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To Wivenhoe Town Cricket Club! …on Thursday evening as the Winterval no-man’s land period between Christmas and the New Year continued to ebb away at the arse end of 2011. With three more moons before 2012, a man who sits on the sofa during any arse end is a man who may as well disappear up his own backside in boredom.

Careful what you wish for, arse lickers.

But anyway – cricket, you say? The wet walk down Rectory Road wasn’t quite the occasion for getting padded up and strolling out to the crease. Instead some silly mid-off action was on the agenda in the lovely pavilion with the Wivenhoe Funny Farm Comedy Club.

With the Christmas TV schedules seemingly humour free, a hyperlocal comedy night out at least kept @AnnaJCowen and I away from another repeat of that bloody awful David Jason balls-up of a comedy bypass. If you want belly laughs then you need to see some live comedy. All the better if it is taking place right on your doorstep.

This was a special gathering for the Funny Farm, being almost a year to the day since Hazel Humprheys’ brilliant night out first moved to the current home of the Cricket Club. The venue is simply perfect for the occasion, offering a compact space to bond with like-minded folk, a decent bar and the splendid isolation of no neighbours to worry about, once the laughter levels rise.

Which would all work rather well during a summer cricket match as well.

Ha, bloody ha.

Some comical booking confusion led to five acts appearing on the December bill. No worries – the last laugh came from the punters, who for the incredibly generous door charge of £6, probably had the best value ticket in all of North Essex – and that included the impromptu performance that we witnessed at chucking out time at an unnamed nearby pub. Best book up that artist for a guest spot at the Funny Farm next month.

Paul Ricketts opened the evening, with a well-observed set about ageing. The front few rows conveniently comprised of a young loving couple, some middle-aged blokes and a very dignified and playful mature gentleman, who went along with the Silver Fox theme for the rest of the evening.

Newcomer Claire Nelson from Clactonia confronted all the Essex Girl prejudices, and came out with some decent one-liners. Sajeela Kershi explored the comedy value in her British Asian background, plus her love of sex toys.

Al Cowie continued the identity theme with an insight into the comic value of growing up in Northern Ireland. The headline set from Cole Parker was confident, confessional and contained probably the funniest story I have heard about conversations with Yummy Mummy’s at the school gates.

And so three hours, five acts and six pounds: not the name of another crappy TV Christmas sitcom, but the wonderful Wivenhoe Funny Farm. Any sleepy estuary town that can boast an independent comedy venue has to be taking the p***. Not out of itself, but out of the apathy of arse sitting and waiting for things to happen. Pull up your pants and do it yourself.

The first Funny Farm of 2012 will take place at the Cricket Club on 26th January. Which should keep you smiling through January bank statement blues, recession, blocked roads blah blah blah.

Yeah, ha bloody ha.

To The Greyhound! …on the Winterval evening of Wednesday. It’s that uncomfortable period in-between the turkey stuffing session and the cider fuelled songs, come the chimes of midnight on the 31st. The Devil and the deep blue sea needs some Dylan to cheer us all up.

Judas!

I don’t believe you. You’re a liar.

Better believe it, brother. Rocking the *ahem* Main Stage at The Greyhound on Wednesday was the mighty Huricane, the rag tag Wivenhoe three / come four piece collective of musos that worship at the altar of all things Saint Bob. We’re not talking about Mr Russell, either.

Blimey.

But that’s all a little unfair. Bob may be the main muse for Hurricane, but a man who survives on a vinyl diet of Dylan is a man who probably spends too much time alone staring out towards Alresford Creek.

Um, I rather like Dylan.

The set, of sorts, was littered with songs that fitted the mood. And that mood just happened to be a North Essex estuary boozer with post-Christmas punters that wanted to keep it real, man, and be entertained with some rather fine musicianship before the false smiles of the New Year ding dong and all the crappy music that comes.

Just don’t mention the bloody Bob Dylan Christmas album.

Instead we had Hurricane, or the North Essex Wilburys as some folk have dubbed them. Every song a classic; every chord strum to perfection. Not a a hint of stage make-up in sight. Lead vocals were passed back and forth between rhythm and lead guitar. Plodd-ing along [aha!] at the back was Mr Mule on bass.

But wait! What’s this? The mighty Hurricane have diversified of late, having auditioned for the skills of a hatbox drummer. The boys done good finding Mark, a man with rhino skin hands, not to mention a mean touch at baking the most delicate cakes that this town can offer. You try banging away all night, and then baking some fairy cakes come first light.

Fine work, fella.

Highlights of the mighty Hurricane set included Positively 4th Street, and then a cover of Joe Jackson’s Is She Really Going Out With Him. A bit of a Spinal Tap moment took place mid-set with the bass player becoming otherwise engaged. It wasn’t quite a caught in a catacomb catastrophe, but Mr Mule managed to rescue the moment, and in true Tap style, returned to the Main Stage just in time for the final Thank You and Good Night before the break.

Like father like son for the interval with Wivenhoe locals Brainstorm Wednesday entertaining. Born out of the loins of Hurricane, the duo showed the old dog’s that there’s more to life than a Dylan fixation.

But it was the Bob-ness boys that returned triumphant, playing a Johnny Cash medley, against the backdrop of an improbable Greyhound scene that now accommodated a fancy dress party peaking slightly too early. I could have sworn that the zombie extra doubled up as a mid-life Dylan.

“I’ve got splinters in my fingers!” declared the hatbox hitter, paraphrasing Macca, and keeping in with the set that then explored Beatles territory. That’s what you get from three hours of banging away, Sir.

And so that was the mighty Hurricane, breezing into The Greyhound and conquering the quizzical Wivenhoe crowd with all things Bob. They should be booked in for New Year’s Eve. Anything to stop all that Auld Lang Syne nonsense.

Even Bob.

Blimey.

Wednesday sees the final day of trading for the Bike Guru Cafe, the pop up residency down at the Hidden Kiosks in the old bus station by firstsite. Matt Lawford – for he is the Bike Guru – will be celebrating the success of his three month residency in the old Bibby’s kiosk by inviting Colchester cyclists and coffee lovers to join him from 7pm for a final farewell.

But this is far from the end of the Bike Guru Cafe project. Under guidance from the Colchester based Creative Co-op, the idea behind all projects at the kiosk is to help to grow a sustainable local business idea in a space that can be experimented with. Matt has been learning more about how he can combine his passions of coffee and bicycle mechanics, and is hopefully now in a position in which to continue to grow his local business.

The three-month residency awarded to the Bike Guru by the Hidden Kiosk judges is the longest run that any project has so far enjoyed down by the bus station. Matt has used this time to open up new ideas, such as the regular Wednesday evening cycling themed events. Films have been shown and live music from local artists have been presented, with the help of Ice Breaker Promotions, another growing local organisation.

This Wednesday will be no different, with a grand celebration of all that the Bike Guru has achieved in the town over the past three months. The evening will start with a short bike ride around Colchester, taking in the new cycle route of Crouch Street. The mini-pelaton will then recuperate back at the Kiosks, with some fine coffee and a selection of cycling films being screened. The ride will start at 7pm from outside the cafe – all are welcome.

Here’s hoping that the Bike Guru can continue to offer his unique service of coffee and a passion for all things cycle related to the folk of Colchester at a location in the town come the New Year.

Chapeau!

Having bemoaned the lack of opportunity for a mid-winter swim around these North Essex estuary parts, it was to our very good fortune that @AnnaJCowen and I stumbled across the bonkers West Mersea Boxing Day dip. Sadly the wetsuit was back at base, and so was the enthusiasm. An early morning bicycle ride from Wivenhoe out to Mersea Island had inflicted enough damage already on the boys down below.

Hey hoe.

And so what started out as a simple Boxing Day head clearer soon became something else. Having traversed [get you] the delights of the new stop / start Boundary Road, down to the Hythe, once around Rowhedge, a festive spin through Fingringhoe and then the short cross along the choppy waters of the Stroud, we stumbled upon a beach of bonkers Boxing Day swimmers.

Blimey.

The annual West Mersea dip seemed to be growing in popularity. Over fifty swimmers were assembled, many in fancy dress, others simply in their shreddies. Mr Gingerbread Man perhaps wasn’t quite prepared for the chilled waters, but his biscuit outer body at least had the back up from the reliable boys of the RNLI.

The countdown seemed to take an age. Mr Ball of Edam with his wire cutter swimming trunks up his backside didn’t look so proud having hung around the shore edge for almost half an hour. You could do with a Gingerbread Man, or lady, to liven things up, fella.

5! 4! 3! 2! 1!

Hurrah!

World endurance records weren’t broken, but a bloody good time seemed to be had by both swimmers and spectators. A doggy paddle out towards the boys in the RNLI boat, and then back to the beach for a much deserved steaming hot mulled wine.

Chin chin.

The buckets were shaken; pockets were emptied and the RNLI boys were rewarded for very kindly giving up their Bank Holiday. I’ll be hoping for similar mild weather come the 21st next month when it is a return to Lake Brockwell and the annual winter swim.

Once a Brockwell Icicle, always a Brockwell Icicle.

Full flick feed.

With the pool closing for one day of the year and denying me my daily dip, where does a Speedo clad boy about town go to seek purification on Christmas Day? St Mary’s? Papa’s? The muddy banks of the Colne?

Not quite.

Instead, I bundled @AnnaJCowen out of bed [separate, natch] ripped open the wrapping for my new Scaletrix and then demanded that we go out for a brisk morning festive flaneur, along with the rest of the bon vivant estuary set.

I almost didn’t recognise my fellow swimmers with all their clothes on.

The smell of basting turkey was strong in the Queens Road air as early as 9am. A microwave setting of half an hour should suffice, Madam.

A leisurely stroll down to the Quay, and our “Good Mornings!” and “Happy Christmas!” greetings to relative strangers became more confident the further down the town we ventured. We might as well have been wishing “Happy Elvis Day!” – the enthusiasm would still have been evident.

Our route for our ramble was no great surprise: past the Sailing Club and out towards the Creek. A quick observation of the high waters, and then back where we came from.

For company we had a number of cyclists passing us at a steady pace. A Chapeua! greeting seemed appropriate. Sorry about alarming you, Sir, and causing a slight Christmas pile up just past the mid-way point.

A lone sailor was making the most of the downtime in-between peeling the sprouts and polite conversation. How lovely to see a Wivenhoe One Design keeping alive the tradition and sailing on the Colne come Christmas Day.

The mild weather turned slightly windy out in the open and along the bare crested sea wall. Rushes danced around in the sidings, not looking too dissimilar to the swaying revelers we saw walking up the High Street at midnight some twelve hours earlier.

This is a walk that @AnnaJCowen, and many, many other Wivenhoe locals enjoy week in, week out. Christmas is of course a special day (for some…) but the surroundings remain a delight for every day of the year. The perspective changes; the all-persuasive water forever changes the landscape with something new to observe.

A Christmas morning swim will take place at some stage.

Possibly.

Full flickr feed.

To The Greyhound! …on Christmas Day for dinner.

Blimey.

Intent on an evening of wall-to-wall Eastenders and, um, repeats of Blackadder, bugger to the washing up was the thoughts of @AnnaJCowen and I. In the seasonal hyperlocal twist of Let the Train Take the Strain, The Greyhound gathering took the stress out of sourcing the big bird (turkey, not…) and then all the pre and post match effort in the kitchen.

We were not alone. The most splendid Upstairs dining space – looking resplendent with the decorations and murals of Miss Hilary Lazell – had a full sitting come the serving time of shortly before the Queen’s Speech.

Seasonal greetings were exchanged with familiar and friendly faces around the room, and then the first of many mulled wine pourings presented the opportunity for the Girl to indulge. @AnnaJCowen is drinking for two – steady the buffers. My teetotal activities of late meant that a delicate and not very discreet table game of Pass the Wine Glass broke out.

Chin chin.

This was no pub lunch bolted on with a seasonal feel. The Greyhound prepared, presented and then served up a Christmas Day dinner that genuinely compares as the finest that we have feasted upon for many years. Folk had come out to celebrate the occasion, and not simply to be fed. Families brought presents along, crackers were pulled.

My guarded tepid festive enthusiasm was slightly stretched when @AnnaJCowen insisted on acting out the cracker charades suggestion, just as the prawn cocktail was being served up. I never did quite understand the point of all the flapping and finger waving. Why don’t you just bloody tell me what stupid programme it is?

Have a good one.

The Greyhound treat of a booking was made back in those distant late October days before the first bonfires of the season were lit. Which meant that I had forgotten totally what choices we had made from the menu. I was halfway down my fresh prawn cocktail when I realised that I should have been necking the Girl’s delightful mushroom and stilton volovant.

More? You want more?

I most certainly wasn’t expecting two starters, but the rich carrot and coriander soup that was then served up would usually count for two hot meals a day back at base.

The volume level Upstairs was raised to a cheery festive pitch as the vino continued to flow. There was a genuinely a lovely, lovely local Christmas feel at The Greyhound. A communal sitting, with conversation with your fellow diners as when the moment suited but no pressure or pretenses put on show. Which is just as well when @AnnaJCowen dropped one of her sprouts on the floor.

Ah yes – the main feast…

Food is the great social aggregator. Christmas Day is centred around the main meal. It can make or break the big day, regardless of the appeal of Eastenders back at base. Cometh the hour, cometh The Greyhound with a glorious Christmas meal which compared to those festive meals of Christmas past sitting around the family table.

It is no mean feat to serve up a roast to thirty diners plus, pretty much at the same time, and piping hot as well. Our plate piled up with a traditional turkey and ham dish, thankfully put an end to all of the charades nonsense. There was even the repeat option, with plates of seconds being offered up for anyone with an industrial strength appetite.

It would be rude not to, wouldn’t it?

Breathing space was provided before a rich Christmas pudding and rum sauce came our way. Likewise for the mince pies and Christmas cakes. Yep – that’s the plural; for a table set for two, four mince pies and four slices of cake was incredibly generous of The Greyhound. I don’t think that the Girl and I were alone in our festive origami session to create doggy bags outs of serviettes.

We waddled back up the High Street and back to base to feed the cat her Christmas Day treat of Turkey in jelly.

Nice.

Now do you own washing up, dear.

A huge thanks to Jane and her small team of staff for giving up their Christmas Day to provide. It was genuinely appreciated and exceeded all expectations. Where do we sign up for next year?