Blade Too!

As a martial arts student I have a fascination with martial arts weaponry and in the past I've bought a couple of things to play with.

The first of these is a kubotan. This is essentially a short steel rod with one blunted end and a keyring at the other end. It is essentially grasped tight in a fist and the end which protrudes from the bottom of the fist is used to strike vulnerable parts of a potential attacker via a hammer fist strike (striking downwards or across and hitting with the bottom of the clenched fist). It has other nifty blocking and trapping applications, too, but it's at its most lethal with this one strike.

I also treated myself to a pair of nunchucks last year and these are much more difficult to master as to generate power you need to really whip them round, but if you don't know how to avoid them on the return or how to catch them on the return they can clatter you on the head. And it hurts. Quite a lot. Honest...

Over time I'm got a few basic strikes down with the chucks and I've got a basic understanding of the stabbing and blocking tricks but I'm still working on combination strikes as these are a bit tricky.

My newest weapon, however, is a sword. Even better it was bought for me by the Missus for Xmas. Sadly (pictured below) it's made out of foam and is only 2ft long. I don't think she takes my hobby seriously.

Or it may even be a comment on something else...

Izzit Cos I Is Racialist?

We had problems with the neighbours earlier this year when they were getting pissed and shouting and playing loud music into the early hours of the morning.

So I asked a couple of times for some consideration and when that met with no response I reported them to the council. Bizarrely this did the trick as I also told them it was me who'd reported them so they came round to ours and apologised and we assumed that was that. I said if there was a problem in future I'd text them or knock on their door and also said it was obviously visa-versa. Job done...

But come 4pm Christmas Day the upstairs flat are playing their stereo so loud that the bass is actually making it impossible for us to listen to the TV downstairs. Or anywhere else in the house. Now considering we were downstairs in our home and they were upstairs next door and there was a wall and a floor between us that's quite a feat!

So, as previously agreed, I politely pootled round and rang their doorbell to be confronted by the woman from the downstairs flat and the woman from the upstairs flat and her daughter. So I politely asked if they wouldn't mind turning their music down a bit. I thought this was a simple and polite request.

But instead I got an earful...

It turns out I am a nosey neighbour who is always making complaints, who has nothing better to do with his time and should move to the country if I want silence. And to top it all off it turns out that 'they' (my neighbours) listen to music differently to 'us' (me and my wife).

Although it wasn't clearly stated it was implied that because my wife and I are white and the neighbours are West Indian that there is a huge cultural divide which means they need and have a right to listen to music whenever they want and at whatever volume they want. And because I am white I don't understand this. In fact by me asking them to turn their music down I am probably infringing on their cultural rights to express themselves.

So I'd like to take this opportunity to apologise to all my West Indian friends for my ignorance of your ways. But it's your fault because you've never behaved like this or been inconsiderate like this and, according to my neighbours, you're supposed to.

And I'd also like to apologise to all my West Indian friends because apparently I am an unwitting racist – or maybe I just find it hard to consistently tolerate inconsiderate cunts.

You figure it out and please let me know...

Make Your Own… 'Johnny' Depp!

I always make the Missus a present for her birthday or for Xmas.

Previous gifts have included a DIY liposuction kit, a self-powered hairdryer and a puppet theatre version of Guys And Dolls when I initially thought I couldn’t get tickets for her.

But this year is my opus magnus of self-built presents. And even better it’s what practically every woman in the world wants – their very own 'Johnny' Depp. So here’s how you do it…

INGREDIENTS
A five-pack of Durex
Two bendy plastic spines for binding documents
Sellotape
A picture of Johnny Depp

METHOD
Carefully open the Durex packet and remove the contents. Attach the plastic spines inside the top and bottom of the empty packet and bend so they make the shape of legs and arms. Take two Durex and attach as feet and take two Durex and attach as hands. Then attach the remaining Durex as a neck. Take the picture of Johnny Depp and cut out the head. Attach the picture to the neck Durex and voila. 'Johnny' Depp!

ALTERNATIVES
If the woman in your life is a rugby fan it could be 'Johnny' Wilkinson, if she’s a former punk it could be 'Johnny' Rotten and if she’s a Corrie fan it could be 'Johnny' Briggs. The main gag, though, is obviously that the UK slang for Durex is 'Johnnies' so it really only works with Johnnies.

Consider this idea my gift to you. Merry Xmas.

Religion News...

At the moment it's Islamic fundamentalist this and Al Qaeda terrorist that. So I just thought I'd give a quick thumbs-up for the sterling work currently being carried out by the Scientology movement.

It's easy to knock a religion based on a totally fictitious series of sci-fi novels written by L Ron Hubbard, a pulp writer who was famously quoted as saying: 'I'm going to invent a religion that's going to make me a fortune. I'm tired of writing for a penny a word'.

It's also easy to laugh at a religion that boasts those heavyweight intellectuals Tom Cruise and John Travolta among its most-famous followers.

And it's hard not to grin a smirk of admiration at the German government who are out to ban Scientology because they view it as a cult that suppresses people and their personal freedoms.

But I think good on the Scientology movement because in these days where nutcase Muslim fanatics from the Arab world are getting all the fundamentalist religious press, it's good to see the Western world producing a few fanatical zealots of its own and at least trying to even up the score.

So well done you crazy Scientologist mothers. Fine work...

How To Get More Sex…

It’s easy to mock ITV. With the exceptions of Corrie and Emmerdale it screens little drama of any real quality, it hasn’t produced a decent comedy in two decades, its glut of real-life schlock and tawdry quiz shows are barrel-scrapingly awful, and at times its news coverage is so desperately tabloid it make the News Of The World look respectable.

So I promised myself I wasn’t going to ridicule this once-great institution any more. It’s not just shooting fish in a barrel… it’s like having a prize fight with Stephen Hawking where I’m allowed to use guns against him using catapults and me pushing him and his chair from the top of a very high flight of stairs the day before the scrap begins to make sure he has no chance at all. It’s that easy…

But then I chanced on a series on Thursday night entitled How To Get More Sex and my resolution crumbled.

The basic thrust (f’nar, f’nar) of the show is that the programme-makers go out on the streets to conduct various cod experiments to test out certain theories about sex and sexual attraction.

So one section features two men stood outside an expensive car with one dressed as the City gent and the other dressed as his chauffeur. Then passers-by are asked who is the most sexually attractive and various talking heads grace the screen to talk about the results.

Intercut throughout the show are cheeky snippets from various Carry On films and Brit sex comedies of the 1970s, plus other voxpop reports from similar types of experiments at speed dating groups.

It’s pretty tawdry stuff and its attempts at being informative and naughty all at the same time are depressingly tawdry. And any show that features Janet Street Porter and Edwina Currie discussing their sexual preferences is just plain wrong. Even if you happen to be Mr Street Porter or Mr Currie. Yuk!

Bizarrely it’s the sort of show that Five actually do quite well as Five would just straight ahead and feature the sex bits but ITV just make an utter arse of because it still thinks it’s a ‘serious’ channel. Instead the show should probably be called How To Get More Sex (We’ll Show Rude Bits. Honest! Please Watch Us. Help Our Ratings. Go On…)

Avoid at all costs.

The Best Joke. In The World. Ever...

Saw a friend of mine last night.
'Alright Tel. How are you?'
'Not too good.'
'Why?'
'I've had some problems so I've had to have a pacemaker fitted.'
'You're joking?'
'No straight up. Got a little Kenyan fella who runs in front of my car...'

Simply Red...

The grading results are in and I am now the proud possessor of a brand spanking new red belt.

And much as I was excited to get my new belt it was quite a sad moment when I hung my old belt (brown with red stripe) on my office door with its predecessors. I’ve enjoyed life as a brown belt and I felt comfortable at that level. Now I have to adapt to life as a senior belt and that’s going to mean I have be more focused.

On the plus side it’s going to be at least six months to a year before I grade again so I have plenty of time to consolidate and improve my boxing punches... and my stances... and my forms... and my previous skill sets... and my special hand techniques... and the new form I have to learn... and the skills for the next belt... and my etiquette…

It could be a long year…

Art News…

We have eaten tea and the Missus and the Boy have left me alone and I am bored so I decide to get creative with Quality Street wrappers again.

I am being-creative when the Boy comes into the kitchen and looks at me in a puzzled way.
‘What are you doing?’
‘I’m being creative…’
‘Are they sweet wrappers?’
‘Yes…’

He pauses and looks at my first effort (pictured above) before passing comment.
‘I think you’re retarded…’

The Missus then enters the kitchen and looks at the table.
‘What on God’s earth are you doing?’
‘I’m being creative…’

The Missus looks at the Boy who looks back at her as if to say ‘He’s nothing to do with me. You fucking well married the idiot!’ The Boy sighs and leaves and the Missus ponders my creation then offers kind words of wisdom.
‘You’ve lost the plot!’

I don’t think I’ll bother being creative any more…

Fashion News…

It is Saturday morning and the Missus is telling me off.

Apparently I am too generous with the Boy and my attempts to buy him clothes of his choosing last weekend then trying not to accept the money he offered to repay me for purchasing them has not gone un-noticed.

Consequently I am getting ‘parenting’ advice and a truncated version of the Missus’ advice goes something like this:
‘The problem is we give him an allowance and if he is to ever appreciate the true value of money he has to realise that if he wants expensive clothes then he has to save up for them…’

But this versions lasts for at least 10 minutes less.

Later that afternoon the Boy is eyeing up an expensive jacket in Zara. The Boy has developed a very good eye for clothes and fashion and the jacket does look very good on him. It does, however, also cost more than £100.

So hence my surprise when the Missus offers to pay for it as a treat. The Boy looks suspicious when the offer is first made, but once he’s ascertained there are no strings attached and realises he’s had an absolute touch he agrees to let her purchase the said item.

I immediately raise an eyebrow but before I can even form a line about ‘the importance of teaching the Boy the real value of money’ in my head, the Missus jumps in and offers a new caveat to the Buying Boy Presents Rule.
‘I’m his mother. I’m allowed to…’

I’ll never understand women…

PS. I had my first shave of the week on Saturday night and ended up leaving a tache in the middle of my lip. To be fair the likes of Hitler and Mugabe may have ensured it now has unfortunate associations but it actually looks pretty good. I may start a new trend.

PPS. I won’t be starting a new trend as the Missus pointed out that looking like a facist dictator may not be a good thing. Not even in the name of fashion.