onionbagblog

To the University! …on Friday afternoon for a game of table tennis.

Having signed away half my life savings the day before on sports centre membership, I thought it only fitting that I make the most of my new financial investment. There is no sounder monetary meaning to life than wiff waff.

Yes, we can play outdoors on the OG Table of Dreams; we can even play indoors for one hour a week down at the Sailing Club.

But you can’t beat having a FUCK OFF sports centre all to yourself with a table tennis table set up in the middle, so you can TWAT the ball back and forth with no other disturbances.

I make it sound also romantic, which is kinda true. It was in this exact very same space, some 36 years ago, that my playing partner and I both met for the first time. My only memory of our first game of wiff waff back in 1990 was that she later declared I had BO throughout our first date.

Whoops.

It took a little getting use to the new table setup at the University. It seemed to play considerably slower than both the outdoor table and the Sailing Club table.

My mind was slightly distracted, As well as reminiscing over past romantic liaisons within this grand sporting arena, I also remembered my first venture into the absurd world of aerobics, taking my final year exams, and also being sent off for the first and only time playing five-a-side football. All these events took place at the sports centre.

The table tennis for Friday afternoon wasn’t quite as adventurous. I was trailing 3-2. My partner suggested we take a break. I insisted on playing on. I was on an absolute roll. Of course she took the next game with a 4-2 lead into the break.

It all then went a little downhill, a bit like my aerobics, exams and football red card. I walked away from Wivenhoe Park with an 8-3 defeat to my name.

Whatever.

“The signs so far do not indicate the comprehensive break with Starmer’s neoliberalism, imperialism and authoritarianism which is required, and indeed which Burnham promised.”

On Holborn & St Pancras, via Morning Star

“In one last U-turn for the lads, Keir Starmer announced he was stepping down as an MP on Tuesday – convenient timing after he’d just enjoyed nearly seven weeks of paid summer recess. Yes, the man who loved banging on about “public service” decided it was the “right time” to sack off the chore of representing the good people of Holborn and St Pancras.”

Via Novara

Mobile Phone Use While Driving Is Even Worse Than We Thought

Gosh Miles was bloody prolific. It’s always a pleasure to discover a new album by him. When I say discover I mean one that I didn’t even know existed. A little further online digging reveals that this is just one in a series of four similarly themed albums recorded at the time. That should keep me busy over the weekend.

Cookin' starts off with a great underplayed cover of My Funny Valentine. You’re then straight into it with a bit of bebop action as he changes the mood and the pace.

I’m coming to the conclusion that you really can’t go wrong with Miles Davis from any era. That’s quite a stretch, from the ’50s through to his late ’80s output. Jazz remains the perfect music for me in which to get things done. Cookin' with the Miles Davis Quintet captures this perfectly.

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Obligatory Basketball Coaching Dilemma post to follow: you know how it goes. There are less than weeks to go before Essex Rebels tip off the new season at the Sports Arena. The men have a home court game on 12th September. The women start their season in early October.

And whaddyaknow? Both teams now are Coach-less.

It was announced a few weeks ago that Ashley Cookson would be stepping down as Head Coach of the women. Good luck to Coach Cookson and his young family as they start a new life back home in Canada. He leaves Our House with the women’s team in a better position than when he arrived.

But the bombshell announced today, if indeed you can call it a bombshell in local basketball terms, is that men’s Head Coach Joe Hart is also stepping down. There’s no succession in place, with the Rebs urgently looking for someone new to lead the team in just over a week’s time.

I think it’s all good news - that is if you can call two head coaches leaving, with no one else to replace them, good news. Coach Cookson has made no secret of wanting to head back to Canada with his family; Coach Hart, meanwhile, has landed himself a coaching role higher up with an as yet unnamed men’s Super League team.

Good luck to them both. It does leave something of a dilemma for the Rebs with the new season counting down. They’ve also advertised recently for a new game announcer plus also a game day experience person to hold it all together.

I often feel that the Rebs both benefit but are also hampered by the university status of both teams. It’s great to attract young players who can combine their studies with playing basketball at an elite level, But once their time on campus is up they disappear. Likewise for a lot of the support staff.

It’s far too early in the season to get concerned. In fact the season hasn’t even started. I was feeling positive with the resurrection of the men’s third team after taking a sabbatical for a couple of years. I can’t help think on the court things will be a little stretched before all three teams get to settle down as we enter the winter months.

I’m kind of used to this now, Back in the day and it was always the same with Elite League ice hockey. You would get familiar the roster of players and the head coach, and then come the end of the season they would all disappear and it would be all change a few months later when the puck drops once again.

Come to think of it after a batshit transfer window, Premier League football isn’t a million miles away from this right now.

Another day, another ride. I’m making up for lost time, having had no access to my road bike since pretty much the start of the year. I’m absolutely bloody loving it on the carbon frame rolling out around deserted Estuary Wilds lanes.

Thursday lunchtime felt like the first ride of the autumn. It was blustery and the leaves were falling. The sun was making an appearance but it was hardly heatwave weather.

Confirming my autumnal awareness was the bloke picking blackberries on the run-in towards Alresford. He had the entire stretch of a hedge to himself.

TUCK IN!

I saw a couple cycling in the same direction, roughly 500m in the distance. They looked like leisure riders.

I didn’t want to take them on but I thought I’d set myself a challenge of at least catching up with them before we meet the turnoff out of Alresford.

I pressed on a little more with the pace but it wasn’t exactly time trial speed. Much to my surprise the leisurely couple weren’t that leisurely. They were soon out of my sight and off to Gawd knows where.

I reached some of the fields where lawn grass is grown before being sold on. It’s got to be better than astroturf, right? Finally there is a very light green tinge appearing across the fields selling the sods.

I got blown off course towards Great Bromley. The cross winds were ferocious out across the fields.

A little further along and the village hall had set up shop as a polling station for the day. Not another one, etc. I’ve absolutely no idea who was being elected or why.

The remotest part of the ride was a little surreal. I was convinced I saw a Tardis in a field. It wasn’t a Tardis, it was a solitary blue portaloo.

Chapeau!

My road bike started to develop a slight clicking noise towards the end of the ride. This was most disconcerting. It appeared to be coming from somewhere down by the cranks.

Oh dear.

I tried various different pedalling techniques and also changing up and down the gears, but nope, the bloody annoying clicking noise was still there.

I noticed on the final hill climb of the ride that when I was dancing on my pedals the clicking stopped. Ah, even though it sounds like it’s coming from down below it might be something to do with the seat as there’s no pressure on it.

Back at base and a little Chat GPT online investigating led to the suggestion that my seat was a dirty and the seat pole needed cleaning.

I whipped out the WD40. Whenever you are in doubt about life in general, then WD40 is usually the solution. I gave the seat pole and the clamp a bloody good clean. I managed to reassemble them without everything falling apart.

I gave the road bike a very quick road test up and down the local streets. The clicking sound had gone. That’s my achievement for the day.

To the Oval Table of Dreams! …late in the day on Monday

We’ve not played on this table for some while. You soon forget the hardness of the surface and how brutal the surrounding Bowling Green Road is when it comes to bounce.

You hit a smash shot and then watch your opponent trundle off and return the ball five minutes later after it’s bounced halfway down towards Kennington.

Wind was also something of an issue. This was not a game in which to play spin. The only way to win this one was to absolutely TWAT the ball and then wave goodbye to the player at the other end as they went off in search of a lost cause.

Inevitably it was me doing the long walk into the distance.

The table also plays incredibly fast. This is great for improving reflexes. You also need to keep an eye out for the ever-approaching Lime bikes as they speed past you.

The final obstacle to overcome was the darting parakeets overhead. It’s quite a soundtrack of transpontine birds, speeding electric bicycle riders, and a bouncing road.

That’s the list of excuses as to why I lost 3-0.

To the Lambeth Palace Library! …on Wednesday afternoon I had a spare half hour or so whilst I was in the surrounds of SE11.

It was with good timing as well as it is the final week of the exhibition Mariners, Religion, Race and Empire.

Don’t let the title put you off. Entering into the Lambeth Palace Library is always an event in itself. It’s essentially a new build bolted on to the incredibly historic Lambeth Palace Gaff next door.

The library itself offers up some quite unique views of what is otherwise a hidden and enclosed space of the Lambeth Palace Gardens.

You can gaze out of the main windows in the library and it’s impossible to tell that you are actually on the banks of the Thames in central London.

As the title of the exhibition suggests, this is a brief guided tour documenting issues connected to race and mariners.

As you would expect from the Lambeth Palace Archives, Christianity is a strong thread throughout. The exhibition draws upon documents within the church archive showing a Christian approach to the wellbeing of mariners from an ethnic background.

The role of women is also explored. You soon find that the church and women in particular were keen to champion the cause of people of colour who were called up to sea.

It’s a very tight and compact exhibition. I found myself spending a little too much time reading the descriptions of the artefacts rather than looking at the actual historical documents themselves. It’s me that’s got the problem, not the Lambeth Palace Archives.

I was intrigued to read about the Floating Church Society. When the discussion came to temperance and how to limit the availability of alcohol at sea, I found myself drifting slightly.

A worthwhile way to spend 50 minutes or so in a particularly splendid and unique South London setting.

To Newport Street Gallery! …in between dodging rain showers whilst trying to watch a cricket match in early September. GAWD bless Newport Street Gallery. It serves as something of a more than half-decent outpost whenever it’s pissing it down at The Oval.

Exhibiting right now is These Thoughts May Disappear by Jack White. Yep, THAT Jack White. You almost felt as though you should be wearing red and black to enter the gallery space.

We would have stood out if we were. NPS was absolutely empty on Wednesday lunchtime. We pretty much had a private viewing to ourselves.

It’s always a pleasure visiting Newport Street. I still find it pretty amazing that such a contemporary and free space has opened up around the back of Lambeth Walk.

We’ve made our way into the first gallery. Fans of Ukulele Joe won’t be disappointed.

Jack White has used some fancy 3D printing to create exact replicas of a charity shop Ukulele Joe he picked up. Each one has been decorated in a different style.

It’s easy to criticise the idea of a rich rock star turning to art, having the financial security to back them up, But given the chance you would, right?

We kept on wandering. A load of old garden pallets had then been tarted up in a second gallery space. Black and red feature heavily. I’m not sure what paint material was used but they were pleasingly shiny and fresh.

A theme then began to develop of old junk being upholstered. Jack White then tells the story through the exhibition guide of how, before he became a rich rock star, he worked as an upholster.

The legend goes that he was just more than a stitch-up and makeup type of fella. He dropped in secret messages within the inner workings of the furniture he was restoring. There were strong KLF vibes taking place here. I had the urge to sit down on some of the furniture.

You know you’re in a fancy art gallery when all the artwork is available to purchase, but the disclaimer is you have to fill in an application form. I don’t think Jack White wants to sell to any old amateur collector.

The highlight for me was the collection of old White Stripe amps that had been customised by some guest artists. No surprise to see Shepard Fairey and Damien Hirst adding their trademark licks to the amps.

This was also quite an interactive gallery space. You got to play various keyboards and even a theremin that came through the amps. This was tremendous fun.

I absolutely bloody love NPS. It’s a perfect gallery space to exhibit for one artist. You can spend quite easily half an hour in there taking in what is on show. You never feel overwhelmed and you never feel that you have been under-changed even though it’s free, natch.

To the Oval! …on Wednesday morning for one final jolly of the summer. It was day one of a Championship match for Surrey against Yorkshire - aka how the fuck dis this once proud club go from being a three consecutive Championship winning team to becoming relegation fodder?

The train journey in was, as ever, entertaining. For some reason this season has been scheduled so that when we depart the Weird Wiv Cricket Fun train we are joined by a load of good owd Essex boys on route to watch the Essex Slappers over in Chelmsford.

“Hey, I’m going a little bit further than you.”

Oh the BANTZ we had.

Destination Chelmsford was reached. The good owd Essex boys buggered off to watch the Slappers. I sat back and thought, yep, I’ve got the better deal in heading down to SE11 for the more superior Surrey experience.

Just don’t mention the Surrey Strut, right?

We walked up at The Oval just as play was about to start. It was raining.

Arse.

The transpontine skies up above didn’t look too promising, so what to do with a spare hour when back down in South London?

The first job of the day was to pick up another Surrey Yearbook. I think they’re running on short supplies here. EBay in the morning, etc.

I then surprised my cricketing partner by having a bit of a detour into the Surrey store. I remember years gone by when the Surrey store was but a broom cupboard bolted on to the Members' entrance in the Pavilion. It was where you would buy cricket balls, bats if you could afford them, and even a box if you were feeling brave.

But not so these days. Like everything in the modern sporting world, the Surrey store is of course now a MEGA store - and it bloody is mega in terms of space, not to mention the prices.

My cricketing partner had her eye on a Surrey ice hockey top. Yep I know such a thing really shouldn’t exist. Surrey are also flogging this Surrey Football Club tops. They actually say Surrey Football Club on them.

But the Surrey ice hockey top seemed to appeal to my cricketing partner. Being the kind companion that I am, I snaffled it up as an early birthday present for her. Lucky girl.

We poked our head out around the old ground, looked up above and thought BALLS to this. there’s going to be no play at least until the afternoon session.

A lunchtime of art was then on the agenda. We made our way over to Newport Street Gallery. On route we passed Andy’s wonderful DIY garden pop-up that has been on the corner of Newport Street for the best part of a decade. Sadly the old boy is closing down. I felt a little tearful knowing that another part of old South London is soon to disappear.

A little time was spent at Newport Street with the Jack White exhibition. We then continued our short little journey onto Lambeth Palace Library for another exhibition before winding our way back down Lambeth walk and towards The Oval.

OI!

A very quick scroll of X and yep, the game was back in play. We’d actually missed the first five overs. We had also missed the first three wickets. A very poor Yorkshire team were struggling on 1-3 at one stage.

We wasted no more time and took up the nearest seats in the old OCS. Surrey were clearly getting a shifty on out on the field. You could tell the players knew that possible rain was expected. They weren’t hanging around, racing to change ends after each over. Every ball was more or less appealed for.

It was delightful to clock dear old Jack Russell sitting a few rows in front of us with his canvas and pallet. Can you tell what it is yet?

It then became a little slow going out in the middle. I confess to dozing off for 15 minutes or so. I was soon awoken by the loud guttural roar of Lobby, who was sitting on the other side of the OCS. Some things never change.

It was soon time for the tea interval. We had a brief stroll out the middle. It was good to catch up with F and his young son.

We retreated to the Peter May to try and cancel out the wind trap that was now rattling around The Oval.

I spent most of the evening session focusing on Foakes behind the stumps. Good gosh he is so athletic. An England recall could be a possibility over the winter months.

The wickets kept on falling for Yorkshire. Up stepped Bairstow and then so did the rain. It was only some slight drizzle. For once the Umps showed some common sense and kept the players out there.

This became a slow scoring affair for Yorkshire. I messed around putting on a poncey wind jacket and somehow missed another wicket.

Our conversation then turned towards how utterly naff the new Yorkshire logo is. We actually asked a friendly AI bot if it had been designed by a school kid as part of a local competition. Yep it looked that shit. Apparently it’s part of a professional rebranding which brings all elements of the club together. Yeah right…

Out in the middle and Wharton finally fell for 45. He was Yorkshire’s last hope.

Some dark skies descended over SE11 shortly around 6pm. The Umps took them off for bad light. We managed to see over four hours of play, not bad for what could have been a washout of a day.

What a bloody horrid album. What an absolute racket. This sounds like a theremin that was turned up to 11, natch. It’s not even funny. It’s everything music shouldn’t be. It’s crude. It’s sexist. It has absolutely zero soul. There’s not even any song structure to speak of. It’s just noise and not even noise in a good way. What a waste of two minutes that was.

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