Back to Blighty One Last Time

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Back to Blighty One Last Time.
Friday, 17th - Monday, 28th October 2024 

Summary: 

The fish and chips.

From Marakkech to Darlington. (Friday, 17th October)

Day 224 (18 to go)

As we left Africa behind, the flight headed north over Spain, the Bay of Biscay until, at last, we reached the white cliffs of the Southern coast of England and soon enough the plane was approaching Gatwick airport surrounded by its green and pleasant land. 

Getting though security in London was, in complete contrast to Marrakech (even after Brexit), an absolute doddle, and took just moments. Another reason to dread going back to Morocco.

After a quick pork pie we headed to Gatwick train station and picked up our rail tickets. Leb had a few hours to wait (to be spent supping endless teas in Wetherspoons) but I had a train to catch pretty much straight away as I had a long journey north. Leb was going back to Stroud.

After a big goodbye kiss (we'll be 12 days apart) I was off to Victoria and then across London on the tube to King's Cross to catch the 5:30 to Edinburgh, stopping at Darlington.

Another pork pie before getting on the train and four tins of Doom Bar would keep me going. I have to admit I was a bit embarrassed supping my ale next to a young dude who appeared to be studying for a law exam, presumably at York, where he got off. One raised eyebrow and I had my retort ready... I'm old.. and I don't care, young man!

Darlington station is magnificent and my next stay was just a few hundred metres away. The Dalesman is part hotel and part busy pub. It is also just across the road from a chippy. My joy at discovering this didn't last long though... not the best, shall we say.

Still. All very good. I'm so pleased to be back in good Old England again. It was great to watch a bit of football in the public bar downstairs too.

I had a chat with a lovely old Darlington fan. He was impressed with my heroic tale of reaching the 92 up here in 2000. I watched Hartlepool v Exeter in a 12:30 kick off, drove here to Feethams to watch Darlington v Sheffield United for a 3pm start and then, the next day, up to Sunderland v Wimbledon at their, then, brand new Stadium of Light for a Sunday game to complete the much sought after full set of league grounds visited.

Of course both Darlo and Hartlepool are outside the league these days. It's for reasons like this that my 92 has gone down to below 70 today. That night, Leeds deserved their 2-0 win in their top of the table clash against local rivals Sheffield United and it was good to see that Chesterfield won away at Newport too. I'm hoping to see them for the first time at their new ground next Tuesday.

Meanwhile, Leb had caught a train to Stroud and was catching up with her sister, Tina.

Seeing Boro with Boro at Boro's new stadium. (Satuday, 18th October)

Day 225 (17 to go)

The two main objectives, for me, for this last phase of our gargantuan tour was to catch up with old friends I haven't seen and to catch up on some football, especially if played on grounds I hadn't been to before.

The first leg, a trip up to Darlington, was the perfect example of both. Having arrived here at the Dalesman Hotel last night, today I was going to meet up with one of my old mates from Nottingham University, and together watch a game at a ground I'd never been to before.

But first, I had some chores to do. I needed to do a laundry run as I was running out of clean clothes. According to Google, and the staff at the hotel confirmed it, the nearest laundrette was a twenty minute walk away on the northern side of town. So I set off for it with my bag of smelly clothes. Darlington has an attractive town center and I picked up some cash and bought a new mobile phone cable as I seem to have lost one.

The laundrette was not too busy and I didn't have to wait long. The cycle took 35 minutes so I had time to pop next door to Andrews butchers where they had a number of items for sale for this market. I had a yummy brekkie roll and a coffee before I returned to dry my clothes. I walked back via the Cornmill Shopping Center where I had a weird experience. I was in Primart looking to buy some.new chinos. £10 was a good price. I went in the changing room to try them on but they were too small ( perhaps not surprisingly, considering my dietary intake these last 200 days or so ). I gave the trousers to the girl on the changing room counter and then... all hell broke loose. A very loud alarm went off with an authoritative sounding voice telling all the customers to leave immediately because there had been "a serious security incident." I still don't know what that was all about.

Anyway... job done, just in time to get back to the hotel for noon where I'd arranged to get picked up by my old Uni mate, Andy Smales, who we quickly called "Boro" because... he's a massive Middlesbrough fan (Boro).

Boro had arranged to meet up with some of his old friends in a pub near the ground.

First I had a sad nerdy request to make... please could we do a quick detour to 11 Valley Road so I can take a selfie? This was the address of the modest semi detached house where a certain Brian Clough was born and grew up. On the way there, Boro added another nerdy detour... to the George Reynolds Arena.

I must admit I'd never heard of this guy, or the stadium before, but he is an infamous character in the area. He took over the running of Darlington FC in 1999 and spent millions on a classic white elephant of a project - to build a brand new 25,000 seater stadium for the club. To cut a long story short the project was a disaster, the ground was miles from the town center unlike their previous lovely ground, Feethams and was never filled. The club soon went bust and Reynolds ended up in prison.

In Middlesbrough we went to an oddly named Wetherspoons pub, The Swatters Carr, where we met up with three of Boro's old school mates. After a couple of pints we walked to the ground, the Riverside Stadium. This was my first visit there. It's an impressive stadium and Boro walked me around the ground before we took our seats in the main stand. Having reached the 92 back in 2000, the total had gradually whittled away as some clubs have been relegated from the league and others built new grounds. By my reckoning, going to the Riverside takes me back up to 70.

Before the game there was one of the most touching minute's applause I'd ever experienced. It was for Bristol City's manager, Liam Manning, who tragically lost his baby son a few days ago. Looking around the ground, I think every one of the over 24,000 fans present participated. Wonderful.

The game itself started brightly with Middlesbrough threatening to score repeatedly. Unfortunately they couldn't put the ball in the net. Typically, later in the half, poor passes in front of goal led to Bristol City gaining possession and immediately showing their hosts how to put their chances away.

So, it was 0-2 at half time and that's the way it stayed. Poor Boro huffed and puffed but didn't create many chances as the game progressed.

After the game spluttered to an inevitable defeat, the fans drifted away from the ground. We said our goodbyes and Boro kindly gave me a lift back to Darlo.

I had a pint in the Dalesman whilst watching the second half of Bournemouth v Arsenal before popping out for my 4th pork pie in two days.

Whilst Leb is staying with her sister in Stroud, I'm heading south to Leeds and Hull tomorrrow.

Darlo to Leeds to 'Ull and then back to Leeds. (Sunday, 19th October)

Day 226 (16 to go)

The second full day back in blighty started early. I set my alarm for 7 am and was out of the room 40 minutes later. It was just a five minute walk up the hill to Darlington station where I boarded the 8:17 transpennine service to Manchester, stopping at Leeds, a place that gives me very mixed feelings. On the one hand I have scary memories of violence there a couple of times. One night in 1981 in particular, my old uni mate from Southampton, Graham Batey, got chased off into the night, cornered and beaten up by a bunch of thugs. But on the other hand, two of my daughters studied / lived here for a while and I also have an old, warm fuzzy feeling about it as I was a bit of a Leeds fan in the Don Revie era.

If ever I encounter a thuggish looking Leeds fan, I am ready to rattle off the Leeds team from that era or start singing...

"Marching on together

We're going to see you win.

We are so proud

We shout it out loud

We love you Leeds. Leeds. LEEDS!"

( I understand neither of these are likely to impress a yob in his late teens or early twenties who has spotted Im not wearing a Leeds scarf though!)

Leeds station is big and very impressive and I soon located the Wetherspoons for a big full English breakfast and two cups of tea.

At 10:45 I was joined by another good old mate from my school and university days, Paul Stevenson. We popped out to the nearby carpark where his dear wife Lisa Stevenson was waiting by the car for me to dump my heavy bag into the boot. She kindly took it back to their house (and actually up into the bedroom they've let me use... I was going to do that!) whilst we went back to the station to catch another train to Hull and another Championship game at another new stadium for me (the 71st)... Hull City v Sunderland at the MKM Stadium (I thought it was the KC... it's so hard to keep up with these stadium name changes). It was great catching up with Paul and we chatted away whilst sat next to a bunch of five people who didn't seem to say very much.

The weather forecast was terrible and as we got off the train and headed out from the station towards the old town it was very windy and the skies were grey. We scuttled off to find somewhere to have a pint. I'm so pleased that Paul is my kind of man on these matters and he'd located the oldest pub in Hull, Ye Olde White Harte. I'd found it on Google too, so it was the obvious first port of call. We both love old pubs and this one has a rich history. Apparently it was the residence of the deputy-governor of Hull back in the day and was the location of a meeting to plot the overthrow of the local Catholic governor,, following the arrival of William of Orange in England in1688.

The lovely old bar soon filled with some very nice friendly senior Sunderland fans and although no political plotting took place, some light-hearted banter was exchanged. These Mackems (so definitely *not* Geordies) also informed us who the current Sunderland manager was as neither of us knew. It is the Frenchman Régis Le Bris. Remember that name.

After two nice pints of Theakstons bitter we popped around the corner to another old pub called The George, where I had a pint of Timmy Taylor's Landlord. There were no Sunderland fans there, but they did show the Wolves v Man City game. I was chuffed to have been actually watching the TV when Wolves took an early lead.

Then, Paul ordered an Uber to pick us up at surely one of the most bizarre street names ever - Land of Green Ginger - to take us to the ground. The driver had come down all the way from Huddersfield to get some football fan work. The traffic was pretty bad as we approached the ground and at one point the car in front of us had this sign on the back window... "Даугавпилс."

Now that's something you don't see every day and one to send a chill down my spine. Daugavpils is a big town in Latvia not far from the border with "Russia" (even the name is stolen from Kyiv.). Seeing the name in Russian sent a clear signal out for me - this was a car driven by a Russian imperialist, the last thing I was expecting.

It was bumper to bumper and time was ticking so we jumped out and walked the last 15 minutes to the stadium just as Man City were equalising at Molineaux. The ground is one of those modern ones, outside the city center, surrounded by open space and car parks, but with no pub for miles.

The ground, and I presume club, is now owned by some Turkish billionaire and the Turkish flag flies alongside the Union Jack outside.

We took our seats, just three minutes late, next to a bit of a joker. "That'll be £10 please" he chirped.

"You Sunderland fans?"

"No. We're neutral" was our disappointingly factual reply. I still can't think of a wittier reply even now.

Paul then wooed him with some impressive knowledge about the Hull team that I lacked so I think we managed to get on good terms.

The ground was pretty full, just short of its 25,000 capacity, and the two sets of fans were generating a great atmosphere. I was, I must say, very disappointed to see Sunderland in their tepid away kit. I hate the way clubs change their colours so readily these days. There's no way Sunderland's famous red and white striped shirts clash with Hull's black and gold but they changed to all light blue anyway. Boo!!

It was a pretty pulsating first half with both teams showing a lot of intent and no little skill. The black cats (Sunderland's strange ⁴knickname) created most chances with Jobe Bellingham, a spitting image of his more famous brother, coming very close. But at half time it remained 0-0 with Sunderland definitely looking the better team.

It was a bit surreal having a pee at half time with an advert on the wall staring down at you, encouraging you to buy a house and get citizenship in Turkiye. I guess it's only to be expected in an increasingly multicultural world.

Supping a bottle of Carling Black Label in the communal bar area, we were able to watch the final dramatic moments at Wolves where John Stones headed in a winner for Man City in the 4th minute of injury time. Damn! A fifth consecutive title for UAE City is ominously looming already.

We returned to our seats before the joker and his mate from Hull and when they turned up I said "£10 please... or should we call it quits?"

The Tigers came out of their cage roaring and for 15 minutes it looked like we were going to witness a shock result. Their Algerian, Beloumi, fired just wide and when their big number 9, Bedia, hit the crossbar it seemed only a matter of time before Hull would score. The mood around us lightened as the weather brightened and the skies turned blue.

Football has a way of providing the totally unexpected though, and a few minutes later another Hull attack broke down, seemingly because the referee got in the way of one of their forwards. The ball was intercepted by a sky blue shirted player and he launched a long ball upfield onto which the Frenchman Wilson Isidor took full advantage. He dribbled into the box and beat the goalkeeper to give Sunderland the lead. The booes cascaded down from three sides of the ground and the guy next to us kindly explained why "the referee interfered with play there. He should have stopped play and given the ball back to Hull."

"I am actually a referee" he said, as his mate rolled his eyes. I must say I didn't notice the interference at the time but even if true, there was still an awful lot to do from picking up the ball just outside their box, to scoring at the other end.

Anyway, once ahead, Sunderland flipped back into their confident first half persona. The old adage has it "goals change games" and that was the case again here. A bit like Boro against Bristol City yesterday, "Ull 'uffed and puffed but couldn't create any real danger. When the 90 minutes were up our joker left in disgust and when the final whistle blew five minutes later his friend surprised us with a long suppressed "Yes!!"

"What? We thought you were a Hull fan!?"

"No. Don't tell my mate but I'm Sunderland till I die. I live around here nowadays but I've always been Sunderland."

It seems an odd thing to keep something as big as that from your "mate"!

We walked back 25 minutes to the station and, after a coffee, boarded the train with the five quiet people who had come across with us from Leeds. One lady and four men.

We asked the lady "Did you have a nice day? What did you do?"

"We went to the match" she said with a very slight accent.

I was surprised, I must admit, and I asked where they were from. Norway.

Apparently they'd all been on a crazy football binge just like me! They'd been to Shrewsbury v Exeter, Leeds v Sheffield United, Manchester United v Brentford and now this!

Football really does conjure up the totally unpredictable.

... and, sadly, the all too predictable as well.

Also on the train in the next carriage were a bunch of Sunderland "boot boys" as they call themselves. Clearly over the moon with their win, which took them back to the top of the league, and tanked up tut eye balls on beer they started singing the kind of moronic chants that only football fans are capable of.

"Having a laugh

And taking the piss,

We're top of the league,

With Regis le Bris"

Was the best of them.

This, I should say, was like poetry, like a creation of Paul McCartney, compared to some of the other filth that came out of their mouths.

As Paul said... " ... and we thought football hooliganism was dead!"

One chant was particularly, disgustingly misogynistic. It was on the tip of my tongue to say something like "come on lads, there are ladies on this train. Keep it decent, please. " but I was too cowardly.

Bizarrely, as we all got off at Leeds, they transformed from yobs into nice lads. Butter wouldn't melt in their mouths. Forest fan? I love Cloughie. Great man.

I am ashamed that I didn't even say one word about their chanting then either, but just wanted to get off the train and away from them as quickly as possible.

Back in Leeds we caught a taxi back to Paul's house where Lisa was preparing a most delicious supper for us, a chicken stew with amazing dumplings. After a relaxing night in front of the telly it was off to bed for all of us

Forest tomorrow!! COYR!!!

Forest 1 Crystal Palace 0. (Monday, 20th October)

Day 227 (15 to go)

Paul made us a great breakfast before he drove us south, down the M1, to Nottingham. We were a few minutes too early to check into our rooms in The Premier Inn, so we popped down the Bell Inn for a quick pint.

We then checked in and set off the the big match at The World Famous City Ground.

The route we chose took us to a few classic Nottingham pubs: Ye Olde Trippe to Jerusalem (1189), the Canalhouse and the Trent Navigation as well as the Carrington's Fish and Chip shop.

As we crossed Trent Bridge with the wonderful sight of the floodlit City Ground to our left we bumped into Simon Bishop who was also going to the match.

There was still 25 minutes until kick off when we arrived at the ground to join the long queues. I was a little worried for a while but we did get in the ground in time for kick off.

It was great to be back at the ground I used to go to pretty much every fortnight as a teenager.

I sat high up in the Brian Clough stand, very close to where I used to have a season ticket.

I remember watching one previous match against Palace from up there late in the 1979-80 season. Forest were winning 4-0 and Trevor Francis was playing the best he'd ever played. He was stood at the edge of the Bridge Bridgeford End box and a ball was played through to him. Such was his acceleration and power, he would have been onto it in a flash and probably added a fifth goal.

Instead... BANG! The crack of what sounded like a gun echoed around the ground and Francis went down in a heap. Francis said he thought he'd been shot, and it seemed the most likely explanation at the time until we learned his Achilles tendon had snapped. Francis missed the European Cup final against Hamburg in Madrid and was out for about a year.

Fast forward back to tonight and there was a great atmosphere as always and you sensed most of the 29,443 (this, note, is 4,000 more than saw the Francis injury, for a team about to play in the European Cup final) in the ground were trying to will Forest on to victory.

Palace have struggled this season but no-one was fooled. They're a better team than their league position suggests and indeed created several chances. Forest did too and Ryan Yates hit the post with a header. Elliott Anderson impressed with a dazzling display of skill, filling in for the injured (and suspended) Morgan Gibbs-White.

The game was tied at 0-0 at half time but Palace came out strongly in the second half. I got a bit depressed as it looked like Forest were heading for defeat but this team has a lot more resilience these days. Our goalie, Matz Sels made a few brilliant saves to keep us in the game and the defence held firm.

We needed a goal, because goals change games and it was provided by Chris Wood, Forest's top scorer. He latched onto a loose ball and struck it early, catching their goalkeeper (and our ex) Dean Henderson, unaware and the ball slipped into the net.

Palace did still create a few chances but the goal did indeed change the game and Forest grew in confidence towards the end, with several key substitutions. Jota added real energy as did my favourite, Neco Williams.

The noise levels rose as the seven minutes of injury time ticked away. It reached a crescendo when the final whistle blew.

This first home win of the season took Forest into eighth place... what a brilliant start to the season.

We had a couple of celebratory drinks back in the Trent Navigation and then walked back through empty streets back to the Premier Inn.

Good night, Paul... and thank you!

Tour of the World Famous City Ground then a trip to Chesterfield for my 1,245th match and 72nd ground. (Tuesday, 21st October)

Day 228 (14 to go)

big football day started slowly with a lie in, missing brekkie, which I have been told are pretty good value for money at Premier Inns.

By the time I dragged myself outside I had an hour to get to the Forest ground for a tour at 12:30 I'd booked after Paul recommended I did so.

I decided to catch the bus but forgot that there are major roadworks going on on Maid Marian Way so a few bus stops were not in use. I ended up walking about 10 minutes, past the Old Salutation and Royal Children (where Robin Hood himself was doing a tour), to catch the #5. A dear Notts County fan told me it was the right bus to catch and where to get off.

"I've only ever been to Forest when County played there" he said. I had to reply that I'd been to Meadow Lane many times.

I got off at the Trent Bridge bus stop and walked over to the ground with twenty minutes to go. Just enough time for some brekkie from Cloughie's Cobb Shop. I scoffed a bacon and egg cobb in no time at all and went into the club shop to wait for our guide, Ian, to round us all up and lead us into the hollowed Peter Taylor stand. I'd never been through that door before so every step was a big thrill for me.

Ian gave us a pep talk in the press room before leading us down the corridor towards the changing rooms.

He gave us a potted history of the club from its origins as a shinty (like hockey) club and as the *original* (Garibaldi) reds and its many early football innovations such as being the first club to use shin pads, corner flags, goal nets and cross bars and even the referee's whistle. There wasn't much to talk about, to be honest, after that until the Cloughie years. I was impressed with his knowledge about all that but he was too young to have experienced it first hand and couldn't remember all the players who won European Cup medals that were at the club before Cloughie came. He listed John Robertson, Martin O'Neill, Viv Anderson and Ian Bowyer but then had the sort of senior moment I struggle with all the time. Was it Brynn Gunn? Tony Woodcock was also there before Clough joined but he left before they got to the final in Munich. (Apparently he did play in Munich... thanks Johnny Kedleston.)

The press room was very cool. This is where the media ask stupid questions to the manager once before, and once after, the match - and they give those oh-so-dull and predictable responses. (At least that's been the case since Martin O'Neill was sacked.) Ian asked "so who wants to have a photo taken in Nuno's chair?:

Like a 13 year old, I jumped up and was the first to do it where I tried to do my Brian Clough finger wagging "now then, young man" impression.

Anyway... then it was into the trophy cabinet room, which is, of course, dominated by two European Cup replicas. Ian told us how no-one is allowed to touch them. I resisted bragging about how I'd held it aloft in 1979 at Nottingham University once, when the club gave a kind of road show parading around the city.

I was disappointed that neither the old First Division Championship trophy nor the original League Cup trophy with its bizarre three handles, were on display. You can't have everything I suppose.

It was very sweet the way Ian got the children in the group to line up and go into the Forest changing rooms first, before the adults, to give them first choice to sit at the places of their favourite players.

Of course, by the time us oldies got in, all the likely big favourites had been taken: Morgan Gibbs-White, Murillo and even Chris Wood after his recent goals. I must say, I was still as happy as Larry (Lloyd), because Neco Williams' spot was spare and it was an honour for me to sit there for a moment. Fans underrate the passion and energy he gives the team when he's playing. Much more than Alex Moreno.

Then we left the dressing room with at least two dads (but no kids) shouting out "Come on! Here we go!" as if about to go out for a big match. We walked down the tunnel and out (almost) onto the pitch. We were understandably not allowed on the grass but we could walk on the manager's astroturf area. I must admit, even this made me feel quite emotional. To think of all those players who I'd watched coming out onto the grass just centimetres from my feet. I looked to the corner of the Main Stand and the Bridgeford End and pictured Duncan McKenzie dancing down the touch line, dribbling rings around the Man City defence before crossing for Ian Bowyer to.make it 4-1 in that FA Cup 4th round tie 50 years ago, the one that irresistibly enticed me to become a Forest fan. There was only one other fan in the group of twenty or so that was old enough to remember that match. We reminisced about it quietly, recognising that the fact we could do so only showed our age. He then confided with me how his wife had died recently and we both had lumps in our throats as we walked under the Trent End to the museum.

To rub it in, we sat and watched a beautifully produced little film which summarised Forest's history with superb historical clips. Colin Fray does a great job of plucking the heart strings by choosing words from all the songs Forest fans sing. "Forest really are magic" he said "... on and off the pitch." I wasn't the only fan holding back the tears as it ended. The museum is a bit small but 15.minutes wasn't really enough time to see even its modest exhibits so the tour ended in a bit of a rush.

Everybody was satisfied though and back at the club shop we had a nice offer of 10% off on anything you wanted to buy. I had thought I might buy a new Forest shirt but couldn't really justify doing so as I have a few already. 90% of £75 is still a lot of money for yet another football shirt.

So that was that. Thanks to Paul Stevenson for his recommendation. I would definitely encourage any Forest fan to go along too.

It was time to do a Brynn Gunn or a Jack Lester and move from the City Ground to Chesterfield. So I caught a bus to Nottingham station and bought a ticket for the next train there. My senior rail card has paid for itself twice over by now I think.

I arrived at about 3pm at the Derbyshire town I'd been induced to hate whilst supporting Mansfield. After connecting to the WiFi and downloading the Google map of Chesterfield, I left the station and its very impressive statue of George Stephenson holding a model of his rocket. I did not know the famous railway pioneer lived the last ten years of his life here.

My first objective was to visit St Mary and All Saints Church. Yes yet another building in honour of the great mystical God in the sky.

This church, though, is famous for a peculiar reason - its crooked spire. This iconic landmark has become the emblem of the town and you see the names of shops, companies and, yes, the local football team all taking advantage of it.

Of course, I also wanted to have a pint in the oldest pub in Chesterfield but this proved sadly impossible as the Royal Oak, which was built, like the Trippe to Jerusalem in Nottingham, in the 12th century, was boarded up and on sale. What a tragedy. I have to say Chesterfield is a lovely town, much prettier than I remember.

Anyway, I had delicious haddock and chips from the "Spire Fryar" and set off to watch "the Spirites" (knickname of Chesterfield FC.)

I stopped in a couple of pubs on the way. I had a pint of Fuller's London Pride in the first (the Crown and Anchor) and Abbot Ale in the second (The Donkey Derby) where I was happy to watch the football highlights of the weekend.

Then I was off to my 72nd ground... the awkwardly named "SMH Group Stadium". I'd been to the good old previous Chesterfield ground, Saltergate, which was their home for 139 years, a few times. During my university years I befriended a big Chesterfield fan who was, most bizarrely, from Twickenham. Steve Armstead used to drive us to Saltergate (and many other grounds) in his little white mini whilst boring the pants of us with his common sense attitude to refereeing. Chesterfield (as we inevitably called him) was bound to doing things right and would end up having a decorated career in the police, receiving an OBE at the Palace.

But honestly getting back to the new ground, it's a bit sick the way they're named according to the highest bidder with no thought for integrity or morality. Since it opened in 2010 it's already had three names

... Proact Stadium, Technique Stadium (yes, bad right?) and now this. I bet Steve Armstead doesn't approve.

Anyway, at least it's quite close to the town center and there are a few pubs around it. I walked around the outside of the stadium and they have tastefully made several panels of the walls with bricks dedicated permanently to fans with the panels themselves dedicated to Chesterfield greats like Ernie Moss and John Duncan.

Once inside I found my seat, literally on the front row and pretty close to the half way line, and took my place among the 7,468 fans. Not bad for a middle of the table 4th tier match. England is the only place in the world with this level.of support. Something to be really proud of.

The steward stood right in front of me blocking some my view until the whistle blew when he immediately sat down with "on the spectrum" efficiency.

The game had hardly started when Colchester, on their first foray into the Spirites' half, scored a goal out of nothing. That wasn't supposed to happen. After they got over the shock of being 0-1 down, Chesterfield started playing some neat football and created several chances.

About 200 fans had made the long journey from Essex and their chants were hilarious in their "cockney-like" accent. Chesterfield (our Steve, that is ) would have felt at home amongst them. More than two syllables is clearly a bit much for Colchester fans, so many of their songs were about this entity called "Col U" whatever that is.

One chant did make me chuckle... "You're just a shit Andy Carroll" sang in honour of a Spirite who, yes, did look quite a bit like the pony tailed Geordie.

In the second half Chesterfield continued to press, with midfielder Darren Oaldaker controlling things. Col U continued to park the bus and waste time at every opportunity. Every knock was received as if the player had been asaulted with a hammer, rolling around like Neymar. The Chesterfield fans responded with a chant I haven't heard for years (maybe at nearby Mansfield) ... "Bring on the dustbin!".

Eventually the Spirites' gallant efforts were rewarded and a deserved equaliser came. But as the clock ticked down, I began to think about leaving.

Normally I'd never do this. Sacrilege! But I did have a train back to Nottingham to catch and if I waited until the end I might get caught in the crush and the traffic. So with 81 minutes on the clock I belted out of the gate and caught the first bus that came.

The driver was keen to know the score but asked questions I was not qualified to answer. "I'm a Forest fan" I said "I went to the game last night". The driver was interested in that too and we missed my stop chatting about it.

He kindly let me off at a red light so I could get to the station a bit quicker where I was relieved to find out I hadn't missed any goals. It ended 1-1.

So, yes, four matches in four days. I've never done a quadruple before. I've done three in successive days twice: once in 1977 and once at the Euros in France in 2016 and I went to four in five days when I came to blighty a couple of years ago. I have no matches scheduled tomorrow or Thursday so it'll have to wait to see if I can ever do a quintuple.

At Chesterfield station I sat in the thankfully nice and warm waiting room for 15 minutes before the train to Nottingham came. It got quite comical as the automated

Announcer kept apologising...

"The 9:56 to Nottingham has been delayed by four minutes. Northern Railways would like to apologise for any inconvenience."

"The 9:52 to Sheffield has been delayed by 19 minutes due to trespassing."

"The 9:55 to Leeds has been cancelled due to a staff member not turning up."

Aw. Bless 'em. At least you get a message and an apology. I don't remember any of that in Germany or Switzerland.

Anyway, my train was delayed only 6 minutes in the end and it was a smooth journey back to Nottingham where I was pleased to discover that the path though where the Broadmarsh Centre used to be has has been opened up. Looks like they're going to make it into some green space. Progress.

A very lovely day ended with the grim news that fascist Trump is ahead in the "battleground states" and that fascist Putin is welcoming leaders of more than half the world's population to Kazan in "Russia" for the latest BRICS (shouldn't that be PRICKS?) conference. Seeing Modi and Putin hug makes me want to vomit.

I feel like one of George Orwell's prolls in 1984: focused on beer and football. The only difference is I am acutely aware of our sleepwalk towards fascism unlike, it seems, 99% of the rest of the world.

Two weeks to go then.

Meeting Cobby for the first time 50+ years. (Wednesday, 22nd October)

Day 229 (13 to go)

Time flies. You blink and 229 days flash by. 50 years even. Today's highlight was meeting my first proper mate, Cobby, or Anthony Cobb, for the first time since... well I don't know exactly when. Probably at a bus stop some time in the mid 70s.

My dad worked at Bentinck pit in Kirkby until a terrible accident put him in a wheelchair in 1962. One or more of his lumbar vertebrae were crushed by the coal face coming down on him, making him a paraplegic for the last 37 years of his life. There's not much point living in a house with an upstairs when you're in such a condition and when he'd had time to get used to his new reality he decided we should move to a bungalow but it took a while to find the right place. My first adventurous house move from 46 Cookson Street to 15 Greenacres took place in September 1967 and I had to adjust to a new school and find some new friends... not that I had any real ones in Old Kirkby.

Living on the brand new Greenacres estate by Kingsway in Kirkby felt like a real step up for this eight year old. I loved my new school and how easy it was to walk there every day. The vast building site behind our bungalow provided endless opportunities for exploration and mischief for years. It was here, at this time of life, I got into the Apollo space program, Patrick Moore, James Burke and the whole astronomy universe. That was the trigger to spark my decision to become an atheist.

"Well children, you've all heard of the Apollo space program, haven't you!?"

"Yes Miss!"

"Well next week week we're going to learn about the universe and how it all started."

Woohoo!! How exciting!

This was more or less what my Sunday school teacher told us one week.

I had a small 2" refractor telescope and knew all about the solar system. I'd filled a school exercise book with stuff about the planets - it was good enough for my teacher Mrs Bewley (thanks Jeff Newcombe) to send me up to show it to the headmaster. So I didn't feel intimidated the following week when our teacher at church delivered the punch line to her promise... the Book of Genesis.

This was the first time, but definitely not the last, I felt like a mug.

I didn't feel the slightest bit restrained. "But if God created the universe, who created God?"

"Ah ... but God's always been there." Was her very dodgy reply.

I wasn't having it. I marched home in my scratchy little boy's suit, my Sunday best, and told my dad I didn't believe in God any more and I wasn't going to Sunday school any more either.

Dad wasn't angry and seemed to just let it go.

But the next Sunday, I was woken up not with the happy thought "no Sunday school for me today" but with the scary sight of the local Catholic priest standing at the end of my bed.

He tried to show me the error of my thinking and bring me back to the fold. I have to stress, he never approached me and there was no physical contact but I was an eight year old in bed in his pyjamas arguing about the origin of life with a figure of authority in a dog collar at the end of my bed... and he did make me cry.

My dear sister came in at one point and said "aw...leave him alone."

Apparently he came out of my room shaking his head, muttering "he thinks we come from monkeys" but I stuck to my guns and I've not believed in any "God" ever since.

Anyway, the other big thing I got into at that time... it was probably my replacement for religion... was football.

The Mexico World Cup in 1970 and Don Revie's Leeds United were captivating and I quickly found school mates that were equally hooked.

Somehow, I started palling around with a good looking lad from the Kingsway estate on Central Avenue. His name was Anthony Cobb, or just Cobby to me. He was good at football and we spent hours on "the acre" with other lads like Kevin Hill and Andy Reynolds, kicking a ball around, pretending to be Pele or some other star. We started playing Subbuteo table football and soon had a bit of a league going.

Cobby and I started caddying at the top rated Notts golf course just up over Balls Lane from Greenacres and we took up playing golf too. I'll never forget our first day at Holinwell on "caddies day" (Monday). We had four clubs between us in two duffle bags. I think I had a putter and a sand wedge whilst Cobby had a driver and a 6 iron. It was so embarrassing having to let the proper golfers "play through" us when we struggled to find our balls.

Another thing we used to get up to was bike riding. When the north Notts section of the M1 was opened in the early 1970s we'd go off on cycling adventures to see these amazing new stretches of concrete.

In 1971 it was time to go to "big school". And Ashfield Comprehensive was very big. 2,000 pupils was enough for anyone to get lost in and somehow I lost Cobby.

We weren't in the same class at Kingsway Junior school so not being in the same class at Ashfield wasn't the reason we went our separate ways. In fact a lad who I think was in my class at Ashfield lived just down the road from Cobby and I'm sure there was a period of time when the three of us were friends. His name was David Hobbs (Hobby). My dad got a lot of fun out of the fact my two mates were Cobby and Hobby. David Hobbs introduced me to David Bowie and bravely sported a Bowie hair cut in those days.

Anyway... that was all a long time ago. The weeks and years passed by and we all drifted apart. Somehow we lost contact with each other.

Decades later, in Kirkby talking about old times and about old mates, the question "what about Cobby? What's he doing these days?" came up.

"Didn't he work for Rolls Royce?" Nobody knew much else.

In the days of social media we have all sorts of new ways of getting answers to such mysteries. A few years ago, I asked the same question on a Facebook Group for people who'd survived Ashfield Comprehensive in the 1970s.

One day, I got a reply from someone...

"Antony Cobb? I'm sorry but I think he's dead" was the shocking answer I had to swallow.

However, the report of the death of Anthony Cobb proved to be an exaggeration and the bad feeling didn't last long. I think it was Sharon, his sister, that corrected the mistake. Cobby played golf just last week, we were told.

That was a couple of years ago.

So fast forward to this year and our gargantuan trip. Just last Sunday evening, three days ago, completely of the blue, I get a message from Cobby - his first ever message on social media - saying hello and regretting missing me. I replied immediately saying he hadn't missed me at all. In fact I was coming down to Notts the next day.

Anyway, we arranged to meet at The Bell in Nottingham at 1pm so that was my agenda for the day sorted.

It's always a bit of a shock to see someone for the first time in a long time and 50 years is a long time. Everyone in their 60s gets a reminder about that every time they look in the mirror but as soon as he walked in the Lizzie room in The Bell there was no hesitation. Cobby's mannerisms were all still there. His accent was a bit broader Kirkby (or Sutton) than I remembered and he's shaved his head and grown a bit of a stubble but this was still good old Cobby.

We had four pints in two hours catching up on eachother's lives and finding points of overlap. I learned a lot. I didn't know he had three younger sisters and I didn't know his dad worked at the Bentinck pit, like mine.

So guess where Cobby was last night? At Chesterfield FC, exactly where I was. Cobby always was a big Stags fan, as I was at first, and as such you just have to hate the Spirites. It goes with the territory. No exceptions.

So what on earth was he doing there?

Apparently he goes to most home games to watch his son in law, Tom Naylor... who is a pretty experienced pro.

I did notice Naylor's performance in the game, and was pretty impressed. But I have to admit I'd never heard of him before last night. Apparently he's had a long career at several clubs, including being captain at Portsmouth and Wigan. He's been voted player of the year at several of his many clubs.

Cobby told me how, as his step dad, he has witnessed (and no doubt influenced) his whole career. As a big Mansfield fan, Cobby obviously dreamt that he'd play for the Stags one day and it very nearly happened. But anyway... I don't want to divulge any details.

But what an amazing twist of events. Four days ago I had all but forgotten about Cobby but thanks to Social Media I've now had a brilliant afternoon chatting with him and feel enlightened about things I had no idea about before.

People that slag off Facebook, please note... There is definitely a good side to it. Maybe reconsider your scepticism.

I wrote this in Lillie Langtry's, supping three (or was it four?) lovely pints of Elsie Mo, whilst watching Boro get a great 1-0 win against Sheffield United. Whilst doing so, I was on Social media with Boro, my football mad mate I saw on Saturday.

Guess what he'd bet on just a couple of weeks ago? That Tom Naylor would get booked against Notts County! Don't ask why!

It's a strange world full of surprises and bizarre coincidences we live in. Time flies and you have to enjoy every minute while you can.

Just a couple of hours ago I got a very sad message from Leb, now in France with her sister Lucy...

Toots has passed away.

Anyone who knew her (and Leb certainly did, as one of her dearest friends) will be so sad that such a funny, quirky, lively person is no longer here.

Ruth Catherine Haines

(16 June 1958 - 23 October 2024)

Meeting Steve Buckley for the first time in 18 years. (Thursday, 23rd October)

Day 230 (12 to go)

Yesterday it was Cobby, today it was Steve Buckley. Catching up with old mates is heart warming and rewarding and as an added bonus, I had a great train ride to the seaside town of Sheringham via Norwich.

The day started in Nottingham quite early as I wanted to make sure I caught my train on time. I got up and paid £11 for Premier Inn's bottomless cooked breakfast option. I have to agree, it is very good value. I was particularly impressed with the sausages - better quality than Wetherspoons.

Then, I was off.

I caught the ten o clock chimes at Slab Square, walked through the new green space where the Broadmarsh Center used to be to the Station and bought my ticket to Sheringham via Norwich.

Perfect timing. The train was on time and I supped my flask of tea as the flat, and ever flatter, countryside flashed by my window.

I caught up on some podcasts. It was depressing listening on the whole, about the two big dark clouds that are gathering... Firstly fascist Trump and his ever more openly brazen promises to rule America like the vengeful dictator he dreams of. Incredibly, it seems millions of Americans are actually dreaming of the same thing. Fools.

Secondly... fascist Putin and his ever more openly brazen acts to defy the rules based order. Deploying thousands of North Korean troops in his meat grinder war in Ukraine whilst the US, Germany etc still place restrictions on the missiles they've given to Ukraine, effectively making David fight Goliath with one arm tied behind his back. Incredibly, it seems the leaders of the majority of the world's population have no problem with Moscovia's hundreds of daily war crimes. As long as they get to sit at the same table as the big bullies ot makes them feel big too.

I needed to cheer up so I stopped listening and started reading instead. "Algorithms to live by" is a good read and Brain Christian's section on sorting methods in sport was interesting and diverted me for a while. But George Orwell's 1984, and Tim Snyder's "Bloodlands" soon put the black dog back on my shoulder.

Sad thoughts of Toots and how upset Leb must be today only added to the melancholy.

I had to try to snap out of this. Think of someone who always smiles. Someone positive...

At Norwich I had half an hour to stretch my legs in the lovely autumn sunshine over East Anglia and wait for the final train to Sheringham to come to platform 4.

The train arrived and I sat down, pleased to find a strong WiFi signal.

I texted Steve... "FYI in Norwich".

Steve immediately replied "Good man, we are ready for you. I will meet you at the station. I will be the one in full Leicester tracky waving Premier League Champions flag.,...only kidding see you shortly Up the Citeh..for the record kept a clean sheet this morning, one comment made " He's like bloody Gordan Banks" some things never change Algis "

These fifty or so words, so typical of Steve (yes... he's a fanatical Leicester fan), were all I needed to read to lift my mood and soon I was happily giving the big man a big hug.

I'd never been to Sheringham before so I was really pleased to be given a quick tour of the high street down from the station to sea front and then, joy, a pint at the Crown and then the oldest pub in Sheringham, The Lobster.

Steve lived opposite us on Hazelmere Road, back in Penn, near High Wycombe, for the eight years before we moved to Australia. Leb and I bought our first our first house in Wycombe at the end of 1986 and it's where all our children were born.

The planets seemed to align for me in 1990 when I heard that a Forest hero of mine, then two Forest heroes, were coming to manage the local football club.

Martin O'Neill and John Robertson were two of the players Cloughie inherited when he came to Nottingham in 1975 and 4/5 years later they'd both won European Cup medals. Robbo was one of the best players in the world at that time and the first name on every Forest team Cloughie and Taylor would pick. He made 237 consecutive appearances for Forest spanning five seasons. This, remember, was at a time when the pitches were often like cow fields and defenders had a licence to kick. A very few players have played in more consecutive games, but none of them were wingers and no-one did so at such a high level including two European Cup finals. Cloughie never liked Martin O'Neill as much (I think, because Martin was too smart for him) but he still figured in the vast majority of his sides. For Forest fans of my generation these two were like gods... and now they were coming to the small Buckinghamshire town where I lived to manage the local football club.

Wycombe Wanderers were, at the time, quite a famous non-league side. They played in the GM Vauxhall Conference, effectively the fifth tier of English football, and were definitely one of the biggest clubs outside the league. Alan Parry, a famous commentator at the time, and his team of directors, had strong ambitions to take the club into the league. After retiring from playing, Martin O'Neill was a regular TV Pundit and the two men found themselves having a pee together in the men's urinals at half time whilst working at a match at Norwich City. Parry told O'Neill about the vacancy at the club and, to cut a long story short, a few weeks later Martin got the job.

Now I'd seen Wycombe Wanders play a couple of times before O'Neill came, at their famous (sideways) sloping pitch near the hospital where Leb worked, called Loakes Park but I wasn't paying much attention to football at the time as a new dad with more important things to focus on. But when I heard about the appointment it flipped a switch and I became a member of the club and started following them home and away.

O'Neill did a Cloughie at Wycombe and within five years they'd been promoted to the league and then, immediately, to the third tier. He took them to Wembley several times, where they'd always win. Their new ground Adams Park would regularly be filled. I couldn't believe my luck. I'd witnessed Brian Clough's transformation of Nottingham Forest and now I was witnessing another, albeit at a lower level, by two of Cloughie's heroes.

Of course, all good things must come to an end and it was only a matter of time before O'Neill and Robbo would move to a bigger club. For a moment it looked like it might be Forest.

Clough had retired and there was a huge pair of shoes to fill at the City Ground. There was a lot of speculation the new boss would be O'Neill. I actually met him.on the Rye at Wycombe at a charity event around that time.

"I hope you get the Forest job, Martin" I said.

"What makes you think I want the Forest job?" Was his typically cryptic reply.

Sure enough, he didn't want it. It seems he thought Clough was too big an act to follow so soon after his departure and he felt he wanted to take over a less fashionable club and create his own bit of history there.

So, where does he go? Leicester City, of course.

That was in 1995, the same year we moved across town to Hazelmere Road and who is my new neighbour over the road and who does he support?

Enter Steve Buckley.

These were very happy days for me. I'd married the loveliest, most gorgeous girl in the world. We had four lovely children. Every day was filled with their cute sweet adorable comments and capers. The home birth of our 4th, with the aid of a birthing tub, had even inspired me to get into the fascinating world of human evolution. I'd been self employed for five years, earning the best money I ever would. I was the SQL Server and Microsoft Access 'guru' and now I had a group of mates who were also new age dads with young kids. Like me, they were football mad and liked a beer... Gerry Touhey, Rory O'Brien, Steve Buckley and, for a while, David Reid.

We played five-a-side regularly (well, in my case, I played five minutes before inevitably pulling a muscle and having to stop). Steve's actually a pretty good goalie. We watched a lot of football, often in the Red Lion. We had a lot of barbecues and other parties with lots of children layovers.

When Wycombe Wanderers beat Leicester City at Filbert Street in the FA Cup I flew a Wycombe Wanderers flag and stuck big numbers up on our upstairs windows reminding Steve of the score. Wycombe only just lost to Liverpool in the semi final at Villa Park that year. I'll never forget going to the match with little Žemyna who everybody adored.

Happy days indeed.

Then, following in the footsteps of David and Helen Reid, we decided to emigrate to Australia and we left all that behind us. My interest in human evolution had blossomed into an obsession and I wanted to follow up my Masters from UCL with a PhD at UWA in Perth.

So, to 2006 and the World Cup in Germany.

Gerry, Rory, Steve and Simon Haveland organised a holiday in Heidelberg where we could all get back together again to drink lots of beer and watch lots of football.

I don't know why (hah!) but my memories of that time are very blurry. What I am certain of is that it was there, in Germany, in the summer of 2006 that I last had beers and a proper good old chat with Steve Buckley.

Fast forward to today and my lovely catch up with him and meeting his lovely wife Cheryl.

Blimey. Steve's been through so much in the last few years he should write a book about it.

Without going into any details, he's just been through a serious illness and tomorrow he'll be going to his first match after a long period of treatment. I'm hoping to get in to watch the game too and I was pleased Steve thought my ticket looked legitimate. Fingers crossed there.

Today he made his return to his walking football side, keeping a clean sheet and making a fine save in the process (hence the Gordon Banks reference in the text earlier.)

Cheryl made a lovely supper for us which we scoffed as we chatted about our various adventures.

Despite all he's been through, Steve remains his infectious, positive, chirpy self. He's a real Mr Chuckles. It was sweet to see his shrine (office) to Leicester City and I can't wait until tomorrow when we'll all (fingers still crossed) go to the big match at the King Power Stadium, my 73rd ground. The East Midlands derby: Leicester City v Nottingham Forest.

Leicester City 1 Nottingham Forest 7 (at least it should have been more emphatic than 1-3). (Friday, 24th October)

Day 231 (11 to go)

Today was another brilliant day. Firstly, and most importantly, it was a privilege to share an important landmark with Steve Buckley and his wife Cheryl, his first game after recovering from chemotherapy. It was so kind of Steve to drive me all the way from Sheringham to my hostel in Leicester and for them to show me some of the nicer spots in the city. Steve also looked after me by lending me a Leicester scarf. The day ended with me witnessing Forest crush their East Midlands rivals embarrassingly easily, surrounded by thousands of hostile Leicester supporters. I think Steve's scarf might have been a life saver!

I woke up after a peaceful night's sleep and came downstairs to find Steve sitting in front of the telly. I had a good idea what was coming. We watched a recording of scores of jubilant Leicester fans celebrating their amazing Premier League title in 2016 whilst Cheryl made some delicious bacon sarnies. Steve made sure I saw the bit he was in. "Come on Leicester!"

Soon, we were off to the King Power Stadium. This is a three hour drive Steve and Cheryl have made many times in the last few years but not since March. It was around then that they were stunned with the news that Steve was diagnosed with bowel cancer. Surgery soon fixed that but Steve then had to face another blow that he'd developed a secondary tumour in his right lung. More surgery and then a long stretch of chemotherapy followed. Anyone who has experienced anything like this first or second hand will know how grindingly miserable it is, but you wouldn't know that from Steve's boundless positivity. He describes the whole episode with amazing humour and self-deprecating humility.

Steve drove and I sat in the passenger seat so we could talk football. Poor Cheryl sat in the back seat ready to chip in when she could but there weren't many five second gaps in the conversation in the whole journey.

We arrived in Leicester and the first port of call was the King Power Stadium itself. Steve always likes to go there first, before the crowd builds up and it's easy and free to park in the stadium carpark. We visited the very impressive club shop. I have to admit it's far bigger and better than the one at the City Ground.

Then Steve kindly drove me to my 97th accommodation, Grafton House on Saxby Street near the station. I checked in, dumped my bag and set off to meet them at our agreed meeting place. I stopped off at Leicester railway station to buy my ticket to Nottingham tomorrow.

Cheryl and Steve then took me on a mini tour of Leicester city center. I'd never done this before and it was good to see there were some pretty historical spots although, like Nottingham, there were places that had seen better days.

We headed to the Queen of Bradgate for two pints of Shipstones Pale Ale and a nice plate of fish and chips. We then headed to the Rutland and Derby Arms but it was packed out so we crossed the road to the Two-tailed Lion and had another pint there.

The kick off time for the big match was approaching and we decided to walk to the ground. Rain had been threatening all day and the heavens opened up as we made our way south from the City Center to the ground.

It was about two weeks ago, whilst still in Morocco, that I decided I would bite the bullet and try to buy a ticket for the the big East Midlands derby: Leicester v Forest. There was absolutely zero chance of buying one with the Forest supporters. Their 4,000 ticket allocation was gobbled up the moment they were released. Ditto the Leicester. My visits to their web site just confirmed my fear... I was going to have to risk buying one through one of the ticket tout web sites. In the end I found a ticket for sale for about £180. StubHub say they back the validity of the ticket with a 100% money back guarantee but once the money is transferred you have to wait until close to the event to get your ticket. I wasn't too happy about that but I was resolved to trying. Worst case scenario... I'd have thrown away £180 for nothing, which I would put down to stupidity tax. Best case... I'd go to the match with my old mate Steve and see Forest play in the big derby at a new ground.

Last Monday I received a dodgy-looking email, apparently from the ticket seller. Attached was an odd looking screen shot of some web page that had a link to download the ticket but the screen dump itself, of course, didn't enable that. My heart sank. I'd been ripped off.

I replied saying the link didn't work and please could the pdf of the ticket itself be sent.

To my surprise the vendor replied positively and half an our later a legitimate looking ticket arrived in my inbox. When I showed it Steve he immediately said it looked good, but I wouldn't relax until I was in my seat.

So now was the moment of truth. Steve and Cheryl walked me to the allocated turnstile. I had the eTicket ready. If I didn't return in two minutes they'd know it had worked, if I returned to them they'd point me to a nearby pub to watch the game, it being a Friday night game.

I slipped my phone under the barcode reader and...

... the light turned green and the turnstile clicked open. I was in!

After a beer and a tasty sausage roll I entered the ground and took up my seat on the very top row of the A block in the corner of the impressive King Power Stadium, my 73rd English Football League ground.

As I walked up the steps I made sure Steve's blue and white scarf was visible for everyone to see and kept my jacket top open so it was as visible as possible as I sat down.

The stadium filled as 8pm neared and it quickly became obvious that I was completely surrounded by Leicester fans. Of course this was as expected. I just had to keep quiet, suppress any joy if Forest scored and fake enthusiasm for good play from Leicester, especially early on.

As this match was the nearest home game to Remembrance Sunday, it had been decided to perform that ceremony today. Every seat had been allocated a big card to be held up at the appropriate moment as the bugler played the famously haunting lament. It was beautifully done and all 32,000 took part. I couldn't help think about Ukraine though. We go to such elaborate lengths to commemorate 11th November 1911 "lest we forget" but every day for over two and a half years since 24th February 2022 we have actively tried to forget about hundreds of daily war crimes carried out by the Moscovian Kleptofascist Horde.

Anyway, as the game started I quickly realised that this wasn't going to be easy. (Me pretending to be a Leicester fan, that is.) I was sat between two young blokes who clearly hated Forest and were going to shout out their hatred at every opportunity. Every Forest challenge was dirty. Every refereeing decision against Leicester was diabolical.

On 16 minutes Leicester cleared a ball from the left but it fell straight to "one of our own" Ryan Yates and he walloped it in for his first Premier League goal. I almost jumped up and shouted "Yes!" but just about restrained myself.

Ryan's now scored in every tier of the English league.

Great start for Forest but Leicester came back strongly and created some danger of their own. Seven minutes after going behind, a good cross from the left was met by that irritating old thorn up front, Jamie Vardy, and it was 1-1. Just in case anyone had noticed my slight lurch forward when Yates scored I felt compelled to raise a fist and jump up for the equaliser. "Hurray! Leicester have scored!

Woopidoo!!"

The rest of the half was pretty even but Hermansen made a great save for Leicester to keep the scores level at the break.

45 minutes to go. I have to admit I'd have taken a draw at that point but the second half proved to be completely different. If the first half was even, the second half was not.

Just two minutes after the restart a fine turn and shot in the box by our prolific striker, Chris Wood, and it was 2-1.

"Chris Wood's on fire.

Your defence is terrified!"

It set the tone for a very one sided half. Forest seemed to break through the Leicester defence at will, and too often the ball was just gifted to them.

Forest hit the post before a big hoof up field from Sels bounced right through the heart of the Leicester defence. The woolly headed Belgian defender Wout Faes half-heartedly tried to head it back to his goalie but Chris Wood sped through to intercept and head it over the hapless goalie to make it 3-1.

The young bloke to my right went ballistic with vitriol spitting out of his gob about how "shit" that was.

Forest continued to dominate. They hit the post again. Yates missed a sitter and other chances were squandered. Seven or even eight goals would not have been flattering to Forest.

The Forest fans opposite me were ecstatic. It doesn't get much better than this. The rest of the King Power went quiet as the realisation dawned that this was going to be an easy away win and, yes, Forest would really be sitting 5th in the Premier League tonight.

Forest fans still love the new Leicester coach, Steve Cooper and started singing the song in his praise that had echoed around the City Ground many times in the last three years.

"Stevie Cooper

STEVIE COOOER...

He hates the Derby, he hates the Leicester.

Forest are magic'

No nail biting end here. The game ended with Forest in complete control in front of a half empty stadium.

I left the ground and made my way to the Premier Inn next door where Cheryl was waiting outside for me. Steve had got a round of drinks in and secured a table inside.

Despite just having seen his beloved team get beaten at home by their rivals in the most disappointing manner, Steve was magnanimous and generous and somehow managed to smile and laugh about it.

Good man! I handed his scarf back. Thank you so much, matey!

So now.. finally... I can let myself go.

YEEEEEEEEEESSSSSSS!!!!!

GET IN!!!

COME ON YOU REDS!!!

Back to Notts to watch The Stags with Kirkby mates. (Satuday, 25th October)

Day 232 (10 to go)

The day started with a panic... a senior moment with the room key. I've got into a routine when I leave a hotel. I get packed and then do a "goodbye video" as I leave, in hyperlapse mode, so I have a few seconds to try to remember something about where we stayed. And that's what I started doing in my tiny room at Grafton House in Leicester. Film outside. Pan around the room. Pick up the key. Film walking down the stairs. Hand the keys in. Out the door. Stop filming.

Trouble is, when I got to the step "pick up the keys" it wasn't where I thought it was. I stopped filming and put my bag down. I searched through my jacket pocket where I normally put room keys. I couldn't find it anywhere. I looked under the bed. Not there. I checked and rechecked my pockets and got into a bit of a crazy panic. What the hell had I done with them? I must have spent ten minutes looking in the same places over again before I checked the back pocket in my jeans. There they were! Bloody idiot.

Anyway, because of this complete waste of time, I arrived late at the Merchant of Venice café opposite Leicester train station where I'd arranged to have breakfast with Steve Buckley and Cheryl. They'd begun to worry about me by the time I arrived. Anyway, we had a very nice bacon ciabatta. The bread was unusually soft for an Italian roll... more like the cobb I'd had the other day in Nottingham. We had a lovely chat about family before it was time to give them several goodbye hugs and go and catch the 10:18 to Nottingham.

There were already lots of passengers waiting on the platform when we were joined by five young people who seemed to be in very high spirits. One of the three guys grabbed my attention. His laugh. Loud. Shrill. Like a kookaburra.

When the train arrived we all got on and it was pretty full. The five dudes were sat in the middle of the packed carriage. There was lots of noise of chatting people but every two minutes the kookaburra man's laugh would cut through again and again. I was getting annoyed and I was four seats away. I couldn't help looking down the carriage at a poor woman sat opposite them. Her blank face said it all... despair.

Anyway, the plan was for some "lads" from Kirkby to meet up in Nottingham for some beers whilst watching the big match today: the third tier top of the table clash, Mansfield Town v Birmingham City. Under Nigel Clough, Mansfield have been transformed. They won automatic promotion last season and, like Forest, have made a great start so far in this one.

I had hoped to actually go to the match but getting a ticket was impossible. Field Mill, Mansfield's ground, is the oldest professional, continuously used, ground of any league club in the world. It's been used exclusively for football since 1861. I used to go there in the early 1970s and it always was a decent ground. The record attendance there is 24,467 in 1953 for a FA Cup tie against Forest, but these days it only holds about 8,000 and every seat was taken weeks ago. Even StubHub had nothing to offer.

So, the plan was to watch the game in a sports bar, having first met in Lillie Langtry's. Coming furthest was Klax (or Steven Clarke) and I got a message from Jeff Newcombe telling me his train from Worksop would be arriving about the same time as me. East Midlands trains have decent WiFi so I was able to confirm this with him and arrange to meet next to the ticket machines.

I got there first and kept an eye on my phone as I waited for Klax. Then I heard Kookaburra Man and his mates come through the ticket gates. Close behind was that woman who'd sat opposite them walking with her friend.

"Nothing could be that funny", I heard her say, before I got grabbed from behind by Klax.

It's always great seeing old mates and I haven't seen him for years. I remember he was the cleverest lad in my junior school class with Mrs Bewley.

We walked across town, past kookaburra man and his mates, to Lillie Langtry's and sat down with a pint of Elsie Mo's. I asked the bar lady about the Mansfield match but she didn't know anything about it. Maybe they wouldn't be showing the game here.

Soon we were joined by three lovely gentlemen: Jeffrey Newcombe, Paul Chamberlain and Simon Bishop and the ales started flowing.

Klax noticed that Nigel Clough was being interviewed on the TV across from us and, thinking that maybe they'd be showing the Stags match after all, we moved tables in anticipation.

12:30 came and Coventry v Luton started on the telly. This wasn't what we wanted. Time to move to another venue where Mansfield would be on. We'd been joined by Jeff & Margaret's very clever lad, Tom Newcombe, and he was able to confirm that the Southbank on Friar Lane was the place to go.

I'd never been in this place before and my initial positive first impression at there being plenty of screens was dented a bit when I couldn't spot any of them showing the Stags. The main match on the big screen with the commentary was again Coventry v Luton but, yes, there was one screen feeding the game from Field Mill.

We sat around a table close to that screen and I asked the girl on bar duty if it would be possible to change the main match. She said she'd have a word with her seniors but nothing changed. Birmingham had taken an early lead and were clearly the better side but Mansfield are managed by Nigel Clough so I had high hopes of a second half come back.

During the half time break, one of the bar staff came to our table to bring Tom some food and I asked him again, a little more forcefully, about changing match on the big screen.

"Nobody's watching the Coventry match and there are six of us here who are watching the Stags. It's their biggest league match in years. Come on. Please. This is a Notts club we're talking about."

Five minutes later, Mansfield were not only being shown on the big screen with the commentary on, it seemed to be being shown on all of them.

Job done. So we all moved to another table again, for the fourth time, and enjoyed a rousing second half in which Mansfield equalised. To be fair, Birmingham could have scored again too. It was quite an entertaining half of football and at the end of it a draw would have been a result Nigel Clough would have been quite satisfied with. It kept Mansfield in 4th place in the league.

Having ticked that off, I was happy to leave the rest of the day's activities to my hosts. The next pub was Ye Olde Trippe to Jerusalem, my favourite pub in the world. Trouble is, on a Saturday afternoon it gets packed with tourists so we had to sit outside in the beer garden, something I've never done before.

Chambo went into leadership mode and led us to the next pub, the Newshouse, another first for me. We then got on the brilliant Nottingham tram system and caught a train to Hucknall. Unfortunately for me, the Annesley Road Chip shop was too far to walk so it was straight into the Station Hotel after saying bye bye to Klax.

Waiting for us in there were the Caunt brothers, Tim and Jason. Two pints, more merriment and a few tears followed. Why tears? At one point Jeff was telling Tim about my (failed) attempts to contribute to the world of anthropology. The generosity of his description of my stuff just made me cry happy tears.

Then Jason very kindly drove us back to good old Kirkby and our final destination, The Cricketers Arms in Nuncargate, the spiritual home of Harold Larwood.

For some reason my memory of the end of the evening gets a bit blurry at this stage but I think Jason drove us up to Jeff & Margaret's where we might have watched Match of the Day and Jeff probably made a nice pizza.

Thank you Jeffrey, Chambo, Sam, Klax, Tom, Tim and Jason, for indulging me in my obsessive desire to watch Mansfield v Birmingham and for such warmth and great camaraderie.

And so ended another bloody brilliant day.

Idyllic Sunday Roast Dinner with Four Generations of Family. (Sunday, 26th October)

Day 233 (9 to go)

After yesterday's fantastic Notts pub crawl I wasn't, shall we say, feeling as bright as a button when I woke up. Never mind. After a lovely shower (maybe the best in our tour) I climbed into my last remaining clean clothes and went downstairs. Jeff Newcombe must have spotted me wearing shorts, not the usual attire for England in late October, and immediately asked if I needed to do a clothes wash. "You beauty!" I thought. Perfect.

So I brought down my smelly bag of clothes to put into their washing machine, probably for the last time. I'll definitely be dumping some of these before heading back to Perth.

Over a lovely cup of tea Jeff and I recounted the pints yesterday. "*Two* in the cricks? Really?" Needless to say, my estimate was a little low, but in my defence it was a long session... eleven hours at least.

When I visited England for the first time on the tour back in May and June, I came up to Kirkby (as I always try to do when back in dear old blighty), and spent a day here but not the night. I booked a room in a cheap ho(s)tel in Nottingham for five nights and used that as my base. But I must admit I regret that now.

My thinking was simply that I felt guilty imposing myself on my dear friends yet again. I didn't want to take their hospitality for granted so I booked accommodation nearby instead.

It was my mate Jake Holloway who made the penny drop when I spent a day with him in London in September. He'd offered to pick us up from Gatwick airport when we arrived. My response was similarly intentioned. "Aw thanks Jake, but we couldn't possibly ask you to do that." Gatwick is a long way from Richmond. I didn't want to put Jake out.

The thing I hadn't considered was if Jake might have actually *wanted* to do this for us, and that by declining his offer I might offend *his* good intentions. Jake said he'd hired a car that week for some reason and part of the calculation was that he'd be able to pick us up from the airport with it. I just hadn't thought of that.

It reminded me of a lyric in Nils Lofgren's song "I'm Going Back" ...

"I was afraid to reach out to my best friends"

It's one of my favourite feel-good, uplifting, songs and definitely helped me get through my darkest days at uni.

Anyway, I apologised to Jake and thanked him for putting me straight. I will try to be more grateful for any offers from friends in future.

Similarly, last time I was here, when dear Margaret Elizabeth dropped me off in Nottingham after a previous lovely Sunday dinner, she stressed that I shouldn't think that I'm being a burden when I stay with them.

Thank you so much. Point taken.

So back to today and after watching a re-run of Match of the Day, my clothes were dry and I was able to change into something more appropriate for Sunday dinner.

What a spread. The Newcombes do the most fabulous Sunday roasts. I counted twelve different kinds of veg but I probably missed a few there too. I'm not saying Jeff's Yorkshire puds are the best in the world but they're definitely in the top one. And as for the deserts... there were three options but I had to go for Margaret's yummy apple & strawberry crumble with vanilla custard... three portions!

Best of all, though, was the lovely ambience generated by four generations of family, from Jeff's 95 year old mother to Tom Bill's 4 month old baby girl. It was a pleasure and privilege for me to join them and Paul Chamberlain as friends.

Needless to say, the wine was flowing and we eventually finished off five bottles of a nice variety of reds: Rioja, Chianti, Bordeaux and Blends. And cheese. We polished off a massive block of the finest creamy Stilton whilst sipping the wine. We even had the football going in the background too.

So... yet another lovely day.

As they say in Lithuania :

ačiū, ačiū, ačiū

(thank you, thank you, thank you.)

Tara, mi ducks... hello, mi darlin'. (Monday, 27th October)

Day 234 (8 to go)

Today, eight days of bombing around England, meeting old mates, drinking beer and watching football ended and I rejoined my sweetheart in London ready for the last leg of our gargantuan trip... four nights in Bali.

I woke up actually feeling pretty good, which was a bit of a surprise after sharing five bottles of red wine with Jeff and Chambo. I weighed myself on Jeff & Margaret's bathroom scales before my shower. It told me I was 14 stones, 0 pounds and 8 ounces, or approximately 89 kg in proper scientific units, which was no surprise considering the amount I've eaten in the last 234 days and especially the last ten.

Over a cup of tea Jeff and I hatched a plan for the final morning. The only item on my wish list that remained unchecked was fish & chips from Annesley Road Fish & Chip shop. I booked my train ticket from Hucknall to Hounslow where we'll be for two more nights. So how best to knit the two together? Jeff found out that the chippy does deliveries so that was the answer to half of the problem. We both ordered fish, chips and mushy peas. I wanted haddock, Jeff cod.

While we waited, a BT engineer came to the house to sort out a WiFi problem they had. We chatted about WiFi generally and how difficult it is to fix blind spots due to thick walls. The very friendly engineer overheard us and chipped in that a relatively new technology called "mesh" is the way go to fix these issues. Note to self: research this when back in Perth.

The takeaway arrived and, once again, Annesley Road chippy did not disappoint. Absolutely fantastic. Best fish this trip. Best chips. Best mushy peas.

Soon it was time to give goodbye hugs to Margaret and Isabel. Jeff then kindly drove me to Hucknall train station where I collected my last ticket with my 2024 Senior Rail Card. The tickets seem to be directing me to a bizarre route direct to Terminal 5. (Must have had finger trouble doing my booking.) Never mind, as long as it gets me to St Pancras.

The big hug with big Jeff was a bit difficult as our bellies are a bit... big. Thank you for everything, mate.

The train from Hucknall to Nottingham was about ten minutes late which cut into the wait time in Nottingham. In fact it was already waiting on platform 6a and I boarded it and took my reserved seat straight away.

I've been pretty impressed by the trains here in England. Buying a senior rail card was a great idea (Leb's) and I've enjoyed travelling on every train. The only thing that's annoyed me is the incessant mantra... "See it. Say it. Sorted."

I'm sure whoever thought of it meant well but do they really have to ram it down your throat so much? Even the driver said it on the way down from Nottingham after one of the announcements. Weird.

At the absolutely massive St Pancras (I don't remember it being that big) I had a minor panic attack. Did I pack my Yeti flask? Oh no! I couldn't remember doing so this morning. Leb will give me some terrible stick if I've lost it *again*. I had to open my bag to check. And, Yes, there it was. Then it was simply a matter of finding the Underground and catching the Picadilly line to Hounslow where Leb had already checked in. The ticket machine didn't want to let me out at Hounslow Central but the rail staff member did.

And then... there she was. My dearest, loveliest Lebley Jane.

We have one full day left in blighty and then we leave Europe for a while. I'm hoping for one last portion of fish and chips and we hope to catch the film: The Apprentice. That should really put me in a good mood.

I keep thinking we have one week left of our trip and one week left before 80m American MAGA morons burst our democracy bubble and actually vote for Hitler 2.0.

Please. Be. Wrong.

Last full day in England. Watched The Apprentice. (Tuesday, 28th October)

Day 235 (7 to go)

Definitely in wind-down mode now. We had a relaxing morning before having a bowl of porridge for brekkie. Then we set off to Hammersmith to find a fish and chip shop for the last time and a cinema to watch The Apprentice, the new film about fascist Trump.

Bizarrely, Hammersmith has neither, according to Google, so we ended up walking down King Street until it becomes Chiswick High Road. When we visited London in September we visited a nice fish restaurant called WTF (What the Fish) and it was very nice but we were told it was about to change into an Asian foody place. It seems that the transformation is on-going but not complete so we were able to still order a pretty good portion of fish in chips. I had haddock, Leb cod.

We then walked a few hundred metres further away from Hammersmith to the lovely Chiswick Cinema. We'd just missed one showing of The Apprentice and the next was in an hour and a half. Time for a pint.

We popped into The Roebuck where I had a couple of pints of Tillingbourne Falls Gold and Leb had a nice rose.

Then it was time for the film. Directed by Ali Abasi and starring Sebastian Stan (as Donald Trump), Jeremy Strong (Roy Cohn) and Maria Bakalova (Ivana Trump.) I must say I was a little disappointed overall. Although I thought the acting was good, the storyline started a little too late and finished far too early for me.

The story line pretty much begins with Trump's recruitment of the ruthless lawyer Roy Cohn and seems to make out Trump as much more naïve and innocent than I imagine he was. Cohn is definitely portrayed as the bad guy but in the plot Trump quickly learns from him and becomes a monster in Cohn's image. Late in the film, after Cohn has died of aids(?), Trump is meeting his ghost writer about authoring his fake book, "The Art of the Deal." He says something like "you know who is strong? The Soviet Union". I couldn't quite believe that. The USSR was run by a politburo in those days. It was Communist, not a fascist state like it is today. It felt like the line had been put in the film to hint at his later hero worship of Putin but there was no follow up with all that potential kompromat and financial dirt and instead the film just ended rather too abruptly.

There is no doubt that when the film ends it leaves a very bad taste in the mouth about the orange-faced crook. I can't imagine anyone undecided would watch it and think "that's my guy". So that much is good.

Anyway, that was it and pretty much completes our twelve days in the UK over. One more night and we fly to Bali.

Bye Bye Blighty. (Wednesday, 29th October)

Day 236 (6 to go)

So this is pretty much it. Today we leave good old blighty and the northern Hemisphere and head back towards Australia. To break up the journey, and give us a few days to recover from jet lag, we'll be spending five nights in Bali, relaxing by the pool, walking on the beach and maybe doing some snorkelling. Watching Forest v West Ham is my only real objective. After that, it'll all be over.

It was an early start. Our alarms both went off at 6am and after a bit of catching up with email, social media and the news (Kamala Harris gave a rally to allegedly 75,000 in Washington last night), we packed and set off.

We chatted about how, even after all these years, we still love England and how it'll always feel like home. If only we could afford it we'd buy a second home here to live in for four or five months every year.

The first train to arrive at Hounslow Central was one bound for Terminal 4 so we were soon at the airport and, having already checked in, it wasn't long before we were going through security. I sailed through, as usual. Leb was held up, as usual. Whereas my bag passed down the speedy lane after being scanned, her's went down the lane of shame. Yeah... Leb is so obviously a terrorist suspect! I think the reason she keeps getting pulled up might be because she carries so many health products with her, but who knows.

We headed for Wetherspoon's and I had a big breakfast... a Full English. It was good timing because coincidentally I was having a text conversation with Matt, a friend in Perth, about (of all things) the British Empire, how bad it was, and whether it had done *any* good apart from bring football and cricket to the world. He said "we didn't even give them good food". It was a fair point but I did remind him about fish and chips and then sent him a photo of my brekkie.

Anyway, soon it was time to board our flight, MH3, and it had already occurred to me that this flight number was uncomfortably similar to MH7 and followed a pretty much identical route. As we boarded I said to Leb I hope the flight wouldn't end like MH7 did. We both shrugged. If it does... at least we'll end on a high!! We've had a great life.

As we took our seats I selected the dynamic flight plan to appear on my screen. I must admit it was a little disturbing to see the proposed route tracking over Poland, Ukraine, the Caspian Sea, Afghanistan and the south to Kuala Lumpur. This didn't look good but as the flight took off and progressed it soon became clear that the route shown must have been some.kind of "factory default". In reality, the flight tracked further south, passing over the Danube near Bratislava and then Romania. It bypassed Ukraine, and more importantly, the missiles Moscow keeps firing at it, completely as it passed over the Black Sea.

I must say I love flying. Short flights. Long flights. It doesn't matter. I started catching up with my reading on my Kindle. Hillary Clinton's book "What Happened" had been deadly dull for the first few chapters. Why do so many politicians, especially those left of centre, seem to think they have to mention all their family and friends and all the people who have helped them over the years? I guess it shows they're nice. Barak Obama's autobiography was like this too. But the chapter in Hillary's book I'm up to now is really fascinating (and alarming) reading. It's all about the 2016 election and how the the scandal over her emails dominated everything. How Trump publicly basically asked Russia to hack into the Democrat's servers and find her allegedly dodgy emails. (They weren't dodgy at all... just boring.) How Wikileaks managed to find them and the traitorous Julian Assange, who only ever found dirt on western leaders, never Russians, was a hero on RT as a consequence. How the increasingly well known and disturbing reports of Russian interference into the election and Trump's links with Moscow were not reported by the FBI before the election - Comey thought it would be "election interference" and yet how just before the election the same guy did not think re-opening the inquiry into Clinton's emails was anything of the sort.

Poor Hillary. That election really was stolen from her by Putin and his agents.

You'd think, after all this happened so blatantly, the US would have learned its lesson and done something to stop the same thing happening again and, and yet here we are, eight years later, and it *is* happening again. If anything ,worse than before.

I listened to a "Today in Focus" podcast from the Guardian about how MAGA election denying Republicans have taken over various election committees in Georgia and other so-called "battleground states" and how they will probably use their power to disrupt the vote if Trump loses.

And then I listened to how the Washington Post... yes The Washington Post, had decided not to endorse Kama Harris because billionaire Jeff Bezos personally vetoed the already prepared editorial and how several staff members resigned in protest. As if Rupert Murdoch owning Fox and Elon Musk owning Twitter was not enough.

As these gloomy thoughts set in, the gloom outside enveloped the plane. The sun set as we flew over the Black Sea. Somewhere down there we were leaving Europe and moving into Asia.

After a nice fish and rice, Malaysian airways in-flight dinner option, with a few glasses of wine, I was ready to try to get some sleep. This was going to be a short night and we'd be arriving up in Kuala Lumpur at 11pm UK time but in the morning local time. It was going to be a rude awakening for my biological clock.

Sleep came for a while and then left me again. As we flew over the Caspian Sea I tried to think of something else, something positive that might also help.me sleep.

Music.

My mobile phone is pretty much on its last legs but it has just about enough memory for me to have downloaded a very few of my favourite albums for situations like these.

Elton John, from his earliest albums, is my usual go to. Such wonderful melodies. That soaring voice. The introduction to Indian Sunset always gives me goose bumps. Tiny Dancer always makes me think of Almost Famous. Funeral for a Friend/Love Lies Bleeding - surely the most dramatic opening he ever did. Teacher I Need You always takes me back to school, in fact all his early stuff does... the time when my dear sister introduced me to him having discovered him from out of the blue somehow. I wonder if she still listens to Elton John. Is she listening to High Flying Bird or Skyline Pigeon right now?

Half way there and I was not sleepy at all. How about an Audio Book?

Time to tap my phone silently in a few carefully chosen spots on the screen to bring back to life the great Christopher Hitchens... at least virtually, in order to hear his authoritative voice describe why "God is Not Great" with laser like precision.

I always find listening to him inspiring and very stimulating. One small sample will do...

"One must state it plainly. Religion comes from the period of human pre-history when nobody had the smallest idea what was going on."

Oh well. No sleep for me this way then. Goodnight Christopher.

I gazed out of the window as our flight turned south, presumably to avoid the Tibetan plateau. Pakistani or Indian cities glowed in the dark down there like distant galaxies.

Another five hours remained. Leb was on her third movie but that's not for me. I'd watch one if I thought it was going to be brilliant but few really grab me these days. Besides, I need to close my eyes to get some sleep. Maybe I'd try some more music.

How about some David Bowie. I downloaded Aladdin Sane thinking it might take me back to my youth. It's a typically atmospheric album with the space age feel that I found so appealing when I heard Star Man. Jean Genie was my favourite song for weeks when it came out. I really like Bowie's version of Let's Spend the Night Together on this album and I do like the way the crazy piano solo in the title track gets back on rhythm at the end. But... so many of his lyrics are just so crazy and a bit sordid (it reminded me I actually cried the night I bought it as I felt I'd brought some kind of evil into our home!) Anyway, I soon started thinking "how did I ever like this album?"

If Bowie wasn't going to send me to sleep how about Yes and their brilliant track "Gates of Derlium" on the album, Relayer?

It certainly took me back to my teens when I played this kind of music a lot. None of it made any sense but I loved the searing guitar riffs and it felt serious and important.

The lyric...

"Soon. Soon, the light.

Pass within and soothe this endless night"

...seemed quite appropriate but no, no sleep was coming with this. How about a bit of Santana.

I played the album Moonflower a lot at uni. It is more soothing than the other stuff I'd tried. I thought I'd play the album and then select a single track to put on repeat.

The title track, Flor de Luna, seemed to fit the bill but again, no good. I think I repeated it eight times before I thought "sod it" this isn't going to work.

In the end I couldn't get back to sleep. I tried watching a film, like Leb, I tried listening to some classical music. As daylight began to appear to the east I knew it was futile. The crew brought around breakfast with coffee, so I decided that was the end of that, much shorter, day.

100th accommodation. Selamat siang, Bali! (Thursday, 30th October)

Day 237 (5 to go) 

To finish off the last post... we landed in Kuala Lumpur absolutely knackered having had almost no sleep. The plane was a little late but the good news was that our connecting flight to Denpasar was close and we scuttled off to the gate. Frustratingly there was another bag security check there and we hopped between queues before getting through to board immediately.

After a surprisingly tasty spicy chicken with rice I slept like a log. Even Leb did and we arrived in hot and humid Bali three hours later.

Bali airport has significantly grown and modernised since we were last here and relies on new technology more than ever, in particular a couple of on-line declarations, for example the customs declaration. We soldiered through and got a taxi to take us to our century of accommodations for 300,000 rupiah (about $30) I'm sure we were ripped off for a 15 minute ride but at least it was easy.

After 20 minutes waiting for our room to be made ready in 28C humidity we were allowed into our cool (metaphorically and literally) room and immediately crashed out. Leb really made a wise choice booking this place. Relatively inexpensive but close to the airport and a beach and it has a magnificent pool and looks swish. A perfect way to end our gargantuan tour and, perhaps?, our 30th sub-holiday back to back.

Later I had a short walk around the block, visiting the nearby beach and downing 3 Bintam beers.

Five nights of Bali bliss and then we finally go back home.