comedy turn after the interval and shipped in nine goals. Their manager memorably shouted out to his keeper: "There hasn't been a rule change at half-time, you're still allowed to use your f*cking hands!".
Having also seen Prims in a high-scoring game before, the omens bode well that there would be some top-class entertainment on offer as a grand-finale to this world record breaking and monumental occasion. But football doesn't work like that. The players probably had better options and other places they wanted to be at 8PM on a Saturday night and merely went through the motions and the game was dull, dull, dull. Prims left-back Dave Cole scrambled home the only goal of the game with two minutes left to go... and that was that.
FT: Graham Street Prims 1 v Blackwell Miners Welfare 0
![]() |
| Better than a Blue Peter badge and a Crackerjack pencil. |
If you'd had your match-pass verified as you entered all five of today's games, you could claim a personalised and numbered certificate in the Asterdale 'Banqueting & Sports Club' after the game... but I mean, what sort of a sad anorak groundhopper, ground hopper or even ground-hopper would you have to be to carry on like that?
The annoying Hibs fan was back: "About earlier, I was only joking, no offence intended", he offered me his hand to shake, but I pretended not to notice his conciliatory gesture. He was on his own now and not showing off to his companions anymore.
"No problem" I benevolently muttered, "Here, if you like jokes, I know a really good one!".
There was a classroom full of nine year old girls in Leith having a sex education lesson... and the teacher asked if anybody knew anything about the male anatomy... quick as a flash, little Mary's hand shot up and he said: 'My dad's got a willy like a peanut miss!'
'What!?' exclaimed the teacher, 'Your fathers genitalia is so small it resembles a peanut?'
'Naw miss' replied Mary 'When I suck on it it's salty'.
Mr Hibs, he had two nicknames by now too, but I don't use that c word in polite company as a rule, shook his head and walked away. I'm not anti-social, but surely we all encounter people from time to time that we have no wish to befriend, because we instantly dislike them and hold them in very low regard based on first impressions..
Am I wrong to shun a fellow human being, based on the fact that they support one of the several football teams I dislike? You might answer yes to that, so we'll have to agree to disagree on the matter. It's my demarcation line and I'll draw it wherever I want.
We bid our fellow travellers farewell, the overwhelming majority of them were good sorts, all told and as we headed back towards the car, somebody shouted: "Don't forget about the Easter West Country Groundhop Bonanza next month!"... I'll try not to, but I can't promise 'owt.
Coming soon... next Saturday: I'm at Birmingham City v Leeds United and the following weekend, I'll be spending a few days in Scotland, encompassing Celtic v Hearts on the Saturday and the re-arranged Motherwell v Hearts game a couple of days later. In between times: I'll be bound for Mansfield Town v Torquaty United on Tuesday 30th March... and taking in anything else that takes my fancy in between. It's how I roll.
