onionbagblog

A 5-0 drubbing at the Table of Dreams for Monday lunchtime. The only score that was bettered was the six layers of clothing. It was pretty dull out there - both on and off the table.

A dull game of table tennis on a dull day as we wait for the year to draw out.

Cheer up, luv. etc.

She was the one doing all the smiling. I failed to get any enthusiasm throughout the twenty minutes or so of wiff waff.

As ever, I resorted to arseing about and trying trick shots.

I have no tricks.

I do have another 4-1 defeat to my name.

The team news dropped: Dominguez in for Douglas Luiz. The plan is to beef up the midfield and bore the life out of the game, right? Needs must. I’d take a 0-0 with a zero crappy XG ahead of KO. I’m still unsure about Big John Victor as the default ‘keeper. But he seems like a nice young man with a lovely smile.

The occasion was more important than the game itself. Only two days ago, Forest lost our greatest ever player. I have a few reservations with such titles. Recency bias always leaves me questioning such claims. But John Robertson is the reason we wear two stars on the badge.

I listened to BBC Radio Nottingham for the build up from 11:30am onwards. As ever, they handled the moment with the dignity it deserved, but still allowing for a smile. Robbo would have appreciated the humour.

We even got to hear Captain McGovern giving another one of his Scottish BC impressions during the interview with Sir Colin of West Bridgford.

“I’d come from D***y via DIRTY Leeds, unfortunately”

…added McGovern.

Unfortunately.

That only just goes to increase his legendary status around the World Famous. Unfortunately we are running low on stands in which to honour our heroes.

Harry Hodge was also decent value with his own memories of Robbo. He use to clean the Great Man’s boots as a Forest trainee. A young Sean Dyche then went on to keep Hodge’s own size fives clean.

And so it comes around. I love these stories that link the Forest generations together.

The game itself had a lot to live up to. City dominated early with their usual technocratic approach to the beautiful game. The one chance we had came from a pin point CHO cross that MGW and Jesus just missed out on.

We’re talking tight margins here. You need to take your chances, especially against the likes of Man City.

Pep’s drone army were there for the taking. They are such a robotic team with zero flair. They are quite horrid to watch, to be honest. It was so bloody annoying to concede a soft goal from such an annoying bunch of bots. Mark your man, not your space.

Forest started bright after the break, leading to a very classy goal. It was the opposite of anything that Man City had to offer. If the visitors had made a similar move, the mainstream media idiots would be DROOLING over it as Goal of the Season.

1-1. I’d take a draw right now. This was a vast improvement on Fulham away last week. Forest were up for the fight.

Oh hang on. Oh bloody hell. Set piece defending again. This will be our downfall this season.

The 4-4-2 formation that followed with the introduction of Taiwo was never going to work. We all love Taiwo, etc. But he is proving to be a lucky player in terms of hanging on in there. Just as the transfer window opens again, Chris Wood has an injury setback.

And so a 2-1 home defeat on an afternoon where remembering Robbo was more important. At least we can take some pleasure in seeing the Forest goal come from the left side of the pitch in which he once ruled.

An icy ride along the Trail for Saturday morning. It’s the first time that I’ve braved the bloody Estuary Wilds mud for a few weeks. My reasoning this morning was that it would all be frozen over, making for a smooth passage.

Instead I found the frost starting to thaw, but still leading to some delicate handling. This wasn’t the occasion to time trial it along the Trail, even if it was deserted shortly after 8am. The only other company I had was a gathering of lapwings flapping around in the mud.

It was a good job there was no other traffic along the Trail. My bicycle bell had frozen. Some of my body parts felt the same. It will be spring soon, right? Please tell me it will be spring soon.

Wishing the days away.

An extra layer of clothing was needed for the Boxing Day morning bicycle ride. Having frozen my bollocks off on Christmas Day, I wisely reached for the Long Johns for my Boxing Day comfort blanket. I needed them as well.

It wasn’t so much the temperature change, but more the windchill. Christ, it was biting out there this morning. It was no surprise to see that I shaved three minutes off the exact same route as yesterday. The wheel that turns is the wheel that burns, etc.

It was otherwise an uneventful roll out. I’m still crocked from running with a calf strain. That shows no sign of healing anytime soon. Hey Hoe. Run Every Day in January looks like it ain’t happening this year.

The Boxing Day traffic had picked up from Christmas Day. Travellers were busy going to wherever they needed to be at 9am. Each to their own, but I was just happy to be out on my bicycle.

Blue Lines still sounds fresh as fuck. I listen to it at least once a month. It makes me think that I am a character caught up in a film plot, walking around, as each scene and relationship changes. There’s so much in here - not just with the music, but the mental images that are created. Horace Andy steals the show, although any one of the nine tracks are worthy of being the best song on the album. My only disappointment was that it was over so soon. Outstanding.

⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

Some pretty weird shit Christmas telly viewing. In short: we didn’t watch any Christmas telly. It’s crap. Yeah, yeah - quite an overstatement. I still can’t resist bingeing on Eastenders.

Dig a little deeper on the iPlayer and there’s a glorious run of classic Christmas Eastenders episodes up for grabs. BALLS to the middle class crap of The Archers. Eastenders is where it’s at.

But anyway. About my other weird shit Christmas telly viewing.

A bit of VPN action, an anonymous Tor browser account, and oh, here we go. I seem to have downloads of the Dylan biopic and Mike Leigh’s Meantime in less time than it took me to cut another slice of Christmas cake. TUCK IN!

Dylan’s A Complete Unknown was screened at the local village cinema earlier in the autumn. It was raining and there was some football on the telly. I am a very lazy film viewer. We fired it up back at home as the Christmas Eve entertainment.

First things first: biopics - whether endorsed by the artists or not - are best viewed as a piece of fiction. There are elements of the truth that blend in there, but the narrative is there to entertain, not to inform.

A Complete Unknown does this very well. It’s quite an achievement to have two hours or so focussing on the main character, and you’re still not sure if he is a 20th Century hero, or a complete little shit.

Dylan doesn’t come out of it very well. Johnny Cash does.

The character of Dylan is portrayed as a musical trailblazer - which he undoubtedly was at the time - but something of a nasty piece of work when it comes to women. I’m aware that all major films need the romantic angle. But I would the film had focussed on the transition from folk to electric.

It does this as well of course, but some of the relationships get in the way of the epoch defining moment at Newport. Joan Baez’s character in particular seems to exist only to act as a metaphor for what Dylan was walking away from.

A Complete Unknown was very watchable. The songs and performances don’t leave you cringing and wanting to play the originals. Dylan did look cool as fuck around this period as well.

The Happy Happy Joy Joy film for Christmas Day was Mike Leigh’s Meantime. I have no bloody idea why I decided to download this a couple of months ago. It must have been a recommendation from Robert Elms or the like. It’s been sitting on my hard drive, waiting for the right moment.

Christmas Day seemed like the ideal opportunity to play a 1983 kitchen sink drama, focussing on unemployment, Thatcherism and family breakdown.

Have a good one, etc.

The film actually worked really well for us. We approached it not knowing anything about it. I wasn’t even aware of the plot, or the actors - Tim Roth, Phil Daniels and Gary Oldman - quite a cast list.

At first I thought it was a recent Mike Leigh production, retrospectively looking back at some of the darker days of Thatcherism. But nope, it came out in 1983. It captures the bleak period perfectly.

There is a perpetual expression of gloom that hangs over every scene. It isn’t a feel good film and won’t have you rooting for the main characters. I got the impression that the plot wasn’t scripted, just loosely formed. The actors were encouraged to improvise around basic scene set ups.

Oldman as a thick as pig shit skinhead pulls this off remarkably. I didn’t even realise it was him playing the part until the end credits rolled. He must be the most chameleon like English actor over the past forty years or so.

At various stages in the final thirty minutes, we commented that the film will probably end abruptly in the next scene. It’s the type of storyline that isn’t really resolved. It’s just a slab of everyday struggle and existence.

And sure enough - cut to the credits, we’re done.

The Eastenders Christmas double header that followed needed intense analysis to understand the plot that changed with almost every sentence. Sometimes I prefer films that present you with a situation, and little else to consider.

How to beat Man City at the World Famous

Good luck with that one.

Outputs, Not Outcomes

The superb Streets Ahead podcast on why the Labour government is shit at active travel.

Some hit and miss snaps from a random Christmas Day walk, through Wivenhoe Woods, Ferry Marsh and then back to base via the Quay. My camera of choice was the Olympus PEN-F - just perfect for the crisp, blue sky conditions. Straight outta the box, no editing. Point, shoot, publish, move on etc.

To the Table of Dreams! …on Christmas Day morning. #OddJase, Odd Wifey as well. But what else are we going to do? Morning Service down at the Church? I don’t think so. Wiff waff is my religion of late. The Table of Dreams is my high altar of choice.

It was also the choice of some big BRUTE in the past day or so who had trampled their muddy size twelves all over it. Some people. Filthy fuckers. You dirty dog, etc.

Hey hoe. We pressed on with the extra heavy wind ball. This wasn’t ideal conditions for the annual contesting of the Christmas Cup. Spoiler alert: there isn’t really a Christmas Cup. But we play for it every year anyway.

Along with the wind ball, I was wearing my wellies. It was quite a sight with the steady passing procession of Christmas walking families thinking wtf are these two oddballs doing on Christmas Day.

HAVE A GOOD ONE, etc.

I was actually having a bloody good one. 2-1 up, in a best of five to bag the Christmas Cup. Steady the buffers, luv. It all came crashing down with a predictable 3-2 defeat for me.

Second in the Christmas Cup can still be celebrated, right?