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Miles at Carnegie Hall. It’s a double CD, natch. Here we have almost two hours of a very young Miles Davis back in 1961 doing his thing at the Carnegie.

It’s a masterpiece in recording with some big players such as Gil Evans, Winton Kelly, and even Jimmy Cobb. I’ll take credit for that, very much.

The playing is just so understated. Miles knows exactly when to hit those high notes, but more than often he is just holding all together with some very gentle sounds coming out of his trumpet.

I listened to this from start to finish this afternoon on one of the hottest days of the year, laying back with a cup of tea in my hand and Miles to soothe me through the afternoon heat. It was bliss.

I returned to running for the first time in two weeks on Tuesday lunchtime. It’s precisely a fortnight ago since my last Black Ink session. It’s around 95% healed, which I would say is good enough to get back out pounding those mean streets of C07.

I say mean streets, what I mean, of course, is the Estuary Wilds route. It involves a lovely scenic stretch along by the river down towards the Creek and then back up through Alresford whilst you play Frogger along the main road, running back all the way back towards Weird Wiv.

It has the simplicity of being exactly 10 km door-to-door. I’ve even been known to plod along two or three extra houses down just to achieve that OCD-pleasing, even rounded figure.

Work shit meant that my run couldn’t take place until midday. Talk about mad dogs, etc. Blimey it was bloody hot out there.

I was a little sheepish as to how my long-standing cough injury might hold up. I needn’t have worried. It was an absolute breeze, even if the weather wasn’t.

I did, however, have a slight foot pain on the other side. I am, if nothing else, the Dot Cotton of Weird Wiv.

I thought I was the only lone nutter doing the midday running thing during a heatwave, but nope - out along those balmy riverbanks was some other bloke.

He was topless, carrying his t-shirt. That’s a look I could never pull off - nor one I would want to either. I would rather sweat it out than go strutting and poncing around bare-chested.

A little further down the estuary and there was a couple of young fishermen. They were in a spot I’ve never seen anyone casting their big long rods before.

I reached the Creek and took the sharpish turn towards Alresford. I did struggle up the hills.

I did think of cutting short the route by a kilometre or so when the turn off of an opportunity presented itself. But nope, I am a stickler and was determined to get in my 10 km OCD exercise for the day.

He’s back on it. Yeah.

To the Sailing Club! …on Monday evening. Phew, what a scorcher etc. Yep it was a hot and steamy one up in the Sailing Club loft. The first few minutes or so were spent creating some air vents with the new fancy Velux windows that were recently installed.

Next challenge: the net.

I’m not quite sure what happened here, but the option was taken to set up the crappy old net that we no longer use. This ain’t gonna work, right?

Bang on the money. It didn’t work. The net was set up and I stepped forward to be first on the table with a challenging opponent. Not long after my performance started, the net started to droop. I think there’s some kind of metaphor within.

No worries, a perfectly functional and erect net kept us full of beans for the next hour and a half or so.

Away from the table and the social conversation turned towards housing. It’s all about houses, innit.

What are the chances of this: one fellow table tennis player who I was only introduced to last month actually grew up living in the house we now own. He’s pretty much the exact same age as me. Stories from within the four walls were exchanged. I hadn’t the heart to tell him that we’re about to rip out his childhood garden.

The evening carried on and the sun started to set. More annoyingly it started to set right in my bloody eyes from the end of the table I was playing in. This is what I put down my subpar table tennis performance to.

Inoffensive and ever so slightly whimsical. She’s got a decent voice and can write a catchy tune. Ultimately it’s just not for me. I’m afraid I’m not a middle-aged young mother and so it doesn’t quite speak to my world.

⭐ ⭐

To the Table of Dreams! …mid-morning on Monday.

This heat wave - ALL these heat waves (plural) are relentless. Yeah, it’s the new normal and I’m kinda getting used to them. But it’s right putting me off my outdoor table tennis game.

Get that excuse in early Jase.

We had a leisurely warm up and then went into a match. I sensed little energy or enthusiasm from either side of the table.

Midway through the game and we had an audience. There was some young chap, he must have been three at best on his scooter, who pitched up table side to watch us. This was my signal to start showboating to impress the young dude. He scooted away very much unimpressed.

I pulled back a 3-1 scoreline to within 3-2. I was slightly buoyed and possibly could have gone for the kill. I didn’t have time for the win.

Whatever.

This is such a light and airy album that oozes with positivity. I’m not sure why it’s got the Play The Blues title. It’s clearly uplifting jazz with a little bit of blues guitar balanced in. It’s the kind of record that gets you foot-tapping as Johnny and the Duke both face off to each other. It’s hard to imagine this is over 70 years old. It still sounds like some of the nu London jazz that is being released in 2026. A delightful album.

⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

Hey! Here’s a top tip for you: never use ChatGPT if you’re planning a bus journey over to Brightlingsea for the Free Music Festival. ChatGPT chats shit. Who knew?

And so after arriving with minutes to spare at the bus stop, a quick perusal of the old school analogue bus timetable showed that the next bus was half an hour away. Oh bollocks. No one likes being a Bus Stop Johnny. Back to base it was for another cup of tea.

Finally we did manage to board the Brightlingsea happy-flappy-fun bus heading all the way over to the Free Festival. And when I say happy-flappy-fun bus then that’s exactly what I mean.

There was something of an end-of-term feeling on the top deck as bus stop by bus stop, the crowds from Sunny Colch through to Wivenhoe and then Alresford or boarded en route to Brightlingsea.

It was still relatively early in the day. We rocked up at Hurst Green shortly before midday. Usually we walk it over here. We arrive around 3 pm, neck four pints of cheapo lager, and then get completely wankered before buggering off back home an hour later.

Chin chin.

Not so today. The estuary wilds weather was still too bloody hot for a bit of a hack across the estuary and over to Brightlingsea. Bus Stop Wankers were the order of the day.

We arrived in time just to catch most of the set from Fat Pigeons. These were an incredibly tight blues band. They played a very agreeable and very danceable variety of deep Essex delta blues. The highlight for me was the cover of Have Love Will Travel. I do miss those Crazyhead days back in the City of Death.

We were offered the use of a couple of freebie seats by some friendly faces from pickleball. Oh sit down, oh sit down, sit down next to me, etc. but I preferred the rug to be honest.

SHOUT OUT to the kitchen chair dude who had transported his kitchen chair over to the festival and didn’t shift from it all day.

Local legends Loxley’s Corner were up next. They played a sunshine set of covers and new material. Roxanne in particular seemed to suit the Sunday afternoon mood. We also had the first flute action of the afternoon. Blimey.

What is so great about the Brightlingsea Free Music Festival is the professionalism from the amateurs involved. That’s not a criticism by the way. There was a very quick turnover in between bands, and in between we had some top tunes coming from the DJ on the decks.

After a little bit of Sunday afternoon skanking it was then time for some Americana with a band called My Girl The River.

One particular song was introduced as being re-imagined the day before on 5 Live as part of a football song challenge. By now the four cans of cheapo lager had kicked in for me. I stood up and started to shout out My Old Man Said Be A D***y Fan before I was wrestled to the ground by my music festival partner.

And then a real moment of absolute joy happened. I had no idea about the backstory behind Annie Lennox’s No More I Love You’s. It turns out that the original was written by the bass player in My Girl The River. A quite haunting version then followed, which sent a shiver around the Brightlingsea festival space.

All the peace, love and understanding hippy shit good vibes were soon ruined when the biggest fat bastard in all of Essex decided to plonk his industrial-sized chair right in front of me. It was as though a black hole had descended. I couldn’t see a bloody thing. Cheers fella.

Next to the stage and all the way from the mean streets of Southend was MG Boulder. He was another singer-songwriter who continued with the laid-back Sunday feel.

I thought I recognised the name but couldn’t quite place it. I then realised that he had played a session on the late Andy Kershaw’s podcast a few years ago. If it’s good enough for Kershaw, it’s good enough for me.

The highlight of the afternoon was the Alex Fletcher Band. This may not be a name familiar to you but it certainly is a recognisable face. Alex played the Good Doctor Karl in Neighbours for thirty years. He wasn’t afraid to confront his past and it became something of a running joke as he took the piss out of himself throughout the entire set.

He looked cool as fuck with his man in black look. He brought the crowd down to the front as well as the good vibes, everybody needs good neighbours, etc.

I took a wander around the rest of the festival site in order to try and take a break from being tired and emotional. I almost got talked into a late afternoon face paint glow up but managed to give it a swerve.

We had to leave just as the Ian Drury covers band was starting to fire up. That was a shame as it looked like a bit of a party atmosphere down at the front. The bus wanker had to go and do his bus wanker thing.

So that was the Brightlingsea Free Festival for another year. It always remains one of the highlights in our calendars. It’s pretty remarkable that in 2026 you can still see two days of live music for free, with the added bonus of being able to bring your own BOOZE in.

SHOUT OUT to the local crew who make this happen every year. It’s the same faces but they always do a superb professional job.

The bus back was late by the way.

To Broad Lane! …for the first home match of the new season with Wivenhoe Town. We start early in non-league and we also end early. Wivenhoe are usually on the beach come the end of March, and not in a good way, either.

The pre-season has been one change for the Dragons. After the bloody awful relegation experience of last season, somehow the league gave the Dragons a reprieve. We find ourselves in the same division that was a bit of a dog’s dinner for the Dragons last year.

What could possibly go wrong?

There has been change on the ground however. This has taken the form of a new (ahem) stadium sponsor. I had the pleasure of a bit of a meet ‘n’ greet with the young fella ahead of KO. He is very ambitious and certainly seems to have the right ideas about how to move the club forward.

We’ve also got a new coaching team in the dugout. Thankfully the same old supporters are still lingering around the old place. You can’t handle too much change in one go.

But wait! What’s this?

I’ve gone on something of a personal quest in recent weeks to try and get more people from the town into the ground. Broad Lanes may be within CO7, but it never actually feels part of the community.

It needn’t be this way. It wasn’t always this way. I intend to change this with a long campaign in which to promote the Dragons from a personal perspective.

Having plugged the match online earlier in the week, I thought it only appropriate to arrive early for once. No one wants to be late for their own party, right?

I arrived 15 minutes or so ahead of KO. Blimey, there’s only a car park attendant. I’ve never seen this before.

SHIT THE BED - there was actually a queue of around fifteen people waiting to get in. I hope the stray shot from the warm up that narrowly missed taking the head off a newbie in the queue didn’t put them off.

My season ticket was flashed at the gate. This dropped earlier in the day. We were asked to send over a couple of selfies to be added. The joke amongst the hardcore is already that our season tickets look like skiing holiday boarding passes.

CHEESE!

It was great to catch up with some friendly faces inside the ground. One of the old lags let it drop that the new coach hasn’t actually taken over yet. He’s serving out a suspension from his previous position.

Whoops.

I looked around the old place. I can’t take personal credit for this but the crowd was certainly healthy. The two-for-one offer helped. There was also the obligatory opening day season inflatable to make it more family-friendly.

SHOUT OUT to the deputy mayor of Wivenhoe, who made a bloody good effort in turning up. It was very decent catching up with her. She genuinely wants to help out the football club in whatever capacity she can at the Town Council.

On the pitch and Wivenhoe got off to a blunder. An early penalty led to a 1-0 lead. This was an incredibly young team. I would say a couple of players have yet to reach the age when they can actually celebrate in a pub after scoring a penalty.

Bloody hell - we were only 2-0 up in under ten minutes. Maybe now would be a good time to go home?

A third soon followed with a quite exquisite passing move that would have been lauded if Manchester City had made such an approach. That was probably the first and last time I will compare Wivenhoe Town with Man City this season.

The rare times that Wivenhoe needed to defend, they did it rather well. The away team’s number eleven was rather tricky. He went on a few good mazy runs.

Parson Drove, were then awarded a penalty themselves. This seemed a bit harsh. The lino they confessed he couldn’t see a bloody thing. The ref claimed it was handball. The young Wivenhoe ‘keeper made a tremendous save but the follow-up was then knocked in.

Halftime came and went. Out came the away team with their heads down. This looked like a game that they had lost already.

It was great to see some father and son - or mother and son - interactions from the Wivenhoe players ahead of the restart. This showed how young the new team is. Their parents had come out to support their kids.

A fourth goal for Wivenhoe followed 50 minutes into the second half. It was a beautiful lob that fooled the away ‘keeper.

Parson Drove offered little physical threat throughout the game. It will be interesting to see how the Dragons fair up against some of the more experienced cloggers they will no doubt come across in this league.

The visitors then scored an undeserved second goal. Wivenhoe responded with a very much well-deserved fifth with five minutes to go. The strike into the top corner was the goal of a game.

And do we already we have a record of P3, W2, L1. The away defeat to Holland on Sea can best be explained as a loss against what will be a promotion-chasing team.

Whisper it quietly: these are exciting times ahead at Broad Lane; the new coach, the young team and my rather disorganised one-man campaign to get more people in to the ground may just lead to something of a special season for the Dragons.

Another day, another trip to the allotment - or that should be another day and another two trips to the allotment. I’ve done the double dipping thing on consecutive days.

The reason for all of this back-and-forth activity is that I’ve got a brand new set of wheels and I’m going to bloody use them. I’ve also got two wormeries that need transporting from the garden over to the patch.

The poor old worms started out life in Essex when they were pushed through my letterbox. They didn’t stay here long, maybe a day or so, before I transported them down to South London for a la-di-da Sunny Stockwell lifestyle.

They thrived back in Transpontonia for over a decade, and yep I’m not as naive to know that the original letterbox Essex worms are unlikely to be the ones that are still around. Nature is rather good like that.

After living it up in SW8 they then headed back to the Bloody Estuary Wilds. Good luck with that one, as they say. Now they find themselves strung out on the allotment.

Saturday morning at the allotment was a little more lively. There was an unforgiving heat already starting to build up.

The tomatoes however still need to get something of a shifty on. We’re not entirely sure if the yellow ones are ripe or not. I had an interesting chat with some old fella who was growing blue tomatoes. I never knew such a thing existed, tomato, tomatoe, etc.

Across the field preparations were well underway at the cricket club for President’s Day. This is the most prestigious day of the year in the local cricketing calendar. It involves getting dressed up in rather stuffy clothes. I tend to stay away.

The two umpires look most resplendent as they strolled out to the middle in their traditional white shirts and black trousers with boater hats. This was a bit of a different look to the shorts and vest from the fagging umpire we normally see for a Sunday social.

I left the worms to do their business. Who knows, I can’t rule out them having a trip back to south London at some stage in the medium or long-term.

To be continued…

Art Blakey and his Jazz Messengers with Moanin. This" arrived box fresh and sealed. I wasn’t expecting that.

I couldn’t resist buying this after it was album of the day early in the week. It sells for around £15 to £20. I managed to source a cheap-as-chips version, which makes the box fresh arrival all the more surprising.

I’m being drawn two ways musically right now. The Summer of Prog is still going on, but the jazz nerd within is starting to fight back. You could argue that prog and jazz are just distant cousins that contain something of the original gene.

That’s of course an oversimplification of the many different strands and genres of jazz. I love Art Blakey for the sheer energy and emotion that comes across. His band doesn’t hold back when it comes to either blowing or hitting things.

Moanin' is the perfect song for hazy summer days. It makes me want to sit in the garden and drink endless cups of tea. Art Blakey had the right idea.