Ear, Ear...

It's been a quiet Christmas and more quiet for me than most because I've managed to lose the hearing in my right ear.

This is a most unusual malady and I think it was triggered when my hay fever type allergy went into overdrive on Christmas Day and I had a violent few hours of sneezing and something went pop in my eardrum.

Ironically the Missus had bought me several CDs by Philip Glass and I've sort of managed to listen to these with my good ear and buzzing and delayed sounds in my dodgy ear. But as it's Philip Glass that may also just be the CD.

I'm assuming it's just an infection of some sort or a temporary bit of damage to the eardrum as I'm not keen on life with dodgy hearing and I'm asuming it will sort itself out after a trip to the doctor.

On the plus side, of course, it does mean whenever the Missus or the Boy are taking the piss I can pretend I haven't heard them and ignore them completely. In fact I could do this with everyone if I don't feel like talking.

In some ways it could be the perfect Christmas present...

It's A Wonderful Life...

It's Xmas Eve and me and the Missus have been to see It's A Wonderful Life at the new local arty community cinema that's just opened near us.

The Missus is a real sucker for old movies and Xmas and this particular offering coupled with the seasonal atmosphere has made her go all girly. And that doesn't happen often.
'Did you enjoy it?'
'I loved it. I didn't cry though...'
'Well you've seen it lots of times.'
'I have...'
'So you're probably immune to its emotional bits...'
'Yeah. Probably...'
'It's like watching a porn movie you've seen lots of times. You know where the best bits are and when the money shot's coming...'

There is silence. The winter air suddenly feels a bit more chill. There is a stare too. The sort of emasculating and exasperated stare only certain wives can give.
'You have just taken my favourite movie and compared it to people coming in a porn film...'
'I merely meant you knew where the emotional climaxes were and so you were prepared for them...'
'You have sullied the evening.'
'I only meant...'
'Don't speak to me again. Ever.'

Other Woman News...

Me and the Other Woman have met up for a pre-Xmas drink and the beer and the conversation is flowing – until she drops this little gem into the proceedings.
'I know what I meant to ask you... Would you ever shag an Ewok?'

Sensing this is not as straightforward a question as it seems I delay my response.
'This is a trick girl question where even the right answer will turn out to be wrong, isn't it?'
'Not at all,' she replies. 'It's just that my other half sometimes says that sleeping with me is like shagging an Ewok because I'm quite short. So I was just wondering whether you'd shag an Ewok and think it was wrong?'

I take my time. A wrong answer here could damage years of friendship.
'Well for a start you're not covered in fur and you've also got a good two feet on most Ewoks. Even the big ones.'
'That's what I said.'
'And he's presumably not complaining about this either before or during said shagging?'
'No. Any shagging would be off the agenda if he did...'
'Well... if it was an Ewok in you form then I'd definitely not worry about it. In fact I think it would be fab...'
'And in Ewok form?'
'Not terribly interested...'
'Sure?'
'OK. I'd still probably give it a go. Don't knock it till you've tried it, sort of thing...'
'Good. You also should remember that Ewoks are quite resourceful. If they can make things that swing from trees to smash hi-tech weapons then a shagging hammock and all sorts of S&M paraphenalia probably isn't beyond them either...'

So there you have it. Ewoks: the sexual deviants of the universe...

The Weighting Game...

I rarely make New Year Resolutions as I figure trying to think about changing things when I'm half-cut and as generally miserable as I am on New Year's Eve is a bad idea.

But one thing I am definitely continuing next year that I've started already is to use weights as part of my training regime.

Bizarre though it may seem for a big-nosed, speccy beanpole, I used to be a bit of a gym bunny but I generally found it quite dull and no matter what weight programme I adopted I never put any weight on my arms. It was simply a case of 'I've always had skinny arms and that's probably always going to be the case'.

Since I started hapkido, however, I haven't worried about it as my arms and grip quickly became much stronger and all I wanted was functional muscles rather than big-bulging, chick-attracting biceps.

Since I've started boxing, however, things are happening and while I may never be Lou Ferrigno I may yet lose my twiglet arms. And I figure this would also be a bit of a boon because more arm muscle would help protect my shoulders and elbow joints, which have both been injured in the past few years.

Weight training has always been a contentious issue in the martial arts as it's always thought that technique and speed generate power rather than brute strength. Another worry is that excessive strength may make a martial artist forget technique and rely on power.

But much recent thinking has argued against this and the rise of UFC has made a lot of martial artists realise that sometimes technique and speed aren't enough against well-trained, all-round fighters.

Anyway... I was enthusiastically explaining this to the Missus but she was watching Strictly Come Dancing and told me to be shut up.

She probably doesn't need weight training.

Belt Up!

Yesterday I was awarded my black stripe after I passed my recent grading at hapkido, which means my next grading will be for my black belt. Gulp...

On the plus side I don't have to worry about this for some considerable time but on the scary side I now have to really get my arse into gear in every class because it now gets serious and I have to do so. It's going to be hard work.

But I also have to remember that it's been hard work so far anyway. In fact it's mostly been a journey of persistence and determination over ability so I shouldn't expect anything to change too dramatically because at heart I remain a bright bloke trapped in the body of a (now slightly less) befuddled half-wit.

Most encouragingly, though, I've now seen three of my peers grade for their black belts and the thought of going through the test itself is much less frightening than it once seemed. In fact part of me is already starting to relish the idea.

So I'm sure it will all be fine. Probably...

Sports Personality Of The Year...

Lewis Hamilton is a F1 driver and the current F1 world champion.

He is also a Brit who is about to become one of the richest sportsmen on the planet yet he has chosen to live in Switzerland rather than reside in the UK to avoid paying tax to the country of his birth.

If this is the case then a simple way to remind the viewing public of the fact that he is a tax-dodging scumbag would be to ensure he is never allowed to be included in the voting for the BBC Sports Personality Of The Year Award again.

Instead the BBC should place him in the category for Overseas Sports Personality Of The Year Award because if he no longer wants to be a Brit then we shouldn't have to pretend he is and he shouldn't be allowed to pretend he is either.

I'm glad cyclist Chris Hoy beat him into second place for the main award.

Clean Break...

We are eating dinner with the in-laws and the Missus is discussing costumes for fancy-dress parties with her much younger sister.
'I've got a French maid's uniform,' says the younger sister.
'Maybe I could get a French Maid's uniform too...' suggests the Missus.
'Will it actually mean you do some housework?' I politely ask.

She politely tells me that it won't...

Family Values...

It is Sunday and we are visiting the Missus' family in leafy Barnes for an afternoon feed.

We arrive at the house and I knock on the door, which prompts a several-minute critique from the Missus on why I should have used the doorbell rather than the knocker.

Fortunately such ridiculous witterings are nothing new. In the past the Missus has also criticised me for breathing too loudly. And the fact the Boy now often adds his twopennethworth as well has pretty much made me immune to their verbal nonsense.

So we are sat down eating and my father-in-law mentions the fact that's he's often bullied in his house so I offer my version of the earlier events.
'I actually got criticised for knocking on your front door rather than using the doorbell this morning.'
'I know exactly how you feel. But it's even worse for me. I live with two grumpy women.'

I turn to the Boy who is sat at my right and look at him before commenting:
'So do I...'

The Boy tells me to go away. And not politely...

Artful Dodger...

Most of the Boy's teachers really like him and like teaching him, too, but one of them is an utter nightmare.

I've met her on a few occasions and, to nutshell it, she is an utter cow with a very patronising attitude and very bad people skills when it comes to dealing with either adults or teenagers. She was the Boy's art teacher when he was doing his GCSEs and he went into this course full of enthusiasm, but that was soon removed by her constant sarcasm and unsupportive critiques of his work.

So we asked one of his other teachers about her and he admitted she had 'an unfortunate manner' while one of his schoolmates quite sadly added 'She's just lonely...'

So myself and the Missus told the Boy to just get on with it and keep his head down and he did and passed, no sodding thanks to this wretch of a teacher I might add.

He was delighted and when he finished the course and started his A Levels we all assumed it would be his final dealings with her. Then when he joined the Sixth Form she tagged along as the new head of year and she's been a similarly patronising cow when it comes to her recent dealings with him.

Myself and the Boy were discussing this last night and I suggested that he should just save all his contempt for the last day of school when he could approach her and simply say.
'You know, Miss, you've been thoroughly unpleasant to me ever since I've known you but I have sympathy for you because I do pity an old woman who's watching her life ebb away rather than living it.'

The Boy, however, has another plan.
'I was going to be more direct and just say "Oi cunt! Good fucking riddance!"'

Perhaps sometimes the direct approach is best...