Sunday bloody sunday

I felt the need to walk to Sainsbury yesterday rather than drive there.

Two virtually exercise free weeks in Corfu has done me no good, apart from in my head.

Despite a surfeit of fruit consumed in recent weeks, much of it in the form of Thatchers Gold admittedly, I felt a brisk walk was in order.

I walk these days without the assistance and distractions of an MP player or a radio because it does me good to think for myself and I tend to notice more.

So here was what I noticed.

Mid morning on a Sunday, North Road was quiet.  It’s a country road that isn’t in the country these days; long and narrow with mixed housing on both sides, some new, some old.

At the end of the road is the village church, St Michaels.

Now, I don’t do god and I don’t respect any religion but only a fool would deny that this church has a positive effect on the village.

Whether they do nice things to impress god because they want to go to heaven or because it’s a good thing to nice things, I don’t know, but I suspect it’s a little of both.

Anyway, I like walking through the graveyard (the dead centre of Stoke Gifford) and there was a service going on.

A churchman was reading extracts from the old testament (I know this because he said so).

This always makes me laugh because church folk pick and choose the bits they like and presumably pretend the nasty bits don’t exist.

God inflicting plagues, floods, fiery serpents and murdering millions of people slips into the background whilst they read the nice bits like ‘thou shalt not shag thy neighbour’s wife’ (I think this is how it goes: I haven’t read it for a while).

But it makes them happy, I suppose, and at least they don’t go round cutting people’s heads off or throwing acid in girls’ faces. Or not yet anyway.

I walked on a bit and passed a children’s football tournament.

I knew it was a football tournament because I could hear coaches and parents shouting very loudly at young children.

I paused but only briefly because I have had a guts full of children’s football and have seen how it has given us the England side we have today.

I never heard a ‘good pass’ shouted by anyone but there was much encouragement for ‘great battling’ and ‘effort’.

No wonder almost all these boys will drift out of football before they even reach 16.

And then to Sainsburys where I bought my newspapers and some salads for the week.

There was, quite frankly, too much bare flesh on display and certainly too many tattoos.  There was an old guy wearing a flat cap but wearing a vest.  And he had tattoos like David Beckham.

My bet is that they looked ridiculous when he was younger but they looked absolutely mad now.

And I frown all the time as someone picks up a Daily Mail.

Then I walked home.

The tournament was still going on and the smell of cheap burgers and fatty bacon wafted across the way.

The church was bolted shut and doubtless the faithful were now home, studying the bible for some nice things to tell the kids.

There were people outside the pub too, it being almost midday. 

I could have driven but at least I had some good exercise.

Then I spoiled it all by eating a cheese and ham Panini.