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A fine morning for my short hop to work… but I fear that the fingerless gloves will soon give way to the winter warmers.
Not wanting to be responsible for another City disaster (my failure to raise the Lucky Flag being one of the reasons for our midweek defeat against Birmingham), I got the flag up good and early yesterday. And we cruised to a comfortable win, so I think that proves it works. Doesn’t it?
A rather tense first half yielded few chances, and City looked rather lacklustre. But at half time, Sir Gary put something in the boys’ tea, and before we knew it we were 3-0 up. Much to the relief of the crowd, new boy Nicky Maynard was responsible for both of the first two goals, winning a penalty with a flamboyant dive (which, away from home and with a different referee, might have been rewarded with a yellow card instead of a penalty), and slotting away a cool second from a well-worked move. Happy Days are here again, and the pleasure of watching one’s team defend a comfortable lead (for once) cannot be underestimated.
A pleasant game of golf in the morning (albeit one littered with disastrous shots), and an evening spent watching the Ryder Cup (featuring an incredible array of outstanding shots) completed a thoroughly enjoyable day. The weather this weekend has been stunning – almost too hot at times, but I’ll be lynched if I grumble – and this morning I helped Stephen erect his new shed, which turned out to be a most pleasant thing to do. It was one of those jobs which, on a bad day, could have been a nightmare (bits missing, parts not fitting together, hammers striking thumbs, etc.) but which, on this occasion, was plain-sailing, and very satisfying. I think there’s something very special about sheds. And there was also something very special indeed about the warm flapjack that Helen produced to encourage the workers. Trust me, there’s flapjack, there’s good flapjack, and there’s Helen’s flapjack. Yes siree.
A lovely morning for cycling, with bright autumn sunshine, a bit of mist, and lots of mellow fruitfulness. Ann had to go to Easton and wasn’t sure of the best route, so I cycled with her, which made a refreshing change from my normal route to work.
I was struck by the number of other cyclists on the road, and as we headed away from the centre on the cycle path, our progress against the flow of city-bound commuters was pretty tricky at times. I’ve been cycling to work for around 10 years now, and would be interested to know the statistics about growth in bike use during that decade – it must have more than doubled, and looks set to double again pretty quickly.
Another wet ride home today – this one was a real stinker, torrential rain blown right at me by a squally wind. Nearly home, I was waiting at a red light when a young woman and her child, both also on bikes, and both, like me, ridiculously wet, pulled up alongside me. I was struck by how happy they looked, despite the circumstances, and we got into one of those truncated traffic light conversations. “I love cycling in the rain“, she said, with genuine enthusiasm. “It makes me feel so alive!“. I knew exactly what she meant, and our little chat certainly cheered me up, but tomorrow I’ll happily settle for feeling so alive in the sunshine…
This morning’s bike ride to work was especially unpleasant, thanks mainly to the weather. We’re expecting over an inch of rain today, and I think half of it fell on me during my 13 minute dash. When it comes to negotiating the puddles, the obvious preferred option is to cycle around the puddle – but sadly this option is usually unavailable due to passing traffic keeping one pinned to the kerbside. So one has to go through it. One can either keep pedalling, risking a thorough soaking of feet and lower legs, or free-wheel through it with feet inelegantly raised above the height of the tsunami. I usually go for the second, although I have a horrible feeling that it makes me look even more ridiculous than usual, and certainly not very chic. I wonder how these Copenhagers deal with puddles?
“Arse of the Day” award goes to the lorry driver who couldn’t wait to get past me to get to the traffic jam first. Anyone who’s ridden a bike in traffic will be familiar with the scenario – there’s a long queue waiting at the lights a couple of hundred yards ahead, and any driver, however lacking in imagination or intelligence, can see that their vehicle will be held up, whilst cyclists will be able to roll to the head of the queue. At this point, drivers seem to split into two camps. The rational, co-operative driver proceeds calmly behind the cyclist, whilst the other variety speeds dangerously past, forcing the cyclist into the gutter (and through any puddles that have collected there), and showering him with dirty spray from his oversized wheels, just in time to slam on the brakes and join the back of the queue. I think it’s a macho pride thing.
Never mind – when Bristol becomes the UK’s first “cycling city”, all this will be a thing of the past – lorry drivers will become sensible and patient, cyclists will have the UK’s finest network of cycle routes to keep them safe, and it won’t rain any more.
Well, maybe all is not lost, weather-wise. This morning was absolutely beautiful, and I drew back the curtains to see a hot air balloon hanging motionless in the blue sky above the SS Great Britain (how lucky we are to have that view, and how ironic that exactly a week ago the Balloon Fiesta was ruined by the weather).
It was quite chilly, though, in an alarmingly autumnal way, all of which made for perfect conditions for my bike ride to work. Cycling through Bristol can be such a pleasure, especially with the lighter traffic during the school holidays.
Stephen and I are pretty hardy when it comes to playing golf in crappy conditions. Once we’ve made the effort to get to the club, sorted out domestic arrangements, and got all excited about the thrills and spills ahead, we’re not easily put off by a bit of rain, fog, or even snow. Many’s the time we’ve been the only people on the course, observed with a mixture of pity and incredulity by friends from the warmth of the bar, and even I have to admit that winter golf can keep its charms well hidden at times. The rain seeps through your uncomfortable waterproofs, the wind blows your ball off the tee peg just as you start your downswing, the greens are waterlogged so you have to putt on temporaries, by the 15th your hands are so cold that you can’t feel the club anyway, and you breathe a sigh of relief as you struggle down the 18th to see the welcoming lights of the clubhouse against the darkening sky.
But the only real problem with all of this is that this particular round of “winter golf” wasn’t in the winter at all. It was yesterday, August 13th! Aaaarrrgghhh – what’s going on?!
Not the greatest game that we’ll see at Ashton Gate this season (I hope), but a good result which sees us through to the next round of the League Cup. “We’re going to Wemberley“, sang the East End, which may be a tad premature, given our distinctly mediocre performance – in fact, we were quite fortunate to win against a side from the division below who played with more creativity, and a great deal more commitment.
Highlights were the well taken close-range goals from Carey and Brooker, the tannoy announcement asking “Mr Pete Borough to go home immediately“, and the final whistle. (Everyone was extremely relieved that the Posh didn’t equalise, not because we might have gone on to lose, but because we’d have had to endure 30 minutes of extra time.)
The low points (and there were many) included Christian Ribeiro getting seriously injured 20 minutes into his first team debut (it looked like a broken leg, but fortunately turned out to be ligament damage), Peterborough scoring an easy goal from a defensive cockup to take the lead, and the shite weather (August has turned into November).
One thing’s for certain – we’ll have to be better against Derby on Saturday if we’re to continue the winning start to the season.
So, the season has started again, and the magnificent City boys picked themselves up in their first proper game since the Wembley “disappointment” to win their opening game in style. In truth, judging by the radio commentary and TV highlights, we were rather lucky to win, but a win’s a win. And after all the shenaninigans around getting a decent striker on board, new boy Nicky Maynard wasted a couple of excellent chances, and it fell to substitute Steve Brooker, the old workhorse, to score the winner, from a very difficult angle, in the 90th minute. The City fans, including Brendan and me huddled over the radio in the kitchen, went wild, and the neighbours, unaware that the season had started, probably thought ”Oh no, not this again already…”.
Nicky Maynard provided the best quote of the day, saying afterwards that although he was sorry not to have scored, he was made up for Brooks, it was all about the team, etc., and he was just glad that “we are another step closer to promotion“. Well, Nicky, we are all delighted to be off the starting blocks, but let’s not get too carried away!
This was also the weekend of the Balloon Fiesta, which, of course, meant rain, wind, and an almost total lack of hot air balloons, all very disappointing for my sister and family who came over especially. It amazes me that the organisers persist in scheduling the event for August, which is such a famously shite month in Bristol – they’d stand a better chance of a successful event in the middle of January. But we did see the Red Arrows, a lot of mud, and a woman called Amanda in a pony and trap performing “stunts”, which consisted basically of her steering her unfortunate ponies over a series of speed bumps. Barking mad, but very funny.
It’s the Bristol Balloon Fiesta this weekend, one of the biggest events in the city’s calendar, so I thought I’d check the weather forecast:
Bristol weather forecast
Not quite what the organisers would have hoped for in the middle of August. I love living in Bristol, but I do wish we could have a decent summer every now and then.
January was a pig of a month, and, without wanting to wish my life away, I’m glad to see the back of it. And now it’s February, the sun’s been shining for most of the day, and, what’s more, it’s still daylight at 4:55 – marvellous! When the days are as short and cold as they are in the middle of the dark bit, I find it hard to imagine playing golf at 9:30 in the evening, and cycling to work in a tee shirt. But that magical “coming round again” thing has happened 50 times before to my certain knowledge, and probably more (although that’s just hearsay), so I think we can rely on it again this year. Especially as the daffs and snowdrops are beginning to show – they never get it wrong.
It’s been raining in Bristol for about 3 years, and people are taking to the streets to demand an end to it. It’s really not funny any more, especially as the proper rain of a few days ago has given way to an Irish type of driving drizzle. I’ve been eating, working and sleeping in waterproofs, and still I’ve been getting wet. We haven’t had daylight for weeks, just the horrible mid-winter Tupperware greyness. Like this…
But I shouldn’t grumble. It’s Saturday (again?! Where does the time go? Why does it seem to pass exponentially faster as I get older? I’m 50, but the last time I looked I was only 23!), so no work, Sainsbury’s has been done, the cupboards are full, the fire’s lit, and I’m warm and relatively dry. The only pimple on the face of the weekend is the fact that, as I write, City are losing by a scrappy goal at Crystal Palace. Still, it’s only half time, West Brom are losing too, and there’s plenty of football left. Nick Carle, our new Australian Chilean mid-fielder, is making a promising debut, so let’s hope for the best.
Golf this morning was abandoned after 10 holes because of the rain (did I mention the rain?), but was enjoyable nevertheless – and, funnily enough, we had the course almost to ourselves. Last night’s performance by the excellent Moonshot ska band was a real highlight – I always enjoy live music, especially when it’s done with such a sense of energy and fun.
Whilst the horribleness of my cycle to work was significantly mitigated by the moment of kindness from the recycler (see below), the even more horrible ride home offered no saving grace. By then it was snowing, and the wind, behind me this morning, was now in my face, and much colder. The motorists with whom I have to share the road seemed even less considerate than usual, and the bike seemed to have doubled in weight during the day.
But, once home, I got changed into warm and dry clothes, lit the fire, made a nice cup of tea, and settled down for a quiet read – or more accurately, a few pages followed by a nice snooze. The book was Bill Bryson’s “The Thunderbolt Kid”, a great read, and one which has made me laugh out loud on several occasions. I chose it as light relief after “The Road”, by Cormac MacArthy, simply one of the most powerful books I’ve ever read, but certainly not a laugh a minute…
Today it’s absolutely pouring with rain in Bristol, and I took even longer than usual to prepare myself for the bike ride to work – waterproof trousers, rain cover for the pannier, a tot of whiskey, 2 hours’ of Buddhist mantras, that kind of thing – and the actual cycling was as unpleasant as I had anticipated.
At one point, my route was blocked by a recycling lorry, which is not unusual, but was mildly irritating on such a foul day. Nevertheless, fortified by the mantras, I calmly slowed down, ready to wait for the operatives to do their worthwhile job and move on. The guy unloading people’s empties into the van looked even more oppressed by the weather than I felt, but when he looked up to see me drawing near, he stopped his thankless work, moved to one side, and waved me through the narrow gap with a broad smile. “Thanks a lot”, I said, loudly, as I free-wheeled past. “No problem”, said he, still smiling through the torrential rain.
It made my day.
We had one of our regular bridge meetings at the weekend, which was almost spoiled by the glorious summer weather. The Leeds boys decided to let the train take the strain (to quote an old, and totally inappropriate, slogan from British Rail). They got as far as Birmingham before being told that services south of Brum were subject to disruption because of heavy rain and flooding. Sure enough, they were turfed off the train and into a mile-long queue for coaches. After a happy couple of hours, they got onto a coach, which inevitably joined an almost static queue. Long story short, they ended up spending the night at the motorway services somewhere on the M5, finally reaching Bristol at 10:00 on Saturday morning, having left Leeds some 21 hours earlier. Fortunately, the Dunkirk spirit had prevailed, and they had made lots of new friends in the face of adversity, including one woman who spent the night telling anybody who would listen about the various ways in which she had exacted revenge on her ex-husband. Most satifyingly, she had let herself into his house when he went on holiday, spread a sackful of cress seed throughout the (fully carpeted) house, watered it in, and turned the heating on. Ex-hubby returned from his fortnight in Torremolinos to find a well established cress farm where his lounge had once been.
Anyway, back to the bridge. Pete and I obviously thought we stood an unusually good chance to regain the trophy, playing against the sleep-deprived zombies from Leeds… but, sadly, it was not to be. They drew on all their reserves of guile and ingenuity to beat us narrowly at the death.
The silver lining to a tarnished, but enjoyable, weekend was the extraordinarily exciting end to the Open, with Padraig Harrington winning in a play-off against Sergio Garcia, who had led throughout. I had a small amount of money on Harrington, at 25-1, so what with him winning and Els (another of my picks) coming 4th, I ended up £92 better off. Nice.
I really am heartily sick of rain. Every morning lately, I’ve woken up to the sound of rain on the roof windows, and know that I’m going to have yet another wet cycle to work in sweaty waterproof trousers. What about the hot summers that global warming promised us? Were all those short-haul flights with Easyjet a complete waste of time?
Well, it was never going to be the weekend of summer weather that we might feel entitled to expect in the middle of July, but I can’t help feeling slightly aggrieved that it was so much worse than even a pessimistic forecast predicted. The rain started on the way down on Friday morning, and Stephen and I, the advance party with special responsibility for tent erection and golf, bravely battled gales and driving rain to set up camp on the already-waterlogged field.
Then off to Saunton Golf Club for our annual round on the fine links course. People say that Saunton would undoubtedly have hosted the Open by now, if it had better infrastructure around it, and I must say that every time I play there I’m more impressed by the course, the setting, and the challenge. That last bit (“the challenge”) means that I was crap, but by calling it a “challenge”, I can make out that it was the course, the weather, etc. that made me crap, but that I’m otherwise an excellent golfer. And, although neither of us played as well as we could, at least we had a good, close game which left us level on the 18th tee, from which point Stephen cruised to an elegant par to lift the trophy. Except there isn’t one.
And so back to the campsite, where Stephen’s caravan awning had reverted to kit form in the wind. We were eventually joined by the rest of the party, who had got lost on Exmoor while attempting to circumnavigate a traffic jam.
Saturday morning offered some respite from the weather after a wild, stormy night. In fact the afternoon was glorious, with a breezy sunny afternoon on the beach. We had great fun with the bodyboards, trying to catch the perfect wave, which made me realise that I don’t see the sea often enough. It really does have restorative powers for me, and I felt more alive than I had for months, what with bat and ball, cricket, and all the other childish, beachy stuff.
And then it was Saturday evening, which started with the customary hunt for a decent takeaway meal (fruitless, as usual), and culminated in Daniel, after too many sneaky beers at a neighbouring campsite, staggering into his tent at midnight and causing it to collapse. It seems that, having unzipped the outer flysheet, he forgot that he also had to unzip the inner tent before diving headlong onto his sleeping bag. Which didn’t stop him settling down for the night, in the rain, on top of the flattened tent… which was probably just as well, given that he awoke not long afterwards to throw up… which would have been most undignified if he’s been snuggled up behind 2 fiddly zips… which would probably have been impossible to undo in a hurry.
We decided to make an early getaway on Sunday morning, and after a happy hour spent filling the car with wet tents and hungover teenagers, you can imagine how thrilled I was to find one of the car tyres flat as a pancake. And of course the spare was in the boot, beneath said wet tents and everything else. But still, after an even happier hour spent emptying the boot, changing the wheel, and refilling the car, we were able to slip and slide our way out of the campsite to start a very quiet drive home.
A bit of an “up and down” kind of weekend, really…
Well, I’m getting fed up with the rain. Everything just seems so wet. I suppose it’s what makes England such a green and pleasant land and all that, but enough’s enough. I’ve always thought that it would be nice to live in parts of North America, like New York state, where they have proper summers and proper winters. We seem to get a random jumble of seasons at any time of the year, and the past few weeks have certainly felt more like autumn than summer. Playing golf the other day (in the rain, of course), my opponent commented that his ball hadn’t bounded along the fairway as much as he had expected, due to the wet, muddy conditions. “Hmmm”, I said, “in the summer you’d have got at least another 50 yards”, before realising that it was June 30th. Hard to get more summery in terms of dates, but certainly a long way adrift in terms of golfing conditions. Still, mustn’t grumble, at least I needn’t have worried about the water butt not filling up…
Seeing as how it’s now July, Brendan must have finished his GCSEs… although it wasn’t always obvious that he was going through the ordeal. Very laid back, and quietly confident that he’s done ample to get himself to the next stage of life, namely 6th form and A-levels. He’s been encouraged in his quest for beer knowledge by his cousin Dan, who recently got a 2.2 in Politics at Liverpool, which is a great achievement. Dan’s always been a fine role model for the under-achieving boys in the family, and I’m really pleased for him. And talking of fine models, Bren scrubbed up beautifully for the end of year “prom” (aka “school disco, with expensive accessories like a suit and a ride in a stretch limo”). He’s now realised that he needs a job to keep him going for the summer – but sadly jobs for 16 year olds are rather hard to come by these days, so he’s decided to spend the “summer” (sic) unconscious during the a.m. hours, and migrating between Playstation, television and fridge during the p.m. bit.
Finally saw “Walk the Line”, the Johny Cash biopic. What a good film, with superb performances from Joaquin Phoenix and Reese Witherspoon, incredibly singing all the songs themselves. I’d imagine there was a fair bit of post-production enhancement going on, but nevertheless a brilliant effort.
Other recent highlights – The Killers at Glastonbury (I didn’t go, but loved their set on telly), the Open Back Garden day in Southville (almost ruined by the rain, but a nice event nevertheless), and making a new garden gate for Pete’s birthday. How I’d love to make a living from working with wood – trouble is, I’m so slow that I’d probably have to charge about £1500 for a gate. Then again, I suppose I’m not much quicker at making databases, which I’d better get back to now that Cup-a-Soup time is over…
Well, Brendan starts his GCSEs today, so the nerves are really starting to show (mine, that is – B’s his usual bright and breezy self, just another day, etc.). He kicks off with RE, and I’m sure he’ll be fine, as with all the subjects based on words and ideas – he could write convincingly all day long about Judaism and Islam, without really knowing much about either of them. We’ve still got a few weeks before his first Maths exam, which is just as well, given that we’ve still barely scratched the surface. In a revision question the other day, he was asked to “name these 3 geometric shapes” – he called them Rupert, Gerald and Veronica.
We had a good time on the Art Trail at the weekend – lots of nice stuff to see, people to bump into, rain to shelter from (I actually quite like rain when it’s proper rain, the straight down, ploppy kind, and when I’m equipped with a good umbrella). Our own installation, “A Car Boot Tale”, was great fun, with several residents of the street turning their car boots into mini-installations. Ours was called “Stowaways”, and consisted of 30 photos of people’s eyes, “hiding” in the boot, dimly lit beneath a blackout cloth. The effect was quite eery, but it brought more smiles than alarm, so that was nice.
The Eurovision Song Contest resulted in the usual travesty, with the UK entry getting votes from only Ireland and Cyprus, and the rest of “Europe” using the opportunity to give Tony “Warmonger” Blair the finger. So once again, we finished in penultimate position, without even the jokey distinction of coming last with nul points. I’m old enough to remember the golden age of the UK’s involvement in the contest in the 60s – Sandie Shaw with no shoes, Clodagh Rogers bouncing up and down on her spring, Lulu, Sir Cliff… ahhh, those were the days.
Excitement is building in south Bristol, as the annual South Bank Art Trail kicks off tomorrow. It should be great fun, although this threatens to put a damper on proceedings…
Never mind, there will be the usual buzz of creative energy as people shuffle round viewing the area’s artistic endeavours – or is it just a good chance to nose around other people’s houses?… More about the Art Trail here.
