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I bloody love Dinosaur Jr. I used to stomp around to Freak Scene at Rock City on Thursday nights = or it was more like Friday mornings, sometime around 2 am.

It was something of a surprise at 8 am this Friday morning to have the shit kicked out of me by listening to Freak Scene once again. What a fucking tune! It stampedes right through you, takes no prisoners, yet is still laid-back.

You get the feeling that there is a lot more to be said and a lot more energy to be released but somehow Dinosaur Jr. hold it all back. It’s almost a threat, thinking that there’s more to come if you really want to push it a bit further.

But Bug is about so much more than just a noise. Buried away beneath all the feedback are some actual top-quality tunes. You can see where Nirvana got their blueprint from.

The absolute noise attack is dialled up further on the penultimate track, Don’t. Christ, what a fucking racket! It was bloody glorious.

I wouldn’t want to be listening to this stuff day in, day out to help maintain my mood but every now and then you need a kick in the balls with a complete fucking mess of an album that still teases you with some tunes.

⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

To the Table of Dreams! …on Thursday afternoon.

We rocked up at the quaint rural village public table to find it covered in graffiti. There was a crappy KFC style chicken along with a CND sign.

Some people.

There’s absolutely no fucking need for this. You wouldn’t find this back in Lambeth. Some of the self-entitlement from the middle class little shits around here is unbelievable.

Not surprisingly my mind wasn’t focused after this trauma I was slightly triggered with class war rage. This led to the scoring going a little wonky.

“Less chat please.”

These were the instructions I gave to my playing partner. She wanted to bang on about all sorts with nothing to do with table tennis. Focus on the game, luv, and don’t forget what the score is.

The park around us was absolutely empty. This makes a change from the heatwave summer months, when we attracted the attention of dog walkers, young families, and general local bum dossers.

“That was a good return, wasn’t it?”

…remarked to my playing partner with a high degree of sarcasm after I messed up.

In my defence I’d almost just been taken out by a conker falling from a nearby tree.

It all then went a little weird with both the scoring and some of the conversation, which I was keen to cut out.

My playing partner found herself 3-0 up. I stormed back to take it to 3-2. This has been something of a familiar pattern of late, with her concentration failing.

“Whenever it goes up I have trouble maintaining it.”

…said my playing partner.

She didn’t appreciate my response of:

“That’s what she said.”

Lost 4-2.

A trip to the allotment on Wednesday lunchtime. I had one task and one task only: transport the fuck-off wisteria tree stump and its various logs and sods over to our patch of land.

Some garden vandalism has taken place back at base. Having resisted it for 16 years of living here, we finally got rid of the wisteria. It had outgrown its purpose, its space, and also my patience.

The ease in which it came down surprised me. The roots were getting dangerously close to encroaching on the drains down below.

SEE YA, wisteria. Be gone.

Of course it wasn’t me who took the wisteria down. If I had got my grubby hands on it, then the whole house would have been tumbling as well.

Our garden man did a fine job. He was also going to take the wisteria stump over to the tip. A little later on in the day I had the brainwave of a bug hotel over the allotment.

I got some strange looks as I transported it on the trolley dolly for the short walk.

I quite like the idea of sustainability shit and all that. We might killed off the wisteria, but its spirit is still there amongst us on our land.

My quest to have a deep dive back further into those early ambient days continues. I don’t think I ever owned UF Orb. I think, for memory, I had it on a TDK D90 after I recorded it direct from the local CD library. Those were the days.

I find it impossible not to get engrossed in this type of ambient trippy hippy shit. Plus the album also had something of an ultra cool edge, which still just about stacks up today.

For memory I think I had three - or maybe it was four? - Orb evenings at Glasto. Fuck your meat and two veg big name indie headliner back in the day.

The real action was what was then on the NME stage, just as the sun was setting over the Vale of Avalon and the mad fuckers of the Orb fired up their strobe show. Memories may differ due to, ahem, circumstances.

Those buzzing off your-tits days have long since gone. I’m probably quite content now to fire up the UF Orb CD with a particularly strong cup of tea and just feel the vibes man.

Yeah, on yer toes, whistle possee.

A Forty Plus customised cycling jersey. Forty Plus isn’t the waist size by the way.

Chapeau!

Having ridden just the solitary ride with the new Forty Plus club, I now have the Lycra so I can live the dream. All I need to do now is to get out a little more and roll out on the mega mega rides each Tuesday.

I really enjoyed the 120 km gentle introduction. Spoiler alert: I didn’t actually complete the full ride as I was already knackered after the lunch stop.

Oh dear.

But the aim is to keep on riding to live, living to ride, etc. And now with a rather dashing Forty Plus kit, I’ve got no excuses for not getting out there.

There was a bloody decent turnout for Buy Back Brixton on Wednesday evening. Some pretty powerful speeches, including Green Council leader Martin Abrams. Rewind. How cool does that fucking sound: Green Council LEADER. Brixton Village is now an asset of community value. The message has been sent to the corporates circling: fuck off. This is a community facility, made in Brixton, staying in Brixton, etc. SHOUT OUT to the AWOL Lambeth Labour arses.

To the Oval Table of Dreams! …on Wednesday lunchtime. We had a short window of opportunity in which to go about our whiffing and whaffing while luncheon was taken over the road at The Oval.

Cricket in September is always an interesting proposition; table tennis in September is an equally interesting proposition. The kids are back at school. The local primary school along Bowling Street Lane was buzzing with kid activity.

Think plenty of screeching, whooping, and general enjoyment. Contrary to popular opinion, I’m not the type of guy that appreciates plenty of screeching, whooping, and general enjoyment.

Just STFU.

The Oval Table of Dreams is always a welcome distraction from the cricket, but it’s perhaps my least favourite table to play on. I love the urban setting but it has its challenges.

Whenever a ball lands on the nearby road, the angular nature of the gravel makes it something of a random lottery as you try to retrieve it. Add in a little local dogshit and it becomes a little troublesome.

The planters around Bowling Green Lane were another obstacle in trying to recover a bouncing ball.

One of the council workers was being very industrious on the other side of the road, trimming the communal hedge. All the extra noise was something of a distraction for me. That’s why I lost 4-0.

To the Oval! …on Wednesday morning - especially early on Wednesday morning, what with a 10:30 am start time for the County Championship in September.

The journey in was smooth. I arrived at Liverpool Street to find a platform smelling of sick. I was hoping this wouldn’t be a sign of things to come as I had a big bag of BOOZE stashed away with me.

Liverpool Street was interesting. I stepped onto the main concourse and almost had to duck as half a dozen Feds ran past with their rifles. The PA announced that Inspector Sands was needed. We all know what’s happening next, right? Maybe it was related to the sick incident. It was time to get the fuck out ASAP.

But nothing would stop me getting in the way of my Too Good To Go cheapo food bag that I had to pick up from Starbucks.

Police rifles, Inspector Sands, platforms reeking of chunder; It’s all about me and Too Good To Go right?

You can spot the old boy Championship geezers a mile off on the tube journey down to SE11. It’s an easy game of Eye Spy: 55+, usually with a rucksack and with a weathered face. Welcome to the club.

This could possibly be my last day of cricket this summer down at The Oval - and also for Surrey as well. I was planning to celebrate in style. I’ve been BOOZE free for five weeks now. How the fuck did that happen?

I was a little concerned yesterday, thinking that the game might be over and done with before lunch on day two. There was some batshit crazy bowling taking place on Tuesday. Twenty wickets falling within a day is not your usual County Championship scorecard.

Truth be told, I wanted to see Glamorgan bat out at least the first two sessions. This would at least mean I get value for money for my freebie Championship ticket.

Glamorgan didn’t disappoint. They managed to achieve their first 50 run opening partnership of the season since Sussex, way back in June. Note to any visiting teams down at The Oval this year: don’t worry, Dr. Surrey is here to help you.

It was all rather sedate. I actually managed to doze off for a short while.

Luncheon came and went. We departed to the Oval Table of Dreams for a quick knock-up. I was well and truly knocked up, trailing 4-0 as the Oval bell started to ring once again.

We switched our position to the Pavilion for the afternoon session. Different surroundings, same scenario. I dozed off.

Something had to change. I wanted to go out on an absolute fucking high for one final time this summer. We made the strategic move over to the Peter May, and I wasted no time going on the piss.

I took my life in my hands wearing a Forest gilet amongst the Peter May Palace boys. It’s them that’s got the problem, not me.

Sitting in front of us was the most delightful artist type chap. He was sketching away at various crowd scenes in front of him. He would have had a field day if there was an all too rare sighting these days of Mr. Hairy Back Man.

Surrey were making bloody hard work trying to skittle out a very resilient Glamorgan side. The floodlights came on. This seemed to add a little extra energy to the Surrey attack. The breakthrough came from young Blake Thomas.

Late in the afternoon, Lobby took up his seat in the Peter May behind us. There was no chance of dozing off here.

The tea interval came and the spectators were invited to inspect the wicket. We watched in horror as some Bright Young Thing strolled right out into the middle, completely barefoot. We had earlier witnessed some Surrey players gobbing in the outfield. This was a major OCD fail.

Booze and conversation kind of took over for the evening session. I’ve watched the most cricket ever this summer, both IRL and on the telly. I’ve loved every moment of it.

I took a moment to look around the old ground for the final time this year as the Umps knocked off the bales. When an old cricketer leaves the crease, etc.

But wait! What’s this?

There’s fighting talk of a possible trip over to HQ next week to see The ‘Sex against Northants. It might be Championship Division 2, but it could be a taste of things to come for Surrey next season.

C’mon the ‘rrey!

This was a strange one. The cover suggested some long-lost 1950s American rock and roll, my kind of music right now. A quick read of Wikipedia reveals that the album was actually released in 1998, and don’t be fooled by the album cover art; this is not rock and roll but blues.

So far so good. I’m always a bit of a sucker for the blues. Plus there was some added soul and funk promises within the wiki paragraph that I skim read.

I fired up the album on Spotify. Boy, he can sing, and yes he was a boy when he recorded this, being only 17 years of age. It’s not quite your typical white blue eyed soul but he has a bloody good pair of lungs on him.

I’m all for encouraging optimism and experimentation amongst young talent but it did feel a little bit overplayed and bloated. It sounds as though he’s singing just for the sake of it. The blues are more of an annoying US radio style that has ambitions to stray into horrid rock territory.

⭐ ⭐

Soul Mining is one of those albums I really should have got around to buying back in the early 80s. I finally did get to own a copy on CD a couple of years ago. As ever with my ever-growing pile of CDs, I’ve yet to play it.

It’s also one of those albums that already feels familiar. The tracks were pretty much the soundtrack to me growing up. You heard them nonstop on the radio and also whilst out and about at the youth clubs. This Is the Day is the perfect pop song from the period and brings back incredibly strong memories of early teenage years in 1983.

What’s telling about this album is that many of the issues addressed are still relevant 40+ years later: social isolation, economic breakdown, and a general feeling of despair, yet with some personal hope always being there to see you through.

A very decent debut.

⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐