onionbagblog

THREE hours of recordings. Blimey. I’m increasingly turning towards jazz as background music for working. Background music is a little harsh; it’s one of the few genres I can appreciate without giving it my full attention. Three hours will get me through the morning shift, right? Job’s a good ‘un. I have no vocabulary or understanding of how to talk about jazz. I just know that I like what I hear. This bounces along with a breeze. It’s pretty timeless. Sadly the ebay prices for the box set aren’t. £200+? Erm, nope.

It’s been a joy in recent weeks walking down to the Monday evening table tennis sessions at the sailing club. Those dark winter days seem in the distant past when a headlight was needed to navigate the various obstacles and estuary path en route to the Table Tennis HQ.

I rocked up shortly after 7:00 PM on Monday to find a high tide that was completely flat as a pancake. It was most tranquil. Time to disrupt that peace with some ping pong action.

Our usual group had been reduced to three for this evening, no worries. That meant extra table time for us all. We played a rough game of winner stays on. I wasn’t on for very long.

I was finding it hard to find my length on the indoor table, having been blown away at the Oval yesterday, as well as then having a bit of a pickleball strength left in my arms from the session this morning.

I do love playing indoors, and the sailing club location is the most picturesque setting for a game of whiff-waff. Apologies, oval table of dreams, but there’s no dog shit to manoeuvre around here.

Another half-decent pickleball session at the university on Monday morning. We’re back in our usual slot now that the exam season is over.

I do miss the SEXINESS of playing in the Sports Arena. It’s back to the bare bones of the sports hall where thirty three summers ago I used this exact same space to sit my exams, as well as getting sent off playing five-a-side football.

There wasn’t such controversy - or even intellectual requirement = for the pickleball session on Monday. Playing on my mind mainly was my on/off injury. I still feel that I’m only giving it 90%, afraid that if I push it too hard my calf will go PING once again.

I was only booked in and paid for the hour. Various numbers drifted in and out. This meant that my limited pickable skills were required for the full two-hour session. Pay to play, or rather not, as the case was.

It got really competitive for the final hour. I was playing alongside some experienced tennis players who had managed to convert their big boy tennis skills to the pickleball court. It’s surprising how much this raises your own game.

It was pissing it down when pickleball was finally complete. I had planned this in mind with the strategic decision to walk up there rather than get wet cycling.

I passed a very wet Captain Bermuda Shorts putting in his paces as he continues pounding the mean streets of C07. There was also the Wivenhoe Viking who gave me a friendly hello at the bus stop.

Funny old town.

To the Oval Table of Dreams! on Sunday afternoon. We had a rare his and hers away day jolly down at the Oval. Who wants to waste 40 minutes during the luncheon break having a picnic out in the middle, when you can head to the back of the Harleyford Road and enjoy the public table tennis tables?

These are perhaps the only decent thing going for Lambeth Council, 2026. The previous Labour administration fucked up on so many fronts. If I had the chance then my vote possibly might have gone to Labour, only as a direct consequence of them providing a couple of superb outdoor table tennis tables at the back of the Oval.

There you go again Jase, making it all about you and table tennis.

We had a brief knock-up as time was a little tight. We went for the usual corner-to-corner four-arm smash warm-up rally. The table played very fast. It didn’t help that it has a slight lean to it.

The game got underway. As well as a fast table we had to contend with the hard pavement. Whenever the ball bounced onto the closed-off LTN road, it bounced and bounced and bounced, pretty much all the way down to the Oval crease. It usually ended up resting in a pile of dog shit.

The closed LTN was far from quiet. We had to pause serving a number of times for the expected procession of endless Lime bikes.

I got rather enthusiastic during one particular rally. We both TWATTED the ball back and forth at tremendous speed. It took a ricochet off my partner’s bat and was projected up into the air and over into a nearby garden of an estate. The garden was locked. The ball was lost.

I was trailing 3-0 at the time. I officially called it an abandoned game as you can’t play table tennis without a ball. I do love these table tennis mini tours.

To the Oval!… on Sunday morning for the first day of Surrey’s championship match against Hampshire. I say to the Oval with some caveats. It was a rail replacement service. What could possibly go wrong?

It didn’t seem that bad on paper. The railway replacement was only from Wivenhoe to Sunny Colch, and then we could pick up the usual Liverpool Street train.

We rocked up at the rendezvous for the railway replacement, only to find a growing crowd of restless locals waiting for an AWOL bus. Oh dear.

The bus finally arrived. It was an interesting short journey. It was punctuated by a young lady in front of us with her head in a paper bag, constantly throwing up.

This seemed to trigger off another fellow traveller who was also feeling a little under the weather. Soon the bus had the cacophony of chundering passengers: one to the left of us and one to the right. It was almost a competition for seeing who could out chunder each other.

The air conditioning then kicked in, sucking up and distributing the smell of fresh sick down the entire aisle of the bus. It was meritocratic if nothing else.

Don’t you just love rail replacement journeys?

But anyway. The cricket. This was an interesting one. Surrey have been shouting their heads off ever since the winter around the arrival of a new overseas spinner in time for this match. Much like the rail replacement or service, the key componement here was AWOL.

It turns out that Surrey are piss poor in getting a visa in place. We desperately need to spin it to win it, but that’s not great when your overseas signing still isn’t in the country.

The scheduling for the first day was also a weird one. This was the only round of championship matches starting on Sunday. It seems that Surrey have had their game pushed forward by the ECB in order to allow a little extra time for the Oval wicket to recover ahead of the Oval Test match next week.

This should be no big deal, but the weather forecast looks like it will penalise Surrey. Even before the first ball was bowled, this game had draw written all over it.

Ambassador Cruise Line were out in force with their usual spin the wheel to win a hat. No option of winning a cruise, not that I would want one anyway. Being stuck on a boat with 5,000 other people for a fortnight is my idea of hell. Shall we finally watch some cricket?

I blagged myself into the pavilion. I had one mission: to snaffle up a Surrey Year Book. Mission achieved. That will be straight on ebay in the morning.

We chose a strategic positioning of the OCS stand right in front of Archbishop Tennyson. This is not our usual seating of choice. Being on the piss in the Peter May seemed to be something of a wind tunnel.

As we entered the OCS we were hit by the full-on Sunday best splendour of a local gospel church congregation entering underneath the stand. Praise be to the ‘rrey.

Surrey won the toss and put Hampshire into bat. Steady progress was made with the Skipper and the Vicar of Sibley. And then up stepped South African bowler Potgieter, who smashed Rory’s furniture all over the ground. Oh Rory.

Will Jacks was the surprise choice to come in at number three. The plan for Surrey seemed to be to pile up the runs and get some batting points ahead of the expected poor weather over the coming days.

Luncheon was taken early - by me not the players. I felt incredibly peckish and didn’t hold back in demolishing a reduced-price cheese and baked bean pasty. I also had the urge to start BOOZING before midday but managed to resist.

Jacks fell incredibly cheaply for 10. He was caught at square with a half-arsed shot. That kind of stroke doesn’t get you back in the Test match squad.

Luncheon came. We disappeared to the back of the Harleyford Road for a game of table tennis. It was all going well until a ball got ricocheted over into a nearby estate.

Over the river at HQ and the Test match had finished early. This led to a mass exodus across the river as the Egg and Bacon Brigade descended upon the peasants at the Oval to catch an afternoon of proper cricket. Oh how the other half live.

The big wicket of Sibley fell shortly after lunch. The fellow was caught plumb and had to head back to the hutch after an impressive 39.

The sun threatened to break through for the afternoon session. Certainly not threatening but actually delivering was Dan Lawrence at the crease of Surrey.

His 100 came after 99 balls in what was a glorious knock. It was apt timing that he was rewarded with his Surrey cap just ahead of the evening session.

A superb double century then followed for Lawrence, the first double hundred of his first-class career. The Oval rose to its feet in recognition of an amazing feat. I opened up a bottle of a Lidl cheapo beer.

Curran went cheaply, only to be replaced by… Curran. Keep it in the family, etc. It’s a shame that the two brothers couldn’t get to bat together in what would have been a rare championship appearance with both at the crease.

It then got rather cold. The flood lights came on. Surrey lost 5 wickets for 28, including Dan Lawrence for a fine 218, a career record.

We made the strategic move back into the pavilion for the final five overs or so. It was so bloody freezing out there. The Umps took them off for bad light. We cut our losses and headed back to LS.

The final leg of the journey once again involved the dreaded replacement bus service between Sunny Colch and Weird Wiv. I was five pints down. Steady the buffers.

The driver had helpfully placed plastic bags next to each seat. Although I was personally not guilty, I suspect the positioning was a direct response after the lively earlier morning trip.

An eventful day.

Cuckoo wasn’t quite what I was expecting. I vaguely remember listening to Curve back in the early 90’s. It was all shoegazing and self loathing. But wait! What’s this? Cuckoo is a right old bloody racket. The music is heavy, but the lyrics lend a little on the sensitive side. It shouldn’t really work, and tbh, it doesn’t. A real disappointment.

⭐ ⭐

To the Cong! …on Saturday evening. We made the shortest of short walks across the road for the latest in the Music Mix jazz series. Having live music right on your doorstep is an opportunity too good to miss.

We rocked up at the Cong and received some very distressing news: We’ve run out of wine. What are we going to do about it? Chin Chin, etc.

We decided on a teetotal evening. Who needs BOOZE when you have some of the finest music in all of Wivenhoe?

The Music Mix club nights are turning out to be a real highlight on the local scene. It’s genuinely a lovely, lovely setup. The tables are arranged in a really informal way to encourage conversation in between the sets. It has the feeling of a genuine jazz club.

A couple of Nina songs over the PA was a great start to get me in the mood for the evening. Mr Bojangless has to be one of the most moving pieces of music in the past century. No shit.

Shortly after 7:30 pm we welcomed the New Conrad Miller Trio on stage. I’m not sure if there was ever an Old Conrad Miller Trio but the new version was certainly a lively outfit.

They are a Dutch touring band, with plenty of stage talk in between songs to highlight some classic Dutch humour. Ha, bloody ha, etc.

The mood of the evening was set with the first song, Tripping. Even without the red wine I was still able to send myself into something of an out of body jazz experience. Steady the buffers, Jase.

All the songs were original numbers. What was quite remarkable is how the three musicians were able to fill the space so effectively. The music was powerful and uplifting.

The highlight for me was the samba rhythms that sporadically came out from behind the drum kit. All three band members were smiling throughout. This is always a good sign.

A short interval took place. You know you’re at the right kind of jazz club when an audience member puts in some eye drops during the interval, rather than injecting anything else.

The second set from the New Conrad Miller Trio picked up the pace. I was impressed by how they play as one, not individually. This is clearly a tight band with some very close friendships.

Some of the music became technically challenging to play in the second set. It certainly wasn’t technically challenging to listen to. The audience was in awe of some of the talent on display with the double bass and keyboards.

This is the end of the current season of Music Mix gigs. There’s a short summer break before it all kicks off again early autumn. You really can’t beat live music, especially when you’re home with a cup of tea, less than a minute later.

A little random quayside wandering, and we stumbled upon the opening of the summer season down at The Notage. There is a three-week run with the local artist Ernest Turner. It’s a name I’m familiar with, if not the artwork itself.

As ever with The Notage, the exhibition is very quirky, with random display boards laid out on the top floor. If you’re looking for a Newport Street Gallery minimalist experience, then probably turn away now.

We didn’t turn away though. The artwork and the random nature of the exhibits was rather appealing. Plus there wasn’t too much detail about Ernest, something which is always a bonus for me in these exhibitions. I want to look at the art, and not read an essay.

The brief bio details that were available explained how Ernest Turner was born in Wivenhoe in 1899. He came from a well-established Wivenhoe family. His father was a shipwright and his uncle was Captain Albert Turner, a professional yacht captain.

The term used in the exhibition to describe his style was naive. I’m not sure if this is a piss take or not. There was definitely an element of not really wanting to be an artist and creating his work as something of a hobby.

This gives a great injustice to the quality and playfulness of the work on show.

The story continued explaining how once Ernest had retired from working in the shipping industry himself, he took up the paintbrush. Initially he wanted to paint for money. Soon he became rather decent and managed to sell all over Europe.

This coincided with the town itself undergoing a major shift from the industrial to the more arty and academic. The small paintings created by Ernest capture a certain playfulness as you see this transition taking place in front of you.

Sculptures are also included. It was pleasing to see some ships in bottles forming part of the exhibition.

His body of work is a great snapshot of local history. It documents the boats of Wivenhoe and elsewhere along the estuary. It’s also some of the rarer moments where you can see the old Crab and Winkle line being captured as it shuttles along from Wivenhoe to Brightlingsea. That Dr Beeching was an absolute bastard.

Ernest died in 1977. The paintings on show at the Nottage are a wonderful memory of a town that has long since changed.

To the Table of Dreams! …whilst there was a break in the rain on Saturday afternoon. It’s a shame there wasn’t a break in the wind.

The table was remarkably dry, considering there had been an absolute Estuary Wilds drenching only an hour earlier. The wind was always going to be a bit of an issue to get a meaningful game in.

Instead we settled for an elongated warm-up. The idea was to TWAT the ball with a forehand, diagonal to diagonal. It looks really impressive when you pull it off, so to speak, less so when the wind takes the ball about ten metres on the other side of the table.

We then repeated the exercise with a backhand. This was even trickier but progress was made.

The aim was for ten decent returns as we TWATTED the ball back and forth. This then advanced to 20 and then 30.

It started to spit with some more rain. A couple of dogs, not on their leads, were running around. These got right on my tits. It was time to call an end to the session.

A little later on Saturday afternoon and the rain had subsided. We had a more fuel in the legs and time to undertake some allotment bits and bobs.

I should rephrase that: A had a little more time than I had. She was quite content to arse around doing her thing. I simply sat on the bench, took pretty pictures, and watched her go about her business.

It was a good time for an allotment inspection. I was the inspector. I didn’t really have any point to prove. We had been forewarned that proper allotment inspectors may soon be on our case, and so this was a bit of a dry run.

The sun and the rain of the recent weeks has led to the allotment absolutely blooming. We thought it would be a patch of land where we could grow spuds and carrots. It turns out it’s a bit of a garden of delight for poppies and other colourful plants that I haven’t got a chuffing clue what they are.

Elsewhere and A has been busy with her sowing and planting. She did give me a tour of the various seeds and subsequent sprouting shoots that are coming through.

I lost a bit of interest when I could see a game of cricket breaking out at the cricket club on the other side of the allotment. I really should pay more attention.