There's nothing worse than a weekend without cycling...

Last week Andy mentioned he wouldn't be riding on Saturday, which was fine, but it left me with a dilemma: do I rest up or go out? I could have taken a ride over to mum's to enjoy a slice or two of fruit cake, or a trip to Woodmansterne Green to meet Bon. Instead I switched off the alarm before going to bed on Friday night and ended up remaining in bed until just before 0900hrs.

Having around eight hours of sleep is fine and believe me I needed it. For God knows how long I've been getting to bed around 2300hrs – after sitting in front of the television watching Newsnight or Question Time (isn't  Fiona Bruce awful) or something – and then waking around 0600hrs, sometimes earlier. Once I'm awake I find it very difficult to simply lie there trying to get back to sleep, so invariably I get up, come down stairs, make porridge and tea and toast and sit on the computer writing something, like this, or scanning the BBC website for the latest news. With Brexit, however, it's all very boring and depressing.

It was destined to be a lazy weekend of doing very little. It was so lazy that I've forgotten what I didn't do, if that makes sense. I remember watching TGD – The Greatest Dancer in the evening. How depressing can you get? Cheryl Cole with her festering arse tattoo and that bloke from Glee who looks like 'Jock', an old associate who I used to think looked like a rifle. What the hell was I on? It all gets a little blurry after that as sometimes the TV is just on for no reason.

During the day, I've just remembered, I went to my old home town of Sutton. Now there's a place that's seen better times, but it's no worse than where I live now. If you live in the burbs you get used to mediocrity and it's even worse if it's been raining and everywhere is wet and dripping. Multi-storey car parks – wrong on so many levels, but soon I'm behind the wheel, heading home in the dark.

I had planned a ride today (Sunday) but the weather stood before me and the bike. After a strange dream (see previous post) I found that I couldn't get back to sleep after hearing something go bump in the night. I lie there listening to the rain and hoping it would stop before morning, but soon dawn arrived. I'd managed about 45 minutes of sleep before the alarm went off – the sound of birdsong on the iphone – and then I got out of bed, wrote up the weird dream (I like to keep a record) and noticed that it was still raining. An 'abort' text followed and that was it: no cycling for the entire weekend. The most annoying thing was that the sun came out and it was quite a pleasant day. I toyed (briefly) with the idea of a late ride to mum's, but the motivation had seeped through the hourglass and I resigned myself to no cycling – and I know I won't be going next week or possibly even the week after, we'll see how things go.

So it became a weekend of slobbing around, not even reading. Today, Sunday, was lazy, but not in a good way. Not going cycling always puts me out of kilter for some reason. I found myself in a DIY superstore, very depressing, especially as the light was fading and Monday beckoned. But now I'm listening to Joy Division. Transmission. That's the great wonder of streaming. Metal Guru by T. Rex followed. When I was younger I used get mixed up with Trex, the cooking fat, but the two were chalk and cheese, of course they were. Bolan's last hit was a tree in Richmond, Surrey, tragically, but his music lives on.

There's not much more to say, especially now that David Bowie's sad and depressing Blackstar has come on; I think it was written when he knew was going to die, but I'm going to let it run its course. I was never a great Bowie fan.

I wonder if my bike is nursing a puncture in the garage. The last time I used it I remember taking the off-road path along the 269, always a risk. Who knows what's going on in the garage? The bike's out there all alone, or rather it's out there with the Kona. They're probably chatting. The Kona is likely to be talking about its rich ride history – just check back over this blog pre-November 2016 and you'll see what I mean.

Blackstar is a long track, almost 10 minutes. It's still on now. "I'm a black star," sings Bowie.

There's nothing more to write about if I'm honest, although one of my favourite tracks has just sprung to life: A.M.180 by Grandaddy. What a band! The song featured in the movie 28 Days Later, a film I've never, ever watched all the way through. There was a great live version of this track recorded at Glastonbury way back when. Not that long ago, but I can't remember the exact date, was it the late nineties or early noughties? It matters not. What a great band and they're still around. I'd love to go see them next time they come over from Modesto, California.

Now it's Every Day I Write the Book by Elvis Costello, equally great and evocative of times long past. Happy times in the late eighties. 1989 to be precise – the magical year of trips to Suffolk and curries in Woodbridge. A small cottage in Kettleburgh, drives along country lanes, Framlingham Castle, Orford Quay, the Jolly Sailor, real fires and cornfields, long walks. Days of innocence in many ways. Swimming in the sea at Felpham on the Sussex coast, seaweed, the deep end challenge, Lyme Regis, pals. It was another world.

Babies by Pulp has just come on, the bass line is tremendous. Sometimes I wish I could play bass. I keep thinking about buying one and taking lessons. One day, perhaps. The trouble is there's always something else to spend the money on.

Now The Wizard by Black Sabbath is playing, another great track and nobody's complaining, which is good. The trouble with a lot of rock stars is they blot their copybooks. Ozzy Osbourne is a case in point. He could have kept his reputation intact, but he did that television programme – The Osbournes – and then his wife, Sharon, got far too involved with the likes of Simon Cowell. It's the same with Pete Townshend. I tried reading his autobiography, Who I Am, and found it pretentious and annoying beyond belief, especially all the stuff about how he fancied Mick Jagger. Seriously. And when I discovered that all that smashing of guitars wasn't spontaneous, but some kind of artistic statement and not just smashing up guitars for the hell of it, I thought, no. No, no, no! When myths are exploded, dreams are invariably shattered.

I've never liked Genesis, though. There's something 'real ale and Jeremy Clarkson' about them that I can't abide; and they always remind me, for some reason, of The Chequers, a pub in Tadworth, or was it in nearby Walton? Who knows? The only track I did like was the one that uses the phrase "Me, I'm just a lawnmower, you can tell me by the way I walk." And it's just played.

I often wonder what happened to Phil Smith and Pete Jones, two old associates. I wonder if they're still alive, lots aren't. There's no point Googling them, nothing comes up and probably never will.

It's nearly 1900hrs. Outside it's dark, the curtains are drawn and some coloured lights in the fireplace are glowing. Icicle Works' Love is Wonderful Colour is playing, dinner is being prepared and my mood is changing, becoming more upbeat, which is good.

Dreamer by Supertramp has just come on. Now that brings back some good and bad memories. Good because it's a great track – but not as good as School – bad because of an embarrassing play put on by the college 'thespians'. Again, it's amazing the way certain associations can ruin things. Something that can never be ruined is Tiny Dancer by Elton John. I don't know why, it's just amazing, no matter what.

Mum's going into hospital on Thursday for a hip replacement. She's 89 going on 90 and I won't say I'm not a little worried about it. The operation is routine, she'll be in for about a week and after a spot of recovery she'll be fine. I went round there today for tea and fruit cake and she seemed fine about it. Of course I wish her well, we all do.

Let it Roll by UFO always reminds me of Keith Collins and it's on now. Keith died of a heroin overdose back in the early nineties. It was a track they always played at the Croydon Greyhound in between bands on a Sunday evening along with Nobody's Fault but Mine by Led Zeppelin, another track (and band) that will always remind me of Keith. We used to get the bus to Croydon (the 154) to watch all manner of different bands: Stray, Edgar Broughton Band, Thin Lizzy, Kokomo, Climax Blues Band, the list is endless.

All good things come to an end. The music is off (well, I've had a good run) and, sadly, Dancing on Ice is on the television. 'Pip' Schofield. Ugh! But now it's off and a documentary about Indian railways is on. Perfect. I remember taking a train from Mysore to Bangalore back in the late eighties (a year or two before the magical year of 89). I'm going to stop writing now and watch the television.