Give the man a break...

As I write this, Donald Trump, President of the United States of America, is winging his way across the Atlantic towards Washington DC and, of course, the White House. He must be whacked out, no time for a breather. He flew in Tuesday and then on Wednesday he was up with the lark and putting on a face for the public and the monarchy as he had to sit through a lot of tiresome pomp and circumstance in what can only be described as kind of blustery, cloudy conditions. Personally, I would have been wishing the whole thing further and longing for my huge bed upstairs in Windsor Castle. Oh! I would have been looking forward to the moment when speeches were over and the dessert and coffees were out of the way, just a few goodnights and then that great moment when he switches off the light and buries his blond head in the fluffy pillows. Hopefully, he didn't think too much about what the following day had in store for him: talks about business and politics and then a press conference. Who the hell in their right mind would be looking forward to that? Perhaps that's why he said in his speech that he's hoping his second state visit will be his last. I certainly wouldn't want to repeat the process unless I could have the option, perhaps, of a few days loafing around, getting up late and just hanging for a day or two until the jet lag lifted. But the trouble with being famous is that you simply can't do that; no sitting in a local Starbuck's in Windsor for Donald, sipping a cappuccino and munching a pastry with Melania, reading a book or a newspaper. For a start, he'd be recognised before he got through the door and what's the point in trying to lead a normal life if they open the store just for you, like Elvis? No point at all. I suppose they could have erected a Starbuck's somewhere within the grounds of Windsor Castle and populated it with friendly journalists and aides happy not to give the Donald a hard time. The last thing he wants is to discuss Epstein or Mandelson or free speech or Gaza or Ukraine. I bet he hates all that. I'm sure he'd much prefer to just sit there, froth on his upper lip, staring out of the window and considering going back to bed for an hour or two before the banquet. I know I would. And then there's the banquet itself. Perhaps after the Starbuck's he might not be that hungry, but what about all that food, it can't go to waste. And hell, what about the speech? He was last on and, therefore, the most anticipated, people watching his every move hoping he'll slip up, mis-pronounce something, say the wrong thing, stutter, there's so much that go wrong and he wouldn't be able to blame the jet lag because that's not what world leaders do, they are supposed to be super human, no room to mess up, no room to say 'fuck!' after getting something wrong, nothing he does or say will be forgotten for as long as he lives. Satirical news quizzes will 'have the clip' and will be eager to humiliate him and who needs that sort of pressure? 

If I go to the USA for a conference that starts on Monday, I'm flying two days earlier and very often it makes no difference; I spend the entire week nodding off here and there and just when I think I have it under control I have to fly back home. What a nightmare. Seriously, it is, so if I had to be in the spotlight on top of everything else, no way, not unless I had time to relax first. No fun. And that's what I'd want, even if I was the leader of the free world, I'd want to some fun, some down time, a mix of work and pleasure but not all work. But that's what Trump has done: all work and no play and we all know what that leads to, it makes Jack a dull boy. Or Donald.

I'm hoping that right now, just a couple of hours into his flight, that Trump is asleep, perhaps with some soothing classical music in the background. I wonder if he has his own room where he can lie there in the dark listening to Night Tracks on BBC Radio 3 (or at least a recording) and then waking up refreshed as the plane lands at DC. But no, he's probably sitting there signing executive orders or talking to his advisors or the press. No peace for the wicked as they say. And I wonder if he's planning a day off tomorrow? Probably not. It's not a life I'd like to lead and if I was already a billionaire (as Trump is) I'd rather be relaxing, playing golf and basking in the Miami sunshine doing anything but work.

A few thoughts on mental health and politics

Lots to discuss, but perhaps a bit about my mental health first. Today, now, as I sit here at 2058hrs on a Monday evening, I feel good - good enough to write something - I feel okay and by that I mean I don't have bouts of butterflies in my stomach or that awful feeling that something terrible might be happening, commonly known, I'm told, as a panic attack, something I've been subjected to ever since my sister passed away, or rather while she was in the process of passing away. I remember clearly, on the day she died, on 2nd December 2023, leaving the hospital with my niece and my brother and almost finding it impossible to drive them round to mum's. Seriously, it wasn't good, but it subsided and then it would return or it might not return until the following day but it was always around. I had it yesterday for a short while and it was such that I said no, I wasn't up to driving somewhere (Forest Row near East Grinstead) only to discover a few moments later that, actually, I was alright, and then off we went and I never had any problems. So, anyway, here I am, in fine fettle, just had a chat with the illustrious illustrator (my pal Geoff) about politics and guitars and, well, the conversation ended up with a chat about IZAL medicated toilet paper (I brought it up) and that came about because Geoff was talking about how Jimmy Hendrix, on Crosstown Traffic, used a comb and some tracing paper, which makes a sound similar to a gazoo, to achieve a certain sound. We'd been talking about Duane Eddy's Peter Gunne and, well, either way we ended up talking about bog roll, mainly because I remember, as a kid, using a comb and some IZAL medicated toilet paper to make the sound of a gazoo. In my school days, if you needed a poo you'd have the indignity of using IZAL medicated toilet paper and let's just say that it wasn't a very pleasant experience. It seems to have disappeared off the face of the planet and replaced by something a little more comfortable.

So, yes, the conversation nose-dived from politics and talking about James O'Brien's book How They Broke Britain to discussing the awfulness of IZAL medicated toilet paper.

But getting back to my mental state (which is fine). I just seem be having these weird panic attacks which date back to my sister's untimely and tragic death just before Christmas last year and now, of course, my mum having all these falls in her house, which have led to the attacks continuing. I'm fine when I'm on the bike, I'm fine at work or on the train to and from work and I'm fine now, at home, at 2109hrs. My question is this: how come I'm okay now, but I wasn't okay for a lot of yesterday? What have I done today that I hadn't done yesterday, what had I been eating yesterday that I've avoided today? Well, cake springs to mind. Perhaps it's got something to do with sugar, I don't know. I even had a cappuccino on Saturday, that's always a no-no for me. Coffee often makes me feel a little weird. But earlier I said I didn't experience any panic attacks whilst on the bike on Sunday (yesterday) but I was getting it slightly in Sheree's for some reason. It's a very odd thing. Perhaps today I've tried to steer clear of subjects that are stressful, like my mum, but let's leave it there as I don't want to start feeling strange again. Right now, I'm fine, and that's the main thing.

So what else? Politics, of course. For a start, I'm glad the Tories were absolutely trounced on Thursday last week. Labour is now in power under the leadership of Sir Keir Starmer, and all I can say about the Tories is good riddance. We had 14 years of crap from the Tories from David Cameron onwards. In fact, Cameron set the ball in motion for Brexit and then, once achieved, he resigned and the country was subjected to a load of disgusting and incompetent Tory Leaders: Theresa May (she wasn't too bad) Boris Johnson, Liz Truss and, of course, Rishi Sunak. But how awful have the Tories been? Extremely awful. Austerity under Cameron and Osborne, Theresa May's awful premiership, which involved the whole 'hostile environment' strategy, and then, of course, Bojo, Boris Johnson and the Partygate scandal and other disgusting activities, all the corruption, the row about his wallpaper, the sleaze, I can't remember half of what he got up to, but we all know that he was an out and out liar and eventually he had to go. But then came Liz Truss, who messed up the economy with her mini-budget, which led to her being the prime minister who reigned for the shortest ever time, I think it was 47 days or something absolutely ridiculous. Lastly, Sunak, a multi-millionaire, actually, make that billionaire, a man so out of touch with the people he's supposed to be governing it beggars belief. Well, he's gone, they've all gone, and thank the Lord for that. We've all been waiting ages for the general election and we all voted with our feet when it came. The Labour Party has a stonking majority, the country went from blue to red overnight and many people have been sighing a huge sigh of relief at the thought that they've gone. 

I was glad to see the back of Jacob Rees-Mogg, Grant Schapps, Liz Truss, the list goes on and on and on, but they've gone! The public has spoken and that's what's great about living in a democracy and not a dictatorship. They've gone! But there's more to the politics of stupidity than the Tory party. Take a wider view, there's so much wrong with our political classes, they're just not that good. I've said before that we need "proper politicians" and they're out there, believe me. 

Unfortunately for me, I live in a staunch Tory constituency so my vote for Labour was well and truly wasted, although I shouldn't really think that way, but it's true. To be fair, I suppose that if everybody switched and voted Labour then Chris Philp would be out of the picture, but he's still here as my local MP and he has a position in the shadow cabinet too, and I suppose you have to ask why. Well, in my case it's, as I say, because I live in a staunch Tory constituency and there are people who would vote Tory whatever happened, but there are other situations where it's the individual who carries the weight and not, if you like, the politics. Take, for example, Jeremy Corbyn. Now I know he's not everybody's cup of tea and that he's pretty extreme left wing (which a lot of people don't like) but ultimately the people of Islington North voted for him as an independent candidate because it was him they trusted to do their bidding in Parliament. In short, whatever you think of Corbyn (I like him) he is a proper politican, not a career politican (of which there were many in the Tory Party since 2010) but a genuine individual who the voters want be they Labour or Independent. I'm sure there are Tories who garner the same kind of admiration, because not all Tories are bad people in the same way that not all Labour or Green or Lib-Dem politicians are not worth voting for. I'm sure there are Tory MPs out there who are respected because of who they are and what they have done for their constituents, which makes it all the worse for them when the greater party (the likes of Johnson and Truss and Sunak and others) let the side down and ruin it for genuinely decent people. It's a shame we can bring together the best politicians, the proper politicians and make up a party that serves all, has left and right leanings and compromises where compromise is needed.

Listen, let's talk about stupidity. I'll admit that I'm fairly left leaning in my politics (that's not the stupid bit). But the last thing I want is to have Donald Trump in the White House at the end of the year, with people like Nigel Farage fawning over him like he did the last time. The last thing I want is for that idiot with a daft haircut to throw Ukraine under the bus and side with the Russians and the awful Victor Orban of Hungary. I wish, as I'm sure you'll imagine, that Putin would get the hell out of Ukraine. But it's looking as if the Democrats are going to shoot themselves in the foot by keeping Joe Biden in the job when it's clear that he's going to be regarded by the American public as somebody not up to the job and that means another term for the fucking Donald, the last thing the world needs. So I'd say sort it out now, not later, get somebody else in place and don't let that idiot Trump come back into power again, the man is an imbecile of the highest order. But no, rather than see the threat for what it is, Biden is "not going anywhere" and, therefore, is putting himself over the interests of the American people. What is wrong with him?

The weather in the UK has been atrocious. Really piss poor. Rain, cloud, not nice and it's affected the riding. I didn't go out Saturday morning because it was raining. Fortunately the weather was fine for Sunday so I met Andy as planned at Sheree's. I've been alternating my rides (not deliberately) but in line with the weather. One minute two rides over a weekend, the next just one ride. It's not been good and now I'm definitely going to get swimming sorted out. I know I keep saying I will, but, yeah, in fact, let's not say anything, it's safer.

It's raining, Trump's gone to hospital and I need a haircut...

Donald Trump has been moved to a hospital close to the White House after testing positive for COVID-19. It's said to be a precautionary measure and that Mr President is only suffering from mild symptoms, but he's been seen wearing a mask for the first time and perhaps now he's going to take this thing seriously. Some commentators think he's lying. Documentary film maker Michael Moore, who seems to have it in for any US president who isn't a democrat, believes there's a strong chance that Trump is lying in order to delay the election and remain in power. It's possible, but surely even Trump wouldn't tempt fate and pretend he has a killer disease. The First Lady, Melania, isn't in hospital, although she also tested positive. There's a few people wanting Trump to die and we all know who they are. I don't want him dead. I didn't want Boris to die. Just because I disagree with somebody's politics doesn't mean I want them dead. Wanting people dead seems to be something 'of the left', but not me. Trump is an arse, of course he is, but that doesn't mean I want him dead. The world needs arseholes solely for the purpose of comparison and to know who isn't an arsehole.

We brave much worse than rainwater...

I'm listening to Blues for Allah by the Grateful Dead, in fact I'm going to play it again, it's good background and I like Jerry Garcia, ever since watching that documentary about him, the one produced by Scorsese, is that how you spell his name? I'll check later. The weather's been poor and you might as well know that it's moving towards that time of year when the light has to go in the kitchen in order to make breakfast. In fact, let's face it, that time is now upon us, it's October for heaven's sake and that means looking out the window to see if a puddle is forming on next door's flat-roofed extension. Yesterday it rained all day and I didn't manage a ride. I'm now thinking about braving the rain just to be out there. It's only when it's cold that rain is bad news and besides, I have waterproof trousers somewhere. So far this week I've managed 60 miles. Normally, today, I'd be riding to Westerham or Dunton Green to bump up the mileage. Theoretically, I can still do that - and I might - but the general view based on the weather, is that it's going to rain non-stop throughout the day, and for most of next week too if I believe my iphone. 

Setting out our stuff last week at Tatsfield village bus stop. Pic: Andy Smith

Tomorrow we're due to meet in Tatsfield village, me, Andy and possibly even Phil. We need to change venues from churchyard to village purely because the latter offers us cover from inclement weather. All we have to do now is bite the bullet and get out there and forget about the rain, but it's hard when you gaze out from the warmth of the house and note the puddles and the wet grass and the shiny roads and the stair rods. Still, after a summer of ultra-cycling and feeling a lot better for it, there has to be a way of doing this. I'm considering facing the rain today and riding the Norfolk Nobbler, a six-and-a-half-mile ride with a couple of hills thrown in. It won't be pleasant, but it's not impossible.

It's 0714hrs and a light still burns above my head. I need a haircut. My hair is now getting long and straggly and I'm looking a mess. It hasn't been cut since March and while there are situations where I'd consider just leaving it and looking, dare I say, a bit like Jerry Garcia, I'm at a point where I need to freshen up my look. A feel a number three crop coming on! The plan is to have a haircut today in Oxted. There's a guy coming round to check the boiler in the kitchen. It's old, but it's still going strong, although we've been advised to give it plenty of ventilation. In all honesty, we need a brand new kitchen, but it ain't cheap and nor is a new boiler. The kitchen needs to be done fairly soon as we have a situation where draws don't shut properly, hinges are broken and the whole thing is looking really tired. It's like going back in time when you set foot in the kitchen: the brown, oatmeal tiles, the artexed ceiling, the hopsack work surfaces and the disgusting extraction fan over the sticky old gas hob. It's amazing what people are prepared to put up with, but that's the problem, people put up with things until one day it becomes too much and they start saving up for stuff. I remember once, when we lived in a different house, we had a thing called Operation Kitchen underway. It basically involved saving money and that in turn put us into inferior hotels whenever we went away for the weekend, although we probably cut back on stuff like weekends away in the country until the kitchen was fixed.

The curtains have been drawn back and it's looking pretty grey out there. I haven't checked the birdbath yet for rain drops, but I will in a minute or so. Last week I headed for Woodmansterne Green around this time to see Bon, it was a great day, the sun was shining, I was wearing a tee-shirt and I loved every minute of it. Now, the weather conspires against me and because of the virus there's no other form of exercise. The swimming pools are closed or subject to social distancing measures and all that's left is a walk and these days I'm not doing a great deal of walking, unlike in pre-COVID days when I'd be putting in around 10,000 to 15,000 steps per day. Nowadays, my iphone likes to inform me that I'm not walking as much as I did last year. It's right, I'm not, but I'm cycling much, much more. I'm hoping to keep it up, I've just got to get over the rain thing and get out there.

I guess I'd better start my day. Starting my day means having that haircut. This will be great because it means I can go to Oxted, which is around 10 miles away, and check out the bookstore. I'd planned on cycling there, but I'd be soaked through and I don't want to sit there feeling uncomfortable and making small talk with a barber. In fact, now I am starting to think about it, going to the barber's means the hassle of queuing, or rather sitting, waiting for a haircut and flicking through old copies of GQ. Not that I've been to the barber in Oxted before; I'm only going there because it's not Croydon and hopefully I'll be able to socially distance a bit more. Whatever! By the end of the day I won't be able to sit watching TV whilst twirling my long hair with my fingers and I'll be able to see my ears again. The jury's out on whether my long hair suits me or not. My mum says it does. She believes it's far better than the convict cut I normally have. My daughter was hoping I'd keep it going until Christmas and a part of me thinks I should, but it really is getting to the stage now where I look disparagingly at myself when I pass a mirror and think: 'what a mess'. Who knows? There might be a lot of people in there and I won't feel confident about sitting with loads of diseased people. Perhaps I should get the clippers out and do it myself.

My second helping of the Grateful Dead's Blues for Allah album is drawing to a close, it's time to start my day. Hopefully the next post you read will be about me riding to Tatsfield Village to meet Andy and Phil.

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

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

The Rockhopper resting at Tatsfield Churchyard, Sunday 16 August 2020

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

In Dallas...Fort Worth

The flight from Nashville to Dallas was pleasant, although I felt at one stage prior to take-off that the plane might disintegrate before it reached the runway. The American Airlines plane, probably a Boeing or an Airbus, I never looked, shuddered on every turn and squeaked and clanked its way to the strip but eventually took off without incident and I later enjoyed a cup of tea and a small bag of mini pretzels mid-flight. Around one hour and 40 minutes later we started our smooth descent into Dallas Fort Worth, through the cloud and on to the tarmac. I took the Skylink to terminal D and now I'm close to gate D15 from where I'll depart this great country en route to London Heathrow Terminal Five.

We had some rain last night in Nashville, but guess what? It was warm rain. Never experienced that before. I was in the Tailgate Brewery enjoying the old Peanut Butter Milk Stout and as I left and headed back to my hotel down came the rain. The warm rain. It was hot in Nashville. The temperature reached the early eighties, but finally the weather broke and it rained quite heavily through the night.

Inside Pizza Vino at Dallas Forth Worth airport, 

In the morning the roads were damp but there was a freshness in the air as I walked down to Barista Parlor for breakfast. But you know all about that – see previous post if you don't. Here at Dallas Fort Worth airport I've just had a late lunch of a pizza and a Cabernet, all very nice, but slightly off kilter. The place, Pizza Vino, was billing itself as an upmarket pizza restaurant – I had to take an elevator ride to reach it – so my expectations were high, but unfortunately they were dashed on the rocks of crap. For a start there were tables that needed a wipe-down, there were napkins left on the floor, there were laminated menus and to make matters worse, for some reason they didn't price their drinks. This annoyed me. I ordered a cabernet, assuming the price would be reasonable, but when I came to order another one (the pizza – proscuitto and ham – took an age to arrive and I was bored) I thought I'd ask how much. I was told $14. That's a lot of money for a glass of wine, even if it did arrive in a little glass carafe.

Oddly, my bill was only around $30. So I gave the obligatory tip, chewed the fat with the waiter, a really nice guy, who told me that to drive from Dallas to where his folks live takes 12 hours – and they live in Texas! Last night somebody told me that Texas was the second biggest state in the USA, next to Alaska. Imagine that, though, to get home by car takes 12 hours and you don't even cross a state line.

I'm not too far from the gate and I've found a power point, otherwise I wouldn't be writing this, but I felt it was important to write something from Dallas. I've got about 30 minutes before it's time to board and then I've got a nine-hour flight to look forward to; I can't say I'm happy about that, but what else can I do?

The television is screening something about Trump and the firing of FBI director Comey, but hold on, somebody's called my name over the airport intercom, that's the second time. I'd better go and see what they want. Nothing else to report anyway, I'm just sitting here. Outside it's blue skies and cloud and people are milling around as they do at airports. I'd better go, see you back in the UK.

I post a lot of hotel and restaurant reviews on Trip Advisor, which can be found by clicking here.

In Nashville, Day Four...*

There's a lot of raised voices outside of my room and it's 0520hrs. A woman and a man are raising their voices at each other – arguing in other words – and it can only be a matter of time before somebody from the hotel management arrives or somebody opens their door. I think the kerfuffle (that's a good word) is coming from next door, room 508.

Woman's voice: "My God, get you're shit together!" There was much more, but I can't remember what. At one stage I heard the woman use the word 'abnormal' and the man seemingly protesting or justifying whatever it was that she thought wasn't right.

Now it's gone quiet, perhaps somebody has had a word. My room and next door's are linked by a door that is obviously locked, but I'm always slightly uneasy about internal doors into other people's rooms. Earlier, resting my ear on the door I thought I'd better keep away in case one of them attempted to shoot the other and the bullet flew through the door and hit me. I'm making a sweeping generalisation here that all Americans are gun-toting maniacs who can't have an argument without shooting at one another.

The last time I eavesdropped on an argument between a man and a woman in a hotel room was in Pittsburgh at the Quality Inn, but I can't remember the gist of whatever row they were having.

The interstate

We're back to silence and birdsong, which has been pronounced over here. It's now 0526 and its brightening up outside. I can hear the distant roar of the interstate, or perhaps its the aircon. The interstate is a shortish walk from the hotel, possibly 10 minutes, but I'm thinking now that it's the aircon, although I might be wrong.

It's Wednesday and I'm up early because I went to bed early. Since Monday it's been work during the day, an early dinner with a colleague and then we part company, around 1930hrs. I walk back to my hotel, it takes 20 minutes along Demonbreun, which is pronounced De-mon-breun and not Demon brewin' as I was saying until somebody who lives here corrected me. Once in my room and with no urge to go back out again and nothing much going on in the hotel I simply jump into bed and fall asleep, waking once or twice during the night but then rising around 0500hrs.

What to say about Nashville? Well, you won't be surprised to hear that I like it (I like everywhere I go). There are high-rise buildings here, of course there are, but not as many as Portland or Cleveland or Indianapolis, but the downtown is growing, hotels are going up and so are office buildings, probably much to the dismay of the locals, but then I guess that high-rises and hotels bring in money and generate wealth and that should, by rights, benefit everybody. There's a large Marriott going up next to the Westin, there's already a Sheraton, a Hilton, an Omni, all the big brands are here, and they're being fuelled by a huge and impressive convention centre where I'm spending all of my days while here in the city.

I've been told it's a pretty safe place, although it's probably not safe for women walking around alone at night, but that's pretty much the same as in the UK. I've seen the odd down-and-out, but so far, that's about it; although, oddly, yesterday morning, my mobile phone sent through an 'amber alert' alerting me and millions of other mobile users in the city to a paranoid schizophrenic who had broken into his girlfriend's apartment and stolen her baby. I'm not sure on the latest, but I found it odd that my mobile received the message. I went down to breakfast and there on the television was the same words that had appeared on my phone, "Amber Alert" along with photos of the abducted baby and the madman.

While the madman and the baby is the local news, the big national story is Donald Trump's sacking of FBI director Comey, the man heading an investigation into the Trump administration's links with Russia. Odd that the man running the investigation into Trump has been sacked by Trump, but I'll leave you to draw your own conclusions, although, if it wasn't politics but gangland, I'd imagine Comey would have been bumped off.

Jackelope Bearwalker, 6% abv at the Omni

On the food front I can't say I'm impressed as it's all kettle chips with burgers and beer. I'm generalising, but there seems to be two extremes: either you go to places like the Hard Rock Café where there are lots of burger-type meals accompanied by fries or 'chips' – the terminology can be confusing, but basically if 'chips' are offered you're going to get crisps and that appears to be the common culinary currency here. The other extreme is places like the Palm, where we went yesterday evening and realised pretty quickly that it was 'posh'. Posh but still a little brash. It was a haunt of 'celebrities' which over here means film stars like Mel Gibson. The reason I mention Mel is because his is the first face I see – drawn on the wall, in colour, by a cartoonist and placed alongside many others. There are, of course, prices to match and a certain pushiness on behalf of the waiting staff. I'll give you two examples: first, the wine waiter (yes, there's a separate waiter for the drinks). I order a Cabernet, mainly because I'm not a great fan of the beer over here, but I'm not at all happy at the prices. Put it this way, two glasses of wine cost more than the food I ordered. Now that's not on for a start, but what I found irksome was the Ned Beatty lookalike waiter's assumption that I'd ordered a 9oz glass. I hadn't. In fact I hadn't said either way, but the prices were high so I was going for the 6oz. He came back with a smaller carafe and slung the contents into my awaiting glass.

I ordered linguine with clams – the bias here was steaks. There were bread rolls and some horrible-tasting iced tap water. My bill, without the tip, was almost $74. Never again, put it that way, as most of my 'potato chip and burger' meals have cost far less.

The waitress who took our food order was annoying too. She insisted on bellowing out the desserts rather than hand us both a menu. It was the usual fayre but at vastly inflated prices: Key Lime Pie, loads of chocolate-based desserts and, of course, cheesecake. We declined them all, paid up and left.

I moseyed on back to my hotel in the evening heat. It was still light as I made my way along Demonbreun and stopping off en route at Del Frisco's Grille just to check it out. It's close-by the hotel, meaning I don't have the 20-minute walk and can simply finish work, come back to the hotel and then go out later – I'll be alone from tonight as my colleague flies home. I stick around for the plant trips on Thursday.

Actually, I say that Del Frisco's is closer to the hotel in which I'm staying (1201 Demonbreun, I'm at 1407) but it's still on the other side of the interstate, although I'm guessing no more than 10 minutes. The prices look more reasonable too; put it this way, I could have two entreés for the price of one small glass of wine at The Palm.

So, it's 0622hrs, the sun is out, all is still, the skies are blue and I can hear the sound of a helicopter. I'd better get ready for breakfast and a catch-up on what's been happening with the schizo and the baby and, of course, the latest on Trump. Amazing how the two are mentioned in the same sentence.

* The reason there's no Day Three is simple: nothing much of any interest happened.

I write a lot of hotel and restaurant reviews on Trip Advisor, which can be read by clicking here.

Great weather prompts a ride to Westerham...

Time passes fast. It seems like only a week or two have passed since I walked home from work along Hayling Park Road in the dark, wearing a bright red beanie hat and a raincoat, wary of the icy pavement or, indeed, riding the bike wearing many layers, a scarf and balaclava.

March has just passed, we're in early April, the clocks have gone forward and already we have experienced summer-like conditions. Last night and all day yesterday we had blue skies, the buds on the trees are transforming themselves into green leaves, the blossoms are out and hedgerows give out a pleasant perfume.

Last night, at almost 1900hrs, the skies were still blue and both the sun and the moon were in the sky, the former shining brightly against the house fronts as I made my way home on foot.

General Wolfe casts a shadow in Westerham

People seem happier too and there are more of us on the streets. Old men pass the time of day with a comment about the weather and, when it comes to riding the bike, everything is pleasant. The roads are dry for a start, we can get away with wearing less clothes, although right now there is a kind of transitory period in progress when cold breezes can still catch us off guard, like last week as I rode along Essenden contemplating whether to return home for another jumper. But other than that, summer is rollercoastering its way towards us and that means pleasant rides and decent weather ahead.

I left the house around 0710hrs and headed for the green, but halfway along Ellenbridge I turned around: I'd forgotten a tennis racquet that I'd promised Andy for a photoshoot. I lost a few minutes, but soon I was back on the road.

Our bikes in Westerham, Saturday 8th April

Andy suggested Westerham, or I did, I can't remember, and we both hesitated, but eventually decided to take the plunge. My Specialized Rockhopper had yet to go there so that was good enough reason.

The weather was wonderful so we decided to get our heads down and save the chat for Westerham. I figured we'd arrive around 0830hrs, but when we eventually got there I forgot to check the time.

We rode along the 269 with relative ease, both bikes performing well, and soon we were passing Botley Hill and heading east along Clarks Lane towards the Tatsfield Bus Stop, which we soon passed and continued down hill. From Clarks Lane we could see a lot of mist below us, like clouds, and when we descended into the valley the temperature dropped considerably and we were both glad we hadn't yet opted for shorts and a tee-shirt. While April is a very optimistic month in terms of the weather – let's not forget that snow in 2008 – it's still packed with uncertainty especially where clothing is concerned. While scarves and balaclavas were left at home, we were still pretty sensibly dressed for any eventuality, like a sudden drop in temperature.

We sat at a wooden table behind the statue of General Wolfe and did what we always do: drink tea and munch on biscuits. We saw a few Morgan cars heading east on the A25 towards Brasted but otherwise Westerham this Saturday morning was quiet, sleepy almost, and certainly basking in a hazy spring sunshine.

Neither of us was looking forward to the hill leading us out of Westerham. We both knew that it continued all the way to Botley Hill, but, as always, like most things, it wasn't as bad as we expected it to be and soon we had passed the Surrey Hills totem pole and were heading towards the Tatsfield Bus Stop and Botley Hill. Andy said goodbye at the Ridge; he wouldn't be riding again until Easter Sunday.

Heading out of town and then up the hill...

I roared down the 269 towards Warlingham and then headed towards the green and soon I found myself in Sanderstead High Street. The bike was performing well or was it the weather that was making me feel good, probably a bit of both. I circumnavigated the pond and rode down Church Way, hanging a left on Morley and then a right on Elmfield, but I didn't take my usual left into Southcote. I continued along Elmfield and soon I was home, at 0957hrs. Not bad for a 22-mile round trip.

Feeling energised I spent most of the day in the garden, mowing the lawns front and back and sitting under the umbrella drinking tea and reading the papers.

In the news at the moment, Trump has fired off 59 (why not 50 or 60?) missiles and taken out an airbase in Syria. The suspicion is that Syria has been using chemical weapons again and unlike Obama, who pussy-footed around and did nothing, at least Trump, for all his faults, has taken decisive action and received the support of the international community, bar Russia and Iran, both allies of Syria.

There's been another terrorist incident, this time in Sweden: a lorry went on the rampage killing around four people in Stockholm, only weeks after something similar on Westminster bridge here in London using a rental car. It goes without saying that we're all getting a little fed up with it.

Lastly, Brexit. Theresa May has invoked Article 50 and we've now got a couple of years of watching the politicians mess up the economy as they struggle to get a 'deal' out of Europe. We all know they're going to get a bad deal. Why should they get a good one? Anyway, enough. The news is all very depressing and these days there's no media you can trust to tell the truth.