Two rides to the Tatsfield Bus Stop...

Great weather! It's now light when I get up and light when I go out, so there's no need for (ahem) lights.

Vintage cars gather at the Botley on Saturday

We met at the green, as always, and headed, the slow way, for the Tatsfield Bus Stop. We didn't see that many Lycra monkeys and this was probably because of the (yawn!) Corona virus. I'm bored of it already, but I'd better get used to it as we now live in a one-news-story nation where the media simply focuses on one thing. For the last four years, it's been Brexit, and now it's the Corona virus. We reached the bus stop, drank some tea, moaned about the virus - why is it that we are being told that most people will only experience mild symptoms and yet the whole country is being shut down?  - and then we headed for home.

As I passed the Botley Hill pub I stopped to take a photograph of what looked like the beginning of a vintage car get-together. My phone (as always) was low on power and I didn't think this shot (above) had been taken, but it had.

Sunday was a carbon copy of Saturday, but I think the weather was slightly better. We sat at the bus stop chatting about the virus (again) and now I'm home, sitting in the living room, it's 1634hrs and the BBC news channel is on. Guess what they're talking about? Yes, you're right, the Coronavirus. We're all waiting for Bojo to put on his 'concerned look' (well-practiced frown) and address the nation. As I write this, he's probably looking into a mirror back stage and trying to get it right.

"Shut up, Dom! Don't make me laugh!"
"Did you get it, though?"
"Of course I got it! Have you seen the mess that snails make".
"You don't get it, do you?"
"Yes I do, now stop making me laugh!"
"Come on, Boris, you've perfected it, you're the great con artist remember, don't worry."
"I'm not worried. I'm more concerned about remembering your silly joke."
"Comb your hair!"

Voice of BBC producer.

"Prime Minister, we're ready for you..."

Johnson will be flanked by who? Probably the chief medical officer and the chief scientific officer.

In total we probably covered around 34 miles over the weekend.

Tatsfield bus stop on Saturday and St Leonard's Church on Sunday...

I was feeling uncharacteristically chirpy this morning despite a relatively late night, hitting the sack around 2330hrs instead of an hour earlier and waking up and listening to the wind and rain on a couple of occasions during the night. I was, however, up at 0600hrs eating porridge with fresh fruit and checking out the web for cycling shorts and a decent saddle, there's so much choice. Later, when Andy and I reached our destination of St Leonard's church in Chelsham, I found that I had the Small Faces' Lazy Sunday Afternoon in my head. "Wouldn't it be nice to get on with yer neighbours!"

Christmas tree on Sanderstead's 'Gruffy'

Yesterday we rode to the Tatsfield Bus Stop, the slow way, which is our usual way these days, and when we reached it we pondered many things including the essay question: "Everyone is a cunt." Discuss. I was going to have a crack at it - and still might - because the level of general cuntery in the UK at the moment is such that I feel such an essay is warranted and way overdue. Perhaps everybody should have a go.

It was good riding the short distance to St Leonard's. We'd been here before, of course, although I'd have to go through the archives to find out exactly when; it's one of those places we go to when we've got to get back early and it suited us both today. It meant that I reached home at 0915 having stopped off at the garage to give the bike a jet clean and buy a EuroMillions lottery ticket, just for the hell of it. That and a plain chocolate Bounty bar which I should have resisted. But there's my weak-will for you; I can't resist a chocolate bar now and then, although, at present it's a little more frequent that simply 'now and then'.

There's a Christmas tree on the green at Sanderstead, which was a pleasant sight as I rode through the churchyard on both Saturday and Sunday morning, although I didn't go through the churchyard on Sunday, preferring to stay on the road, making my angle of approach towards the tree slightly different today than yesterday.

Time for tea at the Tatsfield Bus Stop

We're thinking seriously about the Pop Inn in Redhill next weekend, mainly because we're getting bored of the same old routes. The slow way to the bus stop is fine, but we know it off by heart and there is a need for variety, which we're not getting at the moment. There's no point, for example, taking the same shots week in and week out of our bikes leaning against the bus stop, it's been done many times.

The problem with St Leonard's on a December morning is that the benches are going to be wet and we're going to have to stand up and not sit down like we do at the bus stop, but we didn't care.

I was dressed in my usual cycling attire: the rust-coloured jacket that has seen better days, a heavy jumper, multi-pocketed trousers from Millets and my rather menacing green balaclava. I was wearing my walking shoes, which are now fairly muddy and all-in-all, going back to that essay question, I looked like a right cunt, albeit a chirpy one.

The sun is shining brightly and right at me as I sit in the conservatory writing this blogpost. The trees are bare and silhouetted against ther sun's rays, there's a jet circling somewhere overhead prior to making its final approach into London Heathrow and there's dew on the grass. It's not cold either, which is a relief as last week I never managed to get a week-day ride in because of extreme cold (it was around minus one). I must go out tomorrow morning as it looks as if the rain will return on Tuesday.

My Christmas goes up a week early!

Andy rode to the green today and we parted at the garage where I stopped to give my bike a much-needed jet clean. All I need to do now is oil the chain and it should be alright. As avid readers will know, punctures have played a central role in my cycling life of late (see previous post) but other than that, all is well. There are birds chirping outside, the grass flutters in the breeze and the light is appealing, it was even better this morning as we rode those country lanes close to the church.

I've still got my trousers tucked in to my socks, but I'll soon rectify that. Time, I think, for a cup of tea.

Another rear wheel puncture, so off to the shop I went!

What to start with this week? It's got to be Prince Andrew's so-called 'car crash' interview with Newsnight's Emily Maitlis. There's two things I simply don't get. First, when he was asked whether he'd shagged what's her name, Virginia something or other, he said he couldn't recollect doing anything, even meeting her. Now, let's be honest here: if you're asked a straightforward question like that, you give a straightforward answer and it's either yes or no. To say you can't recollect it implies that you might well have done the dirty deed, you just can't remember because you were pissed, although, I can't believe that anybody can have sex with somebody and forget it happened, unless they deliberately want to forget it ever happened. That's one thing. Another is that photograph. He was adamant that the shot had been taken upstairs at Epstein's gaff, but said he'd never been upstairs, making me wonder how he knew it was taken upstairs. Where there's smoke...

Warlingham Green - all the fun of the fair

What else? Oh, yes, the photographer Terry O'Neill has died. I bring this up because I have worked with him, directly, and he was a nice bloke. In a nutshell, I had interviewed the film star Terence Stamp and he insisted that O'Neill took the photograph.

Not much else to say on the news front to be honest. I'm a Celebrity is on the box so I'm kind of watching it out of the corner of my eye while typing this blog post. They've gone to the first break and there's loads of Christmas ads. How boring! It's only 17 November. I suppose they've got to start at some stage.

Ant and Dec are such wankers. There! I said it.

Anyway, moving on. Yesterday, Saturday, was a great ride. I left home around 0710hrs, met Andy at the green and off we went to the Tatsfield Bus Stop, the slow way, chatting about Brexit all the way and then drinking tea and heading home. Great weather, but cold, so I wore the balaclava, which made all the difference.

But guess what? When I woke up on Sunday morning, after making the tea, I headed out to the garage to find yet another rear wheel puncture, so I aborted the ride and later pumped up the deflated tyre and rode to the bike shop. Then I walked into central Croydon, weird and desolate on a Sunday morning, and then walked straight back to the shop, picked up the bike and rode home. Effectively that was my day. When I got back I slobbed around for a while, messed around on the computer, the usual stuff, and then I drove over to mum's for some fruit cake. I sat there watching Escape to the Country with Aled Jones while sipping tea and munching cake and then I had a KitKat before driving home, messing around on the computer again and then eating a jacket potato and beans followed by a Tazo orange tea.

The Tatsfield Bus Stop, Saturday 16th November 2019...

Right now there's another ad break on I'm a Celebrity and another sickly festive advertisement, this time courtesy of Tesco - 'delivering Christmas for 100 years'. Really. Who cares?

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Great ride Saturday, no ride Sunday, another puncture and a new watch!

I won't say I'm not very pissed off, because I am. Very pissed off. Over the last week I've had THREE rear wheel punctures. I got back after my ride yesterday and noticed that the rear tyre was, well, let's say softer than it was when I embarked upon Saturday's cycle to the Tatsfield Bus Stop with Andy. It's annoying for one reason, well, for more than one, but the main one being we were planning a ride to Westerham today and breakfast in the caff, but now it's not to be, and that's not only because of the puncture, which is bad enough, but also the fact that I simply couldn't face going out into the garage at 0630hrs to fix it. Look, getting up early is fine (just about fine) but year in and year out we do it and we love it, not so much the getting up, but riding the bikes; but fixing punctures BEFORE a ride? No. So I aborted.

Yesterday we rode the slow way to the bus stop and it was fantastic, a great work-out. But when I reached home the tyre was soft and I know that if (when) I head out to the garage in a few moments - right now I'm drinking me tea, my second cup of tea, but it's decaff so its alright, but as soon as I've finished it, I'm out there, I've got to take the rear wheel off, then do all the usual things that need to be done to fix it. I'm not going to moan anymore, in fact, I'm going to talk about something completely different: I bought a watch last week in Carnaby Street. Yes, a watch. Avid readers might recall that many years ago I was the proud owner of a Rolex watch. I'd bought it with some spare cash at the time and, well, there were issues when I look back. It never really kept the right time, probably because it was one of those perpetual motion watches and somebody in Brussels told me recently that they're not as accurate as quartz watches. That somebody worked in the Swatch shop in Brussels, not far from the Grand Place. I walked in off the street - I can't think of any other way of walking in, to be honest, it's not as if I could have parachuted in. Anyway, I bowled in, because that's what I do, I bowl in to places, I rock up, and was told that perpetual motion watches simply don't keep good time. Well, the Rolex people told me my watch needed a service, but guess what? It costs £400 to service a Rolex watch and it was starting to get a little ridiculous. To be honest, in the end I stopped wearing it. What was the point? And add to that the fact that it looked a little ostentatious, the sort of thing people rob you for, so it skulked around in a box upstairs, never seeing the light of day, until, that is, I found myself in debt. Time, perhaps, to sell the Rolex, which I did and I got double what I paid for it. Result, you might say, but it left me watchless. Not that people wear watches any more; instead they rely upon the clock on their iphones, I know I do. And then I bought a little Timex watch with a glowing face, but it was cheap and nasty and part of the brand's Expedition series. Yes, I fancied myself as Indiana Jones and whenever I travel abroad I take it with me and keep it on UK time. But it lacks finesse and, if I may say so, so do I. I lack finesse in so many different areas, one of them being sartorial elegance. I wear Jeremy Corbyn shoes and V-necked jumpers and cheap shirts and ties. I am man at Millets or Primani, and quite frankly I'm getting fed up with it.

Sekonda's Midnight Blue

I was watching Dave for some reason, I think it was Dave Gorman's Terms and Conditions Apply, and I noticed that the Sekonda Midnight Blue (it's a watch) sponsors comedy on Dave. What I great watch! Or so I thought. I started to obsess about it, like I do whenever I want something. I get like a little kid and start wanting it immediately. I found myself staring at it in shop windows, even getting the jeweller to let me take a look at it in the flesh; it was a nice watch and it only cost £70. Now, compared to the Rolex, that's cheap, right? Of course it is, but then a trip to Brussels changed things. I walked into that Swatch shop off the Grand Place and spotted the Casual Blue. It was a little more expensive (£135) but now I had a new obsession and it had to be put to rest so I bought it, not there and then in Brussels, but a week later in London. I should have bought it in Brussels because then there would have been a story attached to it. "I bought it in Brussels, you know". But no, I bought it from the Swatch UK shop in Carnaby Street and ever since I've bought it (it's now three days old at the time of writing) I can't stop looking at it. It's a got a blue face and it looks like the sort of watch spies or explorers wear in the movies, the sort of watch the camera cuts to whenever the time is brought up. It's stainless steel with a leather stitched strap, its perfect in every way. And it's heavy too. The last thing I want is light watch. In fact, before buying any Swatch watch make sure you see it in the flesh. When I arrived at the Swatch shop in London there were watches there that I'd considered buying (while browsing on-line) that were far flimsier than I suspected. The Casual Blue, however, lived up to everything I expected from it so I bought it there and then and left the shop feeling good about myself.

Swatch Casual Blue...

Ever since then I keep looking at it when it's on my wrist. Feel free to ask me the time, I say to people I know. Feel free, and if you do, I'll stretch out my left arm and tell you and you'll notice this huge chunk of stainless steel with a blue dial and a brown leather strap. It's cool, of course it is! And I love it.

So I've finished my tea and the sun is shining and I'm annoyed that I didn't get out on the bike today. Had I gone out, I'd be on the way back now, probably about half an hour away from my front door, but I didn't go out, I stayed in and there's a puncture in the garage waiting for me to fix it. Oooh! Is that the time? Better go.

Round to mum's on Saturday and the fast way to the bus stop on Sunday (we got soaked)

It's great riding to mum's for so many reasons: first, of course, is seeing mum, who is 90 in November. Mum's looking extremely good for her age and she's as bright as a button, according to Bon. I was hoping he would join me on the ride, but he had stuff to do. Mum reads a lot, she eats well, sleeps well and most importantly, she's chilled. You've got to be chilled, that's half the battle. Mum is chilled because of her garden; she's out there most days and it's immaculate (as I'm sure I've said before). I must have arrived just before 0900hrs having left the house around 0810hrs. The weather was perfect and the ride was good, although there's always a bit of traffic as I travel west through the burbs. A lot depends on the time I set out; if I leave earlier, there's less in the way of cars and vans, but once beyond 0800hrs it starts to build up, until I reach Carshalton Beeches, which is when I enter the magical world of mum and fruit cake and Brambly Hedge and Mrs Tittlemouse.

Nice weather Saturday en route to mum's

Sitting in 'the lounge' by the patio window, looking out on the garden, we engage in small talk about forthcoming weddings, what my brother and sister have been up to, how Marion from 'across the road' had her operation and came out of hospital the same day as the op, the woman in the bungalow opposite is a chartered accountant, don't you know, and, of course, we talk about dad, who died on 15 May 2011, but leaves behind a legacy of history books, like Trevelayan's History of England, a red hard back that has seen better days and is held together by red sticky tape. I daren't say I'd like to read it because it would mean taking the hefty tome home on the bike and then not reading it and having nowhere to put it. On the same shelf is the dictionary I presented to dad just a few days before he died. Inside, I had written 'Just in case you're lost for words', which was a pun on the fact that he was never lost for words and the book I had bought him was full of words.

I cut myself a couple of slices of mum's fruit cake, another reason for riding over. There's always fruit cake at mum's and there's always KitKats in the biscuit 'tin'. It's not really a tin, it's a piece of porcelain shaped like a house, which I bought her for Christmas a few years ago. The lid is the roof and when I lift it, there's always KitKats or Penguin bars or something of interest. I stuck with the cake.

Keeping the saddle out of the rain...

I rode back exactly the way I rode out, but the traffic was heavy and I regretted not taking the slightly longer off-road route, but all was well.

On Sunday I heard rain on the conservatory roof and almost aborted the ride, but stopped short of doing so. Instead I wrote "Pissing down here. Thoughts?" God knows what I was expecting, but I followed up with "Might leave it 30 mins and see" followed by "Or 15 minutes". Andy suggested meeting at 0745hrs and we did – and got a bit of a soaking, but it was warm so it didn't matter. In fact, the rain stopped for my ride to the green, but returned as we headed past Knight's Garden Centre en route to our chosen destination, the Tatsfield Bus Stop. It made sense to ride 'the fast way' rather than dawdle along Beddlestead Lane in the pouring rain, and soon we found ourselves under cover and drinking tea.

Next week this blog is 10 years old. Well, the exact birthday is Friday 27 September, but we'll be celebrating (if that's the right word) with a ride to Westerham on Saturday 28th September. Westerham was our first ever destination, but our cycling predates this blog by three or four years as I think we started in 2006 – or was it 2007? I'll have to check it out. Andy said the weather for next Saturday is not looking good, but let's see.

I considered riding back with Andy along the Ridge, but was put off by the hill at the Warlingham end of Slines Oak Road and decided instead to risk the 269. I always risk the 269. The rain had stopped, but when I reached home I was still soaked through and so changed into drier clothing.

The ride is nearly over as I arrive at Sanderstead's village pond...

The weather has changed, the light needs to be switched on when I come down in the morning and it's clear that winter is coming. In a month from now the clocks go back and we enter what I always describe as 'our weather'. I don't know why dull and overcast weather characterises our rides, but it does. I woke up this morning, for example, to the sound of rain, meaning I won't be able to ride around the block, although it's all gone quiet so perhaps it will be possible.

All-in-all, a good weekend of cycling, probably around 28 miles in total. Yesterday (Monday) I rode around the block and I was hoping today too, but the weather dictates otherwise.

Fast way to the Tatsfield Bus Stop...twice!

The weather was fine and, you know what? Not a great deal to discuss. We rode to the Tatsfield Bus Stop the fast way, twice, on Saturday and Sunday. We didn't even take any photographs. Well, alright, I took a couple of a field close to the Botley Hill pub, but they're nothing to write home about. What is there to say, in fact? Nothing much. The weather was fine, the rides were uneventful, we did what we always do: sit at the bus stop and chat, but I can't even remember what we chatted about. Andy was in a bit of hurry, he had stuff to do, hence the fast rides to the bus stop. I was up for going to Westerham and it looks like we'll go there on Saturday next week.

Today I did a short ride around 0645hrs. I didn't go far, just round the block. No more than 36 minutes on the road and a few hills here and there. It was okay, just a little work-out before showering and going to work. I might do it tomorrow, but I'm not committing myself. Not much going on generally so I'd better sign off.

Here's that really boring shot I took at Botley Hill...

To the Bus Stop and then the Churchyard...

Heavy winds on Saturday and rain made a planned trip to Westerham a complete no-no. There had been severe weather all over the place, especially up north and in Scotland, but I was under the impression that it wouldn't really affect things down south. How wrong was I? First, it rained heavily overnight and when I woke up it was grey and nasty, but not cold. Andy and I met at the green as usual and decided to go to Westerham, the fast way. But as we rode along the 269 the gloom eventually morphed into rainy gloom and as we made the turn on to Clarks Lane we decided to stop at the Tatsfield bus stop, based on the knowledge that there was no cover in Westerham and we would have been soaked by the time we got there. We sat looking out at the gloom and slowly drying off. It wasn't cold so it didn't really matter.

Heading down Church Way towards home
on Sunday morning..

I rode back along the 269, but decided to hit the off-road path after a gust of wind nearly knocked me off the bike. As I approached Sline's Oak Road there was a car crash and the driver who caused it drove off. He left the scene of an accident and never returned, a crime if ever there was one. A man driving a white Berlingo van had slowed down to turn left into Sline's Oak Road and suddenly I heard the screech of brakes. A Ford Ka or a Ford Fiesta, silver grey, was travelling too fast and tried to slow down but hit the rear of the van, sending it spinning to a stop close to a small pond. For a minute I thought the driver of the Ford was pulling up and making ready to exchange telephone numbers with the guy in the van, but no, he sped off and never returned. Further along the road there's a mini roundabout and I said to the man in the van, who was unhurt, that the guy in the Ford was probably turning round. But my faith in human nature was misplaced. "He probably isn't insured," said the more clued-up van driver, a furniture maker from North Devon who was on his way home. I gave him my telephone number and then headed towards Sanderstead, but I checked the Sainsbury's car park in case the Ford, which had extensive damage at the front, was parked up or abandoned there. All I needed was a licence plate.

Sunday morning on the 269 - not a lot of cars

I relayed the story to Andy on Sunday morning as we rode towards the Tatsfield Churchyard, the long way. The weather had improved considerably, the wind had lessened and the skies weren't grey anymore, but it could have been a little warmer. We sat on our favourite bench and drank our tea, chatting about this and that and then it was time to head home. We rode up the hill towards Botley, Andy parted at the Ridge and I rode the 269, this time remaining on the tarmac and not taking the off-road track.

Two good rides this weekend and hopefully two more next weekend, we'll see.

Two rides: to the churchyard and then (ahem) 'the field'...

Flytippers visit Hesiers Hill

It was good to get two rides in. Both involved Beddlestead Lane, which is always a bit of a chore, but it was a good weekend of cycling and the weather held out too.

On Saturday I was running a little late and when I reached the green we decided to head to the churchyard. It was a fairly average ride, nothing untoward occurred (when does it?). Although, when we reached Hesiers Hill it was disheartening to notice that the fly tippers had been out dumping their rubbish on the road. We stopped, but not for long, and soon we were pedalling hard towards Clarks Lane. I can't say I'm a fan of Beddlestead, but it's a good work-out so it can't be that bad.

When we reached the churchyard we did what we always do: drink tea and chat about this and that. We rode back up the hill towards Botley and parted company at the Ridge.

On Sunday we set up 'camp' close to an adjoining field and the nettle-infested path from which
we had just emerged - unscathed! Pic by Andy Smith.

On Sunday we thought we'd visit 'the field', the one that's just across the road from the Tatsfield Bus Stop. The last time we were there was roughly a year ago when the field was full of corn and the sun shone brightly. Perhaps it was earlier in the month, I don't know, but there was no corn, just grass, and it was wet. We entered the field from White Lane because Andy said the path from the other side was overgrown with nettles and thistles (he was right). It took a while to find the path (the North Downs Way) but when we did there was a short ride under tree cover towards a gate and that meant we'd have to manhandle the bikes. Andy suggested lifting them on to their rear wheels, which seemed to do the trick, and once we were both through we decided to get to the churchyard to drink our tea. Between us and our destination, however, were plenty of thistles and nettles. Andy was ahead of me, but suddenly I found him standing still in front of me. "It's thick with nettles, we'll get stung to buggery in our shorts!"I was wearing my camouflage shorts that I had purchased in Miami in 2007*, they're a bit baggy and I wouldn't even think about going commando. Andy might not have used the word 'buggery', in fact I'm sure he didn't, but it seems to express the way he was thinking perfectly. Shorts are not ideal where nettles and thistles are concerned, although I discovered recently that a nettle's sting can penetrate through long trousers, so there's no way out. Andy was prepared to go back the way we'd come and to be fair, I thought we might have to as I looked over his shoulder at what awaited us, but it was worth a try I thought. "I reckon we can do it," I said, taking the lead and employing the bike as some kind of battering ram to flatten the nettles on my left while steering clear of the nettles on my right. It worked and soon I found myself close to the roadside next to an old tree trunk. Andy followed and I don't think either of us were stung. Our decision to advance to the churchyard was based on the heavy dew that hung over the field. There was nowhere to sit down.

The field was damp so we battled with nettles to find a place for tea.
We had just emerged from those woods you can see across the field

"We might as well have our tea here," I said, pointing to the tree trunk. Andy agreed so I pulled out the flask and the teabags and milk.
"I don't understand why nettles exist," I said. "I know everything has a meaning, a purpose, but I can't see the purpose of stinging nettles."
"Ladybirds like them, apparently; they lay their eggs on them; you would have thought they'd find other plants," Andy said, slightly flustered about the whole situation.
"Bastards," I added, or I should have, perhaps I did, I can't remember.

Further along, loads of nettles...

Last year the field was full of corn, this year it was just grass. "I think it's what they call crop rotation," I said and Andy was reminded of school. "I remember learning that," he said, and so did I.

"What about oxbow lakes?" I said.
"I remember those too," he replied.
"I've seen one from the train, somewhere near Northampton," I said, like the geek I was. Actually, I'm not a geek.

It was time to head back up the hill towards Botley again. As we passed the dew-laden field on our left, Andy spotted a metal gate. "We should have lifted our bikes over that gate," he said, but it was too late now. Perhaps if we'd seen the gate we might have ended up in the churchyard, but one thing was for sure: a lesson had been learned. No more field unless we could be guaranteed it would be dry, but either way there was still the hassles of humping our bikes over the gates, and who can be bothered to lift the bikes? Not us!

We were on the North Downs Way...

We parted again at the Ridge, pledging to be back on the bikes next week. The rides back along the 269 on both days were quiet, not much in the way of traffic, which was good. The weather was good too, warm and bright, but not much in the way of blue sky and sunshine.

There's been two mass shootings in the USA, one in El Paso, Texas, in a Walmart where 20 were killed and 26 injured. It's being classed as a hate crime (surely, that's obvious). Not sure about the second shooting, but it took place in a bar on East 5th Street called Ned Peppers in Dayton City, Ohio, in the Oregon district of the town and nine people were killed.

In other news... Iran has seized another tanker and Boris Johnson is pledging £1.8 billion for hospital upgrading, except that nobody believes him. Time will tell.

Andy arriving at Warlingham Green...

* I visited Miami in 2007 to attend SNAXPO, a conference and exposition about the snacks industry in the USA.  I was staying on North Hollywood beach in a hotel that was yards from the sea and was with a colleague, Nick Thorp, who would later join Andy and I on one of the Black Horse bike rides.

Sunday - to the Tatsfield Bus Stop...

On Saturday it rained all day. It was that horrible, persistent, constant drizzle, interspersed with heavier downpours. Outside everything was wet and dripping and the skies were grey; gone was the clear, blue skies of the week just past when the UK sizzled in record temperatures: it was something like 38 degrees, the hottest ever, but that all changed on Saturday morning. I was up at 0600hrs, looking out of the window at a puddle on next door's flat-roofed extension. Rain was hammering down. I immediately sent Andy an abort text, but hesitated slightly, thinking that perhaps I should wait to see how things look at 0700hrs. But I sent the abort as the rain had its slippers on and was planning to hang around. It never stopped and I resigned myself to not going out. Instead, I lolled about fretting about this and that (holidays, money, the usual things) and then later I discovered that Andy had gone out! I couldn't believe it at first, but he'd gone out in the pouring rain and was adventurous enough to consider a ride to Westerham, the slow way! In the end, having stopped at the bus stop to shelter from the storm, I think he decided to head for home and, let's be straight here, he was soaked through, but not cold, he later told me. I guess respect is due for this, he's either a legend or a fool and I'm going to opt for the former.

Andy braved the rain on Saturday and I think he's bought a new bike...

Later I checked out my iphone to see what the weather had in store for Sunday. There was a white cloud, but fortunately no blue rain coming out of it; fine, it was going to be an overcast day, but at least I'd get a ride in. And sure enough, the next morning was grey but dry, although it had rained overnight, I think. I met Andy on the Green and we headed for the Tatsfield Bus Stop the slow way. As we cycled along, Andy told me about his ride in the rain on Saturday as we weaved our way around the country lanes, down Hesiers Hill and up Beddlestead. The bushes and shrubs on either side of the road had grown considerably and at places they poured onto the road. There were a few Lycra monkeys around. We reached our destination and out came the tea and biscuits, although I've given up the Belvitas. We sat there, as we always do, making small talk, watching passing cyclists and motorists and then, after our two cups of tea, we jumped back on the bikes and headed home, Andy rode along the The Ridge while I took the 269 heading towards Warlingham. I got home around 0930hrs and, for the first time in a few weeks, I felt energised. It was good to get back on the bike.

Is this Andy's new bike last weekend in Westerham?

The Tudor Rose is closed, there's no tea for Sunday's ride...

First, when we arrived in Westerham fully expecting to eat a massive breakfast, we found one of the Tudor Rose waitresses sitting on the green. She'd only got up because she heard me exclaiming that the restaurant was closed. It's not normally closed, but the door was locked, the lights were off, the tables had chairs resting on top of them. Why wasn't it open? According to the waitress, the only person with a key hadn't turned up. She didn't seem to know why. "It doesn't matter," I said, but it did matter. Andy and I rarely have breakfast in Westerham and we'd decided that today we would do just that: ride to Westerham and eat a hearty breakfast. But it was not to be. We skulked off. The Italian caff was also closed, leaving us with one option: the Costa Coffee. We don't like Costa because it charges a fortune for not very much, like all coffee chains. In fact, we rarely ride into Oxted because we know we'll end up paying the best part of a tenner for a cup of tea. But now there was no alternative. We found a table outside and I went in and ordered. "Two teas and, er... two Bakewell tarts," said I. "That'll be £50,000," said the woman behind the counter. Actually, she said "That'll be £8.80," and I placed my debit card on the machine until it beeped. Then there was that monotonous wait while another person pieced the order together: the cups, the saucers, filling the two small white teapots with water, adding the teabags and then retrieving the Bakewell tarts from the counter display. I nearly dropped the lot, thanks to a pillar behind me that I hadn't noticed, but all was well and soon I was outside, placing the tray of goodies on the table and taking a seat.

Tea and Bakewell tarts, Costa, Westerham

The waitress from the Tudor Rose was back on the green waiting for the person to arrive with the key, but every now and then she'd get up and come back towards the Costa, go inside and then reappear again. We continued to eat our tarts and sip our teas and very pleasant it was too, until it was time to go, that is. Around 0845 we headed off up the hill and it was pretty painless. We parted at the Ridge and I rode the length of the 269 without resorting to the off-road path. I was home around 0945 and then drove off into deepest Sussex for the day. It had been a great ride and good weather too.

Our bikes outside Costa, Westerham

Sunday the weather was poor. It was spitting rain and then the spits turned to drizzly rain, but it was fairly warm out so it didn't matter. We were both running later. Earlier, Andy had texted me saying just that, he was running later. I texted back. "So am I, can't find the top to the flask." And I never did find it and eventually resorted to the fact that there would be no tea. We both arrived at the green at 0745hrs and decided to head for the bus stop the slow way. "It won't be the same without tea," I said. "It's more than just tea," said Andy and we rode off along the Limpsfield Road.

Warlingham Green on Saturday morning. Pic by Andy Smith

As the rain drizzled down we talked about the recent Purley stabbings and I said that I remembered when I was a kid, everybody had knives, pen knives or even flick knives, but there was never any knife-related violence. Beddlestead Lane is mentally and physically challenging, but today it was fine and soon we found ourselves on Clarks Lane and making the left turn towards the bus stop. When we got there we knew there was no tea to drink. I broke my 'no biscuits' rule and ate two of Andy's Belvitas and then we looked at the long grass in front of us. "We can't even flick our tea bags," I said.

A mug but no tea at the Tatsfield Bus Stop. Pic: Andy Smith

With no tea to drink - we normally have two cups each - we cut our stay at the bus stop short and headed for home, Andy parting at the Ridge and me heading down the 269. Again, I didn't opt for the off-road path and reached home at 0920hrs.

Saturday's ride was great, but Sunday's was marred by the rain and the lack of tea, but all-in-all, both rides were alright and we managed almost 40 miles of riding.

On the news front, it's being reported that Donald Trump pulled out of the Iran nuclear deal purely to spite Barack Obama. Serena Williams lost the Wimbledon final and there's more fall-out from the Kim Darroch affair involving press freedom.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Three weeks out of the saddle...

The last time I took the bike out of the garage it was still April. I haven't been on it for three weeks and I've started to notice things. I feel sluggish and fat basically. I've had a week in the USA where I've tried to eat sensibly, but sometimes 'looking after myself' goes out of the window and is replaced by chocolate chip cookies and fizzy drinks, French fries and cheese and if you take into consideration that I've lapsed a bit on the walking sessions at lunch time, then you might have some idea of the way I'm feeling.

My bike taking it easy at the Tatsfield Bus Stop, Saturday 26 May 2019*

Not going cycling for three weeks isn't good on any level and when it comes to getting up at the crack of dawn (well, 0600hrs) then it's even harder. I had the alarm set for 0630hrs, which was a mistake as it didn't give me any time to chill out and slowly wake up while making my porridge. So I went without, which is rare for me, and instead had cold Weetabix sprinkled with a dash of sugar. It wasn't the most appetising of breakfasts, I can tell you, especially as I hadn't really put enough milk in the bowl, leaving the second biscuit dry and crumbly. "Roughage, that's what you need," as my dad might have chipped in had he been standing there.

I got out around 0710hrs, unpadlocked the bike and headed off in the direction of Warlingham Green. Andy was there and we decided to ride to the bus stop via Slines Oak Road and the golf course, turning left instead of right when we reached the road. We cycled past what might still be Al Fayed's house, although I have a feeling he's moved on. Past the road that dips down into Oxted and onwards towards the mini roundabout at the top of Titsey Hill. We sailed down Clarks Lane in the direction of Westerham and swung into the bus stop, and then out came the tea, the best part of the ride.

The grass in front of the bus stop had become overgrown, but that didn't stop us from flinging our teabags off a spoon and into the long grass. It's a game we play every week. "Teabags are biodegradable, so it's okay to discard them irresponsibly." Yeah, right, Matthew, that's why you always see huge piles of banana skins and teabags littering the country. Andy's better at it than I am (flinging tea bags) but today I think I did well having slung my two teabags almost into the road, which is the Holy Grail in this game. I haven't the foggiest idea what the locals think of us.

Tea finished we headed off, vowing to visit the Tatsfield Churchyard for Sunday's ride and possibly Westerham for bank holiday Monday. It all depends on the weather.

I was going to ride back with Andy, but thought I'd get back quick and get on with the day so I rode down the 269 and half way along - well, probably not even half way, more like a quarter of the way - I jumped on to the off-road path, which meant I was risking a puncture. That would scupper me, though, and I really didn't want to fix a puncture as that would mean a visit to Halfords to buy some leeches. In fact, I'm hoping I can avoid a puncture this weekend as I've got no means of repairing it. Let's not even go there.

I reached home before 0945hrs and got on with the rest of my day.

* Pic by Andy Smith.

To the bus stop!

The weather has been all over the place. Two weeks ago I reported minus 1 degree when I hit the road. Last week we had full-blown summer with temperatures around 24 degrees and yesterday (Sunday 28 April) we were back to cold and blustery conditions. There was, of course, storm Hannah on Saturday, but that didn't really bother us, although Andy reported a windy ride (I aborted).

I nearly aborted Sunday's ride too. When I woke up and peered outside it was raining so I attempted to rattle off an abort text to Andy, but the phone ran out of power. Once I'd charged it up the rain had stopped and it was game on, although I could have done with going back to bed, I'd had a busy week of decorating the hallway and running around all over the place. A lie-in would have been nice, but, as always, I was glad to be out in the fresh air.

Our bikes surrounded by bluebells south of Warlingham Sainsbury's

We decided to head for Tatsfield Village, the slow way, but I forgot and when we reached the bus stop, purely out of habit, I pulled over and stopped. We decided to stay put.

The main topic of conversation today was the abundance of wankers everywhere in the UK, nobcheeses, idiots, arseholes, whatever you want to call them; they're on virtually every street corner. There are bad drivers on our roads, bad neighbours, poor politicians, sharky landlords, fat bastard bankers, fat cat cunts, they've left no stone unturned in their quest for world domination.

On the return journey, Andy branched off at The Ridge and I almost followed him, but decided to ride along the 269 into Warlingham and then home. I'd brought my padlock along with me because I'd intended to stop at the store to pick up some porridge (Flahavan's Irish multi-seed variety, it's the best) but after stopping and padlocking the bike against a post (it was 0937hrs) I remembered that the shop opened at 1000hrs. Somehow waiting around for 20 minutes was wrong on so many levels so I headed home, but returned later in the car. 

Great weather on Saturday, but blustery and cold on Sunday morning...

Is there any such thing as a good abort? Probably not, because the 'abort' is basically the termination of a ride, the cancellation of a bit of leisure time. Perhaps the phrase I'm looking for is a 'timely abort'. Although 'timely' implies of the moment and my abort this morning was certainly not timely: I didn't check out the weather, see that it was about to pour down and then rattle off an abort text to Andy. Far from it. Mine was, if you like, pre-meditated. I knew I was going to do it, although, admittedly, I hesitated because I wasn't sure. In the end, however, I sent the text because I knew there was a lot happening today and that a ride would just be too much.

Our bikes,  Beddlestead Lane, Saturday 30 March 2019

After sending the abort I jumped back into bed and then, around 45 minutes later, I got out of bed. The clocks had gone forward an hour. I had porridge as always and a cup of tea and then I messed around on the computer. Later I went out, bought a Google Chromebook, on which I am writing this note.

Yesterday was great. The weather was wonderful. It was almost like a summer's day. We rode the slow way to the Tatsfield Bus Stop, but never reached it. We cycled a fair way up Beddlestead Lane and stopped by the mobile phone mast on the right to take a different shot than the one we might have taken at the bus stop. We've run out of ideas at the bus stop, having taken every possible shot at least twice. We decided not to push on to the bus stop, but to stay put and drink our tea, watching the Lycra Monkeys exert themselves as we took in a few rays and sipped from our mugs of tea. I wonder what they must have thought as they puffed past us, exerting themselves unnecessarily, and spotting Andy and I, not wearing Lycra, taking things easy.  It was pleasant. There were blue skies and it was warm We discussed Brexit, quite sensibly, I thought, and then headed towards Clarks Lane, turning right instead of left. Andy parted company at The Ridge and, as usual, I continued along the 269, using the off-road path and then joining the road at the roundabout close to Warlingham Sainsbury's where I would later buy my Chromebook (they have an Argos store). We vowed to meet the following day, but didn't because I aborted. It was Mother's Day, people were coming over. Charged with the simple task of heating up a few pizzas, I messed up, probably because it had been so long since I last ate a pizza that I simply forgot the procedure. Anyway, I won't bore you with the details, but I will say that we only ate one of the three pizzas purchased.

Yours truly (left) with Andy Smith, who took both photographs

Sunday wasn't as pleasant weatherwise as Saturday. In fact, it was cold and rainy as I crossed the car park clasping my new Chromebook, but things started to brighten up in the afternoon. As I write this, the sun is shining.

I'll be back on the bike next week.

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

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

Flytipping at the bottom of Hesiers Hill

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

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

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

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

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

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

Caked out!

Saturday was windy. Trees were swaying to and fro and there was drizzly rain too, here and there. Not pleasant. I had a bad cake day. It started early with two pieces of fruit cake 'round at mum's', not forgetting two Malted Milk biscuits I didn't need; then, later, I paid a visit to the Tudor Rose café in Westerham where I ordered a slice of Bakewell tart. It wasn't the best either, it was a sorry looking cake with a chunk of icing that should have adorned the top of it, hanging loose and revealing the cake underneath. I wasn't impressed, but then I haven't been impressed with the Tudor Rose of late. Whenever the owner isn't there, things slip, like the level of service and, it seems, the quality of the cake. There was also a stain inside my tea cup. After the Tudor Rose I had some driving to do, not much, but a little bit, and when I got home I (foolishly) opted for a pre-prepared prawn curry from Waitrose. Not the best thing in the world, but nobody felt like cooking, least of all me. I boiled up some rice and served up. The food was accompanied by some green beans (there had to be something healthy about it) and a glass of tap water. Not exactly the most glam meal in the world. Afterwards, I considered some Weetabix (two biscuits) for dessert, with honey on top, but as I opened the bread bin I spied some hot cross buns. All-in-all, a bad cake day and now, as I sit here writing this blogpost in the conservatory, the birds tweeting outside, the sun shining and blue skies, no clouds, I look ahead to a day that I intend to make cake-free. I can't possibly eat any more, seriously. Last week I did good. I managed a whole five days without biscuits, but I weakened on Friday and had an iced bun in the M&S café. The only bad thing I had last week was apple pie and custard on Tuesday, although that particular meal, in the Pop Inn Café, was not the best thing in the world (unusually, as it's a top notch caff in my opinion). My main course was chicken and mushroom pie with chips and peas – not good, but for most of the week I had sandwiches and I'd invested in some Be Good to Yourself chicken noodle cuppa soup, which saw me through and kept me away from the biscuits.

It started on Saturday with mum's fruit cake...

With so much eating going on, I was annoyed that I hadn't gone cycling on Saturday due to the heavy winds and drizzly rain, although in many ways one led to another: rain = no cycling = lots of cake. It's now Sunday morning and a ride is on the cards. The weather seems perfect and all I have to do now is make the tea, but what's this? A text? From Andy? A late abort? No, but Andy's running late. I suggest we meet at 0745hrs. The next paragraph will be after I return, so see you later...

Well, I'm back, feeling energised by a decent ride. I reached home around 0930hrs. We rode the slow way to the Tatsfield Bus Stop as Andy didn't have much time and I wasn't up for a longer ride. There were blue skies and sunshine, but the trees were bare and it was still a little on the chilly side. All week it's been windy and rainy, but the summer is on the way. It's light now when I wake up at 0600hrs, but the clocks go forward next week – or thereabouts – and that will mean slightly darker starts for a short while and lighter evenings, but either way it means summer is almost upon us.

Andy said he'd taken every possible photograph at the bus stop, he'd run out of ideas, so we didn't take any and besides, my phone had run out of power, despite the fact that it showed 34% of the battery life still available. That's the problem with iPhones. I'd happily revert back to the Nokia 3310, but I do use some of the functions of my 'smart' phone, like Google Maps and email and texts, although I could get by without them if I had to, as most of the time it's little more than a call home saying something like "I'm on the way home" or "I'm at East Croydon station". The old 3310 had great battery life and they fitted in the smallest of places, like a breast pocket on a jacket. They were also indestructible, give or take. Once I remember jogging over Riddlesdown Common and taking a fall. The phone landed with a bang (like I did) the back came off, but that was about it; I simply clicked it all back together and it was fine.

How to take a bad photograph...

On the ride back, Andy took The Ridge and I rode along the off-road path of the 269, risking a puncture. The wind had brought a small tree down across the path so I had to lift the bike over it and re-mount. And now, of course, I'm home and I'm about to hit the shower.

Later I let myself down again. I found myself in the Brewhouse Restaurant at Knole, a National Trust property. I ordered swede soup and bread, which was very tasty, but then ruined it by ordering a scone with cream and jam. Fortunately, a long walk followed, which took away my guilt.

The bike needs a jet clean, urgently. It's covered in mud and is looking in need of some TLC. Next week I'll pay a visit to the Esso garage on the green. Until then, goodbye dear readers, have a good week.

To Tatsfield Bus Stop and Godstone Green

The weather was perfect on Saturday and slightly cooler on Sunday, although both days were fine for cycling. On Saturday we rode to the Tatsfield Bus Stop the slow way and because of heavy fog around Botley Hill, we rode back the slow way too, riding up Hesiers Hill. On Sunday we decided to ride to Godstone Green, not my favourite destination because of the hill on the return ride and that little bit of off-road through the golf course on the outward journey.

A burnt-out truck at the bottom of Hesiers Hill on Saturday morning

I was feeling despondent and depressed all weekend, mainly because I had to keep asking myself what is the point? Everything seemed so futile and pointless and my general state of mind was confirmed as being right, when I thought about the undeserving rich, those fat bastards (all weekend I've been using a much stronger word beginning with C and rhyming with hunt) who seem to have everything, but don't necessarily do anything more for it than those who don't enjoy the spoils of greebling to the boss and eating too much.

There are lots of these people around and they're always fat and beyond the help of exercise. Put simply, they're awful individuals who, quite frankly, I want to avoid like the plague they are; but it's not that easy.

I was watching a documentary the other day entitled Skint Britain. It was set in Hartlepool in the North East of the UK and it was all about people on Universal Credit, a new idea from our Government of Fat Bastards. Basically, these people are on their backs, they have nothing, but the Government's Universal Credit system means that they have to wait a whole month before receiving their benefits and for some of them it's disastrous. They resort to shoplifting and attacking local drug dealers to survive and despite all of this, the Government thinks it's a good system.

Andy's Blast almost at the top of Gangers Hill. I was still pedalling up...

In the corporate world (and in the Government), there are loads of complete idiots in positions of seniority because they're either good at one thing – greebling – or they just happen to be in the right place at the right time. Nobody likes these people in the workplace and you can bet your arse that they've trodden on a few people as they made their way to the top. Some of them shouldn't even be in work, they should have been put out to grass many years ago as their companies set about changing their business models; but no, they're still there earning a pointlessly large salary while their staff get by on a pittance. We all know people like this: two or three holidays a year, eating out all the time (and getting bigger and bigger in the process); half a dozen cars in the driveway – and it probably goes without saying that they vote Conservative. If Jeremy Corbyn ever makes it into Downing Street, he'll tax them into the Stone Age, which would be funny, but until then we've all got to live with the fat bastards.

The worst thing about these people is that they get richer on the work of other less well-paid individuals, the ones with the ideas, who earn virtually nothing and are always on the breadline, worrying about whether they can buy a book or go out for a curry or have lunch in a caff instead of relying upon sweaty egg sandwiches every day. They also have to wait and see what 'the boss' throws their way in the shape of a bonus and meanwhile they fret about whether they are going to be shafted in some way, which they probably will be.

And in all of this let's not forget the worst 'royal' ever – Megan chuffing Markle. Nothing to do with the corporate world, I know, but while people in Hartlepool are resorting to crime to eat, she's out spending £500,000 on a fucking baby shower in New York. Now there's greed for you! The awful Amal Clooney paid £125,000 for Markle's flight there and back in a private jet. And what does Markle do to appease the populace? She writes a load of patronising old bollocks on bananas using a felt pen and gives them to prostitutes. "You are strong" and words to that effect. Oh, there's a revolution coming, there's a revolution coming!

I view the weekends as stepping stones that I reach after five days of working. I was kind of looking forward to this weekend, but it all turned to shit when I was reminded early on that I was nothing, I simply work and work, day-in, day-out, and I get nowhere fast, I have no 'spoils of victory', no nothing, I simply 'get by' if I'm careful and I don't overspend; and you can bet that somewhere not that far away is a fucking fat bastard getting away with it. Come the revolution, of course, these people will be the first against the wall.