'Tache News: Part II...

The Boy is home from university for the Xmas break and suddenly it's business as normal with me as the comedy corned beef in his and the Missus's ciabata of sarcastic belittlement.

So the three of us are walking down the hill heading into town and I starts to skip as I walk. The Missus laughs and the Boy looks aghast.
'What the fuck are you doing?'
'Skipping...'
'Why? You look like a little girl...'

The Missus interjects.
'He's doing it to amuse me because I watched a UFC fight with him yesterday and Chuck Liddell skipped into the ring.'
'I bet he doesn't skip like a little girl...'
'Don't be mean to your stepfather.'
'Although Chuck Liddell has got a little girl,' muses the Boy.
I correct him.
'She's hardly a little girl. She's in her late teens.'
'But at some point she was a little girl.'
'Yes. But by using the terms "has got" it suggests present tense which is clearly wrong.'
'Mr fucking anal...'
I ignore the insult. The Boy and the Missus are pedantic over anything so I consider it a small victory in the sometime battlefield of our domestic bliss.

'Anyway... How do you know about him and his little girl?' asks the Boy.
'Because a mixed martial arts magazine I buy had a section on stars and their cars and Chuck Liddell was in it with his daughter and his car.'
'What sort of car did he have?'
'Some sporty-fasty-smally thing.'
'Fuck... You should be on Top gear with knowledge like that.'

The Missus interjects.
'I've told you. Stop bullying your stepfather...'
'Yes. She's told you. Stop bullying your stepfather...'

We walk on down the road. I decide to take advantage of the Missus's sudden concern for my well-being.
'Would you straighten my 'tache out later, honey?'
'Of course...'

I smile. The world is good. Then the Boy interjects.
'Nothing "straight" about that 'tache and never will be...'

The Art Of Learning...

Self-help books? Pile of old bollocks more like where the author helps himself to your hard-earned cash by reiterating the blindingly obvious disguised as some pseudo scientific gobbledy-gook.

I have become a bit more open-minded of late, though, after reading some decent martial arts-type theory stuff. And now The Art Of Learning: An Inner Journey To Optimal Performance by Josh Waitzkin has nearly got me convinced that some of them even have the potential to be very good. Perhaps even useful.

Waitzkin is a former chess child prodigy and multiple US national champion who left that game behind to compete in the highly esoteric and sometimes quite brutal world of tai chi chuan. And this is the competitive version where it's about flinging your opponent out of a ring or throwing him over on his arse rather than making pretty patterns in the park of a morning.

In his book Waitzkin charts his life as a chess wunderkind and the pressures that lead him to leave his chess career behind before embarking on a journey into competitive martial arts. In terms of a potted biography it's quite a nice read but it really comes alive when the author starts to examine the processes of how he learnt to soak up information and improve in both spheres and the steps he had to go through to compete at the highest levels in both fields.

Waitzkin doesn't really reveal anything earth-shattering in his book and anyone who's looking for the secret key to unlocking the genius inside themselves will be sorely dissappointed that there's no quick-fix solution to attaining greatness. The lesson clearly stated here is that high-level success requires hard work. And lots of it. Constantly.

But the book is very strong when Waitzkin dismantles the mechanics of his learning processes and breaks them down and makes the connections between his chess learning and development and his martials arts learning and development and compares and contrasts the two. You can almost see the lightbulb go on in his head when you're reading the book.

It's good stuff, a good read and written with real clarity. As a martial artist currently stepping up his game with a black belt grading on the horizon it's good to have old lessons, such as 'investing in loss' and 'learning form to forget form', reiterated.

I'm still a long way from buying anything by Paul McKenna yet, though.

'Tache News: Part I...

The Chuck-Liddell-style 'tache I am currently sporting is taking on a life of its own.

And several women, many of them not particularly desperate or on medication or even mentals, have commented on my 'tache in very favourable terms with a bit of a twinkle in their eyes.

One even rather coquettishly asked me how my wife likes it when I kiss her while sporting facial hair. I resisted the temptation to reply 'Kiss her where?' as I am not a total flirt whore.

Even more embarrassingly I got the feeling that a couple of them would quite to like to go on a date with the 'tache if only I wasn't attached to it.

In the 'tache's defence it would probably be more charming and erudite than I could ever be. It would probably be a better lover as well.

The 'tache may have to go. I am not being upstaged by my own facial hair.

The Corner...

The Corner: A Year In The Life Of An Inner-City Neighborhood is the real-life account of one small area of Baltimore that is home to a continual street market of rival drug peddlars and addicts whose life is reduced to chasing the 'blast' of their next fix.

Written by David Simon and Edward Burns, it chronicles the area over a year by the authors interviewing and following the various people who live and deal on the corner drug markets. In particular it charts the story of one family destroyed by the drugs culture and it is at turns, shocking, tender, funny and moving, without ever losing sight of the fact that the tidal of wave of drugs that is flooding the US and beyond needs drastic and well-funded action to help deal with the carnage it is creating.

As a piece of journalism it's a truly awe-inspiring book, as a polemic it's never less than convincing and as a work of literature it's superb.

Buy it. It's a stunning piece of work.

Pain-ting!

The new From Beer To Paternity Towers is slowly taking shape.

There are two reasons for this: one is that the decor was so fucking awful when we moved in that we both decided we needed to get rid of the offending colours as soon as possible.

The other reason is that Missus is re-enacting Lysistrata, the Ancient Greek comedy by Aristophanes in which the women embark on a sex strike until the men do as they are told and renounce warfare.

Exchange 'renounce warfare' for 'decorate the house' and you get the picture. It's evil, it's callous... but to be fair the house is getting painted pretty quickly. Sometimes it even looks OK too.

I threatened to employ the same tactic on her until she bought me a free-standing kickbag and she just laughed and pointed me towards a new pot of paint.

I did have the last laugh, though. I shagged one of the cats when she wasn't looking... Sadly the cat said I wasn't very good and I should stick to painting. For ever.

Making The Grade...

It was rank test day at the hapkido academy a few weeks ago and both the Other Woman and the Other Woman Who Loves Other Women were grading.

It was quite a big day for both for different reasons: the Other Woman was returning to the grading fray for the first time since breaking her arm in two places and needing extensive surgery to piece it back together; while the Other Woman Who Loves Other Women was grading for her black belt.

I wasn't grading so I spent the time being an opponent and generally being thrown around after having all manner of joint locks and strikes thrown at me, which was much more fun than it sounds.

When I wasn't getting flung around I sat and watched proceedings and the Other Woman and the Other Woman Who Loves Other Women were fab and generally impressed the hell out of everyone who was watching. Sadly the results take a few weeks to come through so they're now waiting to see if they passed...

The good thing about this lull in proceedings, however, is that for the fortnight between grading and results classes tend to be focused on reviewing old techniques and basic skills. This is something that is, of course, drilled into all students to do on a regular basis but sometimes in the rush to learn the new you can neglect the old.

I quite enjoy this revisiting old skills because it's a reminder that you sometimes don't know what you thought you did and how well you thought you did.

Fortunately I'm a bit ahead of the curve on this lesson and it was a realisation that my hand techniques needed work that took me to the boxing gym so I could focus entirely on hand strikes and punching. And even though I wouldn't ever profess expert status at boxing I can now run punch combinations off much easier and I'm much more confident at using my fists in sparring rather than just relying on my leg kicks.

Bruce Lee once said: ‘I fear not the man who has practiced 10,000 kicks once, but I fear the man who has practiced one kick 10,000 times.’ I figure I've now probably thrown at least 10,000 jabs on a punchbag so I'm starting to understand how to utilise this strike much better.

I've now got to have the same discipline when it comes to the other strikes and kicks I use and ensure I'm as comfortable doing everything else as I am using my jab.

It's something to play with over Xmas. A cheap present to myself...

Orgy!

A colleague at work has been invited to an orgy. The invite masquerades as something sexual and daring for fun-minded adults but reading between the lines it's an orgy at an undisclosed location.

The colleague in question is a very attractive young woman and she's been invited to orgies in the past, the most recent one being last year when it transpired the only person who attended the orgy was the host who set it up. Orgy for one. To go...

This one, however, is a much plusher and more sumptuous affair and, in the hope of writing a feature about it, she's toying with the idea of going.

So she sought advice and asked me if I'd go if I were in her shoes.

So I told her I don't think I could attend an orgy. Besides the obvious fact that I'm married (and by some quirk of fate shagging other women is generally frowned upon) it genuinely doesn't appeal.

For a start there's far too much chance for rejection. It may surprise readers of this blog to read this, but I was not always the Adonis of a man I now appear. In fact I was never a pretty boy and as a hormone-fuelled teenager wanting a girlfriend I was blown out more times than a windsock. Fact.

So the idea of turning up in a room full of strangers and getting undressed only to be left to amuse myself while the beautiful people rutted among themslves would be too painful to bear.

Also if you did get invited to sample the goods imagine giving your all to your new-found bonking partner to then turn around... and find a naked 16-stone man in a gimp mask playing with a throbbing erection 18 inches from your head.

There are some fantasies better left unexplored. These things are much safer in my head. The reality would probably only be a big let-down.

So if I was in her shoes I'll only stay for a few hours or so...

Viva La Revolution!

It is Saturday morning. I am preening myself in front of the bedroom mirror. This isn't a regular occurence because hair style or facial appearance along with clothing choice never usually gets more than a perfunctory glance at the best of times.

But today is different. Today I have shaved a fortnight's growth of stubble and today I am sporting a rather fetching 'Dirty Sanchez' moustache. I think it's quite dapper. I look like a German economist or a philosophy professor with a sideline in abstract art. For a fleeting moment I am confident in my looks and I even declare 'From now on I am going to be handsome!'

There is a snort from the bed. The Missus, apparently, is less than impressed.
'It makes you look wrong.'
'But you encouraged me to grow it.'
'And now you have I realise it looks rubbish. Shave it off.'
'I am not shaving it off.'
'But it looks stupid...'
'I am now a proud member of the moustache club.'
'...and by definition that means I'm stupid for marrying you.'
'Talk to the hand, sister, 'cos the ears ain't listening!'
'One: they patently are or you wouldn't have replied. Two: you will shave it off eventually because you'll get bored. You always do. So do it now and save yourself some time and save me some embarrassment.'
'I won't. I'm 'tached and I'm proud! And now I'm defiant. Look at my facial-haired defiance! The revolution starts here!'

The Missus rolls her eyes and sighs and leaves the bedroom shaking her head. It's not quite how I expected news of a revolution to be greeted...

Take Hart...

Miranda Hart's new sitcom, Miranda, is a prime-time show aired at 8.30pm on BBC2 so, boring old watershed rules being what they are, the usual stock-in-trade of much TV comedy, namely swearing and cruelty and slightly sick jokes, can't come into play.

Even more amazing is that in this world of post-Office cringing and post-Peep Show cruelty and post-Curb swearing the show essentially relies on some quite old-fashioned comic devices: namely jokes, farce and slapstick.

And it's really bloody funny.

A lot of the gags come from the basic premise that Hart is a bit androgynous. But there's also something quite charming about the way she sometimes turns to the camera to address the viewer and laugh at her own stupidity or at the desperation of those around her to help her meet a fella.

In feel it's a bit like those nice situation comedy series people used to watch in the Seventies and early Eighties (but without the casual sexism and racism).

Ex-EastEnder Tom Ellis and Patricia Routledge are among the supporting cast but it's Hart who's the real star of this utterly engaging and very funny show.

Episode two airs tonight. It's well worth a look.

I Spy...

The Boy has been away at uni for eight weeks and he is due to come home and see the new house for the first time this weekend.

What he doesn't know is that I have been following his fresher progress on Twitter and on Facebook and, even though the posts he places on these sites are for public consumption, I sill feel like a cyber-pervert-stalker trawling through them and looking at pictures of him and his new friends on either his page or on their pages.

In truth it feels like I'm a bit of a nosey-parker or a voyeur but I tell myself I'm only doing it so I can keep up with what he's doing. It's not spying... it's networking... it's concerned parental-type networking.

That's probably what peeping toms used to say...

Fireworks!

It is Hallowe'en and some posh kids are knocking at the door. Begging.

They are with their equally posh parents and they are giving the recent sweetie offerings they've culled from gullible folks a thorough going-over to ensure there are no additives and it's all organic produce.

Then something inside me just snaps...

And apparently the words 'I'm sorry but I'm not allowed near such pretty children as part of my parole conditions' is not the right thing to say.

It's political correctness gone mad...

The Power Of Yes...

David Hare's new play The Power Of Yes is the playwright's attempt to understand the banking crisis and the chain of events that led to the current global financial meltdown.

It features actor Anthony Calf in the role of playwright Hare as the flop-haired dramatist-turned-amateur-sleuth interviews all manner of bankers, journalists, financiers and stockbrokers to get to the bottom of what actually happened and why.

The rest of the 20-strong cast play the real-life banking and financial sector great and good that the real-life Hare interviewed to get material for this play and the cast dutifully repeat the quotes Hare pieces together to explain the whats, the hows and the whys.

Much like The Permanent Way, one of Hare's previous docu-drama verbatim theatre pieces, it presents both fascinating facts and a fascinating story with some salient points made and some serious questions asked about the real value of profits over lives and morals over money.

Sadly you do sometimes get the feeling that Hare is, if not preaching to the converted, at least supporting their views. And if the audience the night I saw the show was any kind of yardstick, you sometimes worry that such a play on at the National Theatre is just pandering to the Guardian-reading lib-lab alliance who still think the arts can make a relevant challenge and even change to the still monied hegemony.

But to assume that misses the point of David Hare. Hare is one of the few established writers whose name ensures that he can write for large institutions like the National Theatre. And when he does he uses the medium of theatre in an effecting way to ask intelligent questions about the institutions we hold dear.

And sadly there aren't many dramatists out there with that reputation and theatrical clout doing that at the moment. So we should value Hare and value what he has to say and, more importantly, value where he says it.

He really is a National treasure...

Moving Stories: Part Four...

At From Beer To Paternity Towers we share the housework.

This means that every week I do the hoovering and the dusting and take the rubbish and the recycling out... and the Missus cleans the bathrooms once a month... but only when it looks like they will collapse under the weight of their own grime.

So I'm hoovering the house and she asks me what I'm doing.
'What does it look like I'm doing?'
'But your hay fever is really bad.'
'House dust doesn't trigger hay fever.'
'But it may make yours worse.'
'It won't...'
'Well I think you should stop.'
'If I stop it won't get done.'
'Well make yourself ill. See if I care...'

And with that she strops off. I give it a few moments thought and think about calling a halt to my domestic chores. But it is true... if I don't do it no other sod will so I continue on my merry way ignoring the occasional harumphing coming from upstairs.

Then it hits me. I am the only husband in the world who can be criticised for doing too much housework. I am blessed. Truly blessed...

Dance Yourself Dizzy...

It is the big dance event myself and a few of my fellow hapkido students have put together to raise money to buy new mats for our school.

The Missus has come along early to help me set up and the Other Woman and the Other Woman Who Loves Other Women are also present. The coming together of the three women in my life is usually a recipe for some type of character assassination as they all swap notes on what an idiot I am and, true to form, the Missus and the Other Woman are soon in cahoots.

The Other Woman Who Loves Other Women, however, is otherwise engaged strutting her stuff on the dancefloor with a beautiful woman she’s turned up with and, quite frankly, the two of them are wonderful to watch. They have grace, they have poise, they have style and they look devastatingly sexy... In another life I am definitely coming back as a dancing lesbian.

Then the dance class part of the evening proper starts and me and the Missus are woefully bad so we retire to the bar with the Other Woman and laugh at how bad we are.

Then it strikes me... after 12 years and 279 days and 2 hours together I finally discover something that me and the Missus have in common. We may be poles apart in music, film, art, theatre, TV, literature and other interests but the thing that we have in common is that we are utterly useless at dancing. Douglas Barder (post-accident) would look more graceful with dancing shoes on.

It is a small triumph in a night of ballroom carnage.

Moving Stories: Part Three...

I am worried by the Missus. She has started knitting and is collecting apples from the apple tree in our garden and threatening to bake pies.

I approach her about this and she starts pondering our move to the country and how it may affect her in future.
'Of course now I've moved to the country I'll probably start wearing gingham and behaving like a Stepford Wife...'
'So you're mine to command?'
'Absolutely...'
'So you won't be quite so opinionated, sarcastic, vicious and demeaning towards me?'
'No...
'Brilliant. Well... for my part now you're a country wife you can forget about those female orgasms. You'll have no need for them now you're out of London. So you can forget about your fancy metropolitan sexual ways...'
'Between you and me, love, I forgot those about the same time we got together...'

Ouch...

Moving Stories: Part Two...

The wardrobe was something we bought as part of a costly splurge on expensive bedroom furniture about four years ago. Sadly when it arrived at the new house there was no way it was going to fit up the stairs so it spent the first few days in a downstairs room.

Then I had a brainwave and thought I'd reveal my scheme to the Missus.
'I've had a look at the wardrobe and I think I can dismantle it, take all the bits upstairs then put it back together again.'
My idea is greeted with silence and a look that suggests I've just asked her to let me sleep with her best friend while she makes us a finger buffet for afters.

'I said I've...'
'I heard what you said.'
'I think I can do it...'
'Do you remember what that wardrobe cost?'
'Yes.'
'And you realise it was built by trained craftsmen with years of experience?'
'Yes.'
'And your qualification for undoing the work they did in assembling it then putting it back together is?'

I rack my brain then remember the words my Mother uttered to the first girlfriend I brought back from college in a bid to impress her.
'There was nothing I couldn't make out of lego when I was a kid...'
'Lego?'
'Ask my mum...'
'Lego?'
'It's the same theory. I'll just pretend it's a big lego kit and I'm eight.'
'It's not happening...'

An hour later the Missus pops into the back room and I have the first door off and the look of horror on her face is a picture. But with one door off we're in too deep and she now has to help me finish the job...

Three hours later the wardrobe stands in our bedroom. Everything is in place, it all works and it's solid as a rock. I am golden, I am Hercules, I am the Man Who Knew Too Much, I am eight-year-old Lego builder made good. Even the Missus is impressed...

Then a day later I try to hang a picture using dodgy hooks and it falls off the wall and smashes the frame and the triumph of wardrobegate is all but a distant memory.

I am now Bomber Harris, at one time lauded a hero but now confined to the pile entitled scumbags of history because of one small oversight...

The Best Joke Ever...

Q. How do you get a fat woman into bed?
A. Piece of cake...

Even better I sent this gag to my Other Woman and she told me she wasn't that fussy and would probably hit the sack for a biscuit.

I'm a lucky man to have such low-rent, slatternly chums...

Moving Stories: Part One...

Me and the Missus are now settled in our new home in Guildford.

The original plan was to sell up in London and, with the Boy at university and just me, the Missus and the cats to house, downsize and not have a mortgage, therefore freeing money up for having fab holidays and living the good life.

Then the Missus saw THE house...

Consequently all plans of having no mortgage flew out the window and we are now living in a very beautiful detached Victorian villa in a very posh street in Surrey's favourite market town.

Fortunately it is an utterly beautiful house and we both had a week off work to get settled in and start the redecorating process, which is now well under way. Adjusting to a new commuting routine sans cycle and dans train, however, will take some time and getting used to living in a new house will probably take a bit longer as well.

In fact for the first few days I was a bit like the cats, wandering around the house late at night trying to find my bearings and marking the bits of the new territory I want to claim as my own. Unlike the cats, however, I didn't run into the nearest room and urinate in a corner. Not yet anyway...

The first night sleeping there was very strange. It was deathly quiet without the constant hum of London or the glow of street lights in the background. Waking up and seeing countryside was also quite exciting too. Even the cats declared a temporary ceasefire to their usual hostilities and both slept on the bed without trying to tear lumps out of each other.

But it's nice and relaxed and quiet and I'm pretty sure we're all going to be happy in our new abode. The constant hassle of London is now a memory and in its place anything seems possible yet again...

Something Old...

The Missus is a member of the British Museum and one of the perks of membership is that four times every year they have a members-only evening, which essentially means members can see the latest exhibition for free and stroll round the rest of the museum without tourists cluttering up the place.

So last night we went along and saw the latest exhibition about the last Aztec ruler Moctezuma, then had a stroll around our own favourite bits. This inevitably meant we headed to the Egyptian wing where we were pretty much the only people present.

It was fab seeing her get all excitied and wandering around open-mouthed as she admired all the utterly beautiful artifacts on display. It reminded me it was how she looked when she first saw the soon-to-be-hopefully-ours new house with that look of wonder and utter childlike amazement.

Afterwards we went to the courtyard for a glass of wine and we sat listening to a musical group playing traditional Korean folk music on traditional Korean instruments. It was such a nice moment I didn't even mind missing the traditional Japanese tea ceremony I fancied going to see. We just sat and chatted and listened...

After nearly 13 years together we still quite like each other. We're doing OK...

All Change...

The Boy has packed his stuff and, after an unexpected delay of four days, has left for university.

This now leaves the Missus alone. With me. Without her partner-in-crime when it comes to taunting and belittling me.

The balance of house power has dramatically swung!

Sadly, before I can enjoy my new power, there are other things to occupy my mind with the big house move to pastures new happening in less than two weeks. Consequently myself and the Missus have been sorting out household junk from stuff we want to keep.

The Missus, who is a constant hoarder, had a bit of a shaky moment when she discussed keeping several empty Quality Street tins we'd amassed over the years, but as soon as she got over this she became utterly ruthless in getting rid of stuff.

Her clearing purge of the Boy's bedroom today was almost Stalinist in its ruthless efficiency and her decision to empty her prized journalist stash cupboard and give much of her stuff away was hugely impressive.

Sadly she's now looking at me and I think she's sizing me up for recycling. The balance of power may not have shifted that far...

Other Woman News...

The Other Woman was in Edinburgh at a comedy gig with her long-suffering boyfriend, namely the Other Woman's Real Fella, and the comedian started doing a routine about couples.

Spying the two of them in the front row he started asking the Other Woman's Real Fella a few questions designed to embarrass him.
'So... How long have you been together?'
'About eight years...'
'Are you married?'
'No...'
'Engaged?'
'No...'
'Are you planning on getting engaged?'
'No...'
'Why not? Is it not the right time?'

The Other Woman's Real Fella turned round and looked at her for a second as the rest of the audience looked on before he replied:
'No. It's not the right woman...'

Silence then laughter all around. Apparently the comedian walked off the stage and bowed before his feet for saying that answer, although I suspect he secretly found it pretty galling when his audience had better punchlines than he had.

Mind you, I've always told the Other Woman she's punching well above her weight in that particular relationship. He's well lush, innit.

The 39 Steps...

Patrick Barlow's pastiche adaptation of famed thriller The 39 Steps has been critically lauded and won a 2007 Olivier Award for Best New Comedy.

So it was not great hardship when I bought the Missus tickets to go see it for her birthday as I was also looking forward to having a look and a good laugh. I'm also a long-time fan of Barlow's other incarnation as the brains behind the National Theatre of Brent, whose shows were consistently funny and inventive.

Sadly the 39 Steps isn't anywhere near as smart as it would like to think.

Instead it's a lampooned run through the 1935 Hitchcock-directed film of the book that comes in at just over one hour and forty-five minutes, which also includes an interval.

On the plus side that does make it quite pacy... but once you've got over the fact that just four actors are playing all the characters, and you've worked out where the sight gags and prat falls are coming, and you've stopped laughing at the sub 'Allo 'Allo comedy accents, and you've realised the on-stage costume changes are quite cleverly orchestrated... there's actually not a lot to it.

It's West End theatre as done by the Chuckle Brothers, except if the Chuckle Brothers were doing it then it would be done with a lot more affection and the sight gags and the prat falls would be funnier.

I was lucky enough to see Knee High Theatre do their version of Brief Encounter a few years ago and that was also part-pastiche, but it also had a real heart to it and you could see the cast and the creative team behind it really cared and respected the source material.

Sadly with the 39 Steps the over-riding feeling is that it's a cynical piss-take and the creative team are essentially out to make a quick buck. And, sadly, the product suffers and has a jaded feel to it.

But then again it's West End theatre so you pays your money and you takes your chance. And to be frank I should have known better...

Monkey Business...

It's birthday weekend for the Missus so I took her to London Zoo and we saw the lion cubs and they're breath-takingly sweet and beautiful.

We also had a wonder around the new Gorilla World, which was pretty cool, and did the rest of the stuff, such as the Reptile House and the Aquarium. My favourite new find, however, was the Hanuman Langurs. These are very cute monkeys from India and they're considered sacred by Hindus. They're both playful and quite serious looking and I've decided these are now my favourite monkey of choice.

It was quite strange walking around London Zoo on our own and without a child to take and show things. The Missus used to take the Boy when he was young and it served as yet another reminder that he's now no longer the Boy and will be wending his own way into the world very shortly.

'Does it feel strange not having a child with you?' I asked as I realised we were the only people without one.
'I wouldn't say I was totally without a child,' she replied as she looked at me before wiping the chocolate from my ice cream off my nose.

Jamie’s...

It's Notting Hill Carnival weekend so that means just one thing at From Beer To Paternity Towers... me and the Missus are getting the fuck out of town so we don't have to put up with thousands of tourists parading down our street screeching whistles and acting like they've just had their first pint and it's made them very pissed.

So we had a few days in Brighton and while we were there we went to Jamie Oliver's restaurant in Brighton which is called Jamie's.

I must confess that I have been through several stages with the mockney chef geezer. I quite liked him when he first arrived on the telly chef scene as he was very much part of that whole cool Britannia thing. And he was chatty and chirpy and it even encouraged an idiot like me to try cooking dishes I'd never thought about.

But within a year or so he was absolutely bloody everywhere. His books took up entire aisles in bookshops, he seemed like he was on several telly channels all at once, he was advertising this and promoting that...

In fact being Jamie Oliver or one of his beautiful friends who got invited round to sample his food seemed like the lifestyle dream everyone wanted... thus making anyone who couldn't aspire to that feel a bit shit and a bit useless. And as one of the shit and useless who wasn't beautiful I went off him pretty rapidly.

But then he came back with his frankly brilliant 15 show, then his School Dinners show, then his Ministry Of Food show, and rather than Jamie the brand you started to see Jamie the chef who actually cared and wanted to make a difference (as well as a few quid) and I was back in love with him.

So it was with mixed feelings that I ventured into one of his chain restaurants with the Missus when we went to Brighton but I'm pleased to report the place, the service and the food was bloody brilliant. And it wasn't massively expensive and they serve a great Bloody Mary.

And, even better, the Missus loved it so that's an easy birthday or Xmas present sorted out.

On the negative side, though, Brighton does still have a gay sex shop called Prowler. I reckon that's terrible branding. They may as well just call it Rapist and have done.

Brazilian Jiu-jitsu: Basic Techniques...

Fabio Gurgel's book offers a simple-to-understand and easy-to-read introduction to the world of Brazilian Jiu-jitsu.

It mainly covers basic techniques and it's no-nonsense in its approach while the photos are clear and the information concise. Even better it assumes the reader has no knowledge or experience in ground-fighting or grappling.

A user-friendly read which makes a complex subject easy to understand.

Dead End...

I've just spotted this story in the Goole Chronicle, the local paper from my home town of Goole.

This is, of course, the paper that also reported other such gems as the mobility scooter pensioner who robbed the local post office, the man who was spotted having sex with a horse by a train full of schoolchildren, and the adulterous Muslim doctor who prayed to Mecca before he had sex with his love rat patient.

'A former Goole resident's dying wish was to have 'I would rather be in Goole' engraved on his tombstone in a Somerset cemetery.

Kenneth Richardson was born in Goole but moved to Banwell in North Somerset more than 30 years ago.

He died aged 78 in February this year and after his death his solicitor revealed the strange request in his will to surprised members of the Banwell parish council prior to his burial.

Acting on his behalf, solicitor Jenny Brading, of Powells Solicitors, sent a letter to the council which said: "'He was born in Goole and his place of birth remained of great importance to him. His will was supported by a letter of wishes in which he stated that he wished to be buried in Banwell and for his tombstone to be engraved with the epitaph."

At a recent meeting councillors in Banwell granted Mr Richardson's last request, providing the word 'Frankly' preceded it.

The clerk to the council - who is also called Ken Richardson - explained that the council originally rejected the first request because they thought the phrase would offend some people. They made the suggestion to add the word 'Frankly' as they believed that this phrase was 'less offensive'.

Kenneth Richardson, who had no close family, left his entire estate to Save the Children and the National Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children.'

I'm liking this...

Results...

The Boy got his A Level results this week and he did well so he is off to the university of his choice to study film and tv production at the end of September.

We're obviously delighted for him and we've spoilt him rotten since he got his grades. I also think he's really looking forward to the new life, the new environment and the new challenges that lie ahead – and, more importantly, studying something he loves doing for three years.

The Missus, however, is starting to realise her little boy (who is in reality an 18-year-old young man who stands at 6ft and towers above her) will be leaving home and it will just be me and her.

I think she's quite worried by this. I sometimes catch her staring at me with a look that exudes both love and desperation. I imagine it is how serial killers look at their prey before the knife goes in. But I could be wrong...

Sex Machine...

It's official. Women find me irresistible. I am eye candy...

After last week's bumper week of a woman chatting me up in a karaoke bar and another one giving me the wink in Pret A Manger I have now had a third woman giving me the eye.

This happened yesterday when I was outside in our front garden pruning our rose Steven. Steven is a very hardy rose and got his name as he's had all manner of mishaps but has still survived. Hence the nickname Steven as in Steven Seagal as in Steven Seagal of Hard To Kill fame.

Anyway, I was in the front garden pruning Steven and a very attractive jogger jogged past, slowed down, gave me a lovely smile then jogged on. So I did what any red-blooded man would do... I ran in the house scared and reported it to the Missus.
'It's happened again...'
'What?'
'Another woman has given me the eye!'
'Where?'
'Outside... I was pruning Steven and I got a smile... from a jogger... a female jogger...'
'Do stop going on...'
'The sideburns have to go. They are making me irresistible to women. I'm a danger to myself...'
'What were you doing? Were you talking to yourself?'
'No...'
'Where you singing to yourself?
'I might have been...'
'And did she say anything?'
'No... I was singing and I looked up and she sort of smiled...'
'Then she ran away?'
'It didn't happen like that...'
'But she ran away?'
'You think I'm care in the community, don't you?'
'Trust me... They'd never classify you as care in the community...'

Fatal Attraction...

I have never been chatted up by a woman before. Not ever...

In fact the only person who has ever chatted me up before was a gay Chinese antiques dealer called Billy who made his move when I was naked and getting dried after going swimming one dinnertime. At the time I thought he was being friendly when he was standing close to me also naked and getting dried and asking me if I worked out and what sort of bars I went to and if I fancied a drink.

My girlfriend at the time thought it hilarious when I told her I'd made a new friend and pointed out the glaringly obvious thing that I'd missed...

So I was equally stunned when myself and several of my pool-playing colleagues went out in Brighton after a county poool match and a very attractive woman came up to me and started talking and asking me about myself and started what I can only describe as stroking me and being generally affectionate...

So we talked for a while as my colleagues, who'd been trying to crack onto her and her friend, watched my embarrassed and half-witted attempts to play it cool. And when I realised we were officially nearing pre-mating ritual land I managed to slip my parental and marital status into the conversation. She then told she'd got married four weeks ago and was out with her mum and her sister celebrating – because her son and his girlfriend had just had a son.

So the demagraphic of people who find me attractive is gay Chinese men and grandmothers. It's official. I am eye candy...

Exquisite Bodies...

'In the 19th century, despite the best efforts of body snatchers, the demand from medical schools for fresh cadavers far outstripped the supply. One solution to this gruesome problem came in the form of lifelike wax models. These models often took the form of alluring female figures that could be stripped and split into different sections. Other models were more macabre, showing the body ravaged by "social diseases" such as venereal disease, tuberculosis and alcohol and drug addiction...'

I'm a big fan of the Wellcome Collection and its latest exhibition, Exquisite Bodies, which runs until 18 October, is yet another small but perfectly formed gem hidden among the vast treasures of the capital's much grander museums and much better publicised gallery spaces.

Although it's not a massive event it manages to be gruesome, fascinating and educational all at the same time and, even better from a personal perspective, the story of the Victorian gallery owners who displayed this work but were closed down because some of it was considered obscene could well be the kernel of an idea for a new play about the Victorians and their attitude to sex.

Also running alongside Exquisite Bodies is Diary Drawings: Mental Illness And Me, an exhibition of some 159 drawings by artist Bobby Baker, which chronicle her descent into and subsequent efforts to deal with mental health problems. It sounds quite grim but it manages to be accessible, uplifting and funny.

Both these exhibitions are well worth a look and entry is free to both.

Burns Night...

I am laid in bed with the Missus and she is admiring my sideburns so I seek to reassure her that I will be keeping them for some time yet.
'It's fine. I haven't got bored with them yet. In fact I quite like them.'
'They suit you.'
'I think so too...'
'They frame your face and make it look less severe...'
'I don't have a severe face...'
'You do. You have a face of extremes...'
'What exactly does that mean?'
'Well... you have a tiny mouth and a massive nose and totally crapped eyes but the sideburns frame it all and make it look more... normal.'
'You really do view me very much as a work in progress, don't you?'
'Yes. And you're not anywhere near finished yet...'

I give her a hard stare to show my disaproval. But it's not a severe one...

My Missus The Ninja...

It's a standing joke at From Beer To Paternity Towers that even though I am the martial artist and the boxer, the Missus remains the most dangerous member of the family...

Recently she has also developed Ninja-like skills of instigating then ignoring an argument and letting it drop before I even know what's going on. This has become known as one of her Ninja arguments because I don't know where they come from or how they mysteriously manage to vanish and leave no trace but they do exist.

A case in point was our recent trip to the cinema to see The Hangover. We arrive a few minutes before the film is due to start and I am stood in the queue for popcorn and drinks while she returns from the loo.

So I am quite happily waiting when she appears at my side with the following question.
'Why have you not got drinks and popcorn from the self-service kiosk?'
'Because I can get them here and they'll do it for me...'
'But there's a queue and it will save us time.'
'It will save us about 30 seconds...'
'I'm only trying to help...'
'Well you're not – and don't always assume that just because I choose to do something one way that your way is automatically better.'

This all seemed innocent enough but two sentences later I am on the receiving end of a barage that accuses me of drinking any drink we get to eat in the cinema, eating all the popcorn we get to eat in the cinema and of engineering the argument in the first place so I could fulfil my secret wish to buy nachos which she hates as she has to listen to me eat them. Then to top it all off I've apparently got the arse with her!

Then 30 seconds later it's all gone and for all intents and purposes her outburst could never have happened. But I know the Ninja argument crept in, did its damage then left again. And behind her contented eyes is the look of a stone-cold killer with shuriken in one hand and a katana in the other...

Gilbert And George...

The Missus took me to see the latest Gilbert and George exhibition Jackfreak.

It's on at two venues, one is the achingly fashionable White Cube in the equally achingly fashionable Hoxton and the other is a gallery in Mason's Yard just off Piccadilly Circus.

The shows are essentially Gilbert and George's take on ideas of English identity, which in their eyes are bound up with ideas of religion and sporting achievement and warfare and even a bit of nosey neighbour paranoia. The pieces themselves are huge and each rectangular picture is comprised of framed square panels which when combined with their use of illuminated colours make it look a bit like a stained glass window.

And that's quite apt because some of this work borrows iconography from religion and uses it to playfully examine ideas of religion in national identity.

It may sound dull and academic but it's not. Gilbert and George are very funny and quite happily take the piss while respectfully making relevant points on all manner of subjects through their art.

Although the Missus is a long-time fan it was my first time at a Gilbert and George exhibition and I found the scale of their work impressive. But, more importantly, it was funny and accessible. Well worth a look...

Lights, Camera...

The Boy is making his first proper short film as a writer and director and I've been roped in to co-ordinate the fight scene.

It is 11 years since I have directed anything and now I have a couple of recent drama school graduates to put through their paces and block in a fight scene I plotted out with the Boy the night before.

Several of the Boy's friends have also been drafted in as film crew members so I have the double pressure of not making a tit of myself in front of them and embarassing him and, more importantly, remembering how to break down an action sequence into its component parts then put it together so it functions as a coherent whole.

And to put it frankly I am bricking myself.

Surprisingly, though, it actually goes OK and I remember that I can actually still do this, expecially when the two guys involved turn out to be really up for it. It almost makes me nostalgic for the life of play directing and producing I was once part of instead of the somewhat lonely path of writing I have now embarked on.

Once I've done my bit I fade into the background and watch the Boy do his stuff. He works well with the actors and he knows what he is doing and what he wants.

But then I remember he is now no longer the Boy. He is 18 and hungry to achieve and he has that confidence of youth where absolutely anything is possible.

I watch him work and although the child is still very much there he's also a grown-up and all sorts of worries and worst-case-scenario anxieties about him heading off to university fade away.

I now know he'll be OK when he leaves home in a few months to study film production, both on the course and off it. He's gonna be just fine...

Happiness...

I look in the mirror
Big nose, thick specs
And now
sporting sideburns.

In looks at least
I am
every inch
my father’s child.

I remember
when he looked
pretty much
like I do now.

I have an image of him,
still on the docks
and playing football,
though not semi-pro any more.

I often wonder
did he ever regret
not taking the chance
to play the game he loved as a pro?

Was he really
happy enough
with a marriage
and us?

I smile and realise
That I am now
the same age
as he was then.

And rather
than just accepting
this happiness
I feel my ambition kicking in.

But maybe he knew that
failing at something you want
is more painful than succeeding
at the less you accept.

True Romance...

Me and the Missus are relaxing at home. She is talking:
'You're an utter lunatic and you can be a real spastic... but I do quite like you at times.'

After 12 and a half years together she is finally mellowing towards me.

Who says romance is dead?

Black Belt...

I passed my last grading for my red belt, black stripe last year and it's taken me a good six months to revisit all my old techniques and reach a decent enough standard to enable me to start learning new techniques for my black belt grading (expected some time in late 2010).

There are 20 black belt techniques to learn in all, which then combine with the other 90-odd techniques that I've learnt for all my previous belts, plus the 10 forms and all the hand strikes and kicks and knees and elbow strikes and special hand techniques and punching combinations and board breaking and sparring...

If I think about it to much it can all seem quite a long way off and quite daunting. But then I remember I can actually do some of this stuff and some of it I'm even quite good at. And the stuff I'm less good at I need to tackle like I tackle everything else: dismantle it, understand it, repeat it and learnt it.

I did this with my hand strikes at the start of last year. They weren't good enough so I went off to box and I'm now quite confident, sometimes over-confident, when it comes to using my hands. And that's because I dismantled it, understood it, repeated it and learnt it.

I'm now doing a similar thing with my kicking on my weak left side. I've added a sidekick drill to my weekly routine and soon I'll add a roundhouse kick drill to that. Then I'll do the same with my forms and anything else I'm weak on.

I finally feel like I'm seeing faint glimmers of light at the end of the tunnel on this black belt lark and I'm starting to feel like I'm going to get it rather than hoping I may get it.

Application beats talent every time. I need to remember that – in hapkido and in many other things...

Not OK!

I've just chanced upon a copy of celeb-trash magazine OK! For those who have not had the pleasure of OK! it's like a poor man's Hello! which obviously makes it very poor indeed.

But what do you expect. It's published by Richard Desmond, the same bloke who publishes the now lamentably awful Daily Express and the shockingly poor Daily Star and who also owns a veritable gamut of porn channels such as Red Hot 40+ Wives and Red Hot All Girl.

So essentially we know it can only be barrel-scrapingly awful. So barrel-scrapingly awful in fact that if I ate nothing but prunes and dried fruit for a week then sprayed the contents of my arse over an empty sheet of newsprint it would probably look better and be a more interesting read than OK!

But today's copy of OK! reached a new low in bad taste. Under the banner headline 'World Exclusive: The Last Picture' was a half-page shot of the dying Michael Jackson with an oxygen mask attached to his face obviously breathing his last. Then on the side of the page the masthead read 'OK! With all out love and prayers. The official tribute issue. Michael Jackson. In loving memory.'

Now I have little interest in defending the alleged multi-kiddy-fiddling pop star but for once I actually felt sorry for him. His life was a bizarre circus and now, thanks to OK!, his fans can see him breathing his last on their front page.

To quote the now-dead prince of pop. 'Who’s bad?' Clue: OK!

Victory!

The search to find the perfect cue is finally over and, post willing, my new but very old Riley Tombstone cue will be arriving next week.

I chanced upon it on ebay but I'm somewhat sceptical about buying cues on ebay after I bought a similar cue and it wasn't quite as advertised.

Fortunately – and by total coincidence – I know the guy I'm buying it from and, even better, he is a former cuemaker who originally learnt his trade at Rileys so he knows what he's talking about and is also a straight-up bloke to deal with.

I tried to explain how excited I was by this purchase to a work colleague who happened to around at the time. I tried to explain why it was so important to me and enthused about how it was something with a bit of history and... to be quite frank she just looked blank.

Maybe I need to keep my obsessions to myself in the workplace. Having said that she should thank her lucky stars I didn't start talking about 1970s pornography or Victorian erotica.

But who knows? She may have liked that...

Stock...

I am in rewrite land for my current play, Stock.

It's an odd time because it's like the first day of the football season where everything is possible and this could be the breakthrough script...

But it also depends on how much work I put in on it because it's important I learn lessons from previous drafts of previous plays and work hard to try to get this one as right as I can before I send it off to my usual list of potential theatres.

I'm aiming to send it out by the end of July. So here's hoping...

Movie Madness..

I am in the curry house with the Missus and the Boy and we are discussing films and I give an opinion on something with which he disagrees... then he backs up his opinion by claiming that he's seen more films than I have. Cue argument...

I try to explain to him that he can't have done this as I also love films and have been an avid movie viewer since my early teens and, as I've also got an extra 22 years on him, it's highly unlikely his claim is accurate. But he still doubts my veracity so we decide to settle it mano-et-mano by naming all the films we've seen in alphabetical order.

We begin with the letter 'A' and are still going strong 50 movie titles beginning with 'A' later, until it's my turn and I'm struggling so come up with anything.

So I plump for 'Ass-turbators'.

The Boy looks at me then carries on with his next entry and I then offer 'Ass-turbators II'. The Boy stops me.
'What exactly is Ass-turbators?'
'It's an adult film...'
'You mean porn?'
'Yes...'
'You can't include porn films!'
'They're still films...'
'They're not allowed in this, though...'
'You let me have Aunt Peg earlier...'
'That's because I didn't realise it was a porn film...'
'It's beautifully lit and acted actually. It's not just a porn film...'
'Pick another movie beginning with A...'
'Ass-turbators III?'
'You're an idiot...'

Storm Warning...

Me and the Missus are travelling into work and she's telling me about her recent trip to some flash eaterie the day before – then mentions she also bumped into a work associate on the trip.

During this explanation I switch off for a bit and when I tune back in she’s still talking.
'...but sadly she's having a rough time of it at the moment because she’s splitting up with her husband.'
'The friend?'
'Yes.'
'Is he a dirty, no-good love rat?'
'No... but they've been together for ages and she's gradually decided he's a bit of an arse who's not amounted to anything so she left him.'
'So she left him beause she's an arse and a low achiever?'
'Yes...'

There is a pause and she looks at me before she continues.
'I'm sure it's probably quite common...'

The Perfect Cue...

I recently spent just under £400 on a new pool cue made by John Parris, the country's best cuemaker who also makes cues for Ronnie O'Sullivan.

So it was with some trepidation that I joined the Other Woman and the Other Woman's Real Fella for an afternoon on the snooker table on Saturday to give the cue its first proper road test.

For a player of any decent standard getting a new cue is a big deal as it feels very odd and it takes a while to get used to because it's not what you've been using or are used to feeling in your hand. Even subtle differences can take time to adjust to.

Consequently I was pretty rubbish for large patches of the afternoon.

Fortunately I know this cue migration from my current cue, which is a bit short, to my new cue, which feels a bit long, will take some time and I am prepared for a long haul of mediocrity before I make the switch on a permanent basis.

In the meantime, though, I am still searching for one of two models of an antique cue I have had my eyes on. This is because I am convinced that if I get my hands on one of these cues it will be like the comic strip Billy's Boots and I'll magically become the half-decent player I once was after being inspired by the spirits of all those old players who have used the cue before.

Or I just may spunk another large amount of money on an old cue and sit in my office looking at it. Like I currently am with the last one I bought. And the one before that...

Beautiful People...

A close family friend is a fashion photographer and he publishes a periodical to showcase his and several other people's work. The shoots and the models are quite high end but it somehow manages to be self-financing. How? I have no idea...

But last night was the launch party for the latest edition of his publication so myself and the Missus attended the bash at a Soho gallery. The Missus, of course, is used to such hob-nobbing with the rich and famous and faintly annoying but I was at a bit of a loss because it soon dawned on me that I was in a room surrounded by fashion photographers, fashion buyers, fashion journalists, fashion models and fashion hangers-on all keen to give the free bar a hammering.

And to make matters worse they were all utterly beautiful and immaculately turned out and, judging from the utter hilarity ensuing every time one of them opened their cake holes, they were also incredibly charming and erudite and witty.

The cunts.

I wanted to tell them how their whole industry was a sham built on a lie bought and swallowed by preposterous idiots like themselves. But it my friend's party so I behaved and played my role as the token ugly bloke in the corner. It was like Hollyoaks and I was the token fat bird...

But I'm not bitter. Or jealous. Or insecure of the beautiful people whose club I'll never be asked to join. Oh no... Not me...

Kuniyoshi: A Review...

Utagawa Kuniyoshi (1797-1861) was one of the last great masters of the Japanese ukiyo-e style of woodblock prints and painting.

Add to this little biog that he was also a contemporary and rival of Katsushika Hokusai of the Great Wave Off Kanagawa fame then the exhibition featuring Kuniyoshi's work at the Royal Academy was something of a must-see for me.

The exhibition itself divides his work into five main categories, namely warriors, beautiful women, landscape, Kabuki theatre and humour, and it's incredibly well presented and annotated with clear and concise descriptions attached to all the prints.

The work is truly beautiful and it also makes you appreciate the astounding level of skill the block carvers-cum-printers possessed to mass produce this type of work with such precision and vibrant colours.

In short the exhibition is impressive and the featured work is quite simply beautiful. It's one of those experiences that is, quite simply, incredibly life-affirming and energising.

Neil Sedaka...

I love Neil Sedaka. Not in a sexual way. Obviously... he probably wouldn't look at me twice... but I've always thought that he and Howard Greenfield were one of the finest songwriting duos the US has produced and Sedaka's solo work was also a genuine cut above many other singer-songwriters around in the 1970s and early 1980s.

His music is also beautifully orchestrated and I could quite happily while away an afternoon listening to his Greatest Hits with Solitaire, The Other Side Of Me, Bad Blood and Breaking Up Is Hard To Do (Slow Version) getting several replays.

I could actually talk about my love of all things Sedaka for some considerable time if I was allowed... so imagine my delight when I cycled past the Albert Hall and saw posters of him appearing in concert there at the end of June.

So I rushed home to inform the Missus.
'Do you want to come and see Neil Sedaka with me?'
'You want me to go see Neil Sedaka with you?'
'Well I'm going to see Gaslight Anthem with you...'
'But you like Gaslight Anthem...'
'But you must like some Sedaka. Everybody has a favourite Sedaka song. It's almost like a rule... like not inappropriately touching pensioners in care homes.'

The Missus pauses to consider my thesis.
'I actually think I'd rather die than sit through three hours of Neil Sedaka surrounded by his octogenarian fanclub and you enthusing...'
'So you'll think about it...'
'I refer you to my previous comment...'

Guess I'll have to go on my own then if I can get a ticket.

Addicted...

I am having my annual One Month Off The Beer and it's going quite well and, despite several trips to play pool and several visits to the pub, I have yet to succumb to alcohol.

Unfortunately the key side effect of not having a drink to unwind seems to be a craving for comfort food and this has taken the form of custard creams, which without doubt are the king of economy biscuits.

I opened a double pack on Friday and by Sunday evening they were all gone. More have been delivered in the shopping today and I'm already making inroads, which has prompted the Boy to point out that he would also like to try some if I would be so good as to not guzzle them all down as quickly as possible.

I think he was being sarcastic...

So the good news is my liver is having a rest. The bad news is I may weigh another three stone thanks to the amount of processed fat and sugar I am now ingesting at a rate of Knots. I'm also starting to understand how people can get really fat...

All Change...

The threatened move from cosmopolitan London to the leafy backwaters of Surrey is now becoming something of a reality.

We've had the house valued and we're signed up with estate agents and we're getting property details through at a steady rate and, with the Boy heading to uni in September, there's nothing to hold us back... except the fact we both love our house and we've been really happy there.

But then I realise it's purely nostalgia and I realise the thing that's made our house a home is the Missus and the Boy and the cats and not bricks and mortar. Then I also realise we'll be heading somewhere where the pace is less hectic and there's less noise and I'm warmed and fully back onboard with the idea...

Hell, I may even get a pool room and a garden with enough space for a mini do-jang. The future's bright, the future's Guildford...

Maps...

I've had an idea for a new play and, while I'm in the middle of rewrites for my current one, it's slowly starting to take shape in my head.

It's about maps and as I know very little about maps I decided I'd start reading up on cartography so I bought Remarkable Maps: 100 Examples of How Cartography Defined, Changed And Stole The World by John Clark and Professor Jeremy Black.

I've also started reading up on the various impending battles for mineral rights off the North and South Poles that will be fought out over the next few decades.

My play idea is not fully fleshed out yet but I think it will be about how an academic study of cartography can be corrupted for political means.

I'm hoping to get round to this when my current set of rewrites are done, which will hopefully be in about a month.

Fortysomething...

It's official. I am now old. This is because I have now turned 40. I have grey hair, hair now grows from my ears and nostrils with gay abandon and I sometimes feel very stiff (and not in a good way).

On the plus side, though, I feel pretty damn good about it. And even though my pool game may be going down the shitter, I'm leaner, meaner and fitter than ever before because of the cycling, boxing and hapkido. And I'm geting lots of writing done, too, and I'm more settled and more domestically happy than I've ever been.

So it's still all to play for and I'm still in charge of when, how and where I wee. Excellent!

Neighbours...

The neighbours have kicked off again. We had major problems with them a few years ago and the noise has been steadily building again for a few weeks until they had music blaring out at 1.30am last Wednesday morning.

As cordial relations broke down some time ago – and the last time we asked them to turn the volume down we got a load of abuse – we called the council and they arrived on the scene and paid them a visit and issued a warning. You'd think that would be the end of the matter...

But you haven't counted on the pettiness of our neighbours. They spent the rest of the night tapping on the wall separating our bedroom from their living room, then had another party on Saturday night which culminated in more wall-tapping with the addition of foot-stomping and banging metal pots with a sticks. At 2.30am.

Sadly the council were busy and didn't make it over but I took a sound recording of what was going on as I thought nobody would believe me if I tried to explain it. So in a final bid to sort the situation out I've now written to their housing association to lodge an official complaint.

You'd hope that will be the end of the matter and they'll shut up... but I suspect it won't be.

On the plus side another of our neighbours did say 'Hello' this morning. We met him some time ago and he explained that he'd been away 'shooting animals' so I asked him if he killed anything good.

He looked perplexed and smiled and edged away. The Missus then pointed out to me that he was a photographer. Ho-hum...