Right wing television...

You know how it is, you're sitting there of an evening watching terrestrial television wondering whether there's anything better to watch apart from the BBC and other agents of the thought police and so you switch over to You Tube and lo and behold there's a whole new world of crap you can watch from extreme camping to pop star interviews and, of course, plenty of extreme right wingers guaranteed to make you angry. There's probably loony left videos on there too, but they don't appear to be as visible.

There's nothing better than a charismatic politician running a low-grade political party to get you wondering what you've been thinking these past few years and that perhaps you were wrong about this or that. Hell! You've been wrong about EVERYTHING!!! Throw in an issue that's bound to get the right wing agitated and a whole new shit show opens up and provides the entertainment you never thought possible.

How about trying to gain access to an illegal immigrants' hotel (that's asylum seekers if you vote labour) and never getting further than the front desk before 'security' - often people with false SIA badges and high viz jackets, themselves illegal migrants (or so you're led to believe) - stand in your way, invade your personal space and lead you (well, not you personally but the person filming the video) to exclaim, "Don't you touch me!" And then the tension mounts, the security detail follows the man around the hotel grounds until the police arrive and the man tells them that trespass isn't a police matter and kindly requests them to 'toddle off and catch some real criminals', ie the shoplifters who the police won't prosecute these days unless the amount stolen is over £200. Or burglaries where the police don't bother to turn up and prefer to hand out a police reference number so you can claim on your insurance. 

During the course of these particular videos you might hear from migrants who, you quickly realise, aren't fleeing a war-torn country at all but are merely in the UK to work or claim benefits or whatever else the UK has to offer these people. Being illegal has its benefits, we are told, but you can bet your life that if you tried to gain access to any country without valid documentation YOU, yes YOU, would get nowhere fast and you certainly wouldn't be given a four-star hotel and three free meals a day. 

Right wing TV is a Godsend! Not only does it make you angry and anti-government - not that that would take a great deal - it might make you write something on social media that'll land you with a few months of jail time. Jail time! You could be one of Sir Keir Starmer's political prisoners for heaven's sake and that might lead to a whole new career, including a trip to the USA where you can meet that lefty JD Vance and tell him how hard done by you've been back in the UK where free speech is rapidly being eroded by woke politics. Oh no! You're not allowed to incite violence, but is that what you're doing? Probably not, you might be a little angry about life because you've been watching too much right wing television. You might be sitting there watching You Tubers walk around a provincial city centre goading drunks and crack heads into lunging at them, just for clicks, or so they can put their bodyguard to good use, proving that the UK is not a safe place to be because of anti-fascist protesters and so-called 'patriots' fighting one another on street corners. 

Surely anywhere is better than the UK. Somalia, Eritrea, Ethiopia, Algeria, Iran, Iraq, you name it, must be a little safer than Great Britain where the natives of these countries are fleeing war, or so we're told, they need a safe country but even when they land in one they need to risk their lives just a little bit more, crossing the channel in an inflatable dinghy for a night, a week, a month, a few years even, in a Holiday Inn or a Premier Inn where, who knows, they might meet Sir Lenny Henry, now that's Eldorado!

Do the migrants get given mobile phones and tablets? Are they paid £70 per week of taxpayers' money so they can buy cigarettes and drugs and then top up their earnings with a job in the gig economy? Who knows? Sounds like a great life! Wife and kids back home, the freedom to live the single life again, it can't be bad, can it? Fighting age men, we're told, but they're not going to enlist are they? They're more likely to be the enemy within, a secret army of their own that only need to be armed to make life rather unpleasant for unsuspecting Brits sitting in front of their televisions reading the right wing media while waving the union flag and watching right wing television. What was that? No, sorry, the Queen is dead.

Angry television presenters, angry You Tubers, angry people getting angrier by the minute as their country is invaded, yes invaded, by marauding gangs of men in grey tracksuits and top-of-the-range trainers paid for by the British taxpayer. It's a disgrace!  

And then, after you have finished your popcorn and noisily sucked out the last dregs from your clear plastic carton of Kia-ora orange juice, purchased from an imaginary usherette, you stop and wonder. Perhaps all of this IS the reality of the situation! You might find yourself agreeing with broadcaster Rylan Clark and take the view that yes, immigration has been good for the UK and for the NHS and that's all fine, but illegal immigration is a different kettle of fish because it's (ahem) illegal. You know that if you as much as stole a tin of baked beans from your local Tesco supermarket you would be slammed in jail for many years to come and lose your job in the process. Why, then, should somebody entering a country illegally be given a four-star hotel luxury life style for many years while their application for asylum is processed, not considered, but processed. Perhaps you yourself might consider throwing your own passport out of the window of a cross-channel ferry mid-journey and see how you get on when you arrive in Calais. Will you be fast-tracked to a luxury hotel, given a track suit and trainers and told that all your meals will be free until another passport is found and you can return home to the UK? Something says no, the most likely scenario will be your immediate deportation back to Europe's version of North Korea, yes, the UK, where comedians are arrested by armed police for inappropriate comments on Twitter. And you will start to question whether the UK still has free speech, like Sir Keir nervously said it did in front of Donald Trump recently. And when you arrive home, you'll switch on the TV and find Nigel Farage talking to Congress about the deteriorating situation in the UK. "Is it real or is it treason?" 

Union flags appear on lamp posts, all foreign-looking people are viewed with suspicion. Is that an HMO they're coming out of or do normal people live there? Who knows?

You wake up in the morning wondering why you feel bad tempered and then you make yourself feel even worse by watching coverage of Rachel Reeves, our beloved Chancellor of the Exchequer, who is planning to tax your house to pay for all the illegal immigrants in our hotels and unsuspecting HMOs dotted here, there and everywhere around the UK and you realise there's no escape unless you too jump into an inflatable boat and head across the North Sea to Scandinavia where everybody is happy even when it snows, but then you find yourself as headline news as one of many victims who died when their inflatable flipped over in heavy seas. Will you ever learn?

Will anybody learn, I wonder? A perfect storm is brewing politically in the UK with Nigel Farage's Reform party on the up and with Jeremy Corbyn's as yet un-named new party soon to be the left's answer to Farage. In other words, if, as Nadine Dorries was saying earlier today, that the Conservative Party is dead, then that means the Labour Party really needs to get its act together and fast. Yes, it has four years to do so (less if you listen to Farage) but if it doesn't get a move on then two extreme parties, one to the left, the other to the right, will be battling for power against the Lib Dems to be in Number 10. I don't want to see Corbyn or Farage in power or, for that matter the Lib Dems. So unless the Tories somehow get their act together or the Labour Party sorts itself out we, as a nation, could be in trouble. Personally, I want Labour to continue, but they must learn from their current mistakes. The UK electorate does not like extremes of the left or the right, but the left does itself no favours and always allows the right access to the seat of power by being pathetically woke (at present). The British public do want free speech, they don't want to see Irish comedy writers being arrested for a few controversial tweets about transsexuals, they don't like even the perception of two tier policing, they also don't want to be told that illegal migrants are more important than the British people. Reform with all it's extreme right wing baggage and it's threat to the NHS would be a disaster for the UK. Farage is a one trick pony, he's fine if he's talking tough about immigration, but that's about it: immigration and, of course, Brexit, which, in his eyes, was all about immigration anyway. Corbyn, while he means well, is not, in my opinion, leadership material and would equally be a disaster, particularly on the world stage. So the two mainstream parties need to get their acts together, immigration must be sorted out, the asylum hotels must go and a stricter regime needs to brought into play to calm the nerves of those who could vote Reform. Politicians generally must stop gaslighting the public (or the pooblic, as Angela Rayner might have said). I'm sorry to see her go, but she broke the ministerial code and that's her lot. 

I've said enough.

Lockdown, Part 36: No cycling all week - the shame, the shame!

It's Sunday morning, 0952, I've just got back from a ride to the Tatsfield Churchyard, the Churchyard Chuffer no less, not a Chuffer Bastard Womble, just a plain old Chuffer, a direct ride from here, my home in Sanderstead, to the Tatsfield Churchyard. It's a straight 16 miles, well, if we're going to be pedantic about it, 16.03 miles, and my moving time was 1 hour and 24 minutes, plus 48 seconds, not far off one hour and 25 minutes, with an elevation gain of 957 feet and an average speed of 11.3 mph. Not bad. I managed a maximum speed of 29.8 miles an hour, probably on that stretch of Clarks Lane from Botley Hill to the Churchyard, so I'm generally happy.

The Rockhopper resting at Tatsfield Churchyard, Sunday 16 August 2020

What I'm not happy about is not cycling at all last week; it was just too damn hot! Until Thursday when we had monsoon rains and thunder and ever since then it's been cooler. On one ride, either last week or the week before, but possibly last Monday or Tuesday (although I think I've written about it so it might be a little further back) I got to the top of Church Way and thought, 'sod this, it's too hot' and then turned back, I just couldn't face it. So, a week of slobbing, doing nothing, not even walking and when you're working from home that means virtually no movement whatsoever. It can't be good for you, doing absolutely no exercise. But let's move on: today a healthy 16-miler got me started on this week's cycling and I'm just hoping I can keep myself motivated enough to put in, say three 20-milers during the week and then, perhaps, the churchyard on Saturday to round it all off or, of course, another ride to Redhill with a trip to the Pop Inn at the other end. It takes me an hour to reach Redhill from here, but around 90 minutes to get back, thanks to punishing hills all the way. The best thing about the ride to Redhill is the lack of cars. It's probably the most 'car-less' route I take and I'm amazed I haven't riden it more often.

There was a lot of mist at Botley Hill this morning. I had to stop halfway along the 269 to switch on my front and rear lights, and later Andy informed me that my rear light wasn't that strong. He had been riding behind me coming down Clarks Lane and we met by the stairs leading up to the churchyard. I think I'm going to invest in a decent rear light.

At the churchyard we sat and chatted about the bikes and the riding and generally chilled, drinking tea and munching a snack. One topic was my old Kona, which is currently resting in my garage, but for the sake of £300 could be up and running again. In many ways I should have fixed the Kona and not bought the Specialized, but I do like the Rockhopper with it's 29in wheels, even if I've spotted what I consider to be a design fault: the brake levers are quite sharp on the inside and recently I noticed one of my fingers was cut because I'd been placing it on the inside of the lever and not gripping it in the conventional manner on the outside. But this is a very minor problem and in many ways shouldn't even be mentioned, the bike's fine. It would, however, be nice to have a spare bike in the garage and don't forget, that Kona is a top-of-the-range mountain bike with expensive forks, even if it only has 16 gears to the Rockhopper's 27.

Our bikes, Tatsfield Churchyard, Sunday 16 August 2020. Pic: Andy Smith

Andy was on his road bike this morning, a Giant, and he still has his old road bike AND his Kona Blast. We reminisced about old times riding to Hunger's End in Merstham and Jon's old Kona Fire Mountain with its broken pedal. Both are now gone, Bon's bike and the caff. I reminded Andy that it was 10 years ago when we visited Hunger's End on a regular basis (remember Shaving Man?) and added how frightening it was to look back at old blog posts and see how young we both looked. "It was 10 years ago," said Andy. Yes, I thought, a whole decade, and we're still riding, which is good.

I can't work out whether the lockdown is over or not. We're all still queuing and now wearing masks to visit shops, I'm still working from home and they're now saying that if you're coming back from France, the Netherlands or Malta you've got to remain in quarantine at home for 14 days. So there was a big rush to get home before the 0400hrs deadline yesterday morning. I don't think I'd have bothered rushing home, what's wrong with 14 days remaining at home, the time soon passes. I wonder how many of those in quarantine actually go down with the virus? Probably none, but it's going to piss off the French who, no doubt, will retaliate in some way or other. The French, of course, are coming up for criticism for allowing so many migrants to make the short hop across the English Channel to the UK. Thousands have been coming in and it's annoying people like Nigel Farage and other right-leaning numpties, although I kind of get their argument. These people have already reached a safe country (France) so why risk their necks crossing the busy English Channel in a flimsy dinghy, I don't think I'd bother, although, apparently, the benefits system in the UK is too generous, according to some, and that makes the journey worthwhile. I don't think I'd do it, I'd rather stay in France and be part of the European Union. In fact, I might buy an inflatable and go the other way.

I must say a bit more about the storm on Thursday afternoon because it was fantastic. I'll be totally honest and say that I have never experienced weather like it, ever! There! I said it: EVER! Everything went dark and then the rains came, full on, full pelt, driving stair rods into the lawn like six-inch nails from a nail gun, and it went on for a long, long time and was accompanied by continuous rumbles of thunder from the grey skies above. There was something deliciously cosy and wintry about it. I was working, sitting at my computer, and all week I'd been sweltering hot, sweat soaking my tee-shirt, my forearms coated with a glistening sheen of wetness as if somebody had been sitting close-by spraying me with one of those bottles used to water delicate plants. But then there was the storm, everything cooled down and I remember feeling good about life as I stared out at the falling rain and yes, I was even thinking it'll do my lawn the world of good too. Avid readers will recall that I covered my lawn with 'weed and feed' and it's gone black, but I know that black lawns matter and that sooner or later I'll have to go out there and rake it and then put down some more grass seed, possibly in September. The garden is looking good, there are new plants in the beds, the lawn's been sorted out and the canopy over the kitchen window has been painted. We've even bought a new parasol.

But it's now mid-August and while the summer has yet to leave the building and we still have the August bank holiday to go, I'm kind of sad that we (and everybody else) haven't been able to take full advantage of the summer weather, which this year has been tremendous. In so many ways, it's wasteful. All those hotels and pubs that could have been coining it, all those live events that were cancelled because of the fucking corona virus. I hate hearing the words, either 'corona virus' or, worse still, 'covid-19', but also 'lockdown' and 'self-isolate' and 'quarantine' and I'm still wondering what the world is going to do to stop the Chinese from inflicting such misery on the rest of the world. What's wrong with them? Why did they initially cover it up? Why were they lying? People are now saying the virus escaped from a lab in Wuhan and had nothing to do with the wet market. But what was the virus doing in the lab, why were the Chinese messing around with it? I personally wouldn't trust them as far as I could throw them, I wouldn't put it past them to be working on a virus, like COVID-19, that basically disables the world and allows them to benefit in some way. But what are we going to do about it? I bet that's the question on most people's lips because we've already heard experts warn of 'worse to come' and I can well believe it. Being in lockdown once is bad enough, but I wonder what people will be thinking if it happens again? I just get that sneaking feeling that it will happen again and that wearing masks and social distancing and all that comes with it will be internalised by all of us in future. It's not a nice thought and I just hope there's somebody out there with the balls to confront the Chinese and sort the whole mess out. Somehow I don't think there is anybody out there, we have shit leaders the world over: Trump, Johnson, Bolsanaro, you name it, they're all tossers. In fact the three people mentioned have royally messed up in their respective countries. The UK is the sick man of Europe, the US has many many cases and no real sign of leadership and it's the same in Brazil and Mexico and I'm sure elsewhere too. I also get the feeling that Trump's going to win a second term. I hope not, but I just get that nagging feeling about it. Is Biden any good? Every time I see him walk on to a stage he looks as if he's about to pass out or is walking tall, but very carefully as if the slightest move will see him keel over and not get up. His running mate is a controversial choice too by all accounts and I feel that people are going to vote for Trump again. I'd rather they didn't, but I see him getting a second term, unless the Republicans unseat him and put up somebody else, that could happen. Sadly, here in the UK we're stuck with BoJo, a right buffoon and as dishonest a politician as you could get. We've got over four years of his government to run and Keir Starmer waiting in the wings.

I do my best to try and avoid watching and listening to too much news. Oddly, since lockdown, I've switched from BBC Radio Four to LBC, although I can't bear that awful Nick Ferrari and tend to switch off at 0700hrs. Steve Allen in the morning is fine (brilliant, actually) and Nick Abbot on a Friday and Saturday night can be very funny.

I'm still in to box sets. Last night I watched The X Files, the night before a great movie, Back Country, both on Prime and it's good to avoid shit like The One Show with its severely overpaid presenters, specifically that terrible Alex Jones. Since when has she been worth £450,000 a year (or was that the equally awful Claudia Winkleman?). They're all bad and not worth the money. I prefer people like Dr. Alice Roberts (she presented a tremendous programme on wild swimming, which I know is fairly old, but still worth watching, they put it on the other day so I watched it again. Perfect.) On ITV I've been watching Julia Bradbury's series of programmes on the Greek islands. Not a great fan of Bradbury, but she's alright. In fact I'd say she's growing on me, but that's about it where television is concerned.

I'm warbling on so I'd better stop. I'm hoping to be able to motivate myself this week and try to exceed my 88 miles of the week before last. I've riden 16 miles today and now I need around three 20-milers under my belt and a trip to the lakes to put me on track for a good week of cycling. Here's hoping!

For fear of missing out...

Right now, at this very moment, I'm listening to John Martyn. Arguably, Martyn is the most laid back you'll get. I'm listening to the album Bless the Weather – in fact, as we speak, the title track is playing. It's great if you want some peace or if you want something murmuring in the background, helping you get along. I first got into John Martyn during my troubled teenage years, although I don't ever recall buying an album by this great musician, who is sadly not with us any more. It was always put on the turntable round at somebody's house and we'd all simply chill out – in fact we'd get so chilled out we'd fall asleep, which was nice. For a long while I didn't listen to John Martyn. I don't know why, but it's difficult as I don't possess any material of his – but since it's been possible to download music from operators like Spotify, my life has changed and now the man is back in my life, albeit at the crack of dawn. You can bet, certainly over the next few days at any rate, that I'll be listening to John Martyn at around this time in the morning. And if you're interested, one of his best albums was entitled Solid Air, an album title I can understand.

A clean bike at last! It was getting to look a bit like Andy's Kona!

So here I am, it's 0632hrs now, dark outside and I've enjoyed eight hours of sleep, which is rare for me. I normally hit the sack around 2300hrs and sleep badly, waking around 0430hrs and then having trouble getting back to sleep. Last night, not so much fed up with the quality of British television, but simply feeling too tired to stay up and watch Manchester by the Sea, which I really wanted to watch, I hit the sack at 2200hrs and after listening to the news on Radio Four, none of which I can remember, I switched off just as Joan Bakewell was about to embark upon a programme about death – not the sort of thing I wanted to listen to last thing at night. Why does Radio Four do that? I've often put the radio on at night, with a view to distracting myself from the fact that I can't sleep, and there's something miserable on, like programmes about disease or death; and it's not just in the dead of night, often it's at 2100hrs. Depressing.

I'm going to make a point of hitting the sack at 2200hrs from now on because there is nothing worth watching on television these days. Why is James McAvoy ALWAYS on Graham Norton's show? That man must be making so many movies. Norton is always on after the news on a Friday night and invariably I sit there and watch it, because Norton is probably the best thing on television when it comes to 'entertainment'. I love the big red chair, but invariably don't like the musical bit, it's invariably the lame part of the show. I mean, Cheryl Cole was on the other day. That said, Cole is one of those people who is so bad she's good. She mimes, she's not a rock and roller, there's a lot wrong, most of all the huge tattoo on her arse. I don't know about you, but that would definitely put me off. Just knowing that tattoo exists would annoy me, but it's not something she's going to get rid of easily, meaning it's there for life. Imagine lying in bed next to her knowing that her tattooed derriere is festering under the bedclothes, just inches away. I hate tattoos and would never have one done. It's a bit like scribbling in Biro on your exercise book: you start with one squiggle and soon the cover is peppered with drawings of some sort – ruined in other words – and I guess Cheryl Cole has ruined her arse. If ever I interviewed her it's the first question I'd ask: "How do you feel about ruining your arse?" Or, "Don't you think you've ruined your arse?" She's looking in need of a good meal too, somebody give her an ice cream, anything, a Belgian bun (like the one I ate in Morrison's in Reigate yesterday afternoon). What she really needs, of course, is a roast dinner: chicken, roasties, greens, gravy, apple pie and custard, that's what I'd offer her if I saw her in the street.

So I went to bed early and managed to get eight hours' kip. Fantastic. Cycling takes it out of me, I've noticed. Yesterday we rode the slow way to the bus stop. We were going to ride to Westerham and visit the Tudor Rose for breakfast, but I had stuff to do and couldn't really afford to be back late. I stormed up Beddlestead Lane and felt great on my return, using the off-road path on the 269, talking to myself here and there, as you do when you find yourself alone in a wide open space, nobody around for miles, as it seemed to me yesterday morning. When I reached Warlingham, having said goodbye to Andy at The Ridge, I stopped off at the gas station to jet clean my bike. The bike is clean. Very clean. And I don't want to get it dirty on today's ride so it'll probably be the long way to the bus stop again.

One reason I stay up late is the fear of missing out. The truth of the matter, however, is that I won't miss anything. In the same way that nothing is that funny, nothing is that good either, so I'm going to try and set myself a new rule: hit the sack at 2200hrs. I mean, Fiona Bruce presenting Question Time, who's idea was that? It's the BBC and it's awful political correctness. Have you noticed how Doctor Who is doing its bit for diversity? There's a white, black and Asian assistant for the female Doctor Who. PC is everywhere at the BBC. Didn't they get rid of that long haired bloke on Countryfile to make the programme more diverse? I think they did. They couldn't get rid of Craven because that would have been ageist. Is that how you spell 'ageist'?

Anyway, I'd better go and make a flask of tea for the ride. See you later...

In Budapest...day two

I can't sleep in hotels, not initially at any rate. It's probably got a lot to do with alcohol. I don't need it, never have really, but when I'm away and living the 'hotel life' a glass of wine with a meal, a glass or two on the plane, are part and parcel of the whole thing. I don't go over the top, not any more, but invariably it leads to a broken night and it's unnecessary.

This morning I awoke at 0500hrs – or thereabouts – but I distinctly remember the time on my iphone reading 0523hrs and I was conscious prior to checking the time. It's now 0616hrs and I've just watched the last five minutes of an interview with Dr. Allen Ault, former commissioner of corrections for the US state of Georgia, on the BBC's Hard Talk programme, something I rarely watch unless I'm in a foreign country where BBC World seems to rule the airwaves. It's the only place where you'll find advertisements on the BBC, although I notice that the BBC website carries ads whenever I access it abroad.

Dr. Allen Ault being interviewed by the BBC...very depressing

Anyway, Dr. Allen Ault. I've never seen a better example of the phrase, "You've made your bed, now lie in it." Although, I felt sorry for the guy. Imagine having to live with those memories.

I've sat here and watched the dawn and now the rooftops outside my window have just about lost their silhouette, so it's time, perhaps, to hit the shower.

There's a distinct masculine touch to the bathroom decor: woods and dark tiles plus some contrasting creamy white tiles. It's not a big space, but not cramped either and the shower worked fine. Despite being a 'boutique' hotel, they have adhered to the golden rule of 'function before form' – everything worked as it should have and I didn't encounter any problems with taps or plugs.

Breakfast at the Bohem Art Hotel...

Breakfast is served in the basement in a pleasant, airy space. There's a lot on offer, but I steered away from the traditional rolls and sliced meats and chose instead vegetables with cous cous, a strange thing to have for breakfast, but it was there so I figured it must be what somebody regards as normal, perhaps the Hungarians? It was very nice. There was also something like a bread pudding with cherries and that was also very nice. I chose Darjeeling tea in a glass mug, I'm not sure I like drinking tea out of a glass mug, not sure why, but the tea was so good I had another (it was called 'Darjeeling Brilliant' so I'm telling you now that it lived up to its name). A small bowl of yoghurt, an orange and a banana followed and while I could have sat there all morning, I can't afford the time. But let's say that breakfast was good. Fortunately I didn't have a newspaper otherwise I'd still be down there now, pretending to be important.

After 'business' had been conducted I swanned back to the hotel with time to spare until the evening get-together. I wandered around with no fixed plan and ended up trying to track down a Starbuck's. I felt it would be good to sit down and enjoy a cup of tea and a pastry or something, anything, to provide me with some kind of solace. In truth I was missing being at home; odd when I've only been away for around 24 hours, but I think it was a kind of realisation that life at home is better than life on the road and that the latter is a bit soul destroying, most of the time. Who wants to live the life of a nomad, poking one's head into bars and restaurants, searching out some form of comfort, some kind of nirvana, when the reality is simple: it doesn't exist. Either that or I've found it anyway, at home, where I least expected to find it. The grass is always greener and all that, but it's true. In the end I decided that I'd have to find a Starbucks. I hadn't seen one and I even began to wonder if there was one in Budapest, but surely there must be one. I figured that sitting down in a Starbucks, where I wouldn't need cash and I could enjoy a tea with a biscuit or a millionaire's shortbread, would bring me back from the brink of despair (I was seriously feeling it). What, I wondered, was the point? The answer? Well, there wasn't one; if there was, then I'd hold the Holy Grail in my hands.

I've walked across that bridge and now I'm going to walk back 

In the end, having used my iphone's GPS to try and find a Starbucks (they exist, but I couldn't work out in which direction I was walking) I gave up and marched purposefully (and a little angry) back to my hotel where I sat in despair for around a half hour comparing my hotel room with a prison cell and wondering what it must have been like to be Rudolph Hess banged up in Spandau. "So true, funny how it seems, always alone...".

And then I snapped out of it, as I always do, and eventually headed out again, this time to the InterContinental Hotel for a glass of Cabernet and later a boat trip that lasted all night and was very pleasant, thanks to the company I kept and the food, which was fine, even if the steak was a little tough.

It's almost midnight and I should be hitting the sack, there's nothing else to do, although there probably is, I just don't want to do it. Another busy but interesting day tomorrow.

You remember last night I enjoyed some wasabi peanuts? Well, today it was chocolate peanuts and now I'm wondering what else is in the minibar. I think I'll take a look, hold on...well, there's some more wasabi peanuts but I've gone for Premium Nuts & Raisins – just what the doctor didn't order.

There's little more to say so I'm going to sign off and get a good night's sleep; well, I hope I will.

No cycling today, I couldn't face a soaking...

I can't even remember what the weather was like when I woke up yesterday morning. It was pretty much like it is today: cloudy, damp, puddles here and there and while I could have got up and gone out somewhere, probably an urban ride to mum's, I didn't, and I'm glad because it did rain, quite persistently at times, so I would definitely have got a soaking, something I'd like to avoid after last week's cold.

And talking of the cold, I still have it, hence not wanting to get wet. The cold has reached the best stage of all, that time when it becomes strongly evocative of the past for some reason. It's always the same. I'm feeling slightly stuffed up, but not ill, there's an occasional sneeze, but little cause to reach for the tissues and, not sure why, but I'm taken back somewhere, not sure where, but to a time gone by when, perhaps, I used to relax more, watch television and take things a little easier.

Burl Ives – fantastic!

Last week, at the height of the cold – streaming nose, a slight temperature, weariness – I spent the entire time indoors, watching episode after episode of Michael Portillo on a train on the Settle to Carlisle line followed by a western starring Gregory Peck and Charlton Heston, taking me further back to when I was a kid, sitting on the floor in front of the gas fire back home, a mini Bakewell tart and a cup of tea. Jean Symmons also starred. It was, of course, The Big Country and it seemed to go on all afternoon.

The week prior I'd had a sore throat. It only bothered me at night, but during the day seemingly disappeared and I was as ripe as rain, but then, last Saturday, the cold hit hard and I was out of action for the entire weekend. Today, Sunday, the weekend after, I'm still sniffing and I can't really taste what I eat (I hate that bit) so I'm going to use that as my reason for not riding; that and the fact that if I did get soaked I'd probably reinstate the cold and be ill for the whole of next week.

Outside it's still and cloudy, there has been rain, probably overnight, and it's highly likely to return. Yesterday I considered riding to Botley Hill or over to mum's, but when I looked outside at the birdbath all I could see was raindrops hitting the water. Today, right now, it's fairly dry, but I don't trust this sort of weather and would rather be fitter and happier next weekend, when Andy's back in the saddle.

So it's going to be another cosy weekend 'indoors' although I'm well enough to visit mum for some tea and cake later on, which is always nice. Between now and then, I'll chill out, watch Andrew Marr again, he's bound to be on, but having just switched the television on, Countryfile is still on and there's a rugged coastline with angry waves and a Radio One DJ talking about her Scottish upbringing, she's walking through an old salt house along the cliff edge, little villages with small harbours that, at one point, she said, were thriving. This is what I need, a bit of desolation, the sea and moody skies. I'm guessing that where she is is somewhere north of the border near Edinburgh. "I hope that I never take it for granted again," she said and I wished there was a whole programme of this person wandering around her old stomping ground.

There's a lot going on in the world at the moment and most of the issues are something to do with Donald Trump, the 45th President of the United States. Alright, I'm not going to go on about it, but his immigration ban, which caused uproar last week, has been ruled unconstitutional. Trump plans to appeal, but right now those people he wanted to ban, temporarily, from the USA, are back, or on their way, and Trump ain't happy about it. He's also pretty pissed off with the Prime Minister of Australia who struck a deal with Barack Obama, which involved sending some 60,000 refugees to the USA. Trump must be SO angry! Not only has his immigration ban been halted, much to the delight of thousands of anti-Trump protesters around the world, but he's also about to take delivery of 60,000 refugees. He must be fuming with anger. It must be frustrating for him seeing his election promises to those who voted him in turning to dust.

Trump supporters get their message across...

A walk would be good and I might go and take a look at the bike, make sure it's alright. I know it's nice and clean, the chain is oiled and hopefully the tyres pumped up so it should be fine for next week's ride, assuming we're not going to get rain or snow. Blizzard conditions have been discussed by the newspapers, but there's no sign of it, not down here in the south at any rate. A colleague at work was talking about bitter winds in Huddersfield last week, but whether they're heading this way is anybody's guess.

I need to blow my nose so I'll say goodbye.

Back to Tatsfield Village, but no sign of any rain...

I overslept and I know why. Well, there were two reasons: one, a kind of broken sleep. Things that go bump in the night and all that jazz led to me wandering around the house in the dead of night securing doors and checking things out. The second reason? Well, it's to do with the clock radio alarm that sits on my bedside table. It's good, don't get me wrong, nothing wrong with the technology, although, I don't know about you, I find clock radios baffling. There are times when, for whatever reason, I can't turn the damn thing off or when it suddenly springs to life for no reason. But not this time. It was my fault. On Saturday morning when the alarm went off and Radio 4's The Today Programme arrived in the bedroom, I turned down the sound after listening to the news headlines. I did this for one reason: I knew that the radio would mysteriously switch itself back on again and I didn't want to disturb those still asleep. The problem was that I didn't turn the sound back up on Saturday night when I hit the sack. Result? I almost woke up too late.

I awoke to find it was 0645hrs and that I only had 15 minutes to make the tea, drink a cup myself and chill before the ride. So I sent Andy a text along the lines that I'd be leaving the house around 0715hrs, giving myself time for a much-needed cup of tea and the aforementioned chill.

By 0715hrs I was ready to head out. The weather was roughly the same as yesterday. It had rained overnight – there was a puddle on next door's conservatory roof – but outside it was dry and overcast. We met on the green and decided to head for Tatsfield Village again. That way, if it did rain we'd have some cover.

It was warmer than yesterday, but there was a mist lurking in the trees as we made our way along the 269 towards Botley Hill and the left turn on to Clarks Lane.

When we reached our destination we chatted mainly about conspiracy theories, although we touched upon Gear Acquisition Syndrome again, see previous post, but also click here. Did I really need a new bike? Well, yes I did, so GAS didn't really count, I said. I rarely fall foul of GAS, it must be said. I'm not a consumer, not one of those people who buy things for the sake of it. You won't catch me with a new Apple iphone 7, not for at least five years.

As for consipracy theories, I was fired up by the BBC not coming out and stating, in a news article, that the recent Minnesota shopping mall stabbings were an Islamist terror attack. In one sentence they said that the motive was unclear, but that the man who stabbed people was chanting God is Great and referencing Allah. Definitely not a terrorist attack, then. And we went on from there discussing the way the media is basically a tool of the government designed to generate fear in the populous with a view to controllling everybody and restricting freedoms – and I mentioned Alastair Campbell's appearance on Question Time last week and how he said he really cared about the Labour Party. John McDonnell was there too and he said that Campbell was the reason why people didn't trust politicians (think 'dodgy dossier', think WMD) and that was why Jeremy Corbyn was leading the party.

We finished our biscuits, drank our tea and soon it was time to head home. The weather held out, we didn't get soaked and it was just as well as my rear mudguard failed and had to be taken off, although that happened on the outward ride. I put it into the rucksack and carried on.

Andy's not riding next Saturday, which means I'll be heading to mum's for an urban ride. Hopefully, Bon will be there.

Doctor Who is rubbish! There! I've said it!

I've never been able to remember the exact detail of The Emperor's New Clothes, but the gist of it is that an emperor, long ago, is brainwashed into thinking that he is wearing clothes when, in fact, he's naked. The tale is often used to illustrate how something that is essentially a load of old tosh is viewed by few (or many) as the best thing since sliced bread. The BBC's Doctor Who is a case in point. In short, it's not very good, in my opinion, and never has been.

Doctor Who: it's not scary and it does not possess any cult significance.

In fact, the only episode that I would give any credit to is the one featuring the original Weeping Angels – that, it has to be said, is brilliant and I would watch it time and time again, it's that good. As for the rest of it? I'd even suffer listening to the Archers if I had to choose.

There are myriad problems with Doctor Who, the first being that whenever you see 'an alien' it never fails to look like somebody dressed as an alien. It's never possible to suspend disbelief, in other words. And regardless of the scenario in which the Doctor finds himself, it always looks as if the whole thing is being filmed in a television studio, even when it isn't. In the same way that 'made for television' movies in the seventies had a certain naffness about them – they never looked like a proper movie of the sort you'd see in the cinema – the same is true of Doctor Who. And even when you see a movie on the television, it looks 'better', more authentic and once again, with Doctor Who, the viewer's ability to suspend disbelief is impossible.

Whenever I sit and watch Doctor Who, in the back of my mind I'm always aware that beneath that monstrous-looking costume of an alien – for that is what it is – there is a man or woman who, at some later date will be featured on a television programme about the making of Doctor Who explaining how difficult it was to get the bloody thing on or how hot it was in there. Again, the ability to suspend disbelief is just not there and why would the BBC spend time and money making a programme about the making of Doctor Who? It's simply not that good.

Indeed, the BBC goes out of its way to make Doctor Who naff by trying to big it up by creating a myth that, even as adults, people cower behind the sofa in fright. Listen, they don't! Doctor Who simply isn't scary! And yet you'll always hear television presenters – especially the BBC prefects and 'head girls' like Zoey Ball, going on and on about how they'll have difficulty sleeping after watching an episode. Rubbish! If Hannibal Lecter isn't scary (it's good old Anthony Hopkins after all) then where does that leave Doctor Who?

That ability to suspend disbelief is stunted further by Doctor Who Confidential, a programme which, in itself, is naff, because it sets out to analyse an episode of 'Who' and thereby ruin it for anybody who is foolish enough to be capable of suspending disbelief. In Confidential we hear how the programme was made, we hear from the writer, the actors, we see shots of camera booms and directors – all of which reinforces the reality that Doctor Who is little more than a television production. There's nothing worse than being told how a magic trick works so that you're aware that it isn't magic after all – of course it isn't – just sleight of hand, and that's what Doctor Who Confidential attempts to do – it ruins any imagination the viewer might possess. And, once again, Doctor Who simply isn't good enough to have a separate programme devoted to how it was made.

I feel the same way about actors on chat shows. Those who are frequently seen chatting to Jonathan Ross or Parkinson or Graham Norton soon become 'themselves' in the eyes of the public and once again that ability to suspend disbelief is damaged forever as when you then see the actor in question trying to fool you that he or she is some major historical figure (or whatever) it's impossible not to see the actor staring back at you. In some cases, of course, that ability to suspend disbelief was never there in the first place – yes, in Doctor Who, but who could possibly suspend disbelief enough to watch Daniel Radcliffe – Harry Potter for God's sake! – as beat poet Allen Ginsberg?

But let's get back to Doctor Who. In short, it's rubbish: the sets are rubbish, the alien outfits are far from convincing, the whole thing is bigged up beyond belief and its hard to watch the BBC's various presenters patronising the British public, pretending that Doctor Who is scary and 'deep' when it isn't and generally making out that Doctor Who holds some kind of cult significance. It doesn't. He doesn't.  It's not the X Files (which never looked as if it was filmed in a studio, and if there were aliens, they always looked a darn sight more convincing than those in Doctor Who).

And yet, if you dare to question the greatness of Doctor Who it's almost blasphemy. The crowded room goes silent, a bell tolls, and the hangman arrives to take you to the gallows. Well, come and get me "aunty", Doctor Who is bollocks! There, I've said it! It's bollocks! Rubbish! A load of old tosh! Put that in your Tardis and smoke it!