onionbagblog

To Moving Image! …on Monday evening for the first screening of the new season at the village cinema. Being played out in the not quite so multiplex William LovelessHall was The Christophers, a British film about art and intrigue starring Ian McKellen and James Corden.

It’s been a while since we’ve been at Moving Image. Time and tide - football fixtures - have kept us away. The new autumn season seemed like a good opportunity to get back into the Moving Image habit once again.

A few things have changed in our absence. Blimey - there was a sizeable queue when we rocked up not so fashionably late. It was hit and miss if we would actually get in.

The layout of the pop-up cinema has also changed. The big screen has rotated 180 degrees. It is now being rolled down on the actual stage of the Loveless Hall. It meant for a little uncomfortable viewing with the top of the screen ever so slightly clipped by the stage roof.

We missed The Christophers when it was first released a couple of months ago. It’s a film that I wanted to see as some of the locations include our Sunny Stockwell patch.

Most of the outdoor scenes were shot around Fitzrovia, but the interior of the main house of Sir Ian McKellen’s artist character was filmed in a Sunny Stockwell property. I think I know which one…

There are some contrasting performances in the film. McKellen plays a wonderfully bumbling old artist whose physical, but crucially not mental, faculties are in decline. James Corden, of course, plays James Corden. Thankfully, his screen time is limited.

The Christophers in the title refers to the name of a series of paintings created by the main character over 30 years ago. They take on almost mythical status throughout the film and are the real stars of the show, as they form the centrepiece of the plot.

At the centre of the Christophers film is storytelling at its heart. This is not a film with a big budget or special effects. In fact not a lot actually happens in terms of visual narratives on screen. It’s the dialogue which is quite gripping.

It’s also a film that addresses the differences between generations. McKellen’s bumbling artist character may portray progressive traits, but he is also veering towards an old codger, “things were better in my day” type of persona.

This is balanced wonderfully against Michaela Cole’s brilliant performance as what I hesitate to call a more WOKE character that is pretty much in tune with the London art world of 2026. The coming together of the two generations shows that despite the differences, divisions can be overcome.

Some of the detail in the film is quite stunning. The ramshackle, almost anarchic layout of the Sunny Stockwell house looks familiar. There were also some nice touches when the sound of South London, aka police sirens, can be heard behind much of the dialogue.

It was a decent evening albeit a little stuffy in the old William Loveless Hall. This will soon change as the new season ushers in and we have darker, more autumnal nights.

A new month and whaddyaknow? A new cycling club to join.

Chapeau!

On Tuesday morning I rolled out in search of the North Essex branch of the 40+ cycling group. I fit into that demographic quite comfortably. I was still the youngest rider that rolled out on Tuesday morning.

The description of North Essex is quite a wide ranging terrain. Rather than meet up in one central location each week, the branch rolls out from various changing rendezvous.

On Tuesday morning I set my Beeline Velo plot a route heading out to Cressing Temple Barns. I’ve been here before. It’s a fantastic and deeply historical place, but from memory it’s also a bloody pain to get to.

There was a slight September chill in the air shortly before 8:45 a.m. The meet-up was 10:30 a.m. I had planned to leave at 8:30 a.m. What could go wrong?

Sunny Colch could go wrong of course. I’m fine navigating my way around the most remote lanes in North Essex. Trying to find the best route around the centre of the half town, half city can be a right bloody pain in the arse. This delayed me by around 15 minutes.

It didn’t help when a dickhead motorbike rider tried to overtake me like an absolute twat. Not only did he close pass, he then insisted on riding along a bicycle path.

Oh dear.

I confess to getting a little lost en route to Cressing Temple. The Beeline Velo had plotted in a bloody horrid route. It took me along the A12 - or rather the pathway adjacent to the A12.

It’s completely safe as there is no other traffic to share the space with. It’s just that for 4 km you have the constant thunder of HGVs speeding past you. No thanks.

A quick shifty at the watch and SHIT THE BED. I had half an hour to make up around 20 km or so. This ain’t gonna happen right?

I time trialled the run into Cressing Temple. This was a bicycle ride in itself. I was pretty knackered and 40 km or so were already showing on Strava.

I knew that I would miss the meet up, and then by pure chance I caught half a dozen or so riders around 2 km or so out of Cressing Temple.

Chapeau!

This was the 40+ group. I knew one of the riders anyway from the Cycle UK Sunday Club rides. Some introductions were made and I was happy to continue riding for the rest of the day.

We were heading roughly in the direction of St. Pauls. I had no bloody idea where St. Pauls is but I was happy just to tag along for the ride. The nearby fields were fresh with the smell of the corn crop that had recently been harvested.

This was s a pacey ride. I later learned that two sections of the 40+ group had rolled out. I had latched on to the fast group. It definitely showed.

By now I was well into the longest ride of the year for me so far. We hadn’t even reached the lunchtime stage.

I trembled a little when the ride leader gave out the sign for the big hill coming up. Not surprisingly I BONKED big time. I was flat out and all spent on energy. Having only some yoghourt and an apple for breakfast didn’t help.

I was reassured when I was told that the lunchtime staging post was within touching distance. We were now deep into thatched cottage territory. It was really quite picture postcard pretty.

Luncheon was reached. I’ve learned from past experiences that all North Essex bicycle rides stop at a garden centre for lunch. This is really quite a weird phenomenon and it’s one that’s totally passed me by. A garden centre is a garden centre for me. Back in the day you go there to buy your rose bush.

But nope, the garden centres of 2026 are pretty much a hybrid of rose bush buying and TUCKING IN to a fry up. Usually I would skimp on this and have a cup of tea and be done with it, but I was in desperate need of some substance. Quiche and chips did the job for me.

There was fighting talk about riding on to the afternoon tea stop and then back somewhere towards Sunny Colch but I was completely spent. I knew there was still around 35 or 40 km for me to head back to base.

Another rider suggested that he was also going to skip tea and make a dash for it. I rode along behind him pretty much all the way back into the half town, half city.

The highlight of the afternoon session was passing some hedge in the middle of bloody nowhere that had been trimmed meticulously into the shape of Thomas the Tank Engine. It even had a smiling face attached to the front.

So that was my first 40+ ride. Without hesitation I signed up as a member whilst recuperating back home. I’ve even got a 40+ long sleeve cycling top waiting to be checked out in my online basket.

Retirements were made for cycling.

YEAH.

I had no idea what to expect from this album beyond the Memphis song. It’s one of those tracks that has grown in popularity over the years despite being something of a low key affair when it was first released. What followed was pretty much the Memphis song from start to finish. There’s nothing wrong with that.

The Memphis song is pleasant enough, with its Bruce Hornsby style light piano, which builds up, backs down, and then builds up once again. Dude can certainly sing and he can pen a half decent pop song. It’s not the music I would turn to by choice but I might listen to it if I wanted to try and doze off. Damned faint praise etc.

To the Sailing Club! …on Monday evening for the Table Tennis Social. It may be a Bank Holiday but still we play.

Wiff to Waff, Waff to Wiff, etc.

But wait! What’s this? We had a new player turning up. Oh the excitement!

Having different opposition is the best way to improve your game. Our small but very passionate crowd of local table tennis players know each other’s shots inside out. Any new talent always adds to the challenge.

After the singles matches were finished we spent the final 15 minutes or so on doubles. Chaos ensued. Chaos always ensues when you’re playing doubles.

The light was starting to fade. I managed to embarrass myself by inadvertently letting out a little wind on a particularly powerful smash shot.

Whoops. I’ve no idea where that came from. That’s how you make friends when you’re trying to impress fellow table tennis players.

To the Kayaks! …on bank holiday Monday afternoon. Recent days have seen some spectacularly high spring tides out along the estuary. The bright blue skies and wind were too much of a good opportunity to resist an afternoon of paddling.

The dinghies had already launched and were out racing. It was the perfect weather if you wanted some wind in your sail, not so if you were battling against the elements with only a single oar.

We took the strategic decision to make the most of the incoming tide and head upstream. It felt more like we were battling an outgoing tide to be honest, such was the ferocity of the wind blowing the waves back at us. Splashes ahoy!

Once we were past the barrier it was surprising to see the Bank Holiday river traffic pretty much non-existent. We saw C. He was out doing his usual daily swim. A few brief polite words were exchanged before we pressed on.

Rowhedge was reached. There was another couple swimming close to the public hard. I say swimming, it looked more like they were simply treading water.

Both pubs on the other side of the river were busy with Bank Holiday boozers. The Essex Harbour Patrol boat was moored up and ready to pounce on any speeding jet ski dickheads.

Windy Corner was reached. It was an absolute bastard. I tried to head for the channel but was blown off course.

We came within touching distance of the University but decided to cut our losses as the waves continued. We drifted back downstream with the tide now turning.

Just as we were recovering the kayaks, some scouse fella came up to me and asked me about high tides. He wanted to know the precise science behind what governs high and low water.

Fuck me, you’re asking the wrong dude fella.

The acoustic tracks work best here. They allow the genuine soulfulness in Neil Young’s voice to be showcased. When he plugs in the guitars he reverts to just being any old hairy rocker wearing denim.

The pipedin crowd noise gets on your tits a bit. The Woodstock interjections from a decade previously are just weird. All the tracks drag on. This is something of a Neil Young trademark.

It’s a decent enough album but it also proves that when it comes to Neil Young, he matures like a fine wine.

⭐ ⭐ ⭐

A wifey Bank Holiday boner bicycle ride for Monday. Bank Holiday Mondays are always the best for riding, especially when you roll out early. The roads are deserted.

This ride saw the first wearing of the gilet for the season. It was a little windy out there.

The first obstacle was to dodge a couple of darting squirrels who came close to my front wheel. I suspect there was a bit of boy/girl action taking place there.

This was soon upgraded to a lone pheasant who shot out in front of me, eyeballed me, and then thought better of hanging around. SEE YA!

There wasn’t a lot of pace taking place to be honest. My cycling partner had decided on a more genteel ride, despite rolling out on the roadies.

Our progress was curtailed considerably when we reached the descent into Dedham. This is normally a stretch where you hover with your hands on the brakes, but hope for the best as you dart down the hill at around 45 km/h.

A couple of horse riders were midway through their descent. This meant an incredibly slow ride towards the town.

Dedham was a little more lively. There was some church jumble sale action taking place. I did think of stopping by briefly but it was full of tat.

A toilet stop did take place once we had left the town. I was wearing my cycling bibs, which always makes for something of a faff when it comes to the correct manoeuvre. I was happily going about my business when I noticed a couple out walking across the vale, around 200 or so metres away.

MORNING!

The stench of the ride soon turned to onions. Despite being a Bank Holiday, the young farmers were out in the fields harvesting their crop. You could write a blog post about onions being harvested and put into a bag.

An hour and a half or so later and we were back at base. A decent enough ride with quiet lanes and something of a pedestrian pace.

To Wivenhoe Town Cricket Club! …mid-afternoon on Sunday.

For some reason the Wivenhoe Town Cricket Club website has stopped displaying future fixtures. But if it’s a Sunday then chances are there is a game taking down at Rectory Road.

We rocked up to find an empty wicket but the scoreboard showing 220. It was the interval in what looked like either a 30 or 35 over match. Players from both teams were already tucking in to the Sunday spread as we took up our boundary seats.

The outfield was looking much improved after a weekend of on-off rain showers. I wouldn’t say it was the lush green that we see back down in SE11; it was more weeds starting to poke through amongst the rock hard surface.

Speaking of rain - we sat down and then it started to piss it down for five minutes or so. The covers didn’t come on. The players did come out however, gave it a quick look and decided to carry on with the 2nd innings. This is village cricket after all.

I still had no idea who the chuff Wivenhoe were playing. This was a question which carried on all the way throughout the game, into the evening and even the following morning.

The away team however were keen to start their bowling comeback, leaning heavily on spin and pretty much every outfield player in the slips. Boundaries were there to be taken if Wivenhoe wanted them.

The first over was complete village comedy. It was absolute chaos out there with people running, diving and falling over.

Spin worked in the second over, with one of the Wivenhoe openers clean bowled for three. An early catch was then put down.

I was sent to the bar and missed the next wicket.

Every ball seemed to lead to some comedy action. Thank fuck for boxes as one poor fella at the wicket took an absolute belter in the balls. His team mates laughed from the sideline.

SHOUT OUT to the away team fielder in his bucket hat, who seemed to be vaping at silly mid on for the entire game.

It was at this stage that I dozed off. The sun was out once again and we had a half- decent place in a sun trap, looking out across the wicket.

Some wind then woke me up and I could see that Wivenhoe were on 94 for four. We decided to make a strategic move over to the scoreboard end. This offers some shelter from the wind.

The game from here onwards then got even more chaotic and incredibly confusing. It appeared as though Wivenhoe had a runner with another batsman standing at square, except he wasn’t running each time a run was taken. How very odd.

It turned out the runner was one of the umpires. He was all padded up and carrying a bat. I then clocked that this was some kind of rotation system where the runner/umpire was simply the next batsman coming in who was carrying out some umpire duties.

The main uncertainty for the afternoon then happened when Wivenhoe were most deff on seven wickets down. Another wicket fell and all of a sudden they were five down. What the chuff is all about? The space-time continuum was being ignored as Wivenhoe were actually travelling backwards with the scoreboard.

Up stepped another umpire/runner, this time carrying a beer. This, I think, was something of a theme for the afternoon. The vaping bucket hat dude kept on sparking up.

This was a truly bizarre game. The scoreboard said that Wivenhoe were around 50 runs short with one ball remaining. The batter at the crease slogged it and attempted a run. He fell over. I suspect alcohol was involved. Somehow the ball went all the way to the boundary.

The scoreboard then said Wivenhoe had won. We both scratched our heads, looked at each other, and concluded isn’t village cricket a truly wonderful and bonkers game?

We had something of Boy’s Own outing for the WivGigs Sunday Social. Four male rowers and a male cox. This is most unusual. I prefer mixed rowing. Having five blokes in a boat can often lead to disaster.

It was all very lively down at the Sailing Club, hard around midday. An exceptionally high Bank Holiday weekend tide meant there was plenty of aquatic action out on the water.

Some dinghy racing was in full flow. The Time Keeper’s hut bleated out the incredibly LOUD horn each time some form of watercraft passed the finishing line. This always makes me want to shout out RAVE!!!! and put my hands in the air.

This was a maiden voyage for Audacity, our returning gig boat. She has been out at some repair yard for the past month or so, undertaking some pretty heavy duty patch ups as well as being tarted up with paint.

The aroma coming from the new coating was still fresh and rather lush. It was actually quite exciting rowing in a boat that was now looking and feeling as good as new.

The Boy’s Own crew headed out downstream along the estuary. We had plenty of water to enjoy, with time and tide on our side.

Past Alresford Creek and the waters became slightly choppy. A couple of crew from one of the racing dinghies were now neck deep in water, having capsized, and were being picked up by the safety boat.

The Brightlingsea Ferry passed us in the opposite direction on a riverside cruise from one town to the other. The passengers on board were most friendly and seemed pleased to see us.

We turned around at what I think was Buoy 22 and then made our way back with the tide still incoming down to the Sailing Club. Some bank holiday campers had pitched up on White House Beach.

The return journey involved a little bit of stop-start action. Some of the Sailing Club racers had decided to tack left to right in front of our path. Thankfully the Boy’s Own crew remained sensible and decided not to take them on.

Back at base and Audacity was given a decent scrub. Whoever said that males can’t carry out a half-decent cleaning routine?

A decent row.

A beat the rain ride on Sunday morning. Usually it’s a BIG FAT BOLLOCKS to the BBC weather app; but the blackened skies up above the Estuary Wilds told me it was time to get a shifty on.

There had been some serious rain overnight. This was the first time in a number of months I have had to avoid puddles whilst pushing the pedals.

My rough direction of travel was over towards Lawford. This involves around two minutes or so on an A road. For once there was a considerate motorist who was happy to let me slip off onto the slip road without taking me out from behind. Thank you, Madam.

I reached the lanes. Consideration scales soon started to diminish. Some dickhead driver in what looked like a Land Rover couldn’t resist revving up behind me, and then close passing, leaving a thick dark dirty black plume right in my face.

You dirty dog.

Finally I had some quiet around the lanes. It was tranquil apart from the other riders. Sunday morning seemed to be something of a Last of the Summer Rides around these parts.

The terrain got more remote as I ploughed on through. I did stop to allow an approaching car to have the road on a particularly barren lane. As I stopped I noticed something flapping around by the roadside.

Oh dear.

A closer inspection revealed a rook who looked like his days were done. To my surprise the motorist also stopped and out stepped a big old Essex geezer.

He was actually wonderful and knew how to handle the situation. He managed to pick up the rook and feel the strength that was remaining. The diagnosis was the feet were gone, there was still a little flapping left in the wings.

We both agreed on a dignified end to what was a very sad situation. He placed the rook somewhere quiet in a nearby field. At least that would mean no other passing motorist would finish off the poor bird.

We both stepped away and then looked on from a distance for a couple of minutes. The rook was still flapping and fighting for its life. It looked like a bit of airborne action might happen. We both decided to cut our losses, shake hands, and head in our opposite directions.

The rest of the ride was uneventful. I barely changed gears. It felt like I was riding on a fixie.