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To the Oval! …on Wednesday morning for one final jolly of the summer. It was day one of a Championship match for Surrey against Yorkshire - aka how the fuck dis this once proud club go from being a three consecutive Championship winning team to becoming relegation fodder?

The train journey in was, as ever, entertaining. For some reason this season has been scheduled so that when we depart the Weird Wiv Cricket Fun train we are joined by a load of good owd Essex boys on route to watch the Essex Slappers over in Chelmsford.

“Hey, I’m going a little bit further than you.”

Oh the BANTZ we had.

Destination Chelmsford was reached. The good owd Essex boys buggered off to watch the Slappers. I sat back and thought, yep, I’ve got the better deal in heading down to SE11 for the more superior Surrey experience.

Just don’t mention the Surrey Strut, right?

We walked up at The Oval just as play was about to start. It was raining.

Arse.

The transpontine skies up above didn’t look too promising, so what to do with a spare hour when back down in South London?

The first job of the day was to pick up another Surrey Yearbook. I think they’re running on short supplies here. EBay in the morning, etc.

I then surprised my cricketing partner by having a bit of a detour into the Surrey store. I remember years gone by when the Surrey store was but a broom cupboard bolted on to the Members' entrance in the Pavilion. It was where you would buy cricket balls, bats if you could afford them, and even a box if you were feeling brave.

But not so these days. Like everything in the modern sporting world, the Surrey store is of course now a MEGA store - and it bloody is mega in terms of space, not to mention the prices.

My cricketing partner had her eye on a Surrey ice hockey top. Yep I know such a thing really shouldn’t exist. Surrey are also flogging this Surrey Football Club tops. They actually say Surrey Football Club on them.

But the Surrey ice hockey top seemed to appeal to my cricketing partner. Being the kind companion that I am, I snaffled it up as an early birthday present for her. Lucky girl.

We poked our head out around the old ground, looked up above and thought BALLS to this. there’s going to be no play at least until the afternoon session.

A lunchtime of art was then on the agenda. We made our way over to Newport Street Gallery. On route we passed Andy’s wonderful DIY garden pop-up that has been on the corner of Newport Street for the best part of a decade. Sadly the old boy is closing down. I felt a little tearful knowing that another part of old South London is soon to disappear.

A little time was spent at Newport Street with the Jack White exhibition. We then continued our short little journey onto Lambeth Palace Library for another exhibition before winding our way back down Lambeth walk and towards The Oval.

OI!

A very quick scroll of X and yep, the game was back in play. We’d actually missed the first five overs. We had also missed the first three wickets. A very poor Yorkshire team were struggling on 1-3 at one stage.

We wasted no more time and took up the nearest seats in the old OCS. Surrey were clearly getting a shifty on out on the field. You could tell the players knew that possible rain was expected. They weren’t hanging around, racing to change ends after each over. Every ball was more or less appealed for.

It was delightful to clock dear old Jack Russell sitting a few rows in front of us with his canvas and pallet. Can you tell what it is yet?

It then became a little slow going out in the middle. I confess to dozing off for 15 minutes or so. I was soon awoken by the loud guttural roar of Lobby, who was sitting on the other side of the OCS. Some things never change.

It was soon time for the tea interval. We had a brief stroll out the middle. It was good to catch up with F and his young son.

We retreated to the Peter May to try and cancel out the wind trap that was now rattling around The Oval.

I spent most of the evening session focusing on Foakes behind the stumps. Good gosh he is so athletic. An England recall could be a possibility over the winter months.

The wickets kept on falling for Yorkshire. Up stepped Bairstow and then so did the rain. It was only some slight drizzle. For once the Umps showed some common sense and kept the players out there.

This became a slow scoring affair for Yorkshire. I messed around putting on a poncey wind jacket and somehow missed another wicket.

Our conversation then turned towards how utterly naff the new Yorkshire logo is. We actually asked a friendly AI bot if it had been designed by a school kid as part of a local competition. Yep it looked that shit. Apparently it’s part of a professional rebranding which brings all elements of the club together. Yeah right…

Out in the middle and Wharton finally fell for 45. He was Yorkshire’s last hope.

Some dark skies descended over SE11 shortly around 6pm. The Umps took them off for bad light. We managed to see over four hours of play, not bad for what could have been a washout of a day.

What a bloody horrid album. What an absolute racket. This sounds like a theremin that was turned up to 11, natch. It’s not even funny. It’s everything music shouldn’t be. It’s crude. It’s sexist. It has absolutely zero soul. There’s not even any song structure to speak of. It’s just noise and not even noise in a good way. What a waste of two minutes that was.

⭐

This sounded a little laboured to be honest. It’s almost as if there’s a desire to craft the perfect pop song. The secret should be simple. You don’t need to add on all the extras and fruity toppings to get pop perfection. A good song is a good song.

The songs seem to stick to the same formula: Poppy, jingly jangly guitar, some killer hooks and then a chorus that even AI would struggle to come up. If that’s your kind of thing then it’s a decent album. But there’s not much grrr in this album.

⭐ ⭐

To Moving Image! …on Monday evening for the first screening of the new season at the village cinema. Being played out in the not quite so multiplex William LovelessHall was The Christophers, a British film about art and intrigue starring Ian McKellen and James Corden.

It’s been a while since we’ve been at Moving Image. Time and tide - football fixtures - have kept us away. The new autumn season seemed like a good opportunity to get back into the Moving Image habit once again.

A few things have changed in our absence. Blimey - there was a sizeable queue when we rocked up not so fashionably late. It was hit and miss if we would actually get in.

The layout of the pop-up cinema has also changed. The big screen has rotated 180 degrees. It is now being rolled down on the actual stage of the Loveless Hall. It meant for a little uncomfortable viewing with the top of the screen ever so slightly clipped by the stage roof.

We missed The Christophers when it was first released a couple of months ago. It’s a film that I wanted to see as some of the locations include our Sunny Stockwell patch.

Most of the outdoor scenes were shot around Fitzrovia, but the interior of the main house of Sir Ian McKellen’s artist character was filmed in a Sunny Stockwell property. I think I know which one…

There are some contrasting performances in the film. McKellen plays a wonderfully bumbling old artist whose physical, but crucially not mental, faculties are in decline. James Corden, of course, plays James Corden. Thankfully, his screen time is limited.

The Christophers in the title refers to the name of a series of paintings created by the main character over 30 years ago. They take on almost mythical status throughout the film and are the real stars of the show, as they form the centrepiece of the plot.

At the centre of the Christophers film is storytelling at its heart. This is not a film with a big budget or special effects. In fact not a lot actually happens in terms of visual narratives on screen. It’s the dialogue which is quite gripping.

It’s also a film that addresses the differences between generations. McKellen’s bumbling artist character may portray progressive traits, but he is also veering towards an old codger, “things were better in my day” type of persona.

This is balanced wonderfully against Michaela Cole’s brilliant performance as what I hesitate to call a more WOKE character that is pretty much in tune with the London art world of 2026. The coming together of the two generations shows that despite the differences, divisions can be overcome.

Some of the detail in the film is quite stunning. The ramshackle, almost anarchic layout of the Sunny Stockwell house looks familiar. There were also some nice touches when the sound of South London, aka police sirens, can be heard behind much of the dialogue.

It was a decent evening albeit a little stuffy in the old William Loveless Hall. This will soon change as the new season ushers in and we have darker, more autumnal nights.

A new month and whaddyaknow? A new cycling club to join.

Chapeau!

On Tuesday morning I rolled out in search of the North Essex branch of the 40+ cycling group. I fit into that demographic quite comfortably. I was still the youngest rider that rolled out on Tuesday morning.

The description of North Essex is quite a wide ranging terrain. Rather than meet up in one central location each week, the branch rolls out from various changing rendezvous.

On Tuesday morning I set my Beeline Velo plot a route heading out to Cressing Temple Barns. I’ve been here before. It’s a fantastic and deeply historical place, but from memory it’s also a bloody pain to get to.

There was a slight September chill in the air shortly before 8:45 a.m. The meet-up was 10:30 a.m. I had planned to leave at 8:30 a.m. What could go wrong?

Sunny Colch could go wrong of course. I’m fine navigating my way around the most remote lanes in North Essex. Trying to find the best route around the centre of the half town, half city can be a right bloody pain in the arse. This delayed me by around 15 minutes.

It didn’t help when a dickhead motorbike rider tried to overtake me like an absolute twat. Not only did he close pass, he then insisted on riding along a bicycle path.

Oh dear.

I confess to getting a little lost en route to Cressing Temple. The Beeline Velo had plotted in a bloody horrid route. It took me along the A12 - or rather the pathway adjacent to the A12.

It’s completely safe as there is no other traffic to share the space with. It’s just that for 4 km you have the constant thunder of HGVs speeding past you. No thanks.

A quick shifty at the watch and SHIT THE BED. I had half an hour to make up around 20 km or so. This ain’t gonna happen right?

I time trialled the run into Cressing Temple. This was a bicycle ride in itself. I was pretty knackered and 40 km or so were already showing on Strava.

I knew that I would miss the meet up, and then by pure chance I caught half a dozen or so riders around 2 km or so out of Cressing Temple.

Chapeau!

This was the 40+ group. I knew one of the riders anyway from the Cycle UK Sunday Club rides. Some introductions were made and I was happy to continue riding for the rest of the day.

We were heading roughly in the direction of St. Pauls. I had no bloody idea where St. Pauls is but I was happy just to tag along for the ride. The nearby fields were fresh with the smell of the corn crop that had recently been harvested.

This was s a pacey ride. I later learned that two sections of the 40+ group had rolled out. I had latched on to the fast group. It definitely showed.

By now I was well into the longest ride of the year for me so far. We hadn’t even reached the lunchtime stage.

I trembled a little when the ride leader gave out the sign for the big hill coming up. Not surprisingly I BONKED big time. I was flat out and all spent on energy. Having only some yoghourt and an apple for breakfast didn’t help.

I was reassured when I was told that the lunchtime staging post was within touching distance. We were now deep into thatched cottage territory. It was really quite picture postcard pretty.

Luncheon was reached. I’ve learned from past experiences that all North Essex bicycle rides stop at a garden centre for lunch. This is really quite a weird phenomenon and it’s one that’s totally passed me by. A garden centre is a garden centre for me. Back in the day you go there to buy your rose bush.

But nope, the garden centres of 2026 are pretty much a hybrid of rose bush buying and TUCKING IN to a fry up. Usually I would skimp on this and have a cup of tea and be done with it, but I was in desperate need of some substance. Quiche and chips did the job for me.

There was fighting talk about riding on to the afternoon tea stop and then back somewhere towards Sunny Colch but I was completely spent. I knew there was still around 35 or 40 km for me to head back to base.

Another rider suggested that he was also going to skip tea and make a dash for it. I rode along behind him pretty much all the way back into the half town, half city.

The highlight of the afternoon session was passing some hedge in the middle of bloody nowhere that had been trimmed meticulously into the shape of Thomas the Tank Engine. It even had a smiling face attached to the front.

So that was my first 40+ ride. Without hesitation I signed up as a member whilst recuperating back home. I’ve even got a 40+ long sleeve cycling top waiting to be checked out in my online basket.

Retirements were made for cycling.

YEAH.

I had no idea what to expect from this album beyond the Memphis song. It’s one of those tracks that has grown in popularity over the years despite being something of a low key affair when it was first released. What followed was pretty much the Memphis song from start to finish. There’s nothing wrong with that.

The Memphis song is pleasant enough, with its Bruce Hornsby style light piano, which builds up, backs down, and then builds up once again. Dude can certainly sing and he can pen a half decent pop song. It’s not the music I would turn to by choice but I might listen to it if I wanted to try and doze off. Damned faint praise etc.

To the Sailing Club! …on Monday evening for the Table Tennis Social. It may be a Bank Holiday but still we play.

Wiff to Waff, Waff to Wiff, etc.

But wait! What’s this? We had a new player turning up. Oh the excitement!

Having different opposition is the best way to improve your game. Our small but very passionate crowd of local table tennis players know each other’s shots inside out. Any new talent always adds to the challenge.

After the singles matches were finished we spent the final 15 minutes or so on doubles. Chaos ensued. Chaos always ensues when you’re playing doubles.

The light was starting to fade. I managed to embarrass myself by inadvertently letting out a little wind on a particularly powerful smash shot.

Whoops. I’ve no idea where that came from. That’s how you make friends when you’re trying to impress fellow table tennis players.

To the Kayaks! …on bank holiday Monday afternoon. Recent days have seen some spectacularly high spring tides out along the estuary. The bright blue skies and wind were too much of a good opportunity to resist an afternoon of paddling.

The dinghies had already launched and were out racing. It was the perfect weather if you wanted some wind in your sail, not so if you were battling against the elements with only a single oar.

We took the strategic decision to make the most of the incoming tide and head upstream. It felt more like we were battling an outgoing tide to be honest, such was the ferocity of the wind blowing the waves back at us. Splashes ahoy!

Once we were past the barrier it was surprising to see the Bank Holiday river traffic pretty much non-existent. We saw C. He was out doing his usual daily swim. A few brief polite words were exchanged before we pressed on.

Rowhedge was reached. There was another couple swimming close to the public hard. I say swimming, it looked more like they were simply treading water.

Both pubs on the other side of the river were busy with Bank Holiday boozers. The Essex Harbour Patrol boat was moored up and ready to pounce on any speeding jet ski dickheads.

Windy Corner was reached. It was an absolute bastard. I tried to head for the channel but was blown off course.

We came within touching distance of the University but decided to cut our losses as the waves continued. We drifted back downstream with the tide now turning.

Just as we were recovering the kayaks, some scouse fella came up to me and asked me about high tides. He wanted to know the precise science behind what governs high and low water.

Fuck me, you’re asking the wrong dude fella.

The acoustic tracks work best here. They allow the genuine soulfulness in Neil Young’s voice to be showcased. When he plugs in the guitars he reverts to just being any old hairy rocker wearing denim.

The pipedin crowd noise gets on your tits a bit. The Woodstock interjections from a decade previously are just weird. All the tracks drag on. This is something of a Neil Young trademark.

It’s a decent enough album but it also proves that when it comes to Neil Young, he matures like a fine wine.

⭐ ⭐ ⭐

A wifey Bank Holiday boner bicycle ride for Monday. Bank Holiday Mondays are always the best for riding, especially when you roll out early. The roads are deserted.

This ride saw the first wearing of the gilet for the season. It was a little windy out there.

The first obstacle was to dodge a couple of darting squirrels who came close to my front wheel. I suspect there was a bit of boy/girl action taking place there.

This was soon upgraded to a lone pheasant who shot out in front of me, eyeballed me, and then thought better of hanging around. SEE YA!

There wasn’t a lot of pace taking place to be honest. My cycling partner had decided on a more genteel ride, despite rolling out on the roadies.

Our progress was curtailed considerably when we reached the descent into Dedham. This is normally a stretch where you hover with your hands on the brakes, but hope for the best as you dart down the hill at around 45 km/h.

A couple of horse riders were midway through their descent. This meant an incredibly slow ride towards the town.

Dedham was a little more lively. There was some church jumble sale action taking place. I did think of stopping by briefly but it was full of tat.

A toilet stop did take place once we had left the town. I was wearing my cycling bibs, which always makes for something of a faff when it comes to the correct manoeuvre. I was happily going about my business when I noticed a couple out walking across the vale, around 200 or so metres away.

MORNING!

The stench of the ride soon turned to onions. Despite being a Bank Holiday, the young farmers were out in the fields harvesting their crop. You could write a blog post about onions being harvested and put into a bag.

An hour and a half or so later and we were back at base. A decent enough ride with quiet lanes and something of a pedestrian pace.