The weather is amazing...

The weather is hot. Very hot. This is summer like it ought to be and, let's be fair, we've been having many amazing weekends of late, just check out the blue skies and sunshine on previous posts.

Andy wasn't riding on Saturday so I headed to Woodmansterne Green to meet Bon. While even Bon said it had been a long time, I'm not sure that it has, but will have to scroll back and find out the last time we were here.

Rockhopper at Woodmansterne Green, Saturday 23 June

I left the house around 0700hrs and headed towards Purley following the same route I take to work in the morning: past Purley Oaks railway station along Norman Road, hanging a right on the Purley Downs Road, under the railway line, crossing the A23 heading towards Pampisford Road, hanging a left, down Foxley Lane, past the smallholdings and then turning left at the roundabout close to the lavender fields.

Bon was there when I arrived and we chatted about our usual subjects: the south coast (Felpham in particular). Incidentally, I took Friday off and drove down there in the heat and later enjoyed a walk along the beachfront – yes, folks, it was a really good weekend. Our other pet subject was Brexit. We're both remainers. My big problem with Brexit is the 'Brexiteers' themselves – or rather the stereotypical 'Brexiteer' (either an old woman with a blue rinse and a copy of the Daily Mail or a shaven-headed tradesman of some sort who, at this moment, probably has England flags on his white van to complement his tattoos and an empty can of Stella in the glove compartment; not that vans have glove compartments – or rather they do, but they're not for gloves).

For me, the chief reason for Brexit was immigration. The aforementioned people wanted to 'take back control' of our borders', which meant just that: "keeping the darkies out". Farage lied about the Turks and spoke of immigrant numbers the size of the population of Newcastle waiting to get in and how they must be stopped. It was all lies and scaremongering, but Farage, Bozo Johnson and Orville (Michael Gove) managed to con these very people into voting leave, which they did, and now we're only a few months from leaving and seemingly the cuntry is being run by faux politicians – stereotypes like Jacob Rees-Mogg and complete idiots like Liam Fox. If we had the vote again, knowing what we know now, we'd never leave, especially now that we know there is no 'special relationship' with the USA and that we'll be isolated from the world. It might take a few years, but there will be job losses. Just remember this: we're not great and we never were; if it wasn't for the Americans we'd all be speaking German.

But there is another view: that a lot of elites were making heaps of money at the expense of the masses and that Brexit was simply the masses getting their own back. I like this perspective and can understand it, so in many ways, while I'm not torn between the leave and remain argument (I genuinely think Brexit is a bad move) there is a part of me that enjoys the populist uprising, I'm even warming to Donald Trump, especially since his historic meeting with Kim Jong un, the leader of North Korea.

The beach at Felpham, West Sussex coast, Friday 22 June

Something else that was getting our goats was hypocrisy. It's everywhere, but never more pronounced in issues surrounding sexuality. Have you noticed how gay people are allowed to make risque remarks in public, but if a normal heterosexual did the same, he or she would be lambasted for doing so. Take gay celebs who present awards shows. Have you noticed how they are free to allude, quite blatantly, to their lewd thoughts about certain people (right down to what they would like to do to them) but if a heterosexual person made a similar comment, let's say "Whoa! Look at the arse on that!" or "He can stoke my mantelpiece whenever he likes" the media would be outraged. At the moment, there's a series of programmes on the BBC about women and it's been called Snatches. Snatch is a rude word for female genitalia, like cock, nob, veiny Mars Bar and so forth, but imagine again the uproar if a programme about men was entitled Bollocks, Cock, Veiny Mars Bars or even Cock and Ball Stories. Again, there would uproar. Why is it that black people are allowed to use the N word, but white people aren't. There are, of course, many examples of hypocrisy. Like why am I pretending I'm bothered when I simply don't give a shit?

Bon and I sat on the wooden bench that was once a tree sipping tea in the heat and soon it was time to head home, Bon to Epsom, me to Sanderstead. I followed the outward route home, taking in some off-road tracks en route and reached home around 1015hrs having riden up western face of West Hill – a piece of piss.

After an early night and a good eight hours sleep I rose around 0600hrs and prepared to meet Andy on the Green. Things went wrong. I couldn't find this, I couldn't find that, but eventually I got my act together, texted Andy that I'd be a little late (my phone had also been out of power and needed to be charged before I could send the text) and jumped on the bike. I felt good about the bike because last week I jet-cleaned it and now it is spotless.

We headed the slow way to the Tatsfield Bus Stop, a route we were getting used to, which meant we were getting fitter as a result. As avid readers will know, the slow way is much more strenuous than 'the fast way' along the 269. It's safer too. But there is a payback: Beddlestead Lane, which is one long incline all the way from the bottom of Hesiers Hill to the junction with Clarks Lane. It's hard, but not if you've had eight hours sleep, like I had. There's payback on the return ride too (we've been riding back along Beddlestead Lane too, which is fine because it's all downhill – until you reach Hesiers Hill, which is a true slog, but we never get off the bikes and now, having tackled it a fair bit of late, we're getting fitter as a result and it's becoming easier.

As always, there are nutters around. Yesterday, a Lycra nutter coming down Hesiers on the wrong side of the road nearly hit Andy who was riding in the opposite direction. I couldn't believe the idiocy of this bloke. Watch out for nutters and fly tippers, I thought, remembering a pile of rubbish that had been unceremoniously dumped along Beddlestead.

We parted on the Green and both agreed that the ride had been excellent; and then we went our separate ways. Andy sped off in the direction of Caterham and I headed towards Sanderstead along the Limpsfield Road. As I passed the pond on the so-called Gruffy I was amazed at the size of the reed beds and the other greenery that had taken over the pond. I sailed down Church Way, preparing myself for every sleeping policeman en route. I turned on Morley, turned right on Elmfield, left on Southcote, right on Ellenbridge and right on Barnfield. A sunny day lay ahead of me and I simply couldn't wait.