onionbagblog

I really do despair over recent events down at Meadow Lane. A provincial Fourth Division team getting into bed with the mysterious Middle East millions, a seedy Swede happy to pimp out his services to the highest bidder, plus an ageing pro looking for one final pay check - you have the perfect plotline that encapsulates football losing its soul.

It was no great surprise to wake up on Wednesday morning to find that Super Sol had gone AWOL. Again. Campbell’s appearance down at County was a marketing exercise; he was the marquee player (urgh!) bought in to tempt the other big names down to The Lane for a final fling.

Fourth Division football is a world away from the Champions’ League. It’s a lesson that the mysterious Munto Finance has learnt overnight, and one which will make its famous five year plan to return to the Premiership appear as unrealistic to the plotters, as it did to the real football world when it was first revealed over the summer.

But first a disclaimer:

(Lapsed) Forest fan having a knock at Notts? Not really. You need to understand the hierarchy of East Midlands football to recognise that County are a family club. There’s no worse sight than a bitter football fan, spewing out bile and hatred over a regional rival. But if pressed, I reserve the right to spew out my bile and hatred over the regional rivals of D***y and L*******r.

Pity the poor Notts old boys, who get genuinely angry that Forest fans don’t hate them with the same feeling they hold for their foes across the river. I grew up watching Notts County. Whilst Forest were winning European Cups, County gave my primary school free family tickets, in an attempt to snare a lifetime of misery upon the impressionable young Nottingham football fan.

Thankfully I followed the glamour, and went down the balmy European nights route at the City Ground. But yeah, Notts and I have history. I have happy memories of watching Neil Warnock’s side (really) in the late ’80s, taking the Pies all the way up into the old First Division.

“We’ve got Charlie Palmer, he smokes marijuana.”

Yeah, it was a crazy time, and one which treated any UB40 carrying young man around time rather well, with very generous discounts for the unemployed. It was almost worth not getting a job, just to watch the Pies on the cheap every other week.

The small fan base was one of the genuine innovators of the burgeoning fanzine scene of the time, with the wonderful Pie serving as a template for what football fandom could achieve on a local level. Cult heroes were born on the wrong side of the river, with Don O’Riordan, Mark Draper and Tommy Banana Boy Johnson. I once saw Big T doing the shimmy shammy.

Glorious Wembley days followed. Watching Notts beat Brighton in an old First Division play-off final is one of my highlights in thirty years of watching football. We didn’t like the view from the cheap seats, and couldn’t but help notice that the outer edges of the Royal Box were free. A quick trip around the old stadium, and one almightily blag later, we were sitting within touching distance of minor royalty.

Not many Arabs around, mind.

Ah, and so what attracted you to the multi-millionaire football investors, Mr Sven? It certainly wasn’t the female fan base down at The Lane.

And then along comes Mr Campbell. If paying the thirty five year-old £40k a week for sitting around and being ‘unfit’ wasn’t bad enough, allowing to release him from his footballing reality check just smacks of a short term hit and run investment in the club. Munto Finance has already lost the family ethos of the club, trying unsuccessfully to eject Meadow Lane tenants Nottingham Rugby.

The club has sold its soul, playing around with the infrastructure as though it were a Subutteo game, reducing the few loyal Notts old boys to something of a laughing stock. If it wasn’t for the Forest love / hate thing, then yeah, I would find it more amusing than alarming.

And so as the song said: Notts County had a wheelbarrow, and it looks like the wheel has finally fallen off. They’ll be bringing Gary Birtles out of retirement next.

Fools.

*ah, and we appear to have come full circle, with the very first onionbagblog post addressing… Sol Campbell, almost six years ago - blimey*

Earlham Street, W2, The Way We See It.

“This week we’re a hunting down another London street market, this time one of the smallest, but one of great photographic interest.

Earlham Street is slap bang in the middle of town, and yet relatively little known. It runs from Shaftsbury Avenue to Seven Dials, and then down to Neal Street.

The market itself runs Monday - Friday and this little cut through always seems to be bustly when it’s on, especially around lunchtime when everyone seems to come out for a bite to eat.

On the other half of the street is one of the best theatres in the whole of London town, the very wonderful Donmar Warehouse.”

I didn’t spend too long at the Brockwell Urban Green Fair this year. Truth be told, and I chanced upon the now annual event. A lost afternoon at the lido, and then I ventured out into the park with a spare hour or so ahead of the working evening ahead.

I’m pleased that I made the effort. Going green may not be for everyone; I can’t think of a better way of rounding off the weekend than a wonderful workshop from the ever-lovely Barney of Brixton Bicycles, and then half an hour spent with the always-engaging Mark Thomas.

The Urban Green Fair is unique within Lambeth, being booze and music free. It may sound like the perfect combination too induce chin stroking tepee bores, but it actually makes for the ideal setting for families to come together and share and learn.

The afternoon has an educational feel to it, with an emphasis on the practical rather than the theory. Barney taught me how re-wire my gear shifters and fiddle around with spokes; Mark Thomas reminded me why I should take more of an interest in global affairs as I seek to make sense of my little patch of South London.

Thomas is an infectious speaker, utilising the years of experience he has racked up on the comedy circuit to great effect, putting down political hecklers as he delivers across his message.

His current quest is to bring down the downfall of the Coca Cola Corporation. Given his previous track record of changing inerheritance tax laws, and being invited to give evidence to a House of Commons select committee investigating the arms trade, you wouldn’t put it past the protagonist to take the fizz out of the Coke empire.

Much of the afternoon was spent reading extracts from his latest book. Thomas was keen to emphasise that this wasn’t part of the promo circuit, with no books actually being on sale. His agent must love him.

And then with the global economy awaiting my arrival back in Sunny Stockwell to keep the wheels of the capitalist economy turning, I departed Brockwell full of ideas and plenty of optimism.

Independent, green festivals (um, the Cannabis Festival) have experienced problems in the past obtaining a licence from @lambeth_council. Which all seems rather strange; you couldn’t imagine a more environmentally friendly collective of people, anxious to leave the beauty of Brockwell Park in the same way in which they found it.

Something to do with the very real threat of the first Green seat soon to be won within the borough?

Rolling out on the crit circuit with @tourofbritain. Well, you know what I mean… #

At Parliament Square in glorious sunshine. Pelaton from @tourofbritain just sped through. Much excitement. Blink and you’ll miss it #

Oh dear. Boozed up London bloke just asked if @tourofbritain is #tourdefrance. Pissed up geezer aside, lovely atmosphere down by Embankment #

Unfortunate incident with over enthusiastic water steward along Whitehall at @tourofbritain. Rider delivered slap to face as he passed #

Gouged on sponsor friendly energy bar. Eyes popping out. Feeling unusually frisky down below. Gonna balance out effect with booze #

Come down to Embankment. Smell of Thames rank. Slightly fearful that Bicycling Village ahead will be a bloody trade fair #

WOW! Wonderful sprint finish and lead out for Barlow World. Thrill of the lunge for the line has to be witnessed. Off to snog a podium bird #

Just seen that nice Ned Bolton #

Full flickr set over here.

Never underestimate the kindness of the bicycling community. Never underestimate the kindness of any community - that is, after all, the fundamental building block which brings together disparate individuals to reach a shared goal.

But when that shared goal is to get my track bike, um, back on the track, it’s more of an individual pursuit, and one that alone, I’m not very good at.

I had a so so Saturday morning track session down at le velo. The legs surprisingly said yes, the bike said no. Track cycling is the ultimate in precision performance between rider and machine. You need to have full confidence in your bike, knowing that the slightest increase or decrease in power, and the pedals will respond and you can power home in safety.

It’s a deceiving discipline; much of track cycling is played out in the mind. You need to clear your head of all thoughts around you, and have a truly clear path ahead, both on the track and where your mind is heading. The slightest mechanical worry and you might as well bonk on the banks.

Much like my mind, my track bike was ticking away as I rolled out of Herne Hill, early Saturday morning. There was a very slight catch on the pedals with each rotation. Something was slightly wrong, and my concern was that the bike was going to fall apart on me.

I persisted around the rotation race, not helped when I was stung by a bee underneath my helmet at the start of the fifty-lap sprint around the SE21 circuit. Each time I tried to put the pressure on, my right pedal omitted a slight click against my cleat, coupled with a banging head from the b****y bumblebee.

Not a good place to be for mind, body and bike.

The mechanics of a track bike are so pure and simple, that even the most simpleton of bicycling grease monkeys should be able to find their way around the chain set with a spanner.

Ahem.

Clueless and lycra clad, I approached Eric, the Chief Club Mechanic down at Herne Hill for Velo Club Londre. Eric is a stalwart of South London cycling. His non-paid role basically means servicing the fleet of club track bikes down at le velo each Saturday morning. He shouldn’t have to be dealing with cyclists like me, who struggle fitting a cleat to a new pair of track shoes.

The problem was immediately identified - my crank needed realigning, having loosened out of the bottom bracket with every rotation around the Herne Hill track. It was close to coming off, something that would have made the bumblebee sting look like a minor inconvenience, had I bought down the entire pelaton during my sprint (ish) finish.

Eric very kindly clamped my frame down and got to work with his tool set. It was a tricky, fiddly job, balancing the crank either side, and then locking it all back into place. Forty-five minutes later and the job was complete. I offered to pay, but my offer was immediately dismissed. Forty-five minutes of mechanical time at Evans will cost you something slightly more than the genuine kindness of the bicycling community.

It is the many unpaid volunteers, like Eric, who make up the genuine community found within cycling clubs. Their own racing days may have been ridden out many summers ago, but they remain around the track or circuit, attached to the love of the bicycle and the friendship they can find from like-minded people.

There’s a VCL mechanical club day coming up soon. All club members are encouraged to help out, fixing up the fixies at the tail end of the season, and generally keeping the track in order. I can’t see that I’m going to be much use, but a day on handlebar tape duties is the least I can do to honour the kindness of the bicycling community.

Chapeau!

Warwickshire 201-1 beat Surrey 200-8 by nine wickets (Warwicks 2pts)

Looking over mid wicket at The Oval, awaiting the arrival of company for the evening. Truly adore this place. 81-2 @surreycricket. All fine #

Game on hold - the famous Surrey fox has just trotted across the wicket. Only fox you’ll find around these parts #

My Man in the Pinstripes sitting to my left said “144-5 for @surreycricket doesn’t look so good.” I would have to concur with Mr Pinstripes #

Half the korfball club seems to be at The Oval. Training night as well. Whoops. Warwickshire even playing in korf club colours. 148-6 ‘rrey #

The smell of cheap booze and Pringles caught up in the whiskers of beardy men is slightly alluring. 158-6 the ‘rrey. Fightback underway #

My Man in the Pinstripes notes that the Surrey head barman is once again watching cricket, rather than pouring pints. Good work, fella #

Surrey looking as limp as the Oval lemon tree out by the boundary. 175-8 with three overs remaining #

Kenny Kennington lurking ominously by the Oval boundary. Fans of breakdancing men dressed as hounds will be happy. Slog time. 198-5 ‘rrey #

Sitting next to Norman Tebbit in skirt. Gonna give her a squeeze and see if any b******s. Meanwhile that Jonathan Trott is back at The Oval #

Sweet. Cavalry has arrived with Dr A and more booze. 23-0 Warwickshire. What’s the abbreviation of the rather long County? Wars? #

Aye aye - it’s only Ian Bell at The Oval crease. You know what that next tweet will be. 32-1 Wars whatever http://twitter.com/Jason_Cobb/status/4034462124

Spectacular South London skyline at The Oval. Red sky at night, Surrey are in the s***e #

The Oval bar staff - p**s poor, like Surrey #

Surrey looking sorry. 144-1 Warks (aha!) chasing down 200. Members’ bar looks good for the evening #

I seem to have a pint of red wine. Whoops. 182-2 Warks, 19 to win #

My Man in Pinstripes said “12 to win with 9 wickets remaining is not within the capabilities of Warwickshire.” My man speaks sense #

No Bell end for once. Warks stroll it with an 8 wicket victory. Members’ bar awaits #

Two screens in the Long Room. One showing Liverpool, one the Arse. A club divided. No sign of Forest #

Portrait in the Long Room of Judith Chalmers and John Major. Blimey #

Ouch, OUCH. A fine evening out at The Oval, but I’m paying for it now on the early early shift #

And so I’ve reaching a tipping point in the utterly pointless @daytum onionbagblog online abacus. I began counting at the start of the year two sets of data online: which bicycle (s) I was riding each day, and which location I was taking my morning swim at.

As I said - utterly pointless.

But like most of the modern interweb, Daytum exists simply because it can; nothing more, nothing less. If I was being optimistic then I was hoping that some form of pattern might emerge on both counts.

What I can conclude is that the two bicycles I ride with the most frequency, are the exact same two bicycles that I would have named back at the start of the year, if you had asked me which two bicycles I ride with the most frequency (Moulton Deluxe and Raleigh fixed wheel.)

The # Days Spent Swimming Al Fresco daytum count is perhaps slightly more telling. I wanted to collate the data, giving me a time specific tipping point where I could say yah boo sucks and wave my willy in the air, happy in the knowledge that I have been able to swim outdoors this year on the same amount of occasions that I have suffered indoors.

And that great morning arrived today. One hundred and twenty three days indoors at Clap’ham / Brixton, one hundred and twenty three days outdoors @brockwelllido.

The temptation now is to discard the daytum stream. But with optimistic sounds coming out of Fusion management, suggesting that we may get a reprieve and swim al fresco all the way through until the end of October, I think I will continue the daytum count each morning as I brace my body for another bruising session.

And boy - it’s getting b****y cold in that pool right now. 17.2 degrees was the water temperature count this morning; a figure that if it wasn’t so brutal in freezing up my b******s at the time, I may have had the bright idea of logging all of this data in… a daytum stream.

A very brave young lady was swimming in the lane next to me, braving the autumnal elements of Lake Brockwell in nothing but a bikini. Blimey. Dodging the bobbing conkers as I put the lengths in was enough for me to contend with.

But then when my daytum count for al fresco swimming comes to an end in around forty five days time, the return to Clap’ham will be met with a big MEH, and longing for a return to the golden lido days.

My online daytum project for the winter months is to keep count of the number of days that GLL manage to keep the pools at Clap’ham and Brixton open.