Grappling with Grappling: 2024 Nearly Done!

I gave myself three key goals as far as BJJ was concerned in 2024:
* To complete 150 classes
* To add strength training with 100 weights sessions
* To compete at 10 tournaments

The first two goals were met with something to spare. The only thing I’ve missed is the competition goal. I was on course for this, then I got injured a couple of times and I had to withdraw from four events. But seven tournaments isn’t a bad return for year one at brown belt.

My competition fight record from the year was 13 losses and one solitary win. But most of these were against younger or bigger opponents, and that sort of stuff does matter. I also made some bad mistakes. But these will be corrected. Because I entered so many events, however, I finished second in the National All Stars rankings and I won a lot of free entries to events in 2025. I'll be taking full advantage of that prize. 

Next year will see a repeat of my 2024 goals. But I’ll be adding in some IBJJF events to test the water at that level.

Teaching has remained one of the joys of the year. I’ve had to understand things on a different level. This means I’ve increased my knowledge of lockdown, pinch headlock throws and foot sweeps, and added new techniques into my game. At the same time, I’ve refined and improved the tried and tested positions and attacks I use all the time.

It’s been a great year. I’ll never be a competition animal. But I will be a continually improving student, competitor and teacher. The journey continues…

A Celebrity Christmas Letter to Santa...

Dear Santa Claus, Me Old Cock-Sparra, Salt-of-the-Earth, Working-Class Fella

I’ll tell you straight, it’s been a rough ‘n’ tumble couple of weeks.

(Shouting) I said eight spoons of sugar. Can you not fucking count?

There I was, flying high with two hit shows on the telly. I’d just finished exploring the work of a fish finger factory And I didn’t even know that fish didn’t ‘ave fingers. Until a researcher told me.

And, suddenly, I am persona non-grata. All thanks to a small group of several hundred middle-aged, middle-class women who can’t take a joke. Or think that borderline sexual assault is wrong. What is it with you people? I’m a working-class boy and that’s how we do things!

(Shouting) I said pan au chocolat. Are you fucking deaf?

Fortunately, there are people who respect my abilities and can see past the narrow-minded views of f... people. And I will be taking up a new position as a culinary guru. I just hope this bloke I’m working for likes potato-based meals. I love a potato. In all its forms: chips, mash, jackets, roasties, French fries, croquets, gratin… That sort of stuff. Lovely.

I hope my new employer loves it, too. He’s called Andrew Duke York something…

So thank you, Santa. For nothing. You red-suit-wearing slag.

More Funerals Than Christenings: Part II...

Travelling in the family car to my stepfather's funeral, I got a text from a former work colleague. He informed that his sister, a close friend called Rachel, was in hospital fighting for her life.

The illness that had taken hold of her was a rare one that was complicated by a previously undiagnosed condition. It was all very sudden. My stepfather's funeral was on Monday. On Wednesday night, Rachel was dead. She was younger than me.

I first met Rachel when we were working together at IPC Magazines. As I took on increasingly senior positions, we worked together more closely. In the last seven years at that company, the environment became increasingly toxic. My friendship with Rachel was the thing that helped keep my sanity. She was funny, kind and smart, and a calming influence in any environment she was put in.

A proud South London girl, she could also swear like a trooper if anyone annoyed her. And she took great delight in uncovering a family history of renegades and circus performers.

She had a spiritual side. Her interest in crystals was something I often teased her about. But this and her commitment to learning more about shamanistic drumming was inspiring. There was something just right about her interest in nature and natural rhythms. It worked for her and she wasn't too bothered if it didn't work for you. She knew who she was and what interested her, and she was confident enough to proudly own those elements of her life.

When I left the company where we both worked, we kept in touch. We'd have regular trips to our favourite cafe and nearby pubs, share news and set the world to rights. Time with Rachel was always a joy, easy and treasured.

After I heard she was dead, I tried to compartmentalise the grief for a few days and lock it away. I thought it was because I was dealing with another recent loss. Then I realised I was in denial. Her brother put a post up on Facebook a few days later expressing his grief. That helped. It enabled me to start the acceptance process. This was good. I needed a kick start.



I loved Rachel. She was my mate, my confidante, my sounding board and my favourite hippy. She was a woman who ran with the wolves, embraced that olde world of natural wisdom and found herself through it. It will take a while to fully accept I won’t be meeting her for a Thai curry or for a pint any more.

Her loss is so cruel, brutal and random that it will take time. There’ll be moments where I’ll be really angry about it. And times I’ll be sucker punched by unexpected bouts of grief. But there will be moments I’ll remember how she made laugh and smile. Which is what I’ll hang onto.

I can’t imagine how her brother and his family, her partner and her mum feel. I would assume it’s what I’m feeling multiplied by a few thousand. I hope the wave of genuine love that her friends have expressed after learning about her loss provides some comfort for them at some point. 

Because loved is something that she absolutely was.

More Funerals Than Christenings: Part I...

My stepfather, Don, died recently. He was a Welsh miner, he was kind and funny, and he always enjoyed a drink and a sing.

I first met him when I was 16. As a keen pool player, this was the age I could join a local working men’s club that had cheap snooker tables without another adult nominating me for membership. This was in 1985. I used the club on Saturday mornings and on Saturday evenings because this was when the tables were less busy. Don was on strike at the time and he’d often be in the club also wanting an occasional frame. As devout socialists, we bonded over the strike and a mutual loathing of Margaret Thatcher. A facet I admired.

Fast-forward nine years and I was back home from college, working as a fledgling writer and sub-editor to support my community theatre work. He and my mum had got together. It was a wonderful thing to see her having renewed optimism and hope after a tough divorce from my dad. I was also delighted because I knew Don and, more importantly, I knew I could trust him with my mum’s happiness. 

Soon after, I left for a new life in London knowing they’d be OK.

And, for 31 years, they were. They went on various travels and were content doing their thing, living in a terraced house surrounded by kids and grandkids and great grandkids who’d constantly pop in to visit. Yes, there were the usual family crises and dramas. But they came through everything with their union unscathed. And Don’s new family adored him. It was a perfect fit.

For a lot of years, Don battled health issues. The man who’d survived life down the mines and a police baton charge at Orgreave eventually lost large parts of his stomach. He fought cancer and infections as various bits of his body failed. But he always pulled through. He had a stubborn will powered by a grim determination. Another facet I deeply admired.

A couple of weeks ago, I got the call from my younger brother to come home. I knew it was bad. But trips back to Yorkshire are more for funerals that christenings these days.

Don had been in hospital battling a new infection. This time, the doctors couldn’t do anything else for him. An operation would kill him. The medics couldn’t cure him. He’d asked to come home. His prognosis was 24-48 hours.

Before he came back, a hospital bed was placed in the middle room of mum’s terraced house. Don also had a new TV to watch his favourite westerns and sports. We established a shift pattern to make sure he was never alone. Then it was a matter of waiting for the pain-killing medication to kick in. Or the end.

The first two days, he was constantly ill. He couldn’t eat and nothing was going into his system. As this was failing, his body was ejecting anything left in it.

On the third day, like a pub singer Christ, he awoke and we had 60 minutes of him cogent. The first order from Celtic Jesus was a drink. A proper one. This was served. Order two was a singsong. He then slept and he remained peaceful. He briefly awoke a couple of times, once for a brief singsong with his son and once to tell my mum ‘I love you with all my heart.’ Then he dropped back off as the morphine took his pain away and his exhausted body fought on.

It was amazing how quickly we all adapted to having him back in the room between the front room and the kitchen. Like it was a normal thing. In many ways, it was a normal thing. He was back home surrounded by the people who loved him, with the usual buzz of activity of our boisterous and competitively loud family. The only difference this time was that we knew it came with a time limit.

In the end, 24-48 hours turned into 164 hours. He put up a fight. It was a Thursday morning just before 12noon when he went. My mum was in the back yard talking to the next-door neighbour.

When he went, it was peaceful. We’d all become attuned to his new breathing patterns. Especially during the night. He’d often take a deep breath, then go silent. Part of you would be relieved and think, ‘I’m grateful the suffering is finally over for him.’ Then his breathing would restart and you’d think, ‘He’s still here. I’m so happy he hasn't gone yet.’

In many ways, Don was lucky. And so were we. We could have lost him so many times to so many different illnesses through the years. But the NHS, aided by his own iron will, saved him multiple times and brought him back from the brink.

There aren’t many people where good memories are the only thing I have. Family relationships and friendships are often complicated at the best of times. But my relationship with Don wasn’t. Ever.

I was lucky to get a stepfather I could love and respect. In the words of my wife, 'He was a mountain of a man from the Valleys.' I’ll miss him. We all will.

Man Pampering and Sexy Banter...

As I've aged, I've discovered the joys of a man pamper. Now at 55, I have leaned into this and I love my occasional trips to my local barber make me feel like the inner princess I secretly long to be. Or probably not so secretly. But I have recently switched to a Turkish barber as the folk there do the full gamut of wet shave and beard shaping, facial massage and nose/ear hair removal. 

A recent trip, however, demonstrated that I still have much to learn about the protocols involved in this brave new world. 

The first point of realisation was when I was having my nose and ear hair removed. For virgins in this area, this involves having the ends of several big cotton buds doused in hot melted wax, then the barber sticks them up your nostrils and in your ear canals. These are left for five or ten minutes until the wax solidifies around any hairs, then the buds are ripped out. This leaves you hairless in these areas. It sounds grim but it is not hugely unpleasant, and it does mean you don't have to bother about this aspect of your appearance for a month or so.

I was having this done while I also had a hot tower covering most of my head. After round one of having the buds inserted and ripped out, the barber decided he needed another go. He duly did this. Then he tapped me on shoulder and he removed my face towel. 

'Look,' he said, showing me the discarded buds with various bits of hair on them. 

I did not know what the appropriate response to this was. So I came out with:

'That's excellent work. I didn't realise I'd become such a circus freak.' 

His English wasn't great and my thick Yorkshire accent probably didn't help the translation process. He looked perplexed for a moment, then he placed the towel back over my head and left me for five minutes. 

A young woman than took over doing my beard. Already un-nerved by nose-ear-wax-gate, I was a tad on edge. She started by complimenting my beard. I told her that I used beard oil. She told me that was a wise decision. 

'I love men with beards,' she said. 'It makes me very sad when they do not care for them.' 

She then told me to lay back and relax. I did and I zoned out for a bit, mindlessly agreeing with bits of casual conversation, but being careful not to agree with anything that may make me a member of the Tory Party, the Reform Party or any other form of racist. 

As she was massaging my beard (not a euphemism), she said:

'Shall I text your wife and tell her you're not coming home?' 

Not knowing what this meant, I switched into logical mode and replied:

'But you don't know my wife. I also don't think you have her number.'

She looked perplexed. I felt she was about to explain the fact that this was not a serious attempt at seduction, but flirty banter between customer and trained professional. 

Instead, she simply sighed and said: 'You're probably right.'

She then searched for a hot towel and put it over my face....

Confessions of a Plumber...

I have just enjoyed my first major triumph of 2024.

I got home from training last night and the Missus told me the shower door needed fixing and the shower head had come unmoored. And, even though she is a DIY Queen, she could not fix it. 

Some 20 minutes later, I emerged like a victorious Spartan warrior with screwdriver in hand. I told her I've fixed both things. She looked at me quizzically. I say 'quizzically'. I mean like I'm a liar whose track record at previous DIY tasks would make anyone doubt this claim. 

'Really?' she asked? She went off to check and returned impressed. 'You have actually fixed it. But how?'

I borrow a line from one of our favourite sitcoms, Peep Show, to celebrate my moment. 

'Plumbing's easy, isn't it?' I replied. 'It's basically Lego with water.'

Goodbye 2023 & Hello 2024...

 

This year has been both shit and fabulous. It's been shit because the Missus suffered a bad fall and incurred a wrist injury in January that required some pretty serious surgery. She now has a lovely scar, plus various bits of metal and several screws holding bones in place. Needless to say, her ceramics work went on hold for a while. 

On top of that, her knee injury is slowly deteriorating, meaning she's in constant pain as she waits for her name to reach the top of the surgeon's list. We also lost our much-loved new cats, Dotty and Dolly, within the same two-week period in the same month. 

January was, quite frankly, a month that can fuck the fuck off and stay fucked the fuck off.

Fortunately, the rest of the year did get better with a relaxing holiday in Greece in the summer and a slightly flasher holiday in the Dominican Republic to celebrate the other half's 60th in November. Other highlights included the Boy publishing the third installment of his excellent comic, Sagas of the Shield Maiden, and some memorable gigs catching up with old friends.

From my point of view, I set myself four big goals in 2023:

• Get a new job
• Complete 175 classes at BJJ
• Write a new play 
• Get my brown belt at BJJ

The one I failed on was the new play. The new job was a biggie, and doing 175 classes and getting my brown belt at BJJ were huge ones to tick off. But the play didn't happen.

Sadly, my own writing has fallen by the wayside in the last two years as work became all-encompassing. With a new job, though, I'm now travelling into London twice a week, so I'll have two one-hour commuting/writing sessions where I can kick back in. And that will make a new play, and a couple of smaller creative projects for 2024, a real possibility.

Purely to be accountable to myself, here are my goals for 2024:

• Draft No.1 of new play by June 
• Draft No.2 of new play by December
• Pass probation period at work
• Complete 150 BJJ classes 
• Complete 100 BJJ weight training sessions 
• Compete in 10 BJJ tournaments 
• Read 5 books by Charles Dickens 

This is all do-able. But let's see where we are in six months. Because we know life can always boot you up the arse when you least expect it...