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You know where you are with a Van Morrison album, right from the start. A Van album is a Van album. Sure, the times may change with different styles and tastes coming and going. Van takes snippets of these, but ultimately he knows what direction he is going in. This sounds like an album recorded in 1986 – which is no surprise seeing as though it was an album… recorded in 1986. It’s the welcome inclusion of the oboe on this album which adds a little extra something to his usual Sunday afternoon laid-back jazz soul vibes. This album works best when Van takes on his softly, softly, understated role. He strips everything back and calms the experience down. It can get quite intense at times, despite very little going on.

⭐ ⭐ ⭐

Josh Simons in Downing Street would poison a Burnham premiership from the start

Tell It Like It Is via Morning Star

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To the tattoo studio! For the second time in two weeks! This was also going to be something of a double-dip session. I’m also booked in for tomorrow morning, with a fourth booking later in July. Best to get it all done in one go.

On the broad canvas agenda today was my knee. In tattoo terms this roughly starts at the centre of your kneecap and then extends about three inches out. The golden rule in tattooing is always to size up.

It was also a lot more fiddlier than I was expecting. My ace tattoo man is a perfectionist. The first stencil was drawn and then marked up with the magic wipe off ink.

He stared and pondered. I could tell he wasn’t happy. He stared and pondered a little more. He pointed out a slight imperfection with everything not quite lining up.

It was time to get the soap out, scrub it all off, and start again. It’s best to do this with the removable ink than with the real dark black stuff.

I was getting a little distracted by what was on the studio telly for my entertainment: Jeremy Clarkson’s Grand Tour. I must have watched about four episodes. That’s four more episodes than I’ve ever watched in my lifetime. I confess to actually enjoying some of the stunts, if not the personalities involved.

Downstairs in the studio and the other artists had taken control of the playlist. I was a little surprised that it wasn’t the usual hip-hop which accompanies a tattoo session.

Instead we had some classic rock. It was decent to hear the full version of Layla that then plays out and becomes something very different altogether.

With the stencil now meeting the perfectionist requirements of my tattoo man, the rest of the day was spent filling in the dots. Dot. Dot. Dot. It’s all about the dot work innit.

My tattoo man has a wonderful bedside manner. I think he’s clocked that the way to keep me pain-free is to distract me with conversation. Holding down a conversation with someone for six hours and keeping the interest on both sides is no mean feat.

My watch then pinged. Oh. I see Farage has resigned over in Clacton. The conversation then changed ever so slightly.

Around seven hours later, after I first arrived, we had made some damn good progress. The knee is probably around two-thirds done. I’ve been told to expect some of the extreme black patches to start swelling overnight.

More of the same tomorrow.

This album represents a turning point in hip-hop. It straddles that age where the crudeness of the samples and beat boxes fused together with what was possible from the genre. The rap and delivery take it to another level. It’s a fun exercise in spotting the samples, but ultimately it’s the lyrics which hold your attention.

⭐ ⭐ ⭐

To the Sailing Club! …on Monday evening. If it’s a Monday evening then it must be the Sailing Club table tennis social session. We had five players for this evening, pretty much the perfect number.

It was bloody stuffy up in the Sailing Club loft. We had the Velux windows and the balcony door open. A gentle breeze was coming through, but it was still pretty much hot, sticky scenes, you know what I mean.

Two players played, three sat off, then rotated. Those sitting off were regaling in Regatta tales from the weekend. One of the poor Wiv One Designs took a bit of a battering in what was a very congested estuary.

There was also plenty of talk of mud. I did clock whilst out for a walk earlier that the mouth of the Roman River is pretty much silted up. It was speculated that we’re not too far off from the whole river being so silted that Regattas of the future may be in doubt.

It got a little lively towards the second half of the session, when the fellas from Alresford Creek rocked up for their monthly social in the bar below.

Chin chin.

The main noise we were making was from a cracked ball. We played on for around five minutes or so before realising that the ball was actually dead.

Doubles ended the session. I got a little overexcited, and embarrassed myself with an inappropriate noise coming from a rather sweaty backside. Apologies, I’m not sure where that came from.

We all decided it was a good time to call it quits.

Ozric Tentacles' Become the Other CD.

I bloody love The Ozrics. Psychedelic space prog rock wasn’t exactly cool back in the day. It’s aged even less so thirty-odd years later.

There’s still something about the old hippie in me that gets me reaching for the tie-dye whenever a new Ozrics CD arrives. Let’s not go there.

I don’t even keep track of the entire Ozrics back catalogue. I doubt if the Ozrics do themselves. I think they’re one of those DIY bands where there’s endless cassette-only releases and CD-Rs doing the rounds. I do have my own Ozrics list of what I’ve got just to make sure there are no duplicates.

I’ve not even heard Become the Other to be honest. It just appeared on eBay at a half-decent price. It’s not unknown for Ozrics CDs to go as high as £50 these days. They’re simply not being pressed up.

The artwork is as space-cadet shit as you can imagine. I’m hoping the music will match it.

Back in the day you needed to be under the influence of something rather strong in the herb department to appreciate the Ozrics. A strong cup of tea works for me these days.

Sometimes I long for good old-fashioned analogue music. Other mornings start with a desire to go all digital. The Chemical Brothers and Surrender fitted the brave new world that I craved for on Monday morning. It was straight in with Music: Response. This could quite easily be the theme music for Night Rider.

The Chems were bloody great back in the day. They knew how to hit the button perfectly to convince jaded indie kids in search of something a little more exciting over to the other side. Buzzing off yer tits with the Chems rather than shoe-gazing was where all the fun was at. Surrender is perhaps the last great album by the pair. It still leaves me grinning. And dancing.

⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

A Likely Lads' score avoidance was achieved successfully on Monday morning. We were in bed by 10 pm the night before. Live the dream, Jase. Live the dream.

It was actually quite a revelation not being tied down to any digital or online nonsense. I didn’t touch my phone in over 12 hours. Even an early morning work shift was successfully navigated, in strictly sticking to the walled garden of the online work nonsense.

We watched the England versus Mexico match being played out on the BBC 2 7 a.m. repeat. I might have exclaimed “Yes!” once throughout the entire game. Sure, it was an enjoyable watch, but as ever I’m club over country every time.

The football was ticked off and a little early morning work was also done. Now time for a walk.

Having managed to avoid the football score, I did slightly less well in avoiding the heat. It was already 25 degrees plus out around the mean streets of CO7 at around 10 a.m.

Also putting in the steps was the Weird Wiv Walker. We exchanged a polite and almost non-existent hand wave. One day we will actually embrace, have a big sweaty man hug and celebrate the joys of Estuary Wilds walking together. But not this morning, Big Man.

The rest of the town was incredibly sleepy. People were either out at work or were still sleeping off the morning after the night before.

One old boy on a bicycle did come up from behind, so to speak. He was going at such a slow pace. I actually managed to outpace him walking along.

I headed down to the quayside. The Battle at the Bunting was in full swing. The Rowhedge and Wivenhoe Regattas may be in the distant past for another year. That doesn’t stop the bunting from being proudly displayed.

The dry dock was exceptionally dry. You don’t say.

A little further along the quayside, and the first full-on touring cyclist of the season slowly made his way past me. He was laden down with every conceivable part of his frame lumbered with cycling bags.

Chapeau etc.

A decent walk whilst I wait for the recent inking to heal. I was two minutes slower when compared to walking the same route a few weeks ago.

This was one of the worst Surrey performances in the Blast in recent years - and when I say recent years I of course mean the past 25 years.

We won the inaugural competition in the T20 and that has been pretty much it. Don’t believe the mainstream media narrative that Surrey are a team configured around winning the Blast.

It didn’t get off to a good start when J-Roy forgot to pack his kit. No shit. We’re talking a professional sportsmen here in J-Roy, a seasoned globe-trotting franchise player. Maybe that’s the reason why he left his Surrey top at home?

It was rather odd seeing two players take to the field at Gloucestershire, both wearing the legend that is Lawrence 28 on the back.

The Sky Sports telly folk ummed and ahed over what would be a par score for the wicket as Gloucestershire opened their innings. There was optimistic talk of 200 being set fair.

This completely skewed the debate around Surrey having an international franchise bowling attack that couldn’t take any wickets.

The interval came, the BOOZE started. Very, very shortly afterwards the inevitable Surrey collapse also showed its face.

Put simply this was a shocking, shocking performance from Surrey. It should be a wake-up call to all around the club that something is not right in SE11.

We saw this towards the tail end of last season in the Championship when we almost showed a lack of ambition to match a very decent Notts team. This tailing off of a curve has continued at some pace with red ball cricket for this season.

At least the Blast might be our saviour, right? Absolutely not.

There’s probably at least half a dozen franchise players in this Surrey Blast team that are two to three years past their sell-by date. There’s no progression or conveyor belt of players being promoted from underneath.

A major factor in this is the disdain in which Surrey have treated the Metro Bank comp. We’ve bedded in incredibly young talent but haven’t given them the support they need to make the leap up.

It’s impossible to criticise the Gaffer when it comes to all things Surrey. The Sky telly folk made such a point when they panned in on Alex Stewart looking down from the balcony at Gloucestershire.

If he hangs around for another season and oversees what looks like inevitable relegation from the Championship, paired with another piss-poor Blast performance, then his stellar reputation at the Oval will be trashed.

If only there was an opening at the ECB where Stewie could team up once again with the Two Dicks and try and turn around England’s fortunes…

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