To the Tatsfield Churchyard...

While Saturday's weather was dull and overcast – and very depressing – Sunday was the complete opposite.

During the summer months I tend to wake up early as the sun pierces through the curtains and I find myself ready to rock around 0500hrs. This is both good and bad news. Good because if I get up around that time I have a long period 'downstairs' doing things like writing this blog, drinking tea and munching on toast; bad because sometimes it's good to get the extra hour's sleep.

In all honesty (as I'm writing this on Monday morning at 0654hrs, having eaten breakfast of strawberries, raspberries and blackberries with natural yoghurt, Shredded Wheat with hot milk and a mug of tea) I can't remember what I decided to do yesterday morning. In fact, I do remember. I woke up around 0600hrs, caught the news in a semi-conscious state and then the beginning of Something Understood (I've said it before and I'll say it again, they, Radio Four, should do another programme entitled Something Misunderstood). In other words, it was a 'normal' routine. I jumped out of bed around 0610hrs, made my way gingerly downstairs – don't forget we have no carpet on the stairs and there are exposed Gripperods – and made some tea, toast, Shredded Wheat and fruit, just like this morning in fact. Or similar.

Deer on Beddlestead Lane, Sunday morning...

On Saturday morning I had woken up to find two abort texts from Andy and Phil. Andy said he was knackered; Phil was off to buy wedding rings in London. I opted to ride over to mum's through Purley and Wallington, leaving at the normal time and later enjoying tea and fruit cake while chatting about the normal stuff we chat about. I also fixed two lamps (mum had put 3-amp fuses in the plugs when she needed 13-amp – not that I'm Mr Handy, it was just commonsense). I left around 1015hrs with a bottle of chilled London Pride.

So it was Sunday and I left the house roughly on time, pumped up my rear tyre – it wasn't flat, but I felt it could do with a bit more air – and headed up Ellenbridge, across Southcote and then up Elmfield Way before turning left on Morley and right on to Church Way.

I reached the green at just gone 0730hrs and Andy was waiting. We decided to head for the Churchyard. It was, after all, 'churchyard weather' (dry and sunny). As we reached the Warlingham 'mini roundabout', close to Knight's Garden Centre, I suggested we rode the 'slow way' so we did a quick circuit of the aforementioned roundabout and then rode towards the Bull and round to the right, riding kind of parallel to the 269 and avoiding the fast cars. The quieter 'slow way' is characterised by narrow country lanes hemmed in by hedges at this time of year. It means we can talk and worry less about traffic.

There is, of course, the punishing Beddlestead Lane, a slow and winding incline towards Clark's Lane that always seems to take ages and, invariably, is populated by Lycra Monkeys as it was today – not many Lycra Monkeys, but a few. To the right of the lane is a huge cornfield that shone in the sun. There was a lonely deer and its offspring making their way towards the road, although I doubt they would have crossed it. Not that it was busy. Andy dismounted and took the shot (above) accompanying this post and then we soldiered on, past the 'totem pole' – a dead tree – and the mobile phone mast and on to Clark's Lane where we turned left, rode past the Tatsfield Bus Stop (still in a state of disrepair) and on towards the churchyard where we sat on our bench, drank tea and munched on chocolate BelVita biscuits. The weather was perfect and we both admitted we could have sat there for much longer than we did, chatting, as we were, about photography and bikes and stuff. Andy would like to take it up photography professionally, but is only too aware how the advent of digital cameras has led most companies that used to need photographers to rely upon their own staff members 'taking a few shots'.

The ride back along Clark's Lane was pleasant enough and soon we reached the 269 and rode towards Warlingham where we parted company.

The sunny weather continued throughout the day and so did my hay fever. By the time Top Gear graced our television screen I was so blocked up I was forced to see if I could find some Olbas oil. I only tried the local Co-op and returned empty-handed and had to make do with a tissue. Horrible. And so was Top Gear, it's just not the same without Clarkson, May and Hammond. I feel as if they're all pretending to have fun rather than genuinely enjoying what they're doing. As for Eddie Jordan...

To Westerham in the wind and rain...

Up with the lark and ready to ride. I listened to the news on radio four and then jumped out of bed and made my way to the kitchen where the kettle was filled with water and switched on; toast was placed in the toaster and milk in the saucepan – for the Shredded Wheat.

But there was rain. Well, drizzle, like a fine spray, but it didn't matter because it was warm outside. Waterproof clothing. Hmmm...you know when somebody refers to something as 'bombproof'? Never believe them. Because anything with the word 'proof' after it is some kind of lie. I'm sure that anything described as 'bomb proof' would be blown to smithereens if somebody actually attached (and ignited) a bomb on it.

In a slightly different vein, 'stay press' anything invariably isn't; Anchor spreadable? Not always and if something is billed as waterproof – expect a soaking.

We sent this shot to Phil

I rode towards Church Way, in full waterproofs, in the wind and rain, and within a few minutes of leaving the house I was shiny. I felt and looked like the skipper of a North Sea trawler – somebody more than capable of pulling up a chair at the Skipper's Table – and, as I made slow progress up Church Way, the wind seemingly blowing me back down the street, I got wetter and wetter. The only reason I wasn't too bothered was because it was mild, not cold, and the truth of the matter was quite simple to understand: while I was certainly getting wet, the best word – or phrase – to describe it was probably 'a little damp'. Later, when I reached home (at 1010hrs) and peeled off the waterproofs, I had damp trousers underneath, but they weren't wet. Well, alright, they were wet, but I wasn't soaked through is what I'm saying.

Andy was waiting for me at the Green and when he mentioned Westerham – following on from a Facebook comment by yours truly pointing to the fact that I'd been eating too many cakes and biscuits during the week – I admit that I was astonished. Westerham? The northern Kent market town? I couldn't remember the last time we rode there. Andy reckoned it was about a year ago and I've yet to check the exact date. He's probably right.

We decided to get our heads down and ride along the 269, past Botley Hill, past the Tatsfield Bus Stop and down the hill into Westerham. The wind and rain continued, but it wasn't too bad. The rain was still little more than a fine drizzle and the worst thing was the wind. Eventually the rain eased off. We passed a jogger who was travelling in the opposite direction. "At least I'm going this way," she remarked cheerily, alluding to the fact that she had a tailwind while we had to endure a full-on headwind. "We'll have a headwind coming back too," said Andy cynically as we pushed on.

Some people really are slovenly. What idiot, I wondered, had spilt brightly-coloured Dulux paint not only at intervals along the 269, but also further along Clarks Lane as we made our descent into Westerham. How long that paint will be splattered on the 269's cycle lane and Clarks Lane is anybody's guess, but it looks a right mess and it ruins the look of the countryside.

Westerham hadn't changed a bit. The Costa Coffee had its windows boarded up and was closed after the accident over Christmas. Avid readers might recall that a car careened out of control off of the road and through a window of the coffee retail outlet, injuring many and killing an old lady of 70 years old. We noticed a few bunches of flowers left outside as we made our way past, heading in the direction of Churchill's statue on the green.

Everything was wet and there was nowhere to sit down so we stood there, drinking tea and munching Belvita biscuits. And yes, you did hear correctly, I've signed up to Facebook under my real name – Matthew Moggridge – where I've also set up a NoVisibleLycra page. But why I bothered I'll never know. Social media, as I've said many times before, is a complete and utter waste of time. I've been on Linkedin since 2009 and since then I've had ONE job interview (not that I'm looking). As for this blog, it's purely for my own pleasure (I love writing and I've enjoying writing everything I've written on these pages). Once I decided to 'monetise' the blog and guess what? A few ads appeared, but I never made a single penny. And now, for some ridiculous reason, I've signed up to Facebook.

Andy and Matt on Westerham Green, 6 February 2016

We chatted about Top Gear. We both feel that Chris Evans won't pull it off – or rather he'll pull it off, in his own way, but he won't be able to recreate the magic of Messrs. Clarkson, May and Hammond. His biggest mistake would be trying to recreate what Clarkson and Co. created. And what the hell is Matt Le Blanc doing on the show? The strange thing about him is the fact that he's nothing like Joey from Friends. Now I know that's kind of obvious – he was, after all, acting – but I think people expect him to be Joey and he's not, he's quieter and considerably more reserved. Andy says they have an old 'stig' on the show too. Well, again, an 'old' Stig – a leftover from the glory days of Clarkson, May and Hammond. I'd love it to work for Chris Evans, I really would, but I'm still suffering withdrawal symptoms over Clarkson's departure.

The rain eased off early on in the ride and for most of the outward journey it was just wet tarmac and roadside puddles – not good if you don't have mudguards, but at least I had the waterproofs.

Reluctantly we mounted the bikes and rode out of Westerham. It's a long haul from the town to the bottom of the hill, but the hill itself isn't too bad. The problem is that it continues, naggingly, all the way to Botley Hill and beyond before we're able to settle in to a smooth ride along the 269 to Warlingham Green.

When I was a kid I remember pretending my bike was a train and that I was the driver. I made up mythical stations and pretended that kerbsides were platforms. The stations were named after some characteristic of the road, so if there was a plum tree the station was called Plumbury. Now, as I prepared to race past the Tatsfield Bus Stop without stopping I found myself imagining once again that I was driving a train, the non-stop Westerham to Sanderstead train that went through a station called Tatsfield Bus Stop. Silly, I know, but there you have it.

It's quite odd imagining things to be something they're not. I do it all the time. Going back to when I worked for a different publishing company, I remember, on my walks home during the dark, winter months, pretending that a pub fairly close to home was really an old haunted galleon and that I was in a rowing boat, alone, on calm black seas, when the old ship emerged from the fog and I continued on my journey, rowing alongside the eery, creaking, wooden hull, a bell ringing mysteriously on board, getting quieter as I rowed away from the mysterious vessel.

Andy and I parted company on the green and I reached home at 1010hrs. Here's hoping we both feel suitably inclined tomorrow morning to repeat today's performance.

Chilling at the Tatsfield Bus Stop...

I took last Tuesday off and the weather wasn't appalling, but it wasn't very pleasant either. It was dull and blowy and not really conducive to sitting in the garden and chilling. Then, once back at work, the good weather was back. In fact, it remained good all week with Friday (yesterday) being the hottest day of the year so far – according to the TV weather forecasts. Needless to say I think we, that is Andy and myself, expected the good weather to continue for the weekend, but no, sod's law dictates otherwise, it always does, and this morning, when I woke up prematurely around 0400hrs, I peered out of the window and noted a dull, dark and dreary world, the grass wet from overnight rain. It was early, I said to myself, what could I expect? It was four in the morning. But the dullness lingered and was still there at 0700hrs when I left the house and opened the garage. There was no sign of Phil, but I knew that Andy would be waiting at the green and I was running late.

My bike at the Tatsfield Bus Stop, Saturday 13 June 2015

As I cycled wearily up Ellenbridge Road I noticed the odd spit of rain, but it never went any further than that. Instead it remained dull and dark and just like an October morning rather than June. The fact that I'd been awake since four o'clock made cycling and, dare I say it, life in general, seem a little depressing. As I rode through the churchyard I found myself sighing with despair.

We had planned to ride to Westerham and Andy, perhaps a little ambitiously, had sent a text earlier suggesting we simply ride there and back, stopping at the Botley to catch the 'Botley on the Road' catering truck that we had been promised would be waiting for us. It seemed like an unnecessarily harsh ride: all that way to Westerham and then, without so much as a cup of tea, a ride back up the hill without rest until we reached Botley Hill. I suggested by text that having tea at Westerham would be miles better than waiting for the van and he agreed. But with the dull weather and the threat of rain looming large, we decided to head for the Tatsfield Bus Stop instead.

A mist rolled in from the West as we rode past the  Botley Hill Farmhouse, noting the absence of the aforementioned catering van, and when we reached the bus stop we drank tea and ate chocolate chip BelVita biscuits.

"You know what I think?"
"What?"
"We could break into the art world."
"How?"
"Well, some works of modern art are little more than squares of colour on canvas. We could do that."
"Yeah, it's all about the bullshit, that's how we'd sell them."
"Technically, though, it would be easy: get a few brightly-coloured oil paints, get the canvas and then off we go! In fact, even better, place a bicycle wheel on the canvas, spin the wheel and then throw on the paint. It would create a kind of Catherine wheel effect..."
"Yeah, and then if we come up with something pretentious to say about it..."
"...and a pretentious name for the work..."
"Like 'Cog'."
"...we'd be quids in."
"How would you convince the art world to visit the gallery?"
"More importantly, how would we be able to afford the gallery in the first place?"
"Perhaps we'd just persuade an existing gallery to exhibit the work."
"It takes years. There are waiting lists apparently."
"Really?"
"Yeah."
"Well, we'd have to bullshit them. One of us would be the 'artist', the other the artist's agent and we'd have to develop some kind of pretentious clap trap about the work..."
"Sounds a bit like our plan to open a cycle caff in Westerham."
"You mean doomed to failure?"
"Yep."
"Actually, it wouldn't be a con, would it? I mean the 'art' would be real in a sense so we wouldn't be faking anything."
"Did you watch Chris Evans last night?"
"No."
"He did a one-off TGI Friday and, if I'm honest, it was a bit lame, a bit embarassing almost and a bit dated. Roger Daltry singing My Generation with Liam Gallagher."
"There's a certain irony about Roger Daltry singing 'hope I die before I get old'."
"Yeah, he's seventy years old – or thereabouts."
"I don't know why people don't just accept that they've had their day, made their money and that's it."
"But listening to the original recordings is alright, it's just that I don't want to hear them attempting it in their old age."
"Yeah, you're right."
"But with TGI there's something wrong about, I don't know, recreating the past. I mean was it THAT good in the first place? I don't think so. In fact I reckon that whole 'anarchic TV' thing that started with TisWas is now a thing of the past. All that 'boozy' rowdiness and the stars of the time who epitomised it: Sean Ryder, Liam Gallagher..."
"I used to watch The Word when I came in after the pub."
"Yeah, me too. A class piece of television – produced by Paul Ross – but not for today's audience."
"No, you're right. For me, certain broadcasters – Clarkson, Chris Evans – they're good in their own right, they don't have to recreate their past successes."
"Wasn't Clarkson on TGI?"
"Yeah, but don't get me started on that subject, I'm still mourning the passing of Top Gear."

And with that we decided it was time to head home.

Early morning puncture leads to a Good Friday abort text

I haven't been cycling for ages... or so it seems. The last time I went out was before I travelled to Rio. Andy and I went to the Tatsfield Churchyard and chatted, if I recall correctly, about the whole Jeremy Clarkson fiasco. Well, was it really a fiasco? Now that it's been announced that he won't be having his contract renewed, I can understand why he's no longer the lead presenter of Top Gear. In essence, you can't hit somebody at work at get away with it, so what kind of message would it send out if Clarkson was allowed to stay in his job, especially after the whole Savile affair? But Clarkson's departure is still bad news for those of us who enjoyed watching Top Gear on a Sunday evening. I mean, now that it's gone, all that's left is Poldark and while I don't mind the Cornish drama, I'd much prefer to watch it AFTER my dose of Top Gear, in the same way that my dad used to have a spoonful of sugar to lighten the load of his Seven Seas cod liver oil. I find myself watching old episodes of Top Gear on BBC 3 or on Dave and, in all honesty, it's all very sad that an era has come to an end. But enough already!

So, it's Good Friday and my plan was to head out, possibly to Westerham, with Andy. I was up early, I'd eaten a bowl of All Bran and a hard-boiled egg and then, after sorting out the tea, headed for the garage where I found a flat rear tyre. I was already running 10 minutes late and had texted Andy that I was on my way, which, technically, was true, but the sight of the flat rear tyre deflated my ambitions and for a short while I just stood there, staring at the bike and wondering what to do. Having not been on the bike for a couple of weeks – last weekend was a wash-out (late night stopped the Saturday ride and rain meant there was no ride on Sunday) – I really wanted to go out and I figured that it might simply be a flat tyre after a fortnight of the bike languishing in the garage. I found the pump, pumped up the tyre and then wheeled the bike out of the garage, but then I heard a distinct hissing. This was no slow puncture. So I wheeled the bike back into the garage, turned it upside down and then looked at my watch. It was getting late so I sent Andy an abort text. Oddly, at the time of writing, I've heard nothing back so I don't know whether he went out alone or not. He normally does unless it's been raining so I'm hoping to hear back from him as I don't think he'll be going tomorrow.

My plan is to fix the puncture and get out there Saturday, Sunday and Monday and I'm hoping to throw in a trip to Westerham too. Right now there's nowt much to do (apart from a little bit of work). Outside the weather is overcast. It's not raining, but it's dull, athough it's not cold so a ride today would have been really good, but it was not to be, sadly.

Gambling on the General Election
That's about it for now. Not much else is happening. In the news we've had a televised political debate with the three main parties – Labour, Lib-Dem and Conservatives – plus the likes of UKIP, the Greens, the SNP and Plaid Cymru – and I'm none the wiser as to who to vote for in the imminent General Election. Having said that, I might be in the USA on the day of voting so I might not vote at all, which, in all honesty, was how I was feeling anyway. I certainly wouldn't be voting for Cameron (Conservative) as he represents the party of the privileged. As for Labour, well, perhaps if David Milliband was in charge and as for the rest of them, no chance, so there you have it. If I'm around I'll probably vote for Milliband, just purely for the hell of it, otherwise I'll be wasting my vote, although I have considered having a bit of fun with it and indulging in a bit of kamikazee voting: taking out the Conservatives who I couldn't vote for out of principle, there will be six parties left, one for every number on the dice. Now that would add a little bit of excitement to the proceedings, wouldn't it! I'll let you know what I decide to do. In fact, the more I think about it, the more I think I'll actually do that unless I'm out of the country, in which case I won't even vote.

And the winner is...?
One roll, no best of three, I'd alloted one number to each party. 1. Ukip. 2. Labour. 3. Liberal Democrats. 4. The Green Party. 5. The Scottish Nationalist Party. 6. Plaid Cymru.

I found a dice, rolled it and...well, it's a secret ballot so why should I tell you, but I'm going to stick with the number rolled, which kind of goes against my gut feeling, but what the hell!