onionbagblog

Blimey. Here’s a blast from the past: Blak Twang and So Rotton.

I heard this for the first time in around 30 years when it was dropped as part of a Radio 1 Drum and Bass mix. Yeah yeah, I know. As I speed towards my 60th birthday, I really should be listening to drum and bass. But I still love buzzing off me tits.

The D&B version of the track pinged my interest. I vaguely remember this, I thought.

Oh yes, I remember when Lamacq used to drop it frequently on the Evening session during the late 90s. It was an interesting time where the bloated Britpop had finally been killed off and Lamacq was dropping all sorts of top UK hip-hop tunes that were mashed up with elements of big beat style.

I’d rather listen to this UK incarnation of hip hop than any old West Coast. In fact there was some fella shooting some hoops on the court next to us whilst we were playing pickleball yesterday. He was blasting out the most mundane 90s West Coast crap. Give me Black Twang any time.

I’ve no idea who Black Twang are, or even were. I’m not really interested. But I do love being reminded of these blasts from the past and some of the messy memories from that late 90s period.

I thoroughly enjoyed Spielberg’s Disclosure Day at the Sunny Colch Odeon on Monday afternoon. I confess to having scrolled down the listings to see what our film of choice would be for yet another Monday cheapo cheapo £5 screening. Disclosure Day was the only option that didn’t deliver a Meh shared outcome.

We watched the trailer at home just to be sure. Even this was weird. The official trailer actually features Spielberg cutting himself into the action to describe what’s taking place. This hinted to me at a film that needed some explanation. I don’t like films that make me think too hard.

Disclosure Day had a plot that I could follow. Often I find myself sitting in the cinema not being able to keep up with the action, as I have to backtrack and try and cross reference some of the dialogue I’ve just heard.

Christ, I’m a bloody old man.

This of course also manifested itself in the usual Monday afternoon SHHHHH! moment.

The cheapo cheapo Monday afternoon Sunny Colch experience wouldn’t be complete without another couple insisting on talking throughout the entire fucking film. I really hate doing this, but from past experience a very abrupt SHHHHH! shuts them up for the rest of the afternoon.

The film itself was fantastic right from the start. You can watch the trailer yourself, or read all the spoilers that are out there. Basically it weaves together three different scenes and characters all related to the overall strand of trying to cover up - and also expose - evidence of aliens on Earth.

It’s really quite comical in places. The level of detail and symbolism in terms of clothing, colour, etc is quite intense. I really can’t be arsed to look for the online Easter eggs but I’m sure there’s some great explainers out there that would add more depth and understanding to my already high enjoyment of the film.

It gets really quite poignant as well towards the close. In these troubled times there’s a strong message to humanity. It strays ever so close to being rather twee from Spielberg, but the final end scene is delivered with what appears to be well-intentioned meanings.

I almost had to have a SHHHHH! moment to myself (spoiler alert) when Mr. Alien is actually a grown-up ET. At least there wasn’t anybody sitting in the cinema who was dumb as fuck to actually phone home during the screening.

It was a sweaty one as we made our way over to the sailing club for the Monday evening table tennis social. Thankfully the sailing club loft had a breeze corridor with the newly installed Velux windows open.

The usual warm-ups took place with the usual drills. We’re getting quite skilled now in TWATTING the ball from corner to corner at some pace. It then all falls apart when I start playing an actual scoring game.

Midway through the session and a newcomer arrived. It’s always good to play different opponents. You get to be surprised by their level of skill and choice of shots. Your own game needs to adapt around those.

We started off playing with a high tide and ended up with the plug having been pulled out on the water below us. In between our hour and a half or so of playing, we managed to witness from the balcony some dinghy racing as well as the Rowhedge gig heading downstream and then back.

We left the sailing club with skies darkening and a slightly cooler breeze breaking up all the humidity. It’s a pretty perfect place to play table tennis.

One of the best things about playing pickleball up at the university is that we then find ourselves with a couple of outdoor table tennis tables just begging us for a brief game. It’s always rude not to.

After a two-hour session playing pickleball inside, we headed to the Great Outdoors for a knock-up on the university table of dreams.

Although these look identical to our table of choice back in Weird Wiv, it actually plays a lot harder. There is a definite louder clanking of the ball when it hits the surface. It makes for a very speedy game.

Some of these shots get a little hit and miss. It helped on Monday that campus was deserted, with no students around to witness some of the wiff waff shots gone wrong.

I was experimenting a little when I then heard some shrieks of laughter. I turned around to see a whole coach load of secondary school kids being offered a tour of the campus. Taking in table tennis probably wasn’t on their agenda for the day.

The wind picked up a little. We felt for the nearby trees that have recently been felled down to around 10 m or so. It looks like the idea was to try and encourage growth. The lack of greenery and the rotting bark suggests this experiment has failed.

My belief in Mother Nature was restored slightly when a butterfly joined us for one final game. The little fella almost went back and forth with the ball, tracking it from one end of the table to the other.

If Mr. Butterfly was keeping score, he would have clocked up another 3-2 defeat for me.

We had a few net issues for the Monday morning pickleball social session up at the University. I walked up to the sports centre to find an army of sports centre staff, as well as seasoned pickleballers, trying to put a pickleball net together.

It came close to a Krypton Factor style test gone horribly wrong. Not only did we have too many poles, we also had far too many cooks. I took the strategic decision to step aside as the frustration was clear for all to see.

It also didn’t help that one of the sports centre staff trying - and failing - to erect a pickleball net was one of the lovely Rebels players. Never meet your idols, etc. It’s quite a stretch from cheering on the Rebs, week in week out, and then offering ineptitude advice as to how to assemble a pickleball net.

No worries, a compromise and a solution of sorts was found. We resorted to playing with the badminton nets and dropping these by a metre or so. Job’s a good ‘un.

Game on!

We had eight players - the perfect number for a couple of games of doubles, as winners stayed where they were and losers moved down the court. I found myself staying stationary rather than moving down.

I did find myself partnered up with a half-decent pickleball player for one particular game. We managed to actually pickle our opponents 11-0. I don’t think I actually touched the ball.

I somehow managed to blag myself a spot for the second hour despite not actually being booked in. We had four players remaining, leading to some very competitive games. My calf held up and didn’t ping.

I’m a sucker for this absolute slush. No Secrets is an album SO far removed from my own lifestyle. I think it’s the escapism in being transported to a time and place that I only experience in movies. I was surprised to read that the album was recorded in… London. It sounds like the West Coast rather than the West End. No Secrets is dreamy, airy and borderline early 70’s radio jingles territory. We’ll never return to that world. Happy happy joy joy.

⭐ ⭐ ⭐

Pleasant enough jazz by numbers for a summer’s morning. The guitar playing is of course immaculate, but I would rather have heard more from the trumpet. The blues crossover works well. It’s almost as if each track has two sides to the story, with the whole jazz / blues thing going off. Another half decent album in which to work along to.

⭐ ⭐ ⭐

It was a toss-up between a gentle row in the kayak or an afternoon of cricket on Sunday. I was pretty knackered after all my exertions the day before. At the end of the day, cricket always wins.

Wivenhoe Sunday 11 were playing a 40-over game against Gawd knows who. I arrived fashionably late, with Wivenhoe having already put 30 overs on the scoreboard.

My first obstacle involved locking up my bike. A bit of a lock situation developed. The lock I use for the electric is pretty robust. It’s also started to develop a tendency to jam. That’s not a good sign. There could be worse places than Wivenhoe Cricket Club to have to leave a locked-up bike.

It looked bloody hard work out in the middle for the Gawd Knows Who batsmen and the Wivenhoe pace bowlers. I found a king-sized bench close to the boundary to lounge upon. I did ponder going on the piss but thought it best to play safe. You never know what’s going to happen with that bike lock situation later in the afternoon.

It was good to find some silence and solitude for once in the day. I was within throwing distance of a cricket ball of the allotment. I think I had the better deal in lounging around watching the cricket rather than digging for victory.

The two umpires were doing a fine job. I did admire the satirical look of one of them, wearing a green t-shirt and a pair of baggy red shorts. It wasn’t quite the Dicky Bird cricketing etiquette look.

The poor Wivenhoe wicket keeper then had to undergo that strange bollocky dance after being hit in the unmentionables. Shit. I think I’ve just mentioned them.

A couple of looseners from the poor ginger kid went for consecutive sixes, one of them landing right in my cabbage patch over in the allotment.

I confess to dozing off for a few overs. When I awoke, Gawd Knows Who had racked up 229 after 40 overs on the scoreboard. This seemed like a tough chase. I cut my losses and cycled back to base.

I needed an escape from the Estuary Wilds' punishing heat. Hey! How about a shortish bike ride over to Brightlingsea where I could cool off in some of the sea air breeze? Job’s a good ‘un.

The ride over to Brightlingsea was so-so. Some dickhead family in an open top sped past me going up Tenpenny Hill. The rather fat female in the passenger seat shouted out an obscenity at me.

I don’t think she counted for the fact that I was riding electric. The stupid family got snarled up in the busy Brightlingsea traffic. My electric bicycle had soon caught up with them.

Awkward.

I asked the rather rotund lady why she felt the need to shout out an obscenity at me, especially so having two young girls in the back of their crappy car. She pretended that she hadn’t said anything. My on-board camera begs to differ.

I was dithering but I think I will probably give her the benefit and not dob her into Essex Police. I don’t think shouting out PEADO very loudly at a cyclist is an offence.

Oh well.

Soon I was in Brightlingsea. The circus was also in town. A big top had been set up down by the seafront. It looked bloody hot in there as the scorchio conditions burnt through the big tent.

In cafe news: the cafe by the beach is still not built. I’m not entirely sure what the story is here. Construction started pre-covid, it then stalled. I suspect funding has run dry.

I took up a seat on a bench close by to Batemann’s Tower. A couple of smacks looked stranded out in the water, waiting for the tide to come in and rescue them.

I looked over across to Mersea Island and pondered life. I was bored after a couple of minutes. I turned to a Forest Focus podcast instead.

Half an hour later and I was pretty much done. I walked along the promenade. The wind had picked up, which was good news for the dinghies that were launching for a race by the sailing club.

The bicycle ride back to base was uneventful. I still find it astonishing that in 2026 dickhead motorists find it amusing to shout out at cyclists. Maybe I should start to answer back.

To the Table of Dreams! …on Sunday morning. We got our timing all wrong. I was in search of a wellbeing bollocks table tennis therapy session. Instead all I got was the bloody church bells doing my absolute nut in.

Oh well.

The next decision was which ball do we play with? Although the Estuary Wilds heat had already started to build, there was also a strong breeze blowing across the park.

We opted for the wind ball. Later in the day I remember that the wind ball was covered in dog shit when we played back at the Oval a couple of weeks ago.

The park was surprisingly quiet apart from the bloody church bells. The lack of activity only served to amplify the right old racket made by the people tugging away on their bell ends.

I stormed to a 2-0 lead, if that is, you can ever storm to a 2-0 lead.

I started to get cocksure. I’m going to win this, right? Nope. My 2-0 lead soon became a 3-2 defeat. The stupid dumb bells still hadn’t stopped by the time I was walking away in shame.