onionbagblog

I’ve always wanted to like Smashing Pumpkins. They’re a band that I feel I should like. For all the melodic interludes, you’re only one riff away from what sounds like hair metal. The quiet / loud thing was done far better by Pixies, and was far cooler as well. The Baldie thing also puts me off - said the man who has had no need to own a comb in the past ten years. You’d rather listen to this than some cock rock, but then I’d rather listen to some Sam Cooke than Smashing Pumpkins. Life choices, innit.

⭐ ⭐

Christ. That was a hack and a half. What was meant to be a simple pruning of the wisteria somehow ended up in a four-hour garden tidy-up. Shit the bed.

I had half an eye on Surrey against Hampshire back at the Oval in the Championship. Tea was about to be taken when I decided to nip outside for a very quick and brief garden tidy-up.

Once I had braved the heights of the scaffolding to prune the wisteria, I was on a roll. I remembered I had another task: hack away at the shitty bamboo slats outside the fence. This will be piss easy, right?

Wrong. Our garden designer wants to see what lies between the slats and the fence itself. Here be dragons etc. Actually it was ivy, BASTARD ivy. I’ve left it there so the garden designer can get triggered and talk us into buying some new fences.

Gardening gloves were needed. I only realised this after I pricked myself half a dozen times with some particularly fiendish thorns on a rose bush. I wouldn’t mind so much but the stupid rose bush never actually flowers. A rose bush with thorns only is a very vindictive species.

I then had the brainwave for a shed reorganisation. Are Surrey still taking the tea interval? I was disturbed by an almighty squeal underneath the garden shed. Daisy soon emerged with a dead bird, right between her jaws. God girl, bad girl.

It was a job well done. I headed back indoors and what do you know? Surrey were in the field making hard work of chasing down a Hampshire score. There were still five overs left to play. It was almost 7 pm. Gardening is not for the faint-minded.

I’ve been up the scaffolding. Oh dear. The scaffolding really shouldn’t still be here by now. We have been encased around our back passage for over two months. Trying to pinpoint the exact place where a leaking roof is letting in water is a lot trickier than you think.

Summertime, the wisteria and scaffolding is not a great combination. We were told by the tree expert to enjoy one last summer of the BEAST of a wisteria before it is chopped early autumn. It has outlived its purpose and its footprint.

So much for enjoying the wisteria. The scaffolding went up one week, and then the wisteria blooms started to emerge the next. It was all under cover and in disguise for the brief blossoming period for its one last stand.

Now we reached that time in the wisteria cycle where the green wisps and shoots start to accelerate almost day by day whenever there has been a downpour. Wisterias love something to hold on to. The scaffolding is making for the ideal makeshift pergola.

So that’s why I’ve been up the scaffolding. It’s two stories high and I’m scared of heights. What could possibly go wrong?

The view was quite stunning but I didn’t dare look. I was too busy with my secateurs, clip, clip, clipping away at the wisteria.

I came down from the structure and had a charming conversation with a local coffin dodger. “You’ve got a lovely garden,” she observed. I then went into a bit of a potty mouth rant about the scaffolding.

Fuck this shit, etc.

This time next year hopefully there will be no scaffolding and I very much doubt there will be any wisteria either. Make the most of it whilst you can, we were told.

Push it, push it real good. I pushed it real good for the run on Tuesday lunchtime. I ummed and aahed over whether to set off and pound the mean streets of C07. Today is new bike day. New bike day is the best day. I’m waiting for delivery of my new electric model. To run or not to run? If in doubt just bloody do it.

I reasoned that I could spare 20 minutes out of my stay-at-home day to get in a quick lap of Wivenhoe. Always back yourself with these kind of odds, Jase.

As ever, I’m still unsure about the calf injury that may or may not still be an actual injury. The plan was to take it easy. But I can never take it easy when out running.

After the first minute or so I started to panic about new bike day and my shiny new toy arriving. Time to put my foot down on the Lidl cheapo carbon running shoes and leg it around the town as fast as I could.

I felt really strong on the downward slope, heading down the High Street. Three friendly waves of familiar faces took place. I often think other people must think me most strange when out running. All those endorphins kick in and you’ll smile at any old fucker. Maybe they just think I’m strange anyway?

Fifteen minutes earlier and there had been a torrential downpour around the estuary wilds. Now I was down by the quayside under glorious blue Big Essex skies. I pounded it like a demon along the quayside front.

I think I’m about ready for a return to parkrun, although I did feel the same this time last week and bottled it last Saturday. Here’s hoping the new bike has arrived by the weekend.

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.

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 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 service, the key component 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 rail 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.