Cometh Halesworth, cometh the hail. I do LOVE nominative determinism. I don’t love yet another home defeat for the Dragons, now looking in serious danger of dropping down a division. Away days on a barren field in Alresford? Oh Lordy.

I was on time for once. I caught the highlights in seeing Wivenhoe score a half decent headed goal. Can we go home now please? It was bloody freezing, even with my Long John tights underneath my trackies.

Haleworth weren’t difficult to spot. The away team had a Hi Vis kit that puts my weirdo cycling clothes to shame.

Wivenhoe meanwhile weren’t so visible in defence. My Man on the Inside informed me that our usual centre half was running a marathon in Barcelona.

“I hope he can make it back to come on at half time”

…I quipped.

Haleworth equalised with an equally impressive header. A second followed, with an all too easy run around the Wiv ‘keeper.

Hey hoe. At least I can cycle to an away day at Alresford Rangers.

A nasty head injury was suffered by the Dragons’ No.11. He was patched up, looking a cross between Terry Butcher and Mr Bump. Fair play, fella, for playing out the rest of the game.

This was a scrappy game. It was a tough watch, as well as being bloody cold. I cycled back to base in record time.

I missed the first goal for Gorleston. I was running fashionably late, as ever. It didn’t help that the bloody Dropbox app has had a redesign. My Wiv season ticket is stored in there, with a very handsome snap of me BEAMING away. I scrambled around in the car park with my phone, trying to find the file. Arse. I blagged it in instead.

I was halfway around my usual photo walk of the ground when I thought of asking the friendly lady who sits in the corner on her own what the score is. I pretended that I hadn’t heard that Wivenhoe were already 1-0 down.

I put a shifty on with my photo walk. The Broad Lane skies were bruising. We were in for a soaking. I managed to see the Dragons equalise with a penalty. My celebrations had barely finished when Gorleston went down the other end and scored a second. Hey hoe.

And so 2-1 down at HT, and I had to do a runner. The Rebs were tipping off up at the University at 4pm. I made the strategic decision of watching half a game of hit and miss game of football, rather than walk in midway through a full on basketball game.

A brief scroll through the phone at the basketball, and yep, the FT score back at Broad Lane remained 2-1. Watching ninety minutes of football is overrated, Comrades.

To The Nottage! …on a damp Estuary Wilds Friday evening. Thirty five odd years ago and we would be starting the weekly WEEKENDER ritual of getting tarted up and buzzing off our tits just up the road at the University.

Middle-age means a more sedate Friday evening sitting in a historic nautical room with a bunch of stiffs, watching a series of old films depicting Weird Wiv on camera from days gone by.

LIVE the dream, Jase. At least we managed to reduce the average age of the coffin dodgers by a couple of decades.

We took up our position on the back row of The Nottage. It wasn’t exactly DATE NIGHT. Plus I had forgotten my specs, and so had to quint to see anything.

Lined up for the evening’s entertainment was a rag tag collection of old films featuring Wivenhoe. there was no soundtrack, just home movie footage. This led to a constant stream of commentary from the audience.

“Oh look, there’s old Jim!”

I challenged A to shout out:

“There’s Dave!”

There was no Dave.

That would have livened the stiffs up.

The first film was a rather lengthy home movie affair, featuring the voyage of Cap Pilar. This is a ship that is still spoken of around these parts with reverence.

The back story is a young fella back in the 1930’s SPUNKING his wealth on Cap Pilar, and then inviting a crew of around sixty or so local types to explore the world with him. The outbreak of War cut the journey short after a couple of years.

Footage from the voyage was incredibly homoerotic. I don’t think that was the intentions, any maybe it was just me that saw this. The crew were pretty much all stripped off, muscle bound and scrubbing the decks, as well as each other.

Blimey. And that was all without my specs on.

It dragged a little, tbh. Some fast forwarding of the hour long footage followed. It was hardly a Friday night spent doom scrolling on Tik Tok.

A short break followed, and then we had a mid 80’s promo film trying to sell the idea of the Tidal Barrier to the locals. There was some fantastic accidental Partridge quotes in there.

The commentary covered the original idea of the Barrier being closed up to four times a year. Fifty or so closures is now not uncommon. Time and tide, and global warming, innit.

The final film was a comedy home video gone wrong. I don’t think we were suppose to be laughing, but the back row action had us pissing our pants, trying to cover up all the jocularity.

The subject matter involved one of the final launches of a grand old industrial ship just before the shipyard closed. You can imaging the scene: the whole town had turned out for the smashing of the Champagne bottle. School kids had the afternoon off.

High tide arrived, the dignitaries rocked up. Our DIY cameraman was on the opposite side of the Muddy Banks to capture the action.

THREE! TWO! ONE!

The ship slid down the slipway, and then promptly pointed in the wrong direction.

OH SHIT.

Some mad scrambling followed to get the bulk of a vessel back on the slipway with the water fast draining back out downstream.

It was classic Weird Wiv. We found it funny as fuck. No one else did.

There was talk of heading back up to campus for an all nighter with a little more light refreshment. Instead we were back in bed by 10am.

There was a couple of young fellas outside my house as I opened the garden gate ahead of the morning run. Nothing sinister - well not in appearances, anyway. They were suited and booted, of sorts. They had their best Top Man whistles on, with a raincoat over the top. Suits should never be worn with raincoats. Even if it is raining.

They smiled at me. At first I thought they were here to try and flog me some utility, which is only marginally less of a rip off than the one that I am currently having to work all hours for in which to afford. But nope, instead they handed me a leaflet.

REFORM UK.

Oh.

They must have been 17, 18 max. It’s half term week, innit. At least it keeps them out of trouble, depending on what your definition of trouble is.

Bless them.

They were most polite, and even looked up for a chat. Reflecting back I should have taken the opportunity to ask them a little further about what had drawn such young innocent minds towards fascism. But I was keen to head out, pounding the mean streets of CO7 as I try and progress with my running injury.

Back at base, I had a shifty of the leaflet they presented me with:

NET ZERO IS BANKRUPTING BRITAIN.

I told you my utility bills were high.

I read a little deeper:

“Crazy net zero targets, scrap subsidies, stop the blight of wind farms.”

The blight. Yep, bless etc.

It stopped short of being in complete climate emergency denier mode. But the intention was there. And so was the piss poor bloody Estuary Wilds weather. I should have taken some time to ask them what the fuck they were doing delivering leaflets on the 50th consecutive day of shitty rain.

Wot No Climate Emergency?

This is the second time this month the nationalists have been out door bothering the good people of Weird Wiv. Earlier we had four more mature fellas bussed in from Thurrock. They stopped for a selfie outside the public toilets. It looked like they were out for a bit of cottaging.

Whittlesey Athletic rocked up at Broad Lane on Saturday afternoon to find a surprisingly half decent pitch. It appears that some sort of micro weather climate has managed to keep this little corner of Wivenhoe free of any of the horrid rain over the past few weeks.

The conditions meant that both teams tried to play a passing game - which was something of a first. Whittlesey were clearly skilled, and not afraid to keep possession in their own half. I can’t say that I’m favour of a Pep tactics having filtered down to non-league.

Following an even first half, Wivenhoe came out after the break and… passed the ball into the Whittlesey net. It was almost as if the opposition had tempted the Dragons to play their passing game. Imitation, flattery etc.

The remaining forty minutes or so were spent with Wivenhoe in game management mode. It was never a case of hanging on and hoping for the best. The home team did well to defend with confidence and keep Whittlesey out.

This was the first game this winter where the floodlights weren’t needed. And so a 1-0 home win, and spring is in the air. Optimism ahoy!

I had a spare couple of hours late afternoon on Friday, and for once, the bloody Estuary Wilds skies weren’t threatening rain. I’m on something of a walking mission at the moment. I’m still recovering from a crocked running injury. But I can’t sit still. Have legs, will walk, etc.

And so I plodded off for the second decent walk of the day. The morning effort was the now routine pacy hike around the town. It’s nothing too adventurous, but it’s mainly flat and I can work up a good fitness level.

I fancied something a little more nature shit late afternoon. I strolled out along the estuary, with the broad aim of hitting up the old St Peter’s abandoned church at Alresford. There was just enough daylight left to complete the circuit.

The wind picked up once I reached the mouth of the estuary. There was no one else around. An outgoing tide also meant no traffic out on the water. I paused briefly to have a moment at Fat Bloke’s bench.

The wellies rather than walking boots were most welcome. At times I was wading through mud. I came close to coming a cropper and landing face down in all the brown stuff.

St Peter’s was reached. Each time I’m here it seems special. The uniqueness of the shell of the old church felt all the more poignant with the darkening skies and the wind blowing around the old four walls. I stopped to take a few snaps. The battery on my PEN-F died on me.

I opted for the cross country walk back to base. I didn’t fancy the busy road. I was wearing black and had no lighting. I reached Quayside just as the locals were turning on their lights and starting their weekend plans.

To Broad Lane! …on Saturday afternoon. It’s been a while. Wivenhoe Town were at home to Long Melford. Nope, me neither.

What was more certain was me missing KO. You don’t say. A work shift finishing at 3pm meant that I wasn’t at the ground until 3:15pm. The Dragons were already one up. Blimey.

I had barely fiddled around with my camera lens before a second was added. Blink and you’ll miss it, etc. I certainly did. These goals are rare. Make the most of them whilst you can.

My usual photowalk around the ground followed. I was delayed further with some very friendly conversations. Non-league football is not about ruining your entire weekend; I’ll leave that to Forest. Friendships are more important here.

I reached the home dug out. Gosh - there’s Mo, the club all-rounder, coaching. I must have missed that announcement. It was good to see him back on the sideline. At 2-0 up, he was clearly doing a half decent job.

HT came. I caught up with R:

“Did you catch the two pens on camera?”

…he asked.

Hang on pens? TWO pens? I was late for the first goal. The second goal wasn’t a penalty was it? Oh. Crap Match Report ahoy!

Wivenhoe added a third goal soon after the break. It was a great team effort on the breakaway, with some calm finishing around the ‘keeper. 3-0, game done. It’s a long way back to Long Melford. I think.

Long Melford pulled back a consolation. I’ll let them have that. The young team had battled well, in what was starting to become something of a dirty game for both teams.

Wivenhoe looked like they could hang on, but an absolute worldie from down the wing led to a final nervy ten minutes. The equaliser came late, late in the game.

And so 3-0 up, to 3-3 at FT.

Non-league football remains bloody brilliant.

Another day, another meh Weird Wiv walk. That’s unfair. The meh was in the weather, and not the sights around CO7. It was one of those Tupperware days where you appear to be living under a giant grey plastic roof. The solar light on my shed failed to flicker into action this morning. I’m still pounding the pavements, whilst semi-crocked. My calf is probably about ready for a return to running. But I’m rather enjoying these power walks right now.

Another day, another Quayside walk. Actually, it was a lot more than that - almost 5km in total. Rain is forecast around these parts over the next few weeks. You need to take your chances whilst you can. That was a bloody big high tide down at front. I had to take the slight detour through some back passages to find a dry route. Keep walking.

I’m still crocked, I still can’t run. My calf came close to PINGING once again at the weekend. I had taken a month off running. I found that pretty tough. I thought all was fine to start pounding the mean streets of CO7 once again at the weekend.

WRONG!

PING!

Ouch, that bloody hurt.

I’m so I’m back on my own personal rehab, aka walking each day whilst I can. I get restless with wfh, and so need to head out.

The wanderings around Weird Wiv on Monday were nothing spectacular. Always different, always the same, etc.

I headed up towards The Cross, back down The Avenue and High Street, and then along The Quay. I’ve started to notice other daily walkers sharing the same time frame as me. Maybe they’re all crocked as well?