A word about the weather...

The English are obsessed with the weather. It's a fact. We always bring it up in conversation, as a kind of ice breaker; it's a bit like football talk, and by that I mean that it's not a real conversation, it's there simply to initiate interaction between two or more people.

When English people talk about good weather, 1976 is normally brought up. In essence, it was the last time we had a really amazing summer. Well, 1976 has a rival and it's called 2018. For the last three months there has been nothing but sunshine and there hasn't been any rain. I checked back on the blog and the last time it rained was in April. It gets better. It's not been just a bit of sunshine, it's been a full-on heatwave. Even last Friday, three months in, the papers talked about 'furnace Friday', although, ironically, 'furnace Friday' turned out to be the day the good weather broke up, there were rain storms forecasted.

As I write this it's 0732hrs on Sunday morning and rain and storms are promised. You might be thinking: Why is he writing his blog? Surely he should be out on his bike, heading towards the green to meet Andy. Well, I was in the process of doing that, but the skies were looking decidedly dodgy and then my mobile rang as I prepared to mount the bike. It was Andy saying that it had started raining over in Caterham. "It's spitting here," I said, looking skyward. We decided to call it a day.

"Next week?"
"Yeah, see you next week."

And I rolled the bike back into the garage and now here I sit, typing in the conservatory. Just a second ago I got up and made myself a slice of bread with Marmite – very tasty, but the weather seemed to have improved and I wondered whether Andy had texted me; he hadn't. So I'm back at the desk, Gilmore Girls is on the television and I'm wondering (just wondering) whether to call Bon and head for Woodmansterne or call Andy and say 'let's re-group on this' although rain and stormy weather is forecasted so it's highly likely that any move to head anywhere will result in a soaking – and if there's one thing we like to avoid, it's a soaking.

Last weekend I meet Bon at Woodmansterne Green, twice, Saturday and Sunday, and, as always, we mooched around and chatted about this and that. I'd brought a flask of hot water and some teabags and we sat in the sunshine enjoying the good weather until it was time to head home.

Andy took this shot at the bottom of Hesiers Hill before we headed up the hill

Yesterday, Andy and I met at the Green and headed for the Tatsfield Bus Stop where we too enjoyed tea and BelVita biscuits while chatting about nothing in particular.

Our bikes prior to riding up Hesiers Hill. Note the parched fields...

The weather has changed. A cool breeze has replaced the extreme heat. It was still a really nice day yesterday. We'd ridden to the bus stop the slow way and we retraced our steps back along Beddlestead Lane towards Hesiers Hill on the way home. We rode up the hill and for the first time in ages I found I was using my gears properly. I'd changed down into the lowest possible gear as I rode along Beddlestead, which meant that I didn't faff around at the foot of the hill and rode up with relative ease, stopping at the top and chatting briefly with Andy before we both followed the country lanes round to Warlingham. We parted at the green. Andy rode to Caterham and I followed the Limpsfield Road to Sanderstead, sailing down Church Way, hanging a right on Morley, a left on Southcote and a right on Ellenbridge.

Parched fields at the bottom of Hesiers Hill

The good weather hasn't left the building, that's the important thing. It's going to hot up during the week and will reach 29 degrees C mid-week. But we've had temperatures in the high 30s. It is, quite simply, a rival to 1976 and might possibly beat it, but not if today is anything to go by; it's cold outside, and blustery too.

Not that anybody takes any notice...

We're riding again next week unless I pluck up the courage to go out later, which I might. Things have brightened up... or perhaps they haven't. I was in the kitchen, making scrambled eggs, and it was dull and raining so I've come back to the computer to say so. In fact, I can hear the rain on the conservatory roof. We'd have been soaked through and cold had we gone out, so I'm really glad we stayed in.

Leaving Dublin for London Gatwick ...

I went in search of gate 414 where my return flight awaited me. I'd been fortunate enough to get a window seat – seat 1a no less – and fuelled with childish excitement I made my way to the gate, realising as I walked that I totally understood the notion of a so-called 'United States of Europe'. It might sound a little daft, but whenever I find myself in the USA I quite enjoy walking around, say, Chicago O'Hare airport while waiting for a connecting flight to somewhere like Pittsburgh or Cleveland. As I stroll along, I like passing the departure gates and looking at various destinations: Grand Rapids, Sioux Falls, Cedar Rapids, Charlotte, Baton Rouge – it goes on and on – and normally, sitting on a chair waiting patiently for a flight is a stereotypical American, wearing cowboy boots, Levis, a Harley Davidson tee-shirt and so on. I find myself looking at these people with their peculiar forms of 'being American' and thinking what a diverse, massive country this is, made up of many states, all of which are very different from one another; and then I find myself wanting to spend a lot more time in this great country, checking out the various states, seeing what they have to offer, driving from one to the other – where else in the world can I do this, I might ask myself. And then it would twig: why, right on my own doorstep, of course, that's where! Now, as I walked towards gate 414 I passed many other gates: Dusseldorf; Corfu, Munich; Paris, Zagreb, Budapest, you name it – the United States of Europe where I could, should I so choose to, fly or drive or take the train to visit these places. Who needs the USA to travel great distances without really leaving 'home'?

But then my brow furrowed as I realised that the United Kingdom (somehow even the name of the cuntry seems wrong these days) was on its way out of Europe on a road towards isolation, no longer part of the whole, but a small island off the mainland, a place not really liked by the Europeans, a place full of bigoted old people and men with tattoos on their calves, with an inflated idea of their own importance, a place where Europeans think twice before they order a steak sandwich or a roast chicken dinner because the beef might be hormone-injected and the chicken washed with chlorine. The United Kingdom will become a place where Europeans are classed as 'other countries' rather than the EU when they are processed by British immigration officials at passport control. And when we journey into Europe, of course, we too will find ourselves queuing in the line reading 'other countries', no longer part of things, no longer European.

Is it just me?
Is it just me? I wonder how many times I've asked that question? Is it just me or is it impossible to find a quiet and deserted restroom at an airport, somewhere without the sound of hot air driers or somebody else in the next cubicle making an unappetising noise – and a considerably more unappetising smell. I can wander for miles at some airports, past lonely and unoccupied departure gates in search of a toilet and when I find one, there's loads of people making a noise and being generally unpleasant. It's not like a hotel where, if you look hard enough, you can stumble upon an oasis of calm with cubicles sporting solid wood doors, sturdy locks and no gaps in the adjoining walls where the shoes and scrunched up trousers of an unwanted neighbour are revealed.

Posh hotel toilets with piped musak and a not a soul in sight, a place to relax and meditate and do what comes naturally – ideal if you're trying to avoid a know-all bastard who won't stop talking. But no, not at an airport. Airports are noisy, crowded places full of people pulling suitcases behind them. Sometimes it might be possible to find an area of calm, a deserted gate, a place to stretch out away from the madding crowds, but it's the exception, not the rule.

The best part of any airport is the restaurants, the eateries, the places where you can enjoy a few moments of peace nursing a peppermint tea and a Danish pastry or, as I enjoyed at Dublin airport prior to departure, a blood orange tea and a scone. Very tasty and I was able to eavesdrop on the know-all and the stooge (see previous post).

Back in the country...

I'm now in the plane and we're about to land at London Gatwick. Outside the patchwork quilt of green and brown fields, lakes and ponds and a landscape familiar to me – that of country lanes and small villages – similar if not the very same places that I encounter on my weekly rides with Andy at the weekends. The hot summer has left many fields parched and brown. I look out to see if I can spot any familiar landmarks. There are plenty of country houses, a racetrack, lakes, long-term car parks as the runway looms, trees like florets of brocolli, cars, the M23, more car parks, woods, the railway line, other planes, a wind sock and we're on the ground at 1855hrs. It's hotter here than in Dublin, there's less cloud and a lovely hazy evening sunshine.

The plane is making it's way to the terminal building, past the control tower. I can see plenty of white and orange easyJet aircraft parked up or making their way towards the runway, plenty of staircases on wheels leading nowhere, and vast expanses of tarmac with arrows, yellow arrows, pointing at, hold on, pointing at those staircases, meaning just one thing: a bus to the terminal building! Or maybe not, we're still on the move, being chased by an electric airport vehicle with the number 184 emblazoned on its sides. No, it's going to be a jetty and a terminal building. Phew! We've arrived, the plane has stopped and it's time to go.

But no, I was mistaken. A short walk through the tunnel didn't lead to the carpeted comfort of the terminal building, it led to a concrete staircase and an awaiting bus, which took us to baggage reclaim. I was told off by security for taking photographs (see below).

The bus from plane to terminal building 

At Dublin airport...

Don't you hate know-alls? Boring bastards aren't they? Always putting forward their view on some subject or other – normally politics, but it could be anything; let's face it, that's why they're called 'know-alls'. And there's always some bored individual on the receiving end, saying very little, nodding occasionally.

"So, somebody needs to do an analysis...". Yeah! How about you get your sorry arse over there and buy me a cake? Analyse that! Anything as long as I don't have to listen to your rubbish any longer. You know the sort: out comes their smart phone as they consult some figures and pretend to be the font of all knowledge, when really they're just a font.

I'm sitting at a table on the flight side of Dublin airport awaiting a plane – the 1735 to London Gatwick Airport – and not more than a few yards away from me is a know-all and his pitiful stooge who, as I write this, is looking at his mobile phone in a vain effort to stop the know-all opposite him from pontificating.

Dublin airport

"I heard Richard Branson saying that...". Why does old beardy get a mention? "The stats are all published. If you come to Canada from Syria... I think they should stay in poverty...they shouldn't have luxury, they need to contribute, like they do in Barbados, they can serve tables..." He's really going on and on and on and the stooge hasn't got a word in yet. "So you don't have to have a 20 hours per week day job... so maybe Brexit is something that should happen. You can't blame everything on Brexit." [Try me!].

"Four years! 480 million." He's talking sewage problems I think, debt problems too. "You guys need to find 75 million. I just don't know what she's gonna charge." Percentages are flying all over the place and the stooge hasn't got a clue what this know-all is talking about. He (the know-all) is wearing a cheap open neck shirt, his phone and his glasses are on the table in front of him, his suitcase and suit jacket opposite – the former resting against a chair, the latter on the back of the same chair, which is next to the stooge who sits diagonally across from the know-all.

When there's silence it's because he, the know-all, is looking at his phone. Both of them are doing that right this minute, looking at their phones, and I pity the stooge if he's sharing a transatlantic flight with this bozo as the know-all probably has plenty to say about air travel, probably talks during take-off, what a nodule!

The stooge has gone to the restrooms and he's left the know-all alone with his phone, no doubt he's boning up on some shite to unload on the stooge when he returns from the toilet. I bet he's gone to a cubicle for a bit of relaxation ahead of the next onslaught.

"Hi, it's B----." The know-all is on the phone and his name is B----. "Don't worry, the guy was so insistent... alright, that's good, man, thanks for everything, I'll talk to you later." And silence. The stooge has yet to return. He's probably still sitting fully clothed in a cubicle, getting some much-needed peace and quiet and is considering flushing the toilet and coming back out. He knows he has to pull the flush – or press the flush – and he'll have to wash his hands too, even though he hasn't taken a dump or pointed Percy at the porcelain. He has to go through the motions to legitimise his stay in the cubicle otherwise people might think he's strange, they might call security. "Hey! There's a guy in one of the cubicles, he hasn't even taken his trousers down, what's he doing in there if he's not taking a dump? Is he snorting coke? How did he get through security with a load of coke?

The know-all is checking his bags, he's putting on some headphones, earphones actually, those white ones you get free when you buy an iPhone. I wonder what he's listening to? A TED lecture? Or maybe he's playing a game of some sort. The glasses are on and there's no sign of the stooge – perhaps he's being frisked by the police who are going to strip-search him for drugs. The know-all's brow is furrowed, he's looking suspicious, as if he's listening to a voicemail from somebody who hates his fucking guts. "We've got your stooge in the toilet Mr Know-All, now cut the crap, stop boring people to death and we'll release him free of charge." For a minute I thought it might be the stooge. "B----, I'm stuck in the toilet, can you come and rescue me?" But no, it's not. In fact, the stooge has returned and is now playing with his own phone. Silence reigns supreme. The stooge is probably hoping it continues, he doesn't want to be exposed as somebody who doesn't really have a view or an opinion, he just wants to be left alone. So he's got his lap top out – good move, man! Something has been spilt on the table. "Is that a chocolate bar?" asks B---- the know-all.

B---- is short and paunchy and now has his laptop out – a Hewlett Packard PC, typical. He's typing something, probably an email, but the stooge is happy as it means he's not engaging him in a one-way conversation. I'd better go and check out my flight as time is moving on and I don't want to miss it. I think he's said enough, he's quiet so I'm assuming that he's talked himself out or he's replenishing his armoury of arseholery, ready to give the stooge another ear bashing – and I don't want to be around to hear it.

Last weekend's cycling...

Wednesday 18th July: I can't believe I didn't knuckle down and get something written about last weekend's cycling, but better late than never. That said, it's only Wednesday (I keep thinking it's Friday). Anyway, last weekend: it was, of course, wonderful weather. There's been nothing but hot sun for the last two months, although whether it's a better summer than 1976 is debatable, it's not far off.

I'm no Bill Oddie, but I think it's a heron...

I didn't ride on Saturday out of general confusion. For some reason I thought Andy wouldn't be riding so I aborted, expecting Andy to come back and say he wasn't going, but he didn't, although perhaps I should have texted him with the question: are you cycling tomorrow? Jon overslept because of the late tennis match with Nadal and the Serbian guy whose name I simply cannot spell, but it begins with a D and ends with 'vic'. Something like Djockovic (I'd be amazed if that's right).

Sunday we met at the green as usual and decided to head for the churchyard, always a good choice on a hot day. When we got there we chilled. Mint tea and biscuits for me and normal black tea and biscuits for Andy. We never saw anybody else, not even the racist from the other week, and eventually it was time to reluctantly head back.

Andy said goodbye at the Ridge and I rode along the off-road path on the 269 all the way to Warlingham before rejoining the road, circumnavigating the green and riding along the Limpsfield road to Sanderstead.

The pond was in full bloom with reeds and all sorts and there was a heron standing proudly in the middle. I took a photo and then headed down Church Way to enjoy the rest of my day.

What's going on is so obvious, but nobody seems to see it!

Let's start with an obvious point: Donald Trump, like Boris Johnson, is clearly not going to be the most liked President of the USA. The fact that he counts the likes of jailed Tommy Robinson, Katie Hopkins and Piers Morgan as friends, three people who, like Trump, are, in many people's opinions, well let's say a little too right wing for their own good, and not the sort of people you would in anyway trust to run the country.

Brexit is our equivalent of Trump, it's brought all the closet racists out of the woodwork and out of the Tory party. A lot of the people I know who are Tories, not all of them, but a lot of them, have often let slip mildly racist views and now that we have Brexit, well, it's out there, it's being almost legitimised. Trump doesn't like Sadiq Khan for one reason: he's a Muslim.

So Trump is in the UK as I write this and he's been talking to the Sun newspaper (a Rupert Murdoch paper, make of that what you will). He says that the deal Theresa May has struck with the EU will make striking a trade deal with the US difficult if not impossible. I wonder why? Well, the EU has very strict rules on all sorts of things, mainly to keep its citizens in good health. It doesn't want us to eat hormone-injected beef or chlorinated chicken, but Trump doesn't give a shit about us, he just wants our money. Remember: never trust a businessman. Imagine if Alan Sugar was our Prime Minister. How awful would that be!

Trump doesn't have our interests at heart, let's not forget that. He wants a hard Brexit, he wants us in a weak position so he can offload his beef and chicken (and other goods) on our shores so of course he says May's deal will kill any deal with the US. He knows that the EU doesn't want his goods, but he also knows that if we are out of the EU and desperate for a trade deal, he can offload all his stuff without any worries about the EU. We would be so desperate, we'd sign on the dotted line immediately.

Little did she know he'd already stabbed her in the back...

Trump thinks that Bozo Johnson would make a good Prime Minister. What? The man is a complete buffoon who should never have been in government let alone Foreign Secretary. With his stupid haircut (all done for effect) and his affected bumbling manner, the man is, like Trump, completely unfit for a political career.

Every day I find it quite unbelievable that we've allowed all this to happen. Talk about the lunatics taking over the asylum. Suddenly they've all come to the fore: Nigel Farage, Johnson, Liam Fox, the laughable Jacob Rees-Mogg, none of them, in my humble opinion, should be allowed to run the country and it amazes me how nobody gets it. 

The worse thing is this: I think Trump will get a second term. Imagine that: Trump gets a second term! How terrible will that be? And in this country I'm guessing we'll leave the EU without a deal and then in will flow Trump's beef and chicken. Sadly there's no opposition to speak of. The alternative is Jeremy Corbyn. Sadder still is I have no Irish ancestry, I'm British through and through so I can't even change my nationality.

So, here's my predictions: Trump will run a second term and the UK will leave the EU without a deal. Despicable situation. If I could leave the country, I would.

Sunday – to the churchyard!

It's funny, but ever since the UK voted to leave the European Union, 'closet racists' have felt that it's sort of 'okay' to test the water with fellow Englishmen, just to see, perhaps, if we're all like-minded when it comes to the 'darkies' or, as I recently experienced while in the back of a minicab, those Muslim 'pieces of stool'. People are prepared to lay their cards on the table, 'get it out there', put their hands on their heart – whatever. I can't say I expected it in, of all places, a churchyard, but it's alive and well there too, mark my words. It started innocently enough with an exchange of pleasantries along the lines of 'come far?' but then subtely moved forward. "We get a lot of cycling clubs going through the village." Fine. "And it's amazing how many blacks are taking up the sport." In itself you could argue there was nothing racist about the remark, but it was kind of unnecessary and it sort of marked the guy's card a bit: he was clearly concerned, intrigued, surprised that black people enjoy riding bikes and I got the feeling that he wanted a response from us along the lines of 'not content to nick our jobs, they're taking over our sport too'. We said nothing. I think we both knew that it was wrong to lend credence to whatever the guy had in mind. But there was more: he moved to this relatively rural part of Surrey because of (ahem) too many foreigners in the street in Streatham where he lived – again, he expected some kind of response from us, but we smiled politely as we sipped our tea. Well, look, again, it's not racist in the true sense of the word. In fact this guy was, I suppose, your typical Brexiteer and I kind of wished I'd asked him how he voted, but I couldn't be bothered as I think I knew the answer.

Looking south across Surrey and the distant south downs, Sunday 31 July

The weather was amazing as we sat there in the churchyard drinking tea and munching on Belvita biscuits looking out across the fields, beyond the distant rumble of the M25 to the depths of darkest Surrey and Northern Kent. It's been so hot that the grass has turned brown. The skies have been cloudless for weeks and it's ideal cycling weather.

The churchyard – scorched grass and silent headstones 

I'd missed Saturday's ride, but Andy went out and tackled White Lane. We're into riding up steep hills at the moment. Over the past few weeks we've tackled Hesiers Hill on most rides as well as Beddlestead Lane, and it's done us some good, given us strength we never knew we had and made 'normal' riding a little easier. We've resolved to do more and keep up the good work.

Heading home. Andy leaves the churchyard

I've been re-reading One Man and His Bike by Mike Carter, it's still absolutely brilliant and never fails to transport me into Mike's world of rural country lanes and campsites and B&Bs and the open road. I turn to the book for many reasons, one being that I'm between books; another is to lift my spirits, it never fails. For me it's pure escapism and I love it.

As I write this it's 0640hrs on Wednesday 4th July, Independence Day in the USA. Last night England won through to the quarter finals of the World Cup (in Russia). The match, against Columbia, was fairly tough, although England had the upper hand in the first half. Things got a little tougher in the second half, leading to Columbia equalising having prompted a penalty earlier on, which had given England a 1-0 lead. What can I say about Columbia? A bunch of cheating bastards would seem fair. They played appalling football in my opinion and England certainly deserved to win the match. There was no winner after extra time so it went to penalties (not England's strongpoint). Amazingly we won through, much to the cuntry's relief and now we face Sweden, that'll be tough and perhaps this weekend we'll hear those dreaded seven words: England is out of the World Cup. Some say we'll go all the way to the final, it's not out of the question, that's for sure, but let's not count our chickens.