onionbagblog

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.

⭐

This sounded a little laboured to be honest. It’s almost as if there’s a desire to craft the perfect pop song. The secret should be simple. You don’t need to add on all the extras and fruity toppings to get pop perfection. A good song is a good song.

The songs seem to stick to the same formula: Poppy, jingly jangly guitar, some killer hooks and then a chorus that even AI would struggle to come up. If that’s your kind of thing then it’s a decent album. But there’s not much grrr in this album.

⭐ ⭐

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.