I'm slowly going mad...

I feel I have to say that I agree wholeheartedly with Piers Morgan on the issue of Harry and Meghan and their interview with Oprah. I can't believe that anybody seriously believes that they are in any way hard done by! I also can't believe that anybody who has been handed such wealth on a plate could be in any way suicidal or, indeed, mentally ill. I've just finished reading a book by Chris Atkins entitled A Bit of a Stretch, which describes his time inside HMP Wandsworth. In the book, Atkins writes that a lot of the people behind bars in the UK are mentally ill and I can believe that, but I can't believe the hard luck story of the Duke and Duchess of Sussex.

A sign seen in Grove Park, Carshalton...

What I find particularly ungratifying about their story is that here we all are in lockdown, many people are holed up in tiny apartments, many more have died or are dying of this awful virus and yet they (Harry and Meghan) are moaning about their lot. How can they sit there in their luxury mansion in the California sunshine, not having to worry about money in any shape or form and moan about their lot?

Their criticism of the British press is not only wrong, but unfounded. Nobody seems to remember that the main reason behind media attacks on the couple are based not on racism, but on the hypocrisy of the Royal couple: flying to climate change meetings in a private jet, knowingly wearing gifts from a murderous dictator who not only ordered the killing of a prominent Washington Post journalist, it is alleged, but is also responsible for atrocities in the Yemen.

Starting every morning like this...

We must also look at reports on the way Meghan Markle has allegedly treated her own family. She has, it is claimed by royal observers, alienated herself from her father and siblings and now, of course, she's doing the same for Harry and his family. And yet, there are people who don't see it. They have blind faith in the couple and won't have anything said against them. For heaven's sake, wake up!!! The argument is divided along racial lines because Meghan is identifying as 'a woman of colour', which immediately brings in to play 'the racist card'. You can't really say "Is it because I'm white" to answer what you might regard as a racially-motivated injustice, but to say, as Ali G used to in jest, 'is it coz I's black?" provides bags of scope to turn an argument on its head and brand those against you as racist. 

I've never believed in political correctness or 'wokeness' and I can't stand it when I hear people say, "You can't say that." Invariably, you can express your opinions on anything you want because we live in a free country (here in the UK) and we shouldn't be frightened by the 'woke' brigade. 

The UK is not a racist country. Yes, there are racist incidents, of course they are, just look at the so-called 'beautiful game', but you get racist situations in every country. If the UK is so racist why is it that people from African nations, and elsewhere in the world, are jumping into flimsy dinghies, risking their lives and making their way across the often choppy seas of the English Channel 'for a better life'?

The daffodils are out!!!

I wouldn't say that I was a royalist. I'm not one of those people who waves flags and buys commemorative mugs, I didn't even watch the Oprah interview on Monday night (I went to bed and listened to Radio 3). But that said, I don't think the Royal Family is racist. I agree with Meghan's old man on the issue of Archie's skin colour, when he suggested on television last week that an alleged remark made by an unnamed member of the Royal Family was probably just a dumb question.

For me, the biggest disappointment is that people are taking the Duke and Duchess too seriously, they're believing them because the racist card and, dare I say it, the mental health card, have been played to great effect, and now we have countless people from various charities bolstering their damaging claims about the Royal Family around the world. I'm looking forward to the moment when we all forget about them and they drift off into the obscurity they deserve.

Everything is grating with me, pissing me off, making me angry. First there was Brexit, which went on and on; then there was Trump and then Boris Johnson, and the fact that he's now our Prime Minister makes everything much worse. And then there is the virus, thanks to the Chinese. I suppose it's considered racist to blame the Chinese, but that was where it came from, that wet market in Wuhan. It's also annoying to note that nobody's doing much to ensure that such a travesty, disaster, fiasco, tragedy, whatever you want to call it, doesn't happen again. Add up all this crap and that's what's annoying me, along with a few other things. I sleep badly, I'm angry all the time and I kind of exist on a knife edge waiting, perhaps, for somebody to piss me off, worried about how I'm likely to respond. Somewhere along the line I'm going to explode with an expletive-laden tirade of effing and blinding at some poor person who challenges me on some issue or other, but let's get it out there: I voted remain, I think Brexit is a disaster for the country, I can't stand Boris Johnson and his Master Race haircut and his bumbling buffoonish manner, I'm not going to shy away from the fact that the Chinese are to blame for the global lockdown and all the unnecessary deaths caused by the COVID-19 virus, I can't stand the way they have tried to cover their tracks, or what they're doing in Hong Kong or their treatment of the Uighers. I'm glad Trump is out of power and that Biden won and I long for normality. All of this has certainly had a negative effect on my mental health and I find myself escaping by listening to Radio 3 and watching movies nightly, anything to take my mind off of the shite that is being slung at everybody. I don't trust the Government, I certainly don't trust the Chinese, and I'm so glad I have a push bike to keep me fit. Today I rode to Westerham in Kent and in total this week I have covered something like 60 miles, more than last week, but less (by around 10 miles) than the week before last.

Great food always available

I've got my jab on Monday. Can't say I'm looking forward to it. I feel a little aggrieved that I have to have it, but I'm not an anti-vaxxer.

And of course, let's remember Sarah Everard whose body was found in woodland in Kent this week following her murder, for which a policeman, Wayne Couzens, has been charged. What the hell happened? My sympathy goes out to Sarah's family.

And what's happening in Myanmar? The military have taken over (again) and now they're shooting (and killing) protestors who simply want to live in a free and fair, democratic country. 

There's nothing worse than injustice.

Oh, and lastly, not sure if I mentioned it in my last post, but my bike is fixed. The gear cable snapped so I got it fixed at Cycle King AND had a new tyre and inner tube fitted.

Lockdown, Pt.42: Autumnal weather, The Grateful Dead, Phil's back, weird dreams...

Last night a strange dream. I was in a hotel and I think it was in Dusseldorf. Next thing I know I'm leaving the hotel dressed only in a duvet. I remember reaching a wall with a sliding door and when I opened it there was another sliding door and another and once through I found myself in a huge, empty, white space, like some kind of hangar. At that point I seemed to come to my senses. Perhaps it would be a good idea to wear some proper clothes and not a duvet, perhaps it would be best to return to the hotel room and collect my stuff before departing. And then, of course, I woke up. Actually, I'd woken up earlier, just before 0400hrs and debated going downstairs when the clock moved round an hour, but instead I just stayed in bed and eventually I drifted off until, all of sudden, I heard the sound of birdsong, my alarm. It was time to get up and make breakfast, listen to LBC's Steve Allen, eat some Alpen, drink some tea and start writing this blogpost. I can't remember whether I had the dream before I woke up at 0400hrs or after I'd drifted off. Why, I wonder, are all of my dreams fretful? The weird thing is that, in the real world, wearing only a duvet on the streets would seem less strange than it did in the dream. If I was stuck in a foreign city dressed only in a duvet, I'd see the funny side and do something about it and, of course, I'd go back to the hotel, I'd need my passport and my wallet, credit card and so forth.

Friday evening at the Churchyard

Anyway, enough of walking around wearing only a duvet. It was a reasonable week. I was working at home again so the cycling was in the late afternoon. I managed something like 82 miles, down on last week's 90 miles, but good enough. I only had one day off (Tuesday). The weather was good, but I've heard that summer is preparing to leave the building next week some time. The weather guys on the television are using the word 'autumnal' but they're not fooling me. There's going to be colder temperatures and rain as the country plummets towards winter and I'm sure it's going to restrict my cycling. Not that I can complain. If nothing else, 2020 has been great for cycling and, as you know if you've been reading previous posts, I've been riding up to 100 miles a week, sometimes more. And the weather's been great. The heat hasn't really let up either, apart from a few days of gusty wind and showers, but not much. So the fact that we're going to get some 'autumnal' weather, well, bring it on. 

Not sure if I've mentioned this yet, but I bumped into Phil as I was about to head into Westerham last week. He was riding a restored Honda CB750 that's around 40 years old. It looks good. According to Phil he was taking the bike on its inaugural ride. We chatted about this and that and how he's been getting on with his life and (surprise surprise) has had little time for cycling. We agreed to meet up the following week but nothing materialised, until yesterday (Saturday 19 September) when he arrived at Tatsfield Village on the Honda. We'd planned to check out Sheree's tearoom, but it turns out it's not open until 0900hrs and we were there at 0800hrs. I considered cycling into Westerham, but Andy and Phil were reluctant and besides, the woman in the store said there was a coffee machine. The weather was fine so we ordered a black coffee, a cappuccino and a hot chocolate, plus three Twix bars and sat outside on the tables close to the lake and it was fine. In fact, it was more than fine, it was great. It was as if Phil hadn't been absent at all and in a sense we kind of picked up where we left off. He told us about Fred, his new baby, and the new house that he was fixing up and we chatted about the vast amounts of cycling we'd been doing throughout lockdown. It looks like Phil might start riding again – he needs to, he claims he's put on two stone in weight. So the plan is to meet next week, on Saturday, but let's see what the weather will be like. Either way, it's great that Phil's back. The NoVisibleLycra committee met to discuss whether he needed to re-apply for membership, but it was okay, his existing arrangement had yet to lapse so all was well with the world.

Temporary lights in Woldingham

Around 0900hrs we headed home, Phil on his Honda and Andy and I on our bikes. I rode along The Ridge towards Woldingham with Andy, although he was heading for Ditchling Beacon (now that's a climb!). We parted company at the top of Gangers Hill and I suddenly remembered I had to ride up Slines Oak Road on to the 269. As it turned out it was easy, probably because of the all the riding I've been doing. Riding to the Churchyard and then heading home via Woldingham bumps up the mileage to over 18 miles so I did it again this morning after meeting Andy at the Tatsfield Churchyard where we drank tea and chatted about The Grateful Dead. During the week I watched a six-part documentary, produced by Martin Scorsese, on the band and it's members, including, of course, the iconic Jerry Garcia. The Grateful Dead is/was a peculiarly American band with international reach that embodied everything good about hippy notions of freedom and sunshine. Alright, the whole thing revolved around psychedelic drugs, but the guys in the band looked surprisingly good on it. Garcia, however, developed weight problems and diabetes and had started 'using' other more dangerous drugs. He died aged just 53 of a heart attack, which, while probably inevitable, is a big shame because, well, he seemed like such a nice guy. I've been watching interviews on YouTube and he's remarkably lucid and together when you consider the amount of acid he's taken. In fact, he's a great interviewee, somebody who answers the questions in-depth and has an enthusiasm that is infectious and life-affirming. When I was younger I used to think that The Grateful Dead was some kind of heavy rock band moving along similar tracks to the British psych-rock band Hawkwind, but nothing could be further from the truth. The music, by and large, is light and breezy and easy to get on with. I don't think the Grateful Dead would have been the same had they originated in the UK. The band had such a massive following. The Dead Heads – that's the name of Grateful Dead fans – used to turn up for concerts even if they didn't have tickets. Instead of watching the gig on the inside they'd simply congregate around the venue and have their own party outside. It's funny how the band and its lead guitarist Jerry Garcia took on almost religious significance for the Dead Heads, with Garcia a kind of Messiah figure. Interestingly, the band claims it didn't have a leader and nobody was allowed to tell other band members what to do. The egalitarian set-up seemed to work. I'm now thinking about finding the definitive book on the band and Jerry Garcia, who, incidentally, had a Ben & Jerry's ice cream named after him (Cherry Garcia). There are many many Grateful Dead albums out there. I remember buying Blues for Allah back in the late seventies, but 'the Dead' were a very prolific band and I'd like to know what albums are regarded as their best. There's an album entitled American Beauty and I'm wondering whether it had any influence on the film of the same name starring Kevin Spacey (something to Google later).

Phil's Honda CB750, Tatsfield, 19 September

Moving away from The Grateful Dead, there's always the fucking virus to talk about. As I suspected a long time ago, a second wave is upon us. I made three predictions: that Trump would get a second term, that there would be a second wave of COVID-19 and that we'd have a no-deal Brexit. Looks like they're all going to come true, although I'm possibly on shaky ground where Trump is concerned as the polls are predicting a win for Joe Biden. The problem with Biden, in my opinion, is that he's kind of the walking dead. He always seems on the verge of falling flat on his face, and when he talks he's often unintelligible. In a way I can't believe that Biden could ever be president of the USA or, if he does make it, he won't be there long as the guy's simply too old. I still think Trump will win and then we'll follow up with a no-deal Brexit (while a new lockdown has been imposed on the nation). You could say I'm a purveyor of doom and gloom, but in my world it's looking like a reality we all have to deal with. 

Andy's bike at the top of Ditchling Beacon in East Sussex

Right now there are regional lockdowns here, there and everywhere and we're no longer allowed to congregate in groups of more than six. Pubs are being told to close at 2200hrs and there's rumours floating around that people won't be able to meet members of other households. Bang goes my tea and cake round at mum's, although nothing's set in stone yet. The problem, of course, is the 'covidiots' who simply don't believe there is a virus and will probably refuse to be vaccinated when a vaccine becomes available. There are also rumours that the Government could force us all to take an unproven vaccine if it so wished, although that might have been an inflammatory story generated by a newspaper designed to pedal doom and gloom and incite revolution.

Jerry Garcia, The Grateful Dead...

Winter is coming and that means it's all going to get worse. The Government has basically lost control of the virus. It wants the kids back to school, the students back to university and the people back to work, but that will all lead to more infections. They can't have it both ways. They've made a fiasco of testing and all the while you must remember that Boris Johnson is, quite simply, a fucking arse. He's not to be trusted. He's not even 100% committed to Brexit. Remember when he wrote two articles for a newspaper, probably the Daily Telegraph, one being pro-leave, the other remain. In fact, there are rumours that he might resign, which would be great. I can't stand it when I hear people say, "Boris Johnson should take charge of the situation". Actually, that's the problem, he IS in charge and look at the mess he's making. He's a blathering, bumbling, obese man with a stupid haircut, but then don't they all have stupid haircuts? Look at Donald Trump! The problem we have here in the UK is that there's four more years of Bojo. At least the Americans can ditch Trump in just over eight weeks if they so wish. I better sign off before I go crazy thinking about what a mess the country is in. 

Lockdown, Part 30: Whatever!

The weather's been changeable. There's been rain. It's stopped me riding the bike. The frequency of my cycling has dipped from six days a week to three. Not cycling isn't good, it always makes me feel sluggish, unhappy, doomed and I get a little depressed as a result. I shouldn't be like this. The less I go the more difficult it is to motivate myself, I start to find it all too much. I find myself in the garage, looking at the bike and wondering whether it's worth unpadlocking it or simply going back in the house and forgetting about everything. It happened last week. I started imagining myself riding along Ellenbridge, heading up Church Way and then riding along the Limpsfield Road and it made me feel weary. I went back inside the house and forgot about it. It's different at the weekend. At the weekend I don't have to work so I can go cycling in the morning, meet Andy at the churchyard and if the sun is shining I feel good about the world. Last week I managed three rides (Sunday, Thursday and Friday) and to be fair, I feel good about that too. Today I started the second week of riding since the bike was returned to me - or rather since I went to the bike shop to get the Rockhopper. I've decided not to fret about riding or not riding. I'm accepting that things change. The run of good weather that motivated me to ride six days a week has gone so from now on it's the luck of the draw and also whether I'm feeling up to it. I hope that nine times out of 10 I do feel motivated to get out there, but if I don't, then so be it.

Swimming in the sea...

I think the lockdown is starting to get on people's nerves, it's getting on mine. People are looking for change and it's coming, of course it is, but it's more about what kind of change and the fact that we've all got to socially distance and people keep talking about the 'new normal', which nobody wants. We all want the old normal, although I'm thinking that I don't want the cars back on the road or the planes in the sky. I quite liked it without them, but now things are looking like the old days. When I cycle along the Limpsfield Road there's increased traffic, so while it's supposed to be 'the new normal' there's some of the old normal too. But hey, the economy has to bounce back somehow or we'll all run out of money.

What annoys me about 'the lockdown' is the way it's portrayed on the television. I keep seeing advertisements showing people 'stuck at home' tutoring their kids or exercising in the living room or singing from their balconies and I find myself thinking why are they doing that? Since lockdown I've been riding miles and miles on the bike, going out shopping, walking, you name it, there's no need to be stuck indoors and yet that's the picture the media wants to portray, that we're all at home, stuck indoors and slowing driving ourselves crazy.

Wisborough Green

I was listening to LBC on Saturday and the presenter (I can't remember his name) was asking listeners what drastic changes have they made to their lives or their way of thinking as a result of lockdown. And this is something else I find odd about the media portrayal of the situation, the assumption that the experience, for all of us, has been life-changing and that whole World War ll analogy. My problem with this is that I don't think it has been life-changing at all; we've all been stuck indoors, that's all. We haven't been at war, or under siege, there's always been food around, even if we've had to queue for it, so why should we be experiencing anything life-changing? And then I started wondering how things had changed for me. Well, I need a haircut, that's for sure, but I'm not getting uptight about it. I mean it's only been possible to have a haircut since yesterday. Up until then it's been a case of leave it alone or reach for the clippers. In all honesty, I can't be bothered, let it grow, that's what I've been thinking. Who cares if it's long? I've been eating more than normal, but all good stuff. I'm buying more food than I was pre-lockdown. I get through a family pack of Alpen in a week, I'm eating lots of fresh fruit and I've started eating bread like I used to, but I try to limit myself to just four slices per day maximum. Chocolate bars are back on the agenda. I often find myself eating a Wispa bar while waiting in the queue for the check-out. That's got to stop. And I'm staying up late watching box sets, that's new. I'm now on Season Six of the X Files, I watched the whole of Ozark, the whole of Cardinal and now I'm on to The Sinner with Bill Pullman and the jury's out on that at the moment. I've stopped watching the news. And that's because we've become a one news story nation. It was Brexit and now it's the pandemic and I've started taking a different perspective on it all. I mean, with the pandemic, what's the story? There's a virus, it's bad news for some, but not so bad for others, it's highly contagious and the Government has been bungling everything as it goes along. End of story basically. And it looks as if Brexit is going to come back. There's also the intensifying soap opera of the Epstein case, that's hotting up now that the FBI has arrested Ghislaine Maxwell, and here's hoping she's going to blow the gaff on all the establishment figures involved, especially Prince Andrew. But other than that, there's little else.  I swam in the sea, that's the big news from me of late. About a week ago I headed down to Felpham on the south coast on a very hot day and hit the beach, there was nobody there (hardly). I shared the sea with a couple of people and their kid and I went straight in, without hesitation. The sea was warm and I spent around 40 minutes in the water. The last time I swam in the sea was in 2015 in Brazil, Copacabana Bay, and the following day I went down with an upset stomach. Not nice and you can read about it here. Sea swimming again was great fun and reminded me that I'd really like to live by the sea, but I doubt I ever will.

The shops are empty...

I must point out that I know people have suffered from the lockdown. I feel sorry for anybody stuck in a flat without a balcony or a communal garden, I feel sorry for people who are getting on top of one another in a small space with no possible escape, I feel sorry for those who haven't discovered cycling or a means of escape like I have. 

What I can't get to grips with is the future and how it's all going to change or get back to normal. And by normal I don't mean the new normal, I mean the real normal, the old normal, the world we used to know. I don't want to have my haircut by somebody wearing a visor. I don't want to put my name down to go to the pub.

I suppose I wish the whole thing would stop and go back to normal. I guess everybody feels the same way.

Today I rode to the churchyard to meet Andy. We sat there in the sunshine chatting and chilling for around half an hour and then we headed home, parting company at The Ridge like in the old days. I carried on down the 269 and reached home at 1220 hrs. The weather's been great today. 

When I reached the churchyard, Andy had yet to arrive...

Leaving Brussels and heading home...

Breakfast in the hotel was fine, not the best, but not the worst either. I started with scrambled egg, mushrooms and one tiny sausage and followed up with a bowl of Coco Pops (I haven't had them for ages). Add a couple of paper cups of tea (I chose the paper mugs because they were bigger than the tiny cups) and a small pastry plus some yoghurt and another bowl of Coco Pops. You might think I was being greedy on the breakfast cereal, but I wasn't, the bowls were about the size of a teacup. I was tempted to have another pastry, but resisted, and soon, having checked out, found myself crossing town in a taxi.

6th floor, NH Hotel Brussels Grand Place...

Around midday I headed back to the Grand Place as I wanted to take a look at a watch, which I now intend to buy (it's better than the Sekonda Midnight Blue). But I didn't buy it, I just looked at it longingly and then continued to wander about looking for somewhere to eat lunch, until I realised that time was running out and I ought to be heading for Brussels Midi station instead and the 1456 Eurostar to London. I walked back to the hotel, feeling, it has to be said, a little weary and depressed having awoken around 0300hrs and not falling back to sleep. In fact, I  got up around 0430ish, or just before 0500hrs, and really need to sleep. The taxi meandered through heavy traffic, but got me there in time to have 'lunch' at a Pret a Manger on the station concourse (ham baguette, two bananas, cookie and tea). I sat outside the store watching people running around catching trains here, there and everywhere and eventually, of course, it was my turn to head for the barriers and, being an international train, the faff of security.

The ride home in seat 81, coach 13 was pleasant and I did fall asleep. Soon we were in the tunnel, crossing under the English Channel, and by just gone 1600hrs I was back at King's Cross St Pancras, annoyed that Hatchard's the bookstore had disappeared. I made my way to the London Underground, jumped on a southbound train to London Bridge where I jumped out and bought an inner tube for my bike from Evans Cycles. My weekly short rides around the block were brought to an abrupt halt on Wednesday morning when I discovered a rear-wheel puncture.

I got home to an empty house and decided to fix the puncture before anybody else turned up. This I did and then I sat and watched television. There's a General Election on 12 December, the first winter election for around 100 years. There's also been a fire on a train in Pakistan, England's rugby team plays in the World Cup Final this coming Saturday against South Africa, and Donald Trump is interfering with the English election by suggesting to Nigel Farage on his LBC radio show that he do a deal with Boris Johnson. Can you honestly think of two people less qualified to run the country as Farage and Johnson? I can't. In all honesty, while I know there's a lot of right wing press against him, I think I'll vote for Corbyn and set the cat among the pigeons for the next five years. Who cares if he taxes my back garden and lets in loads of immigtants, they're coming in anyway and that, my friends, is the irony of Brexit. A lot of people voted Brexit because of immigration and don't kid me they were frightened of Spanish accountants, they thought it would get rid of the bhurkas and all those nasty foreigners from Somalia and Eritrea with different skin colours to ours, those 'fuzzy wuzzies', but the racists were wrong and they were conned. Non-EU migrants are coming in droves and there's been no let-up by the Government. They reckon our population will hit 70 million in the not-too-distant future and I'm waiting for the bigoted Brexiteers to realise they've been conned and hopefully, in the North East, that moment of realisation will come shortly after Nissan has moved elsewhere and they're all out of work. "But how did you vote in the referendum, Mr Unemployed and On Benefits? Oh, you voted Brexit did you? Well, you only have yourself to blame!"

The weather is looking very poorly and I'm expecting some abort texts this weekend. There's rain setting in and that means no riding. Why I bothered fixing the puncture I'll never know. I hope we do get out, but normally if there's rain it's in the morning and that's when we go cycling.

Three years ago.

Brexit again as we head for the bus stop and the churchyard

Summer has well and truly arrived. And rightly so. It is, after all, the month of June. Time has flown by. Prior to my three weeks out of the saddle, it was April when I last jumped on the bike, then there was last week (the Bank Holiday weekend) and now it's June. Suddenly everything seems lush and overgrown, like being in a rainforest. Fields are full of whatever fields are full of: oilseed rape, poppies, you name it, everything's happening. There are bees buzzing around, birds singing in the trees and there are two cyclists, Andy and yours truly, on Warlingham Green deciding where to go. It's Saturday 1 June, or rather it was (I'm writing this as the time approaches 5pm on 2 June, my brother-in-law's birthday). In fact, I'm sitting in the garden, on the lap top, my relatively new Chromebook, which I thought I'd lost forever when I was in Pittsburgh recently, but as you know, if you're an avid reader, I got it back. So, where was I? Oh yes, we're on Warlingham Green wondering where to go and we decided upon the Tatsfield Bus Stop the slow way and this time the old-fashioned slow way along Beddlestead Lane and not the 'new route', that of Woldingham and the golf course and then turning left on The Ridge and heading down Clarks Lane. We did that last week and it was fine, brought a bit of variety to proceedings.

June is busting out all over at the green...

Last week we discussed the origins of the name Peggy as we sat in the Churchyard drinking tea. This week it was Brexit again and I remarked how Rory Stewart was probably the best chance the Conservative Party had of uniting the country and getting on with Brexit. The rest I wouldn't give you tuppence for, certainly not that cretin Boris Johnson with his Master Race, Aryan Nation haircut and his professional buffoonery. Who needs a Tory like that? Who needs a man who would look totally at home in a private members' club, snoozing under a copy of the Daily Telegraph? The country doesn't need knee-jerk politicians like BoJo or Raab or any of those who think no deal is a good idea. It isn't.

But Rory Stewart, in my opinion, is a 'proper politician'. He has dignity, he has international experience, he was a diplomat aged 22, he knows about 'stuff', he's intelligent, calm, collected, seems to have a cohesive plan, came across well on Question Time on Thursday. In fact, talking of QT, it was the first time in about three weeks that there hasn't been any shouting matches. That must have something to do with the calibre of the MPs and commentators on the panel, they were all reasonably sensible. Rory Stewart was good because he answered the questions fired at him. He ALWAYS answers the questions, he takes on board criticism if valid; in short, he has all the makings of a worthy politician who, believe it or not, is not in it for himself, he's in it for bigger reasons, the sort of reasons you hope most politicians have for entering politics. Stewart is old school, but in a good way, and he has the support of another 'proper politician' Ken Clark. What's not to like? A government led by Stewart would mean a big sigh of relief from me. Just think for a moment about the rabble in the Tory Party: Boris Johnson. Remember what a God awful foreign secretary he turned out to be, bumbling around making matters worse, especially for that woman imprisoned in Iran. And didn't he recently exclaim 'fuck business'? Yes he did, and yet there is growing support for this idiot to be the leader of the so-called 'party of business'. No. Surely not. Surely those who will choose the next leader will realise that Boris is the wrong choice.

But Johnson isn't the only idiot in the Tory party. What about Dominic Raab? Another fool who thinks a no-deal Brexit will be alright, when even members of his own party argue that no-deal will likely mean no Conservative party either. Senior members of the Conservatives are considering voting against the Government to avoid no deal and that will mean a General Election and the Tories won't win it. Just look at how they've messed up the country. Look at other idiots like Chris Grayling; nothing that man touches has any hope of succeeding, he's completely incompetent but, like most incompetent people, he remains in his job earning top dollar while messing up everything he touches. Michael Gove, who is arguing that we should remain in the EU well into 2020, purely because he thinks such a stance will get him the top job is another political cretin. Any man who bears a close resemblance to Orville should not be standing for Prime Minister. It goes on and on. Andrea Ledsom calling for a 'managed exit' from the EU, what does that mean?

I'd like to think that people are beginning to wise up to all these idiots floating around the Tory Party. And I'd like to think that having Donald Trump offering his support to Boris Johnson will mean just one thing: the kiss of death. If Trump admires you, you know you've got problems, you might want to look in the mirror and check you haven't grown a Hitler moustache overnight. Trump wants Nigel Farage to play a key role in the Brexit negotiations. No, no, no, no, no!!! The man Russell Brand labelled a Pound Shop Enoch Powell shouldn't be seen anywhere near the negotiating table. He's not an MP, he's an MEP and all he's ever done in that role is shout the odds at other MEPs and be generally obstructive, belligerent and offensive. And let's not forget his Brexit poster. And where Boris is concerned let's not forget the message on the side of the bus. And while I think there is possibly something sinister behind taking the obese moose to court, it would be good to see him prosecuted for being more than just 'economical with the truth'.

The country is getting a little fed up with Brexit. They want it done and while I don't particularly want it done (I'm a remainer) if it has to be done then so be it, although I'll admit that I'm holding out for the second referendum, even if I do agree with Rory Stewart, who says another referendum will yield the same result because the country is divided straight down the middle. No deal is not the solution and nor is a second referendum, says Stewart and I think he's probably right. At the end of the day there's one word that must be taken into consideration: compromise. To get Brexit through Parliament, said Stewart in Epsom last Thursday, the two sides are going to have to compromise because Parliament rules supreme.

The above conversation, give or take, took place over our two weekend rides. On Sunday, the weather was just as perfect as Saturday and we met once again on the green and decided to head for the Tatsfield Churchyard, our summer location. I'd suggested our newly found field, but Andy said it meant humping the bikes over a stile. He was right, a stile was involved. We chose the churchyard and carried on our conversation about Brexit. On a clear day you can see the South Downs from the Tatsfield Churchyard and there really isn't a better place to be at the crack of dawn on a Sunday morning in June. I'd had a good night's sleep and was feeling particularly energetic for some reason. I kept up with Andy along Beddlestead (i'm normally around a minute or two behind him in places) and I was feeling chipper.

What bugs me is the backstop and I can't figure out why there has to be a border once we leave the EU. It's only a piece of paper that somebody has to sign to say we're out, so why should it change the way things are being done at present? Why can't the wheels keep turning, why do we suddenly need checkpoints, why can't we simply say 'carry on'? If all the security measures in place now stay that way, why should anything have to change? It's a question I'd like to hear Rory Stewart answer because he's the only person I think I can trust.

Around 0900hrs this morning we embarked upon our return journey. The ride up Clarks Lane to Botley hill is always a little trying; it is, after all, a hill that starts in Westerham and continues all the way to the Botley Hill pub. Andy branched off at The Ridge and I was sorely tempted to follow him, because riding down the 269 is dangerous at the best of times. However, going home via Woldingham means riding up Slines Oak Road, a steep hill worth avoiding. But I'm thinking of cutting out the risk of cars flying past too close and going back home 'the slow way' instead. And there are two slow ways: one involves Hesiers Hill, the other Slines Oak Road and I know for a fact that the latter is the best bet.

My bike needs a service and I need to sort it out, possibly later this week. With the weather being fantastic I'm thinking about cycling to work again, but in all honesty, it's probably best if I simply cut down on cake and do a bit of walking in my lunch break. But that doesn't mean the bike doesn't get a service, it needs one and it'll get one.

To the (ahem) Tatsfield Bus Stop (the slow way – twice!)...

I've just realised that it's Tuesday and I haven't yet written about the weekend's cycling. I don't know why, I just forgot. I've been fairly tired of late, weary, perhaps, is a better word: weary and pissed off for no particular reason, just a nagging sense of injustice and, of course, an annoying, murmuring anger bubbling up under the surface, probably linked with this shitty country and it's awful political classes. God, they've made a right mess of things, the Tories. Listen, I'm not going to go on about it, but I guess I'm like a lot of people, just fed up with fucking Brexit and Theresa May and Gove and Rees-Mogg and fucking Boris Johnson. The 10 o'clock news is on. Katya Adler is explaining that there's a lot of uncertainty ahead.

Flytipping at the bottom of Hesiers Hill

So this weekend we rode to the Tatsfield Bus Stop, twice, and the slow way. On one of the days we rode down Hesiers Hill and found a huge pile of crap some wankers had dumped in the middle of the road. Who are these people? Fly tipping is becoming a regular problem for cyclists. Often there are road closures and I'm sure that they closed Hesiers Hill to traffic at some stage over the weekend. A couple of Lycra Monkeys were on their mobile phones calling the police. I took a photo and later tweeted the image, which was later retweeted by Andy, so here's hoping something was done.

It must have been Sunday when we saw the huge pile of crap dumped in the road. The weather, I recall, was pleasant, the skies blue. On Saturday there was drizzly rain, but we still went out because it was so fine it was almost unnoticeable. Saturday I was feeling really weary. So weary that I almost aborted. I'm glad I didn't. We managed to get two rides in, both around 17 miles. On both occasions, Andy departed at The Ridge and I rode the off-road path towards Warlingham.

Not much is happening, apart from Brexit and knife crime and racist attacks. The UK is quickly becoming the laughing stock of the world and I genuinely do feel ashamed to be British. Now I know how the Americans felt under George 'Dubya' Bush.

Andy took this shot of our bikes at the bus stop on Sunday

My bike is in need of a jet clean and hopefully I'll sort it out next weekend. Nothing worse than a filthy bike.

I really can't think of anything else to say or discuss. Oh, I'm reading a great book at the moment: All Together Now by Mike Carter, yes, he who wrote One Man and His Bike. It's a good book, but a little depressing as it deals with the state of the nation – not a good subject at the moment.

At last! Somebody who gets it! Thank you, Nick Cohen...

"On its own terms of regaining control of our borders, it [Brexit] has failed. Migration from the EU has fallen but migration from the rest of the world is at its highest since 2004. Given that the Brexit campaign specifically appealed to public fears of Islamist terrorism and Syrians, Iraqis and Turks pouring into Britain, it strikes me that Leave voters’ prime concern was not the arrival of French accountants and Spanish nurses." 

Nick Cohen, The Guardian.

Breaking new ground (again!)

Having slept for eight hours I was up with the lark and sitting downstairs in front of the computer at just gone 0600hrs writing the post that precedes this one. I went on a bit about 'stuff' and then I made the tea, jumped on a very clean bike, following yesterday's jet clean, and rode to the green where I met Andy.

Close to where we stopped for tea. Pic by Andy Smith.

Where to go? Yesterday, I had suggested riding the lanes towards Beech Farm Road, but taking a track on the left leading down to an area known as Cony Crook. It's the track that takes us down to the so-called 'stile with no purpose'. The idea was to turn right at the stile and follow the continuing off-road track towards the Cottage, stop there for tea and then continue off-road towards the 269 before heading home in the usual fashion. This we did, but when we reached the stile with no purpose we noticed that a gate giving us access to the next field was shut and there was a sign stating 'no footpath'. We'd never seen the sign before, but rather than throw our bikes over the gate and continue on our journey (which we probably could have done, there was nobody about) we turned round and followed the track back towards the stile and onwards, bearing right and travelling across a couple of large fields until we found more gates blocking our way. There was nothing left to do other than stop, have tea and then head back the way we came. Not a problem.

I found myself indulging my ridiculous sleeping rough fantasy as where we had stopped looked like the perfect place to set up camp for the night. If I was homeless, I'd definitely get myself a tent and a sleeping bag and head for the woods rather than sleep on the street and this morning I found myself surveying the woods behind where we had stopped: it was, in short, perfect. I couldn't think of anything better than waking up and hearing the birds chirping and very little else. Fortunately, of course, I'm not homeless, so it's not something that is immediately (if at all) on my agenda. Mind you, I wouldn't mind trying it for one night.

Our bikes, Sunday 13th January 2019 – pic by Andy Smith.

It was a very pleasant ride to a very pleasant place. There's nothing better than peace and quiet and nothing but the sound of birdsong. Everything was still, there wasn't a soul about, the fields were empty as far as we could see and no Lycra monkeys either (their bikes are incapable of traversing such terrain). So we leisurely drank our tea and took in our surroundings before heading back along the track that had brought us here. The wind had been behind us on the outward journey, but now it was hitting us face-on as we rode back towards Cony Crook. Looking at the map, there's a lot of paths and tracks close to where we were and one that goes through Lumberdine Wood (worth exploring). It comes out on the 269, but I think it's the same track that takes us from the 269 to the cottage, but either way Lumberdine Wood looks interesting.

What we could see as we drank our tea. Pic by Andy Smith.

Andy rode back to the green and we stopped at the garage to jet clean the bikes. Mine needed it, but not as badly as Andy's Blast. We rested the bikes against a wall and blasted them with water, getting off any excess mud, of which there was plenty. Then we said goodbye and rode our separate ways back to our respective houses. 

I got back in time for the Andrew Marr Show. It's going to be an interesting week in politics. May's Brexit deal will probably be rejected by Parliament (here's hoping!) and then there's the possibility of a general election. Either that or a second referendum.

To Woodmansterne Green – for a jolly good soaking!

Andy texted me. He was tired and was taking the weekend off. He picked the right one. It rained most of Saturday and when I woke up on Sunday, I thought I was safe. Yes, there was a puddle on next door's conservatory roof (I say 'conservatory', it's more of an extension) but the puddle wasn't moving, there was no sign of any stair rods ruffling the calm, so I thought I'd take a chance. A trip to mum's was on the cards. Well, alright, there's a couple of boxes of chocolates round there and mum doesn't want to put on any weight. Cue yours truly, the human dustbin. Alright, I'd already been there on Friday, mum's 89th, and had more than my fair share, but you can never get enough of chocolates, can you? Especially if they're Belgian. To be fair, there was a choice of rides: go to mum's or simply ride to Woodmansterne Green. We opted for the latter.

Woodmansterne Green...

I had my usual breakfast: multi-seed porridge with grapes, blueberries and banana and a mug of decaffeinated tea and then I got dressed, made the tea and headed out to the garage. Outside it was wet, the leaves were on the ground, some wet like soggy cornflakes and others clung to the branches of the trees. The sky was a deep grey and it looked threatening, but there was no rain. The iphone said cloudy, but no rain, so I headed off, taking Barnfield to the junction with West Hill, heading up and then down the hill and stopping at at the bottom where I turned right on to the 269 and rode about 200 yards before turning left, following the road past Purley Oaks railway station and weaving around until I found the Purley Downs Road. I headed in the direction of Purley but crossed the A23 and rode towards Pampisford Road as the rain started, but nothing heavy. In fact, it was fairly warm, around 6-7 deg C, so it kind of didn't really matter. I'm glad I was out and not stewing at home, put it that way. Normally in these conditions I send an abort text, but there's good reason for that: the reason is simple, it's because I don't want to risk being caught out in the rain. That said, it was fine and I made my way along Pampisford and then on to Foxley Lane where they're knocking down a lot of the large houses that have been there for years to make way for flats, huge blocks of them in various stages of development.

I rode past the garden centre where there was a huge inflatable Father Christmas towering over the mini roundabout and pushed on towards the lavender fields where I turned right and powered – yes, powered – along the road that leads to Woodmansterne Green. When I got there I found Bon sheltered under the gateway to the church, a place where he, Andy and yours truly sheltered way back in 2010. It wasn't raining on my arrival so I beckoned him on to the green where we set up camp under a huge oak tree. We chatted about this and that, mainly Brexit, and then parted company around 0900hrs. That was when it started to rain again. I headed back towards the fields and the cold air hit my face. By the time I reached the bottom, the rain was in full swing. So much for cleaning the bike last weekend, it would soon be muddy again, I thought, as I went off-road and the rain started to pour down. Somewhere just before reaching the mini roundabout overlooked by the huge inflatable Father Christmas, I rejoined the road and soon found myself on Foxley Lane again, looking at the various construction sites: luxury homes, retirement homes, they were all here (or about to be).

Back on Pampisford Road and the rain still fell hard. I was soaked through. Fortunately I was wearing a Peter Storm padded anorak, which kept me relatively warm. It was only from the waist down that I was wet. My jeans were soaked through, but it wasn't really that cold so I wasn't in expletive territory. I remember once cycling along the A23 heading for Purley from Coulsdon and it was not only raining but cold. I think I swore all the way home just to maintain some kind of sanity. Today, it wasn't like that. I just plugged away, knowing there was nothing else for it other than to get home and take off my wet clothes. Soon I was on the Purley Downs Road again, hanging a left into Norman Road, passing Purley Oaks railway station, taking a right turn on to the 269 and then braving the south face of West Hill, which, as always, I managed with ease.

At just before 1000hrs I was back home, the bike was in the garage and I was keying the front door. Soon I was in the warmth of the house, shoes off, Peter Storm anorak off and wet jeans off too. I found a clean (and dry) pair and then made a Marmite sandwich while I watched the Andrew Marr Show. Tony Blair was on and he was making a lot of sense. He wants a second referendum and for good reason: he believes that the deal on the table, known as 'Chequers,' isn't a good deal because it doesn't satisfy those who voted to leave the European Union or, for that matter, the likes of the remainers. Blair says there should be one more referendum so that people can make the right decision based on the facts (and not the lies that led up to the last referendum). He said that if the leavers get their way a second time, he will accept the vote and get on with it. But there are all sorts of reasons for not having a second referendum, the main one being that we're going away from 'democracy' and that could prove fatal for the nation. It's certainly going to be an interesting few days, but one thing's for sure, Parliament won't be saying yes to Theresa May's agreement, which has, incidentally, been passed by the European Commission today – it's a done deal in other words, and May believes it's the best for the country. But many think it's nothing of the sort and will vote accordingly in what is being called 'the meaninful vote'.

What a calamity!

In the same way that it was obvious from the word go that we'd go into Iraq, and that Donald Trump would be President of the USA, AND that we'd vote out of Europe, it's pretty damned obvious that we're heading towards crashing out of the European Union without a deal. My theory, or formula, is that all you have to do is look at whatever the worst case scenario might be (on anything) and that's what will happen: Iraq, Trump, Brexit...you name it.

Theresa May's Brexit deal is being rejected by Parliament – or it certainly looks that way – and now, right now, Ministers are resigning from her cabinet. I suppose the big question is: who cares? Who cares whether these sub-standard politicians resign from the government or not? Esther McVey? Dominic Raab? Michael Gove? I can't understand Raab's resignation; he took over from David Davis as Brexit Secretary, negotiated the deal with Barnier and then resigned because he wasn't happy with his own negotiation. Gove, Raab, McVey, they're not exactly heavyweights, are they? I mean, a lot of them, Gove included, have already been disgraced in some way or other. Think Liam Fox. I can't remember the exact details, but a couple of years ago he was embroiled in some form of sleazy activity, he kept taking some bloke with him wherever he went and at the time he was defence secretary. How come he's now in the cabinet? Similarly Gove. Look at the way he stabbed Bojo in the back in a sorry attempt at becoming the leader of the party (and, therefore, the Prime Minister). And let's not talk about Bojo, we all know what a complete buffoon he is, and who really cares if he was stabbed in the back by Gove?

I voted to remain in the European Union mainly because I think it's better for the country to remain part of Europe – our biggest market and right on our doorstep – but thanks to another idiot (David Cameron) we were given an 'in-out' referendum which basically didn't take into consideration the complexity of the situation. Cameron easily goes down as the worst British Prime Minister in history; he will be remembered for selling his country (our country) down the river for the sake of his own party, purely because he was worried about UKIP taking away votes from the Conservatives.

Now we're in a very dodgy position: if, as is likely, May's deal will be rejected by Parliament, we're left with few options: no deal (now highly likely); a general election (enter Jeremy Corbyn) or a second referendum (meaning, I'd imagine, plenty of civil unrest). That last option sounds like fun, it'll be like 2011 all over again, perhaps worse! I don't know about you, but another general election? And as for 'no deal', well, who knows what would happen.

The problem with a general election is simple: Jeremy Corbyn. Who wants an extreme left winger running the country, getting rid of our nuclear deterrent, increasing taxes and so forth? That said, if we did have general election and one of the parties campaigned on remaining in the EU it would eliminate that problem of 'going against the wishes of the people' – but the only party likely to run a campaign like that is the Liberal Democrats, not that there's anything wrong with the Lib Dems, at least they have a decent politician at the helm, Vince Cable.

In a way, the prospects are quite exciting: rioting, motorways turning into lorry parks, an extreme left wing government in power, an aggressive general election, bring it on!

My view is that a general election is probably the best way forward, as much as I don't particularly want one, but it would be even funnier if one of the parties ran on a remain ticket and won. Although, to be honest, I think we need a deal. A no deal Brexit would be catastrophic.

Anyway, what can I do? Nothing. I'll just have to wait and see what transpires.

Heading for Linz, Austria...

Tuesday 7th August: I left Heathrow Terminal 3 at 1135hrs, or thereabouts, on a British Airways flight bound for Vienna, a city I love ever since I visited last June (2017) and spent a lot of time riding a bicycle. They're better than taking cabs everywhere and if the weather's good, which it was in June 2017, then there's nothing better.

Awaiting breakfast at Heathrow T3...

I am now on my third visit to this great city, although I must point out that I am currently on a train to Linz, the 1533 to Salzburg and there's a woman across the aisle wearing 'a little black number' who keeps laughing at messages somebody is sending her on a mobile phone.

Outside, the heat of the past few two or three months appears to have eluded Vienna, although I know this not to be true as the whole of Europe has been experiencing the same heatwave as the British. Perhaps it's just that we make more fuss of decent weather. But it's grey out there and the scenery is pretty uninspiring. Outside of the window right now is a huge marshalling yard full of goods wagons, some of them garnished with graffiti.

"You'll ruin your dinner..."
Boredom is behind a great deal of my eating and right now I am considering a snack from the buffet car, which is a couple of coaches behind me, but I don't want to spoil my dinner tonight and I've already fallen foul of that old 'two breakfasts' problem I've been having these past two days. I blame the hot weather and the early sun, which wakes me up at some ungodly hour, forcing me to rise early and eat my usual breakfast – that of multi-seed porridge, blueberries, sliced strawberries, raspberries and grapes. This morning I was eating at 0500hrs and sipping a decaffeinated tea in a Cath Kidson mug and then later I enjoyed a cheese and ham omelette and a mint tea in The Curator, a restaurant beyond passport control at Heathrow's Terminal 3. It was, I have to say, very pleasant, especially the cubed potatoes, fried to perfection. I suppose most people would call them hash browns.

Breakfast at The Curator, Heathrow T3...

The woman across the aisle has gone and she's been replaced by a girl in denim shorts who is also playing with her mobile phone. We've arrived at Vienna Central, otherwise known as Wien Hauptbahnhof and the coach is slowly filling up, much to my dismay as I wanted to travel in peace, just me and this notepad, but now the murmur of conversation, the sound of babies whining and I find myself longing for a family holiday I might not get until the end of the year. We'll see how things develop on the money front.

There's a man in a black tee-shirt sitting opposite me and he's talking to somebody on his mobile phone in a foreign language. I mean, what do I expect, I'm in a foreign country so why would he speak English and who wants to hear somebody speaking English when they're abroad, not me. He's wearing shorts and spreading himself out as there's nobody sitting directly opposite him. We are sitting diagonally opposite one another, which suits me fine.

The train is on the move again, passing graffiti-covered concrete structures and old tenement buildings with yellow balconies and white satellite dishes on the rooftops. The grey skies are a little depressing because the weather experts are saying today is the last day of the heatwave we've all been enjoying these past three months or more.

Awaiting take-off to Vienna...

Stranger in a strange land
We're now at Wien Meidling and there is somebody sitting  next to me. The man in the black tee-shirt is sitting directly opposite and next to him is a man with a high forehead and glasses wearing a check pattern shirt. Next to me is his friend, or colleague, or casual acquaintance, I don't know and I'm not going to ask. He has strange, curly red hair, not tomato red, but 'red' in the sense of ginger (ish). They too are both talking in a foreign language and I can't understand a word they're saying; that's because I went to a shit school and wasn't taught a foreign language. Not for me French lessons, I was deemed too thick by the authorities. We won't get into my schooling, but let's just say my school was pretty rough. It didn't have a playground, it had an exercise yard. That's my little joke, I've been making it for years and I still find it funny. More to the point is that there was a few pupils who did go on to spend time in prison, although perhaps I'm just making mistakes for my own shortcomings, who knows?

The train is in a tunnel and I can see the reflection of my fellow passengers when I look out of the window. It's just past 1600hrs and I'm longing for my hotel room at Linz. The man in the black tee-shirt – who, incidentally, dropped his phone with noisy clatter while playing with it – has now picked it up and answered it. The two men are chatting and looking at something amusing (or interesting) on the man with the high forehead's mobile phone. Everybody, basically, is playing with a mobile phone or talking into one. The high foreheaded man has just handed the phone to the man with the strange-coloured 'ginger' hair. They have shared a joke and now the man in the checked shirt with the high forehead has taken back the phone and is staring at its screen. There is silence except for the man in the black tee-shirt, who is having a conversation on his phone, and a crying baby a few seats away. We're in another tunnel – or the same one – I don't know.

Leaving the country...

The two men have gone and we've arrived at Tullnerfeld, but soon a man arrives with what I think is a tuba, a large one in a huge cylindrical case, which he plonks down in the seat next to me, having first asked if it was alright to do so. I said yes, of course, being the friendly, co-operative sort of person I am and then spent the next part of the journey sitting next to this huge, black thing that towered above me and was obviously far too big to place in the racks above the seats. It was a bit cramped, but fortunately he noticed two vacant seats on the other side of the aisle and moved.

I fell asleep – or rather I kept drifting in and out of sleep – as the train progressed towards Linz. The scenery has changed for the better. Industrial landscapes have been replaced by fields and forests and now, as I write this, the next stop is Linz, my destination. The man in the black tee-shirt has gone and I am the only person left on the table seats.

Arriving in Linz
The weather has changed too; the grey clouds have given way to largely blue skies with a few cotton wool clouds and I guess we're about to arrive at Linz. The baby continues to cry and is now being cuddled by its mother.

What a fantastic pastry at Linz station...

I disembarked and immediately the heat of the sun hit me. I was angry for a reason temporarily obscured until I remembered some of the news items I'd been reading on my mobile phone in between looking out of the window and dozing off. One reason for my anger was my home cuntry, the UK, and the fact that it's just a load of rubbish and made so by its shoddy political classes and their cost-cutting activities across all spheres, especially police cuts, which have led to an escalation in crime. The country is really showing its true colours, thanks to Brexit, and it's true colours are basically a bunch of arrogant racists and bigots led by absolute nobs like Boris Johnson and all the rest of them. I was, however, heartened to hear that another complete and utter fool (in my opinion – and we're all entitled to our opinions) has returned from holiday to find his Somerset home covered in offensive graffiti. Jacob Rees-Mogg wants to take the country back to the 1950s, and probably believes in bringing back hanging too – and the birch. A complete t- -t in other words and I think that word – 't- -t' – was used by those who vandalised his house. There is a God, I remember thinking, as my train approached Linz, from where I am now writing. Not everybody agrees with the far right.

The view from room 416, Park Inn, Linz

And let's not forget that other politician who's being called a racist, the President of the United States of America, Donald Trump. What an absolute burk of the highest order – him, Boris Johnson and Geert Wilders, all of whom project far right, racist views and, oddly, all sport the same stupid-looking 'master race' haircuts. Why is that? Another politician with a stupid haircut is Michael Fabricant, another Tory, so 'of the right' but whether he's far right like the rest of those mentioned, I don't know. Trump's been having a go at Le Bron James, an American professional basketball player, and the word on the street is that Trump calling him stupid is purely because he's black, he's said the same of a CNN anchor, who is also black, prompting the latter to speak his mind and call out Trump for the racist he might well be.

Boring, yes, but it's room 416 – very pleasant

If I could leave the UK I would. It's a truly awful country – aud it's getting worse. But I can't leave, unfortunately, for all the usual reasons. Right now, however, I'm in Austria where everything is lovely and the trains run on time. I've stopped at Resch & Frisch on Linz railway station for a rare cappuccino and one of the best pastries I've ever tasted. When it comes to pastries, you can't beat the Austrians and the Germans, or any European nation for that matter. And to think there's only 22 miles of the English Channel separating mainland Europe from the UK.

No-alcohol beer as I await a Thai red curry

Walking to the hotel
The reason I stopped for a coffee and a pastry is simple: if I can avoid taking a taxi to my hotel I will, so I need to key the hotel's address into my iphone's SatNav to see if the distance is walkable. Then, armed with whatever knowledge the phone throws out, I'll head off to the Park Inn by Radisson where I'm booked for the next two nights. It's a 19-minute walk, so I'd better get moving.

And this is the name of the place where I ate the Thai Red Curry

I had a rough idea of where I was going having stayed in Linz twice before, but the iphone's SatNav provided me with reassurance. It's about a 20-minute walk to the hotel from where I write this and I must say that I'm already very impressed with the Park Inn by Radisson. For a start, there is a restaurant  on the ground floor, so if I don't fancy wandering around town later on I can avoid playing culinary roulette and simply eat something in the hotel restaurant. The bright and breezy receptionist informed me that breakfast was 18 Euros per day, a little pricey, but I like a decent breakfast in the morning (I tend not to eat breakfast at any other time of the day) and, as you know, I have been known to eat two breakfasts, thanks to waking up early in the hot weather.

The check-in was a breeze and I was directed to Room 416, which is on the fourth floor and perfect in every way. The key card is needed to operate the lift, a good security measure, I thought. It's also needed to power the room and has to be placed in a small socket on the wall by the door. The room has two single beds side-by-side, blue and white walls, a safe, a wall-mounted TV, telephone, desk, free WiFi that doesn't require a password, red and blue coat hangers, some unruly, some not, but no wardrobe. There is the obligatory 'modern art' on the wall in the shape of three small squares of coloured canvas about a foot square, a bright red box-style armchair, a small table on which a bottle of mineral water rested (it's gone now and they're going to charge me 3.50 Euros for drinking it). There's a hairdryer, but my hair has just been treated to a number three crop so there's little need for one. There isn't, however, an ironing board, which I do need fairly urgently. I'll have to ask for one at reception.

Karunanidhi dies and wild fires
I've just put BBC World on. They're talking about the death of a veteran Indian politician going by the name of Karunanidhi, a social campaigner who worked towards an egalitarian society in Tamil Nadu. He fought for the underdogs, but faced a few corruption charges in his time, but let's just say he's not the bad guy. Perhaps a bit of nepotism here and there, but little else. Karunanidhi died aged 94 and the security forces in Chennai are expecting social unrest. I remember being in India when a leading politician passed away and we were told to remain in the hotel.

Now climate change is being discussed. There's coverage of wild fires in Europe and talk of record temperatures as far north as Finland. And there's a huge wildfire in California too. Scientists are warning of a 'hothouse earth', which, apparently, is irreversible. Trump, of course, doesn't believe in climate change – basically out of greed. He doesn't want anything coming between him and his money-making potential. As long as a businessman can profit, fuck the environment.

One thing I haven't mentioned is the view from the hotel window. It's good. Four floors up, I'm overlooking a small square surrounded on all sides by buildings (apartments, this hotel, even a church). When I arrived and peered out of the window there were a few people sunning themselves and, as I look out now, there are still a few people out there, sitting on wooden benches, chilling out. It's all good.

Going out to eat – should have stayed in!
It was so hot I decided to take a shower before dinner. The shower was easy to use and I could have stayed in there for hours, it was that nice. After drying and dressing I went out and made my first mistake of the day, which was not eating an evening meal in the hotel. Normally I moan about my choice of hotels not having restaurants, forcing me out on the streets to seek sanctuary somewhere nearby. This time round I could have stayed in, but chose to wander. I opted for a kind of Chinese and Thai restaurant and ordered a Thai Red Curry with rice, finishing off with fried banana in a kind of batter. Why do people take something healthy and make it unhealthy? Who needs a deep-fried banana? Well, I suppose I did because I ordered it, ate it and then wished I hadn't bothered. The meal was acceptable, but not in any way award-winning material. You live and learn, I guess, or, as a work colleague once said, "Every day is a school day." They were right.

I'm now back in my room. It's been a long day and I'm going to hit the sack.

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.