onionbagblog

A most unsatisfactory performance from Surrey in the T20 Blast this afternoon against Kent down at the Oval. I know I really shouldn’t give a toss about the Blast. I stopped attending pretty much soon after the COVID years. It’s still Surrey, wearing a Surrey top and none of this nonsense franchise business.

I really couldn’t be arsed logging down any of the scores. Spoiler alert: there wasn’t really anything worth shouting home about for Surrey. Not a single player stood out with either bat or ball. There was a very lacklustre batting performance, followed by a spell in the field when nothing really happened for the home team.

I’m not quite sure what to make of this Surrey white ball team. I’m not quite sure what to make of the Surrey red ball team right now either, to be honest.

We seem to be going for a mix of young academy talent with the old pros. I was a little cynical with the likes of Jason Roy, Laurie Evans and Reece Topley still hanging around, but apart from the last couple of games, they’ve held their own, so to speak, in the Blast.

It does seem a very one-dimensional team. I’m not saying the solution is a return for The Skipper opening with Sibley, but if we go deep in the competition and make it to finals day, then the scheduling with the ECB makes it unlikely that we’ll have any of the star name players available anyway. So why not just go with youth and build for the future?

What hurt a little more today was seeing Adam Hollioake as head coach for Kent. I can’t but help think this is a trial run ahead of hopefully taking over the top job at the Oval one day.

I felt a little sorry for the many families that were there. Sunday was deemed family day down at the Oval. It didn’t look like happy families, to be honest.

Will I ever make a return to the Blast? Unlikely. The prices and the piss poor performance have put me off. I’ve got another championship away day planned for next week. Let’s see if Surrey can try and salvage something from what has been a very average start to the season.

Another day, another game of table tennis down at the table of dreams. We rocked up to find the public field rather busy. In particular, there was a gathering of primary school boys hanging around the table. Here we go, I thought.

The little shits had commissioned the table as their HQ for some kind of water fight. The table was covered in water whilst they were filling up balloons and water pistols etc. No harm done, but hey! I really want to play table tennis.

Rather harsh but friendly words were exchanged. I asked them if it was ok to play, and then encouraged them to tidy up the mess they had made all around the table. They looked a little sheepish. Whatever.

We pressed on with the game. We weren’t the only Sunday lunchtime locals enjoying the facilities. A rare game of boules was taking place on the recently installed court.

The wind picked up and it became more favourable for boules players than table tennis hopefuls. My playing partner blew me away with a predictable 3-2 victory.

Another day, another walk. I’m rapidly running out of options around these estuary wilds parts in which to go wandering.

It doesn’t help that my bicycles are still behind closed doors. The scaffolding around the side passage is preventing any access. My legs are itching for a decent bike ride.

I made my way down to the river. There was plenty of aquatic traffic, as my walk was timed with another spectacular high tide.

The sailing club had some kind of dinghy race reaching its climax. I wasn’t the only person caught out on the shoreline when the rather loud horn was blasted out.

The weather conditions had taken a slight dip from the previous day. There was still plenty of sun, but the blustery winds made for favourable conditions for the sailors.

Not enjoying the wind so much were the two Wivgigs boats making steady progress back down towards the sailing club hard. I gave them a random wave, but I doubt they had a clue as to who I was in the distance.

I reached the wooded area along by the estuary. The Sunday afternoon walkers had dispersed. I had some bliss with Robert Elms in my airpods and a feature all about Northern Soul.

I reached the creek. I had a moment sitting on Fat Bloke’s bench. I took in my surroundings, and then retraced my steps and headed back to base.

I’m urgently in need of either some new routes or access to the bicycles once again.

Another day, another game of table tennis down at the table of dreams. We rocked up to find the public field rather busy. In particular, there was a gathering of primary school boys hanging around the table. Here we go, I thought.

The little shits had commissioned the table as their HQ for some kind of water fight. The table was covered in water whilst they were filling up balloons and water pistols etc. No harm done, but hey! I really want to play table tennis.

Rather harsh but friendly words were exchanged. I asked them if it was ok to play, and then encouraged them to tidy up the mess they had made all around the table. They looked a little sheepish. Whatever.

We pressed on with the game. We weren’t the only Sunday lunchtime locals enjoying the facilities. A rare game of boules was taking place on the recently installed court.

The wind picked up and it became more favourable for boules players than table tennis hopefuls. My playing partner blew me away with a predictable 3-2 victory.

The 120th Anniversary of Vauxhall Bridge

Another sun-drenched morning at the table of dreams. The air was incredibly still. If ever there was a time to play with the non-wind ball, then this was it. Anything could happen… Absolutely anything could happen.

Replacing the usual sugar rush energy drinks being spilt on the table, today we rocked up to find what looked like pollen. You don’t get that during a sterile indoor table tennis game.

The field was largely quiet and silent. There seemed to be an abundance of planes flying overhead. We’re not talking jumbo jet-style craft here. It looked like a mini air show.

I tried to focus my concentration. As ever, this was a wasted exercise. I managed to win one game, and then allowed my playing partner to come back in to win the next four. Oh well, there’s always tomorrow.

To the sailing club! For the second time in two consecutive days!

A combination of bright blue estuary wild skies and also favourable high tide times was the lure that was too good to resist.

But where to paddle to?

Downstream and the great unknown? Upstream and the stinky poo smell of the Hythe? Or perhaps even a rare excursion up the Roman river?

The Roman river, it was.

We were keen to avoid what might have been a bit of a Gig Fest assault. Both boats for the rowing club had made their way earlier in the day over to Brightlingsea for the Gig Fest race downstream and back. The Roman river looked like it would be the quieter option.

It was a gentle paddle, making our way upstream and then cutting across the muddybanks for the Roman river.

We did pass one brave fella who was out wild swimming with his luminous yellow floating device. He was on his back and was actually scrolling away on his phone. Now there’s confidence for you.

We reached the mouth of the Roman River. It took some delicate manoeuvring to make our way around the mysterious brown patches.

That’s shit, etc.

Soon we had the tranquillity of the curves of the Roman river all to ourselves. We were even treated to a fly pass by three swans. You could feel the rush of air as they made their way ten meters or so above us.

Some paddle boarders then approached us from behind. This was a leisurely row for us. We came seriously close to the embarrassment of being overtaken by a couple of paddle boarders.

The Canadian geese could then be spotted sunbathing on the muddy banks. They deserved their rest, having earlier made a rifht old early morning racket, waking up half the town.

We reached the mill that signifies the end of the Roman river that is passable. We had timed the tidal times to perfection. We were carried out on an incoming tide, and we’re now ready to head back to the sailing club, floating along on the outgoing waves.

“Can you take some shit pictures?”

…asked my rowing companion.

“No, I don’t take shit pictures”

…came my reply.

“I’m a semi-pro photographer.”

“No,”

she said.

Can you take some pictures of the shit?"

The dirty dog.

The river traffic picked up as we headed back towards the sailing club. There was plenty of kayak action out around the Estuary wilds. We had the first spotting of the season of the ferry. I’m not sure what the aquatic equivalent of Chapeau is.

Never judge a book by its cover. Which is just as well, considering the album art for the McDonald and Giles self-titled CD that landed in my post box this morning. PHWORRR! Talk about pinups etc.

I know very little about the duo apart from the King Crimson connections. Even then the names were new to me. The track Flight of the Ibis stood out on a recent Late Junction early morning listening. Interesting, I thought. I’ll have a bit of that.

The album has early 1970s prog jazz written all over it. I’m increasingly finding myself being drawn towards this type of nonsense. You can get yourself lost in the music and not have to think about 2026.

Modern life is rubbish, etc.

We rocked up at the table of dreams on Friday morning only to find that some entitled middle-class little shit had spilled some crappy sugar rush of a drink all over the table. Arse. Whatever. We decided to press on and play the briefest of brief games.

It was incredibly humid and rather hazy out there today. It was also coming towards the fag end of half-term week. The park was busy and rather noisy. At one stage we had an audience of around half a dozen little ankle-biters watching us.

I never really found my rhythm. I raced to a 3-1 defeat. I was optimistic of making some spectacular comeback. My playing partner called quits, claiming she had an optician’s appointment. Aye aye. I see what you’ve done there, etc.

To the kayak! On Friday lunchtime. I got my time and tides all wrong. Oh dear. I arrived at the Sailing Club to find the rowing club were packing away after an earlier session.

Something’s not quite right here…

For some reason I had read my tidal times all wrong. I’m not sure why this happened. This is the amateur tide reader who, don’t forget, spent the best part of a month putting together a highly complex spreadsheet that automatically pulled in tide times and then adjusted them. Oh well. Now I’m here I might as well make the most of what remains of the water.

The rowing club weren’t the only water users packing away for the session. Half-term week meant the young cadets were coming in to the Sailing Club hard in their dinghies. I had to wait a few minutes or so before I could launch.

Finally I was out there. There was no one else around on the estuary. Fancy that.

I got a little lost in my own hippie shit aquatic ways. I ended up being carried on an outgoing tide to Whitehouse Beach. I then realised I was running out of water. I didn’t fancy my chances taking it any further.

I hovered around for a short while and heard a little bit of splashing underneath my hull. I had a slight fear of what may be lurking deep down below. This was no time for hanging around. It was probably just more endless shit floaters.

I heard a distant cuckoo on the opposite shore. This was my homing signal to get back to the Sailing Club. I panicked slightly for the final 10 minutes remaining, fearing I would run out of water. Either side of me I could see mud banks emerging. On more than one occasion my oar churned up thick, dark brown Essex estuary mud.

I managed to recover my kayak with around half a metre or so of water left on the hard. Dick.

I wasn’t the only river user out there who had fucked up. An army of jet ski flotillas were struggling to make it past the barrier. It couldn’t happen to any nicer fellas.