Saturday 19th November, 2022

More SAULT album listening for the Saturday morning run. On the AirPods was Earth, the second album in the batch of five dropped by the collective a couple of weeks ago. It’s the ideal running record, best described as rhythmic religious music. OK, I could have done without all the God is Love bollocks, but the beats kept me motivated as I pounded around the mean streets of CO7.

The fella with the flagpole at the top of the town had his Ipswich Town FC effort blowing in the wind this morning. He has a great sense of occasion, if not taste in football teams. Ipswich were away at Exeter later in the day. It’s impressive seeing how he changes his flag to suit any moment on the national or local agenda.

A new FUCK OFF sign has appeared around the eastern edges of the University. It declares: University Enterprise Zone. Oh. Which puts my poxy sociology degree back in its box. The whole campus appears to be transforming into a business hub over recent years. Follow the money, innit.

The run itself was decent – almost two minutes up on the exact same route from yesterday. I’m in need of some new running shoes – which is disappointing as the ASICS are less than a year old. The inner cushion is wearing away where I place most pressure on them. It’s also led to a nasty blood blister appearing on the side of my leading right foot.

I had a quick clean up back at base before we strode off purposely for some Saturday morning wiff action at the Table of Dreams. You ALWAYS stride off purposely towards the Table of Dreams when you are wearing a pair of wellies. It’s quite a look.

I beat A 4-2 in what was a wind assisted game. We were both guilty of playing weak shots to allow the growing gusts to add a little random spin to the ball. Light rain put an end to the game.

I was wearing a City Rockers cap, so I fired up Clash City Rockers on Alexa. And then by pure coincidence (or was it?) FB flagged my memories from a year ago today when I completed my Clash collection on cassette. Freaky.

Some fella briefly starting blasting the weeds outside the house mid-morning. It was a bit of an insult; I spend a little time each week pulling the fuckers up. I couldn’t tell what the Council high viz wearer was using to blast the weeds away. I’d rather not know.

Robert Elms had a World four-fer in celebration (yeah, right) of the World Cup. Songs with World in the title were requested. John Martyn’s One World was a tremendous opener. Not so hippie shit was Julian Cope’s World Shut Your Mouth, equally worthy of four minutes of your time on a Saturday morning. I was left with a lovely warm feeling as The Isley’s Harvest for the World ended the run.

We headed out for what was going to be a hyperlocal morning. Hyperlocal mornings always go wrong. I was wearing my new walking boots for the first time.

The Farmer’s Market was first on the list. I’m not exactly sure why we went. The cost of living shit has meant that we are Mr and Mrs Lidl right now. There was some crafty thing taking place inside the Congregational Church. The sight of a donation bucket led us both to doing a runner.

We walked all the way up to the University. There’s a Radical Essex exhibition documenting the ‘troubles’ at the University with The Angry Brigade etc. I was quite excited about this. I even made sure before setting off that it would be open on a Saturday lunchtime. The website said YES. Back in the real world and it wasn’t of course. Oh dear. It was a nice walk, anyway.

The eBay email today featured a Withnail soundtrack for £35. No ta.

I’ve slipped into a silly Smiths rut. The 1001 albums generator threw up Meat is Murder yesterday. Don’t get sucked in. DON’T GET SUCKED IN. I got sucked in to listening to the silly old racist. I’m trying to justify it by saying he wasn’t a silly old racist at the time, and Marr was cool as fuck. I confess to buying Louder than Bombs on CD for £3. At least the money isn’t going to the silly old racist.

I played Louder than Bombs on Alexa. Wait a minute – what’s this? I knew nothing of Golden Lights. It was bloody awful.

A brief trip to the Coop followed. The Gypo Aisle was disappointing. As were the Christmas decorations in November, plus Paul McCartney’s Wonderful Christmas Time playing over the PA.

I caught up with the excellent Streets Ahead podcast during an anarchic gardening session. It’s fast becoming my fave pod. There was a great discussion themed around the benefits of active travel against the backdrop of cuts to local authority funding. Niche, for sure. But still fab.

The garden lawn received the first FORK IT of the season. I spent almost an hour sweeping up endless leaves. The lawn will be covered in them again in a couple of days. I reckon we have one more final drop from the wisteria this autumn and that should be it. Meanwhile we’ve still got some strawberries that are growing and ripening.

Streets Ahead switched to Garibaldi Red. There was a brilliant, brilliant interview with Martin O’Neill. He’s got a book to promote, but it was an amazing listen. There’s the danger that these Miracle Men interviews trot out the same tired and tested stories. Not so with O’Neill. He’s always been the brains within the group. He controlled the interview, understanding that his role was to create some new headlines.

O’Neill spoke with great fondness about his lifelong friend in John Robertson. It was was really quite touching. He sounded bitter that after a decade of playing at the World Famous City Ground, his managerial period only last 19 games. We had him at the wrong end of his career, tbh. He did hint about another comeback however.

Out went the shout of To the University! Again. The early evening entertainment was the Essex Rebels Mens Div 3 team on home court against Kent Crusaders. You need a dedication to watch the Div 3 Mans team. I’ve found that in the Rebels. This club is really starting to appeal to me. I wasn’t alone with a decent turn out at the Sports Arena for what is essentially a student team rather than the elite level men.

It was a raw ball game with both teams scrapping for every ball. Rebels traded toe for toe against a more physical Kent team in the first two quarters. The away team had a geezer named Dwight London. It’s such a cool second name. I still get a little emotional listening to Julie London. Jason Nottingham is not the same.

Back on court and the Crusaders stepped it up in the third and fourth. They stretched away, leaving Rebels chasing the game as the clock counted down. The final score of Rebels 84 Crusaders 89 (I think) seemed about right.

I was back at base in time for the darts.

Links for 19th November, 2022

At root this crisis is a war between capital and labour