onionbagblog

To Sunny Colch! …early on Saturday morning. It was a return to ParkRun for the first time in a couple of months. Just as my pesky calf injury had actually managed to heal, I then had another four weeks of an enforced layoff with black ink recovery.

Oh woe is me, etc.

The ride in was an absolute breeze. It was good to see that work has started along East Hill with the new cycle lanes. These are long overdue, and will make entry into Britain’s Oldest Recorded Town finally fitting for the 21st century.

I reached Castle Park within good time. Already the fourth - or is it the fifth - heat wave of the summer had started to kick in. The scent from the civic rosebeds was quite overpowering.

It was a decent turnout for ParkRun, although not an exceptionally busy one. This didn’t stop me getting boxed in at the start. I knew something was up when a couple of not that athletic female runners positioned themselves at the very, very start of the pack.

As ever my aim was just to get round the circuit. I’ve been putting in the km’s a fair bit this week but I’m still a long, long way off my peak fitness.

The first thing to go was my arms. This is always a weird one. Whenever I’m really pushing myself running then I feel my arms are incredibly weak. I have no idea what’s going off there.

I started off fairly quick but then slowed down considerably. It was annoying to see a couple of geezers effortlessly skip past me whilst engaged in what seemed like a friendly Saturday morning social conversation.

The final bastard hills for the third circuit of the park pretty much did me in. I managed a lame sprint finish although my final time of almost bang on 24 minutes was nothing to shout home about.

How can one man who looks like a dork be so soulful? This is classic Van. It’s a sound that he does so well. You start off underrated and then gradually build up the many moving parts that make up a Van Morrison song. In comes a crescendo and Van is in full Van mode. He then dials it down ever so slightly before the horns add to a rousing finish. If only he could dance.

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A return to the Thursday evening pickleball social at the Tennis Club. It’s been a few weeks whilst I wait for black ink recovery and healing.

We had a healthy turnout as well. Eight players rocked up, the perfect combination for a rotating two games of doubles.

And whaddyaknow? I got partnered with A for the first few games. Some major domestics broke out on court. I could see other players sheepishly turning away as our arguments were played out in public.

If you’re going to claim that a ball is yours, then it’s yours, right?

A couple of players were very young lads. This was great to see. They were under 16 and show that the club and the sport is continuing to grow locally.

The autumn nights are slowly slowly starting to creep in. We took the strategic decision not to turn the flood lights on and cut our losses around 8:30 p.m.

It wasn’t so much the fading light that was causing issues for me; the stench from the nearby onion fields was making play a little tricky.

I should name a blog specifically after that.

Rejoice! We finally have some colour to our allotment palette!

So here we have some red tomatoes to add to the yellow hue. I’ve been told that these aren’t your bog-standard red tomatoes but some kind of autumnal variety. I’m not sure if that is a statement or not on how our four seasons are currently fucked.

Plus don’t forget the obligatory spherical courgette. These are stacking up now like a bin full of footballs at Sports Direct. If nothing else then they would make for half-decent vegetable weapons if a battle of the garden ever broke out.

Another day, another run. I felt pretty stiff before I set out on the Estuary Wilds 10km route. A lot of this was self-inflicted. I don’t think that the six pints the night before at the Oval did much to improve my fitness and well-being.

Hey hoe. I pressed on. The plan was to take it easy and just try and get around the circuit. It would be a bonus if I could shave any time off the 10km run on the exact same route I did a couple of days ago.

The temperature was certainly a lot fresher for running. There were also fewer people out along by the sea wall. I did spot R, who is something of a very friendly face. She’s a very keen birdwatcher and always takes the time to speak to people along the route.

In the AirPods was the latest Forest Focus with Darren Fletcher as the guest. I always love hearing his views on all things Forest. He clearly has the insider knowledge and isn’t afraid to divulge what he knows.

The two gates along the estuary wall were navigated with ease. One of these was very kindly opened for me by a walker who saw I was approaching at pace.

A quick look to my right along the estuary mud, and there was a bloody great big flock of birds who were soaking up the morning sun. I’ve no idea what they were. They were probably pigeons.

A little further down towards Alresford Creek, the path is now so overgrown it’s becoming difficult to run through without getting scratched. I slowed down and did a bit of a delicate manoeuvre around the bushes.

Back at base and Strava AI told me that I had tackled my first run in weeks. Strava AI was lying. I did the same bloody route only two days ago. I was also almost three minutes quicker compared to the previous effort. Cheers for nothing Strava AI.

This kind of rambles on. Yeah sure, he’s proficient but at the time he was also a racist old git. Wonderful Tonight is just absolute overkill. I never want to hear that song ever again. The May You Never cover is uncessary. Some of the more Americana-themed tunes with the female vocals perhaps offer some saving grace, but given what else was happening around 1977 in the UK then this really is a load of steaming old turd.

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To the Oval! …on Wednesday morning it was a bit of a weird one catching my old work commute train. It was the same old familiar faces going in for the long slog. No ta, thank you very much.

Surrey had a home Metro Bank cup match against their traditional rivals Kent. I say traditional rivals, no one really gives a stuff about that apart from Kent. For us it’s all about the action over on the other side of the river.

Having said that, there was plenty at stake to play for in this game. Surrey are, for once, making something of a half-decent attempt to impress in the development competition. We’re probably just a couple of wins away from qualifying for the quarters.

The school holidays, the decent South London weather, and the meaningful fixture led to a very decent crowd. The queues were 20 deep just ahead of the start of play at 11:00 AM.

Also just ahead of the start of play at 11:00 AM was some bloody rain. Blimey. Fancy that. It didn’t last for long but it did delay the start by 10 minutes or so.

I took up my position on the piss in the Peter May. I used the spare time as an opportunity to have a look around the old ground. It was stuffed full of the shitty Hundred branding. It almost felt as though Surrey were squatting at a stupid franchise club.

There was plenty of lush green grass out there, however. It was rather pleasing seeing such a vast expanse of greenness in a summer where everything has been reduced to yellow stubble.

We opened the batting with the Vicar and Patel dominating in the early exchanges. SHOY OUT to the young kid wearing a traditional Surrey top and not some Mumbai Indians shit.

I had to take a second look as some fella rocked up to sit close beside me. I thought it was Gus Atkinson. He was on the piss, natch. A closer inspection and it revealed a younger Gus look-alike.

Kent were finding it tough out there with a ball. They turned early to spin with Matt Parkinson also failing to break through.

This was the signal for Patel to go on the charge. He delivered some glorious boundary shots. Sign him up for the Hundred! Ha bloody ha.

He pushed his luck a little too far however and was caught on 73. Sibley then reached his half century but was caught behind.

Up stepped the skipper to the crease. Rory was clearly on one. He’s had a very disappointing Championship season to date. This is a real chance to prove that he is still a leader and still a leading batsman. Talk of his demise had been exaggerated.

Having said that he too found himself back in the hutch after playing a cheap shot for 33.

You know what happens now in a Crap Match Report: the BOOZE kicks in and everything falls apart. True to form…

The beer situation was a little troubling; having transported six bottles of cheapo Lidl lager from the bloody Estuary Wilds all the way back down to South London, I was determined to neck them.

Chin chin.

I took one sip and felt something a little raw and chewy in my mouth. Surely this can’t be a hop?

I delicately put my finger over my mouth to see what it was. It was bird shit. Oh dear. Those bloody Oval pigeons had somehow managed to carry out something of a bird shit bombing mission right inside my pint of cheapo Lidl lager.

I did try and keep track as to who was coming and going at the crease for Surrey. Last man standing was Dan Worrall. “He can bat,” I told my cricketing partner. It turns out Dan Worrall can’t bat - or not today anyway. Surrey were all out for 286.

The interval came and went. Some more randoms started to rock up to sit around us, adding to the sizeable 7,000 or so crowd.

It looked like I had the ghost of George Michael sitting right in front of me. He certainly had the hair, albeit greying. The very tight white sports shorts and socks were also present. I didn’t have the courage to look down for the badminton shuttlecock.

I got a little tired and emotional at this stage. I dozed off. A blast from Lobby, sitting behind me in the Peter May, soon woke me up. It’s these reassuring old Surrey voices that hold it all together for me. I’ve had to endure almost three decades of Lobby banging on. We’ll miss him when he’s gone.

Kent really struggled. Surrey completely strangulated them with all aspects of their bowling. It was fitting that there was a stunning catch on the boundary to seal the win.

And so our march in the Metro Bank carries on. We may just qualify for the quarters. We may just even go all the way.

The crappy ECB scheduling however means that there is a five-week gap between the semi-final and the final.

Blame the Hundred, in fact blame the Hundred for absolutely fucking everything.

GAWD. He doesn’t half make a racket but it’s a glorious racket. This is a return to form for Old Shaky. I’m not sure about the cover of Blowin' in the Wind' but it’s better than ripping off Bob’s version note for note. The album drags on but then again you don’t want a mini album from Neil Young. He needs a little time and space for those guitar solos to flesh themselves out and for his songs to tell the full story. Crazy Horse are a tight as fuck backing band.

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More tomatoes and a couple of courgettes. Yep I know the tomatoes are yellow. That’s how we do things around these Estuary Wild parts. Ditto for the courgettes.

There was an alarming email that went out from the Allotment Gods bemoaning the lack of entries for the Wivenhoe Allotment and Garden Association show. This is coming up in a couple of weeks.

The email was a call to arms for entrants. It was a classic begging case of use it or lose it.

My concern here is that you will only exhibit things that are relatively fresh that you have harvested from your allotment in the past few days or so. My allotment is a means to an end. I want to grow food and then I want to eat it.

To be honest I don’t give a shit about exhibiting my funny-shaped courgettes that look like penises to the rest of the world.

TUCK IN!

To the table of dreams! …on Tuesday afternoon. The decision regarding which ball to play with on the outdoor table was made for us by the appearance of a kite flying high up in the sky. That will be the wind ball, then.

It might have been windy but it was a warm wind. I felt very restless. My playing partner was completely knackered after a stupid game of golf.

To be honest we weren’t very good.

The wind picked up a pace in the final decider game. I tried to play it to my advantage. The wind deceived me. I walked away with a 3-2 defeat.