I punch "CV12 8NN" into the sat nav, a quick spin up the motorway and I’m there. Or so I thought. Rolling down the car window, I shout out, "Mate, how far is the ground from here", a local gives me directions. I drive off, cursing the sat nav. It appears that I’m miles away from the ground. A few minutes later, turning the corner, the floodlights come into full view, mightily impressive for a 3,500 capacity ground. A sea of sky blue explodes all around me. I curse the local, he’s directed me to The Ricoh Arena.

I turn around and go back to my original destination. Jumping out of the car, I eventually notice the Miners’ Welfare Park. No sign of miners, mines, or even given the run down area, no sign of much welfare. I spy a little sign that points me to towards ground, the only evidence that football is played around here.

It joins the bastions of non league clubs whose grounds are in, or near to public parks. I suppose it at least provides a free training area for the team.

Take your pick as to who or what Zamaretto is or are or were. A soft fruit drink, web hosting company or an Italian pimple cream maker, they’re all on my short list.

The ground’s turnstiles are approached via the club’s car park. It has been raining heavily all day and with dusk falling, I tread gingerly around the many large puddles. It proves to be a pointless exercise as a big car drives past, splashes through a big puddle soaking me from head to toe. The driver parks in the parking area reserved for the directors. Leaving his headlights on, he emerges from his car, puffing on a giant cigar. Another local business man made good.

Unlike Hayes & Yeading, the ground has entrances on 2 sides.

I ask the fuddy duddy on the turnstile what’s the admission price, he tells me £6. I ask again. £6. Its over 15 (sic) years since I was mistaken for a minor! My spirits rise. But no, it really is £6 per adult.

The main stand is cordoned off, it looks like a bomb site. On closer inspection, it is a bomb site. A WW2 bomb crater is still evident. The steward ushers me towards the seats at the top of end of the ground. They’re rather plush, full leather, although a bit low slung for my taste. I suspect they might be a bulk bargain purchase from one of Vauxhall Motors’ fire sales.

Along the far side touchline, I get another view of the car park. I twig why there are no floodlights, all the cars have their floodlights on providing illumination.

The game kicks off. Within seconds, the ball is hoofed out of play. Coming in my general direction, there is no one within 25 yards of me, I retrieve it. "Property of AVFC" is clearly visible on it.

I move position, not used to sitting down. The park appears to extend into the ground. Behind one goal is a grass mound, which would provide a super vantage viewing point in the event of a large crowd. Let’s hope its not tested on Tuesday October 27^th. However, on this wet Tuesday, I struggle to keep my footing on the grassy banking. More than once, with all the excitement, I fall onto my bottom and slide towards the goal.

Half time can’t come soon enough. The game drags on. How quickly the standard of football drops once you move away from The Conference.

The Tea Point is a throwback to the 70s. Tea, coffee and marmite all on offer. Unless my eyes deceived me, they all came out of the same pipe. For food, I was spoilt for choice. As well as the usual stodgeburgers, there were Wagon Wheels and Curly Wurly. I couldn’t vouch for the "Sell By" dates on the packets, if indeed there were "Sell By" dates on the packets.

The trainspotter in me got the better of me, I enquire, "Where is the club shop?" Trying to juggle food and drink and point towards the shop all at the same time, the catering assistant spills my drink all over me.

Trying a new vantage point for the second half, I decide upon "The Potting Shed" stand. It really is a potting shed. Thanks to the groundsman who’d left his push along mower behind the shed, it provides covered standing room for 6. Although being last in, I was stuck in the corner and could see less than half the pitch. Just like being a small child at Bootham Crescent in the days of 6,000 plus crowds when I was indebted to adults moving to one side to give me a momentary glimpse of the pitch.

I didn’t last long in "The Potting Shed". Seeking a better view, I did a couple of circuits of the ground during the second half. Joy, another reminder of the good old days at Bootham Crescent when we could walk through the tunnel or along the Enclosure to change ends and to stay close to all the action.

On my travels, I spied Martin Foyle in deep conversation with the cigar smoking fat cat. I think I overheard Martin gloating over the facilities at York. Heated, individual showers, 3 sides covered accommodation for the spectators, retractable floodlights, a covered bench big enough to seat the management team and 5 substitutes, a spacious club shop ready to be stocked to the rafters at first hint of success, a board room with walls covered in faded pictures from our cup glory days of old and a cabinet full of gleaming North Riding Trophies.

The final whistle blew. Final Score. Bedworth United 0, Romulus FC 1.

Footnote: How the other half live. The next evening I was at Wembley for England s game with Belarus. For the amount I spent, I could probably have bought Bedworth FC. During the first half, as I desperately hoped for an improvement in England’s performance, if only to put an end to the inane Mexican Wave, so beloved by those so young and many not so young, I yawned for Bedworth and my own section of the ground. No chance of a Mexican Wave taking off in Bedworth.