Welcome Home…

Teenagers, like most other pack animals, sense weakness so five hours before the Missus landed at Heathrow the Boy switched from caring, considerate teenager who thinks his stepfather is pretty cool to sarcastic little shit who think it’s funny to wind him up…

The scene is a late breakfast with me and the Boy sat at the kitchen table. He starts to chomp his food in a very audible manner. I choose to ignore it but it then goes on for five minutes during which time he has broken the world carrot-noise-eating records and, somehow, he has even managed to eat hummus loudly.

So I interject.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Nothing…’
‘Are you taking the piss out of me eating?’
‘Yes.’
‘But I don’t eat that loudly and even if I did it never bothers you…’
‘But it bothers Mum and she’s not here so I’m sticking up for her feelings…’

The Missus eventually returns and we head off out for a welcome back family curry. During which the following truths become all too apparent.
i) The Missus would not think twice about leaving me if Cillian Murphy from 28 Days Later and Sunshine were to avail his services.
ii) Seoul is pretty ‘soul-less’.
iii) The Boy has clearly decided his place in the grand scheme of things is of dominant male in the household. This obviously means I am the comic relief.
iv) I cannot eat onion bhajis correctly. In fact I am actually criticised by the Missus for eating Indian finger food with my fingers.

It’s good to know that things are obviously back to normal…

Holiday!

I’ve had a week off work and it’s been fun.

It was originally going to be me, the Missus and the Boy spending a week doing family bonding stuff in London, but it didn’t work out that way as the Missus was invited on a swanky week-long press trip to South Korea (prompting my joke that her tour guide must be a Koreas advisor).

So it’s been me and the Boy and we’ve had a pretty chilled out time of it. As he’s nearly 17 the last thing he wants is to spend large amounts of time with one of the ‘olds’ so he’s been out with his mates, strummed his new guitar, surfed the net and played one of his many game consoles. He's maybe done some homework too...

With the example of the Boy to follow and no Missus for moral guidance I’ve also reverted to teenage archetype and, apart from cleaning and cooking duties and a few bits of freelance writing, I’ve slummed it big style.

So here are the highlights of my slumming week so far:

i) Watched martial arts movies Azumi and Azumi 2. These are based on a Manga comic about a female assassin and are OK.
ii) Played lots of pool. I could have done something of use but I’m on holiday and I’ve neglected my pool for too long now.
iii) Enjoyed the best kebab in the world travelling back from a pool match in Sutton after sinking several pints of Guinness.
iv) Went to the pictures and watched the excellent and intelligent drama Rendition with the Boy. It was his choice of movie too. He’s very cool.
v) Watched half an hour of Deal Or No Deal and fantasised about punching that smug, bearded twat Noel Edmonds in the face… with a jackhammer… until his head disintegrates into a bloody red pulp. He really is totally loathsome and the show is one of the most bizarre things I’ve ever seen on screen with contestants bringing in crystal balls and pictures of loved ones to 'guide' their choices.
vi) I would watch Deal Or No Deal: The Snuff Movie, though, where Edmonds is chopped up and a separate part of him is put in the 15 boxes. There would be no prize but it would entertain me more than watch desperate people scrummage around for money…

So left to my own devices my life is not quite rock and roll but maybe simple pleasures like a kebab, a few films and a few pints of Guinness is where I’m at now.

Pipe and slippers here we come…

MP Watch…

At last! After two letters and one email and nine months of waiting I finally have a response from Brent South MP Dawn Butler about her position on the cancellation of the SFO (Serious Fraud Office) investigation into the Al Yamamah military contract.

And her position is… she’s repeating the Government line by stating in her letter that it was ‘made in the countries best interests nationally’.

Bloody cop out. The letter is also so sneakily written that she just repeats this line and doesn’t even mention whether she agrees with it or not. Oh, and she can’t use apostrophes and doesn’t know the difference between ‘country’s’ and ‘countries’.

On the plus side she has forwarded my letter to Defence Minister Kim Howells MP and asked him to write to me expressing his thoughts on the matter.

I thought that was quite a nice touch as it passes the buck but also shows that she is trying to get me an answer.

So on the plus side she has written back to me and tried to get me an answer, which is good. But on the minus side it did take ages and she still hasn’t expressed her views on corrupt arms deals, which is less good but very politician-like.

She’ll go far will this one…

Emperor Jones...

Me, the Missus and the Boy went to see Eugene O'Neill's play about an imaginary black dictator in the Caribbean at the weekend.

Paterson Joseph of Peep Show fame played the title character who is ousted when his corrupt regime becomes too much for his fellow countrymen and he has to flee for his life from rebels out for his blood. While on the run he faces up to the ghosts of all those he has maligned before finally facing justice.

It's the third time I've seen Joseph on stage after his roles in An Oak Tree and Saint Joan and each time he's thoroughly impressed me. The play may be a little thin on story but it only runs for 70 minutes and Joseph is thoroughly engaging as the swaggering emperor brought down to his knees by his own guilt and people.

Sadly one of the ushers at the National, a rude old thing with a face like a slapped arse who obviously got her kicks from playing the jobsworth card, pissed me off on the way in. I was going to write a letter of complaint but then I realised I should rise above it and instead wish her and all her progeny slow and lingering deaths.

Actually that's probably not right either so instead I will write a letter of complaint as my taxes fund that bloody institution so effectively I'm paying for somebody to be unpleasant to me.

Fucking arts funding. Cut the lot of it...

Rich Hall: A 10-word Review...

Funny US comedian but better when he rants and swears.

Crackers...

The Tate Modern is one of my favourite places in London.

But sometimes this wonderful institution gets things wrong and, even though I’ve seen fantastic stuff such as the Louise Bourgeois bronze spiders in its massive Turbine Hall, I’ve also seen some cock.

And the latest piece of installation art to grace this space really does take the piss-flavoured biscuit. Because, and I shit you not, it’s a crack in the floor.

It’s called Shibboleth and it’s by Colombian artist Doris Salcedo. The crack begins at the entrance to the hall and branches off in certain places and starts to widen until it reaches the end of the hall. In some places it’s deep and others it’s skinny and that’s about it. Oh, and it’s supposed to represent the fact that society is divided along racial lines.

Remarkably the panel on Newsnight Review who discussed this nonsense were utterly wowed by it. ‘Salcedo is a genius!’ opined one. I remember people saying the same about Tracey Emin...

In my book Emin is a genius as she managed to convince some cocaine-hoovering moneyed twot (it's a combination word joining twat and tool) to part with several thousand pounds for a representation of a bed where she’d had a few fucks. Now I thought that was clever, particularly for Emin’s bank balance, and I think Salcedo is a similar creature, a latter-day snakeoil saleswoman of the modern art world.

So here’s the plan…

I reckon the Tate should close this Salcedo nonsense down immediately and instead celebrate home-grown talent. Luckily my grandfather used to dig holes for a living. The difference between him and Salcedo was that his holes served a useful purpose to get access to water drains and the like. So I reckon we go into the Tate when it’s shut, Polyfill Salcedo’s work in and recreate a few of my grandfather’s best holes.

I know for a fact he did loads of them so I bet there were some real beauties in his back catalogue. And if Salcedo can dominate the Tate Modern with her skinny hole I reckon my grandfather’s massive holes must be odds-on for the Turner prize at least.

Training Day…

I have just finished a martial arts class and I am in the changing rooms at the gym.

In this class I was helping a lower-belt learn an escape from a front hold that basically sees you grab the opponent’s head with both hands and twist his head so he either falls away or his neck eventually breaks. It’s a beautiful technique and so effortlessly violent that you have to be careful when learning it or teaching it otherwise it can hurt.

I spent about five minutes going through this technique and at some point my neck got a little jarred so I finish class and head for the shower and stand under a hot stream of water directing the shower head onto the sore part of my neck.

No good. It still hurts… so I stand in the changing rooms moving my neck around and pushing my chest forward and trying to get rid of this crick in my neck. Still no good so instead of pushing my chest forward and moving my neck around I throw my whole body forward and my head back and I’ve now nearly got it. If I can just push everything forward a bit more…

It is then I realise I am being stared at by the only other man in the changing rooms, who wears a hat and looks like John Inman. It is then I also realise I am standing naked and it actually looks like I am thrusting my genitalia in the direction of the John Inman lookalike who is 3ft away from me.

What to do? I smile and motion as if to say ‘I’m just stretching out’ but instead my hands face him palm up at waist height. With my chest and head back and my lower area prominent it looks like I’m presenting myself to him. Idiot, idiot, idiot... He simply straighten his tie, rolls his eyes and smiles. He walks past me and waves on his way out.

I may have just instigated some complex form of mating ritual with an elderly gay gentleman. Oh dear…

One For The Splattman!

A friend I made through playing pool died a few weeks ago.

His nickname was Splattman because his second name was Platt and it rhymed and also because it’s a rule that all pool players must have nicknames. Hence the bizarre looks I sometimes get from work colleagues when I’m chatting to one of my Surrey pool-playing mates on the phone and I go off on tangents about Nosher, Noggsy, Spindle, The O, Strivdog, Petulance, Textbook, Bullet, Slippery or Shaggy.

The Splattman played for Berkshire and he was always a determined player on the table and he often beat more talented players because of his sheer will to win. His story of becoming a county A Team player was a triumph of will over ability in the best sense of the phrase, but win or lose he’d always have a pint and a chat and a joke.

One of my friends even gave him a new nickname at one tournament we were both playing in when he realised that with his big specs and his prominent nose he looked like me. When I told Splattman the rest of the boys thought he looked like me and he’d been christened ‘Brooksy’s dad’ by the Surrey contingent, he pondered for a moment before commenting that he didn’t realise his looks had gone so far downhill. Funny fucker…

Anyway… there was a big national tournament at the weekend and my former team made the semi-finals and in memory of the Splattman many of the people at the event were sporting little badges bearing a picture of a pint of Guinness, which was his favourite tipple, and the message ‘One for the Splattman’.

As I’m in semi-retirement I didn’t go to the event at the weekend but a friend furnished me with one of the badges last night and I belatedly had a couple of pints for you.

Rest in peace mate...

Ani Di Franco...

The little folk singer was back in the UK last night playing a small warm-up gig to kick off her European Tour.

After a break of nearly two years the tickets for this 300-people gig were snapped up when they went on release, and Di Franco didn't disappoint her eager fans with a 90-minute set of old classics (Napoleon, Gravel) to more recent stuff (78% Water and Studying Stones), as well as three new songs.

Hammell On Trial (a cross between the folk and political sensibilities of Billy Bragg and the acid tongue of Kenneth Williams) supported and he was pretty good too.

The real star for me, though, was Bush Hall, a classy and intimate little venue just around the corner for its more famous cousin of Shepherd's Bush Empire, where Di Franco will be playing in just over two weeks.

She was upbeat and more relaxed and much less contemplative that other gigs I've seen her perform over the last 10 years. Hammell rocked too, the venue was excellent, the Missus enjoyed it and so did I. And I got pissed on canned Guinness. Result!

Kenny...

It's a comedy moc-doc about a chunky thirtysomething Australian who works in the portable toilet business and maintains and cleans all manner of loos at various of festivals and other social bashes.

So it has poo jokes galore but it also has a very sharp, very funny and surprisingly touching script. It also has Shane Jacobson who is excellently under-stated as the forever put-upon toilet technician with a big heart and a great line in philosophy.

But all the small cast give top-drawer performances, from Eve Von Bibra as Kenny's air stewardess love interest and Ronald Jacobson as his ogre of a father.

Basically it's bloody funny and it tugs at the heart strings in unexpected ways. In fact, to quote the film itself, it's funnier than a 'bum filled with smarties'.

It should get an Oscar. Or something like that. It beats the arse off of any other comedy released so far this year...