onionbagblog

The allotment is looking a little worse for wear, to be honest. That’s the impact of four, five, possibly six heatwaves during the summer.

The bonus is that it has given us a bumper crop in terms of tomatoes and courgettes. The latter, in particular, have expanded with almost freakish proportions and can’t quite decide if they want to become marrows or not.

The lack of water is now starting to show. There’s not a lot of green around but fans of sand-coloured hues and backgrounds won’t be disappointed.

Long gone are the days when I have had to obsess about heading up there every couple of weeks to trim the borders as part of the requirement with the Town Council lease. Grass is currently not a concept across the entire allotment patch.

Watering has scaled down a little in recent weeks. We’ve had a few downpours, which have relieved us of the burden.

Hose pipes are available to use at the allotment but the lease also says you can’t directly spray water over your green goodness. Instead there’s the laborious task of filling up the water butts and then using these with the watering can.

It’s been something of a steep learning curve but also a fun introduction to allotment life this summer. I feel that we’ve entered into the agreement at perhaps the best and worst of times: plenty of sun, little water.

Thoughts are already starting to stretch ahead to what might happen during the winter months. Spoiler alert: I think we’re going to get shit loads of rain around the Estuary Wilds.

Some leek and carrot seeds have been ordered. An allotment is for life and not just the summer months.

Disclaimer: This is one of those seminal albums that defined me as I was growing up. It only touched on my personal development for a brief time, but for 6 months or so around 1985, it was pretty much all I listened to.

I love the posturing. I love the ridiculousness of it all. I love the leather trousers. Sure it’s a bit of a leap away from the Southern Death Cult. You can see the logical progression, which then leads you towards hair metal. I’m happy for my limited heavy guitar indulgences to soak up the Love album, but I’m a little scared to look over the edge and see what comes next.

It gets a little hippy shit in places, with tracks such as Brother Wolf, Sister Moon" She Sells Sanctuary is mid-80s metal indie perfection. I can almost taste the pints of cider and cherry brandy as the riff steamrolls you over. Gosh those were the days.

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To Wivenhoe Town Cricket Club! …on Sunday afternoon we’re kind of getting into this summer Sunday cricket routine. It’s a shame the season is about to come to a close; When an Old Batsman Leaves the Crease, etc.

Part of the routine is to look an absolute dickhead, walking the mean streets of CO7, carrying the contents of the weekly veg waste. The Rectory Road cricket ground is pretty much next door to the allotment. Two birds, one stone, etc.

The food waste bin looks more like a cricket hamper. At least it gives us some cover and camouflage for any disconcerting looks. Not that anyone at Wivenhoe Town Cricket Club gives a shit, to be honest. They’re an incredibly friendly bunch.

The fixture list has been updated online, pretty much to precision over the summer months - except for the final couple of weeks. We’ve no idea if any cricket would be taking place and, if it was, who was playing.

We rocked up at Rectory Road around 3 pm on Sunday and were pleased to see the umpires and players out in the middle. A few conversations later and we clocked on that this was true pub cricket: a Wivenhoe Town team (I’m not exactly sure which team) were playing a team from the New Inn, over in Sunny Colch.

I’ll drink to that. Chin chin.

We took our position at the pavilion end of the ground. It was a little strange viewing, with the middle positioned very much over to the Rectory Road side. New Inn were batting. They were on 115 for 5 in - I think - the 30th over when we arrived.

That can’t be right as I think it was only a 30-over match. Scoreboards are overrated anyway.

Wivenhoe looked keen to wrap things up with the away team innings. There were endless appeals. There was also a rather pleasant warm wind blowing across the old ground.

I missed a few more wickets. I was messing around taking photos, natch.

I then rotated 90° and there it was, right in my face: some fella with his trousers pulled down, showing off his jock strap and a rather large cricket box bedded away inside.

POW, right in the kisser, etc.

Runs were clearly needed by New Inn. Some not-so-friendly advice came from the away team players sitting back in the hutch.

“Get a bloody move on. It’s not a Test match.”

There, that’s told them.

Play was interrupted slightly as a motorbike was carefully ridden behind the wicket on route to the car park.

An unfortunate drop then took place by one of the Wivenhoe players at square leg. It looked to have been easier to have caught it - so says the dude whose own proud cricket career scorecard reads: no runs, not out.

Wivenhoe had some pretty lethal pace bowlers. One fella in particular was able to deliver a ball at speed, which then died and kept low throughout. He clean bowled the tail end of the new innings.

A run chase of 191 was set from 30 overs. I’m still not actually sure if I trust the scoreboard or not.

The tea interval came and went. Some pretty spectacular Sunday afternoon spreads were laid out in the pavilion.

TUCK IN.

The Wivenhoe openers wasted no time. Fifty was soon up on the scoreboard after only 5 overs.

What I’m finding fascinating watching village cricket at this level is the variety of different bowling actions on show. You don’t get too much change in styles when watching County cricket. Step down 10 rungs or so in the cricket pyramid and blimey, you see some pretty odd bowling actions.

More runs were made, more wickets were taken. This looked like it could be something of a tense close to the afternoon. Sadly - and possibly for one final time - bloody work got in the way of me seeing the end of the game.

I’ve no idea who won, but that’s not really the point, is it?

I have to escape the bloody church bells on Sunday morning. The aim is always to be out of the house at least by 9 am. Leave it any later, and the big dongs will be tugging away on their bell ends ferociously. It does me nut in, to be honest.

A run was out of the question. BUT OF COURSE I’m still crocked. I seem to have been crocked full on of late. My current crock injury is coming close to the anniversary of it first appearing. That sounds more like a long-term condition than an injury.

Oh dear.

So a bicycle ride it was. Time and tide were a little tight. I had around an hour and a half before I had a few work commitments to take care of a little later back at base.

I’m finding a new-found freedom once again, rolling out on the road bike. It is so agile and light. Plus, there’s also a complete ease in terms of getting it in and out of the house and just simply bloody riding it.

Chapeau!

Immediately, I hit a headwind. I tried not to let this annoy me. A big smile was put on my face when I saw someone had had some fun with some OCD hedge cutting. My kind of person.

This was also a good opportunity to road test my own bicycle mechanical skills. This was the first semi-serious ride after I attempted a few tinkerings to try and lose the annoying clicking sound.

This most def was coming from the cranks, or at least it sounded that way. My friendly AI bot differed. It suggested that it was something to do with the seat post.

A few changes earlier in the week, and wow, whaddyaknow? I managed the whole ride this morning, and the clicking had gone. I really should retrain as a bicycle mechanic. Yeah, because that’s going to pay the bills, right?

This was a ride mainly around the Estuary Wilds lanes, but also a few suburban areas. The smell of Sunday roasts slowly cooking was already heavy in my nostrils at around 11 am.

Over at Great Bromley, the groundsman was going through his paces with some wicket preparation ahead of one of the final few days of the cricketing summer. We’llmiss them when they’re gone.

I reached the bonkers Vineyard, which I always think should be somewhere in the south of France and not north east Essex. There was some serious harvesting taking place. Betcha it’s a bumper crop this year, with the various heat waves.

The seasonal theme continued. The ride included heading past Herbert’s Happy Christmas Turkey Farm. I often wonder about the name. I doubt if Herbert is actually that happy. The big sign has been put up ahead of the Christmas run in. And so it begins.

A decent ride. I was back at base with no more bloody bells and a little time to spare ahead of my next work commitments.

The briefest of brief Crap Match Reports.

Disclaimer: I was running my arse around town doing various things in the lead up to KO. I was pretty knackered when KO came. I confess to dozing off for maybe 15 to 20 minutes during the match.

There, that’s the kind of detail you won’t read in a Daily Telegraph match report. Judging by the quality of some of the journalism I read in the Telegraph, I’d wager that some of the journo’s are often fond of taking a snooze midway through a game as well.

Certainly not asleep on the job was Delap. It was a bold move for The OG to start the new record signing and see him make his home debut.

This sets out the stall as to where we stand with the forward line this season. Respect to Chris Wood, etc, but it seems that he has possibly reached the end of the road in terms of his powers. Age catches up with all of us - and so does sleep, to be honest.

This was a game in which Forest desperately needed to sort out their abysmal home form. It seems an age away now when the World Famous was the fortress that gave us home advantage in keeping us up in the Premier League for those first two seasons.

As for lolspurs - I’ve never liked them. I’ve never forgiven them after the 1991 Cup Final. I never will. Nasty, nasty club.

Spurs pressed right from the start. There seemed to be a succession of nonstop corners from the away team. Yet weirdly Sels, in the middle of our goal, was rarely troubled throughout the entire game.

Forest’s midfield struggled to get a look-in in the opening half an hour or so. I’d never doubt a midfield has the quality of MGW, McAtee, and even Ndoye. But the control and bossing around wasn’t there.

At times it felt like we were playing Cooper Ball all over again: a low block and then trying to hit any visiting team at the World Famous on the break. We all know how that one ended.

The second half was a little livelier - I think. I lost track of when I dozed off and then when I woke up again. All I can remember is thinking, Christ, Spurs are shit. They were there for the taking.

The main talking point will, of course, be the Neco Williams goal. It was impossible to tell from what seemed like limited camera angles if he touched the ball or not with his hand. Clear and obvious is the VAR mantra, right?

Whatever, it was certainly a bloody brave move on his behalf and was reminiscent of Joe Worrall away at Stamford Bridge when he made that tackle with his head.

And so our run of four consecutive wins against lolspurs comes to a close: a point at home in the Premier League is always decent but this felt like an opportunity lost.

Remember that The OG is always a slow burner. Having a slow burner, however, means that you might be nine points or so off where you should be at the end of the season.

As long as we’re not pissing around in the bottom third of the table come Easter time, then I will take any long term gains if it means short term pain right now.

An interesting row. We started off with what looked like we were disturbing a high-society dinner party taking place on a yacht that was moored up. Don’t mind us. I was placed on stroke. It was my first time with the new leathers. SEXY. I came close to breaking a tholpin in all the excitement.

We stopped to pick up a come-and-tryer. That didn’t last long. Soon we were heading out downstream. A trio of jet skiers behaved nicely for once. There was also a trio of kids out in their kayaks making the most of the late summer sun.

Some weirdo dude in one of those hydro things was poncing around. I wasn’t alone in hoping that he would come a cropper and get his hair wet. He got his hair wet.

We had a bit of a hippie shit moment observing some jellyfish. An absurd conversation took place regarding the relative intelligence of jellyfish compared to other aquatic sea creatures.

The water was very still downstream. I got to cox for a short while, back towards the sailing club.

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.