Chris Sievey: RIP...

Comedian Chris Sievey (aka Frank Sidebottom) died last week.

With his outsized, cartoon, papier mache head and his whimsical flights of fancy, Chris's creation Frank Sidebottom was a real one-off. Frank was a showman and singer who never hit the big time but believed he sort of had; think of a slightly angrier and more ridiculous and frustrated John Shuttleworth and you're sort of there.

It was a truly fantastic comic creation.

Author Jon Ronson, who in the early days used to play keyboards in Frank's backing band, was on the radio at the weekend lamenting the passing of his former mate and told a great story.

Apparently Chris (with full Sidebottom head on) and Ronson were touring and driving down Edgware Road in London on the way to a gig when Chris demanded that he pull the van over and briefly park up. Ronson duly obliged and Chris in Frank persona and head rolled down the window and buttonholed one bemused passerby.
'Excuse me, mate. Is this London?'
'Yes,' replied the slightly confused fella.
'Well can you tell me where you want this wood?' asked Chris in Sidebottom mode.

I don't think I've heard anything more ridiculous or funnier. Ever.

Dream Lover...

I am having a dream. The Missus is having an affair with a photographer and I have tracked them both to his very swish place and confronted her. He is in the bedroom and she will not let me confront him so I give her the option to leave him and come home with me.

But the total cow decides to stay another night and tells me she'll be home in the morning. I leave upset...

I tell the Missus about the dream when I wake up. Does she offer succour for my night-time distress? No. Instead she offers the following words of comfort.
'It's highly unlikely to happen. I'm far too lazy to have an affair with anyone...'

Thanks.

Team Talk...

Come on England! Come on you over-paid, over-hyped, over-exposed, affair-adoring, self-obsessed, roasting-loving, disgraceful set of human beings.

For once remember you are football players with a job to do and a nation behind you...

DISCLAIMER 1: This was written three hours before kick-off. The management reserves the right to edit any posts and change its opinion in the event England get an utter booting.

DISCLAIMER 2: At least were not the French.

Charity...

The Missus is back from a press trip. I am filling her in on my activities during her absence and I mention I took one of the bags of clothes the Boy had sorted out for charity to the drop-off point.
'Which bag would that be?'
'The smaller of the two bags...'
'The bag with the Boy's old boxer shorts?'
'Yes...'
'The bag I told you not to take because they don't want old boxer shorts with the crotch worn through?'
'You never said that...'
'I did. You just chose to ignore me...'
'But they do want stuff like that.'
'Why would they want old boxer shorts with worn-through crotches?'
'To recycle as rags...'
'Rags?'
'...to stuff children's toys with.'
'So in your world children's toys are stuffed with the old boxer shorts of teenage boys? Boxer shorts with the crotches worn through?'
'It's eco-friendly.'
'It's not particularly hygienic, is it?'
'It helps children build up resistance to disease...'
'You're an idiot...'

It's good to have her home.

Media Careers Advice: Part III...

Job title: fashion mag girlies

Job description: Who cares? It's a soul-less and pointless profession in an even more vacuous world populated by the intellectually challenged, the vain and the inept. Sadly in the wonderful world that is the media at some point you will run into a gaggle of these dead-behind-the-eyes, stick-thin, air-headed bints... and if you possess any trace of concern for humanity it will be all you can do to stop yourself unloading with a Malcolm Tucker-esque tirade. Or shotgun. Particularly if you end up stuck in a lift with these tweeting and chattering air thieves as they bitch about some totaly inane nonsense to do with shoes.

I hate them all with a passion that gives me energy and, although some people would call my solution to their existence genocide, I prefer the term gene-pool-cleansing.

I think we’d survive without them...

Salary: Pay them in buttons and tell them it's a new style of money. They're all too stupid to discover you are lying...

The Zen Of Pool: Conclusions...

An article I wrote for my martial arts school's magazine...

‘From one thing know ten thousand things…’
Miyamoto Musashi

Some facts… I’m good at eightball pool. At 16 I was invited to play for my senior county team and some 25 years, two trials for the England team and one national title later I’m still playing at county level. So I’m still good.

The problem with being good at something, though, is that it’s a constant battle to maintain standards. When you can do something to a high level it’s frustrating when you struggle to maintain that level. So being good at something does carry problems.

Fortunately at hapkido I never experienced these issues. Having no martial arts experience and limited ability any minor success in class was a triumph rather than a failure. And as much as it annoyed me to pretty much get everything wrong for the first two years I didn’t beat myself up about it. After all Hapkido was something I did for fun.

Some seven years later and with a black belt grading looming, however, and that’s not an excuse I can use any more. I’m no longer quite so useless and the desire to maintain a standard is now as necessary in my martial arts studies as it is when I grab my cue and head off to a match.

So inspired by the above Musashi quote I decided to apply the lessons I’d learnt from my cue sports discipline and apply them to the martial arts one and see where I went…

Stance
The bedrock of any cue sport is the stance. The theory is that if you have a balanced stance you are much less likely to move on a shot, which is a common cause of missing a shot. In short the more solid your base the better chance you have of lining up correctly behind the shot to deliver a smooth stroke to hit the white ball.

In hapkido the stance is also a vital factor. A solid base and distribution of your weight allows you to unbalance and throw an opponent, to launch kick and punch combinations, and to torque your hips to generate additional power without losing balance or leaving yourself vulnerable. In both disciplines a stable connection to the floor is vital and a good stance is quite literally the foundation of everything.

Delivery
In pool how you ‘deliver’ the cue is a key factor. Beginners struggle to maintain a smooth stroke when holding a cue. Their legs, bodies and arms move so when they aim at the white ball they often tend to stab at it from a variety of angles because they haven’t mastered the ‘delivery’ of the cue. To ‘deliver’ a cue through a shot requires a fluid motion that starts with a backswing then accelerates the tip towards the white ball until it strikes it before it returns to a starting position. It is a simple and elegant motion that is neither dramatic nor exciting but consistent and smooth.

To my mind delivering a kick or a punch requires a similar understanding of the mechanics involved. Punches and kicks are fluid motions that have a definite start point at their initial chambering and a definite contact point as they strike their target before reverting back to a guard position.

Both disciplines have ‘delivery’ systems that rely on repeating simple, fluid mechanical actions. But such simplicity in both disciplines in only based on hours of practice.

Focus
Maintaining focus when playing in tournaments can be a demanding experience. Most individual matches last about an hour and if you get to the later stages of the event you’ll have won four or five matches and will have spent up to nine hours in the venue. To help retain focus during matches I have mental routines I go through before getting down to play the shot to ensure I’ve analysed the situation and worked out my best option.

I adapted some of these habits into hapkido so now if I’m sparring I try to maintain a certain body shape. It helps by programming my body and mind into understanding that I’m sparring… in much the same way that touching my watch when it’s my turn to take a key shot at pool reminds me to take the time to check my options.

Interestingly the issue of focus is one area where the study of hapkido has influenced my pool game. I realised a while ago that it’s no accident that my best hapkido lessons usually follow a ki class. And that’s because my body is relaxed and my mind is clear so I can easily tune into what I’m doing. So if I’m struggling with a technique instead of getting annoyed I mentally step back from myself and analyse what’s wrong.

And this is something I’ve brought into my pool game a lot in the last year because if you make a mistake at pool it’s often tempting to try to rescue the situation by playing a high-risk but low-percentage shot. And in my youth I was able to get away with that approach but these days I no longer have that same on-the-table aggression so I’ve borrowed a lesson from my hapkido and I step out of the situation, analyse and find a smarter option.

Conclusion
The main truth I’ve rediscovered, though, is if I want to keep playing pool at a high level then I have to put the hours in on the practice table. And that means running drills to keep my basics consistent. And the same lessons apply at hapkido.

To quote Musashi: ‘The key is training. One must continue to train.’

Media Careers Advice: Part II...

Job description: art department

Duties: In the 1970s it was easy to spot potential kiddy-fiddlers or other sexual deviants. They were usually men with glasses who wore long coats and spoke in soft voices. They were also kind to their mothers. If they hadn't killed them.

But in this age of cyber-space wizardry and cultural homogeneity it's much more difficult to know what you're dealing with. And it's the same with art department people. Like paedophiles they come in all shapes and sizes and they're generally pretty tough to spot and it's even more difficult to understand the amount of utter bilge they come out with.

So here's a test to help you spot them and also see if it's the career path for you.

1) Do you understand the concept of a deadline?
a) Yes.
b) Does it have to be a deadline? And does it have to be in that colour? If we had a few more days we could make it a really aesthetically pleasing deadline. We go to press today? How about I get it to you next week? With new pictures? And a new design?

2) You have a problem to solve that has a straightforward solution. Do you?
a) Solve it in a systematic and intelligent way that ensures your deadline is met?
b) Throw a huge hissy fit like a pre-menstrual teenager, go cry in the toilets for an hour, refuse to do any work until everyone accepts you are 'creative' and have a right to be temperamental, then consult some feng shui manual before begrudgingly completing the task with a face like a slapped arse.

If you've answered 'a' then you are probably quite sane and should never consider a career in the media. Go learn a proper trade. If you answered 'b' start learning the latest design package now. You're destined to be an art desk diva. Well done.

Salary: You deserve every penny. Not.

Nightmare...

It is hot so I am sleeping with no clothes on and the duvet is on the floor. This is not an attempt to paint an alluring picture. It is just a fact. Stay with it...

Sadly the little cat has recently got into the habit of waking me and the Missus up at 5am by dive-bombing the bed to demand food. Fortunately we have now become quite hardened to her demands so we can ignore her and sleep through.

Now the dive-bombing approach has failed, however, the cat's latest trick is scratch at one of my exposed bollocks until I wake up. Sadly she has yet to figure out that me screaming in pain is no way to guarantee her being fed. Or remaining alive.

Stupid cat. Poor bollock.

Hotel Joke...

A vicar is booking into a hotel and says: 'I hope the porn channel in my room is disabled.'

'No. It's just normal porn like every room you sick f***er!' replies the receptionist.

Media Careers Advice: Part I...

Job description: chief sub-editor

Duties: Imagine you are a monkey in a zoo in a cage with other monkeys. As the opening time for the zoo approaches it is your job to tidy the cage but the other monkeys insist on throwing shit at each other and have now started eating their own shit and other people's shit too. It is your job to sort all this shit out and when the other monkeys sod off to sleep in the back of the cage you just end up standing there, covered in shit, being stared at by the visitors who want to know why you are covered in shit.

You could explain it to them but you know it's pointless. After all they are visitors to a zoo and you are a monkey and they'd just never understand how the other monkeys can get so much pleasure out of throwing shit about and eating their own shit.

So you stand there, covered in shit, hoping it will be better tomorrow. But it won't be. Ever...

Salary: Probably not enough.

Pret A Manger...

I've just been into Pret A Manger and several of the serving girls are wearing caps with the logo 'Just roasted!'

That's surely not a good thing to advertise...

Statistics...

Apparently statistics show that only one in seven dwarves is happy.

Back To Black...

I have learnt all the techniques for my black belt grading so now begins the real work to ensure they are all up to scratch so it's been training, training, training whenever I can. I am, however, struggling with the first set of the two sets of techniques I need to master to successfuly grade.

These are essentially attacking techniques where there is no momentum coming at you so you have to generate the momentum from your opponent who is in a standing position by utilising correct posture and maintaining a firm base while taking then disrupting your opponent's balance. And it's hard work.

When an oponent's momentum is coming towards you it's much easier to merge with it and redirect it because he's essentialy jeopardising his base to begin with. But when he's not it's much harder.

Fortunately I was playing pool one night this week and I'd left myself a virtually impossible shot to dislodge a ball and a penny suddenly dropped after I'd played the shot. The ball was an easy enough pot but it was a one in a hundred shot to generate the angle or the position needed off the pot to move my last ball off the cushion to make it pottable.

But instead of getting annoyed I relaxed and just committed to the shot and cued it so well that I actually managed to do it. Even my watching colleague, a player and a peer of many years experience, couldn't believe the shot I'd played.

So the lessons for hapkido are to commit to the shot (or the attack) and rely on and trust the technique. After all I only managaed to cue the ball so well because everything was aligned correctly. This type of alignment also applies to hapkido.

Martial arts, like pool, starts with a firm base from the floor then ends with well-executed movements elsewhere. It also relies on a mental commitment to each and every shot. After all laziness on easy shots usually results in missed shots.

It sort of makes sense to me. To paraphrase Musashi, if you can the find the way once you can find it ten thousand times and when it comes to pool I know the way so I need to copy the lessons.

Hell's Kitchen...

Both myself and the Missus work hard for our money and while I generally spend mine on stuff I want she tends to feel guilty about doing the same.

We are in town shopping and she is umm-ing and ahh-ing about treating herself so I give her a pep talk.

'Look. We work really hard for our money so we shouldn't feel guilty about spending it on stuff we want,' are the words of wisdom I offer.

A pensive look comes over her face then she smiles.
'Yes. You're right,' she says.

Three days later she shows me the quote for the new kitchen.
'How fucking much!?' This is my initial reaction.
'But you said we shouldn't feel guilty about spending money on stuff we want...'
'I thought you were going to buy a handbag or a dress. I didn't mean a designer kitchen that I'll also be paying for!'
'But it will be a lovely kitchen...'

She smiles again. I have already lost the argument. It's a good job she can do the sex stuff...

The Singing Detective...

My chances of turning into the Singing Detective (pre-medication and pre-stint-in-hospital) may be receding after a trip to see my new doctor.

My new doctor is lovely. Sadly she away when I last visited the surgery so I got a less attractive locum inserting a digit into an orifice. This is a shame as I wouldn't mind my proper new doctor sticking her finger up my arse at any time.

Sadly she only asked me to drop my trousers so she got a glimpse of my superhero underpants but I could tell she was impressed by my smalls fashion sense as she gave me a new prescription of anti-hystamine tablets, a tube of steroid cream and some other lotion to rub on the affected bits.

Applying the cream wasn't pleaseant and it wasn't pretty and if there are two unsexier words in the English language than 'steroid cream' I have yet to read them. And I have read a huge amount of filth.

Having a body plagued by unsightly rashes made training very interesting, though, and rather than opt for the explain-to-everyone-I'm-not-contagious line I decided to cover up by wearing a base layer under my do-bok.

This was great as it meant I had no more skin eruptions but it was really hot and I sweated buckets. So it was a week of steroid cream and sweat. Nice...

On the plus side I had a cracking birthday and I also came across this brilliant quote by Ancient Greek poet and soldier Archilochus:
'We do not rise to the level of our expectations. We fall to the level of our training.'

I reckon that's on the money.

PS. I also got the new iPod.

Happy Birthday...

I am 41 in a few days and I'm looking forward to having a quiet day at work then spending the evening with the Missus and the Boy.

But what do you get the 41-year-old who has everything? Simple. An eczema-like skin condition caused by a brand new allergy to something.

Great. What I really wanted was a new iPod...

Fashion News...

It is Bank Holiday Monday and me, the Boy and the Missus are heading into town to do some shopping.

I am about to head through the front door when the Boy stops me.
'You're not going out like that, are you?'
'I'm not shaving the 'tashe. We've had this discussion. The 'tache stays.'

The 'tache has been a constant source of amusement to the Boy ever since I grew it at the behest of the Missus, who claimed that growing a drooping Dirty Sanchez 'tache would soften my 'severe face'. I decided to give this a go as it meant the Missus was happy and it also meant I could pretend I was Chuck Liddel when I was sparring at martial arts.

Sadly I have recently realised that the 'tache combined with the sideburns make me look more Seth Armstrong (played by the late, great Stan Richards) from Emmerdale than hardened UFC warrior.

The 'tache, however, still stayed.

'I'm not worried about the tache,' adds the Boy.
'What is it then?'
'It's them...' says the Boy pointing to my jogging bottoms.
'And what's wrong with them?'
'You're about to go out in your pyjamas.'
'They're jogging bottoms...'
'They're pyjamas. I have a pair upstairs...'

I turn to the Missus for support.
'Are these pyjamas or jogging bottoms?'
'They're pyjamas...'
'But I've been going out in these for months!'

The Boy laughs, before adding:
'It's a good job that people have been too busy staring at your stupid facial hair to notice then, isn't it?'

Drive Me Crazy...

The Boy is back from university for a few weeks and he has spent several days brushing up on his driving lessons.

So he is in the kitchen talking to the Missus and explaining how his instructor complimented him on not stalling the car and several other technical feats which washed straight over my non-driver head.

I decide to enter the conversation.
'So... you're an excellent driver?'

The Missus bursts out laughing and the boy immediately cottons onto the Rain Man reference.
'You're an idiot.'

It's good to have him home...

Lexicon News...

Fugly: An adjective meaning not particularly attractive. Ungendered so it can apply to both sexes.
Origin: A contraction of the two words 'fucking' and 'ugly'.
Example: 'I really wanted to have a little go on that but on closer inspection I realised it was fugly beyond belief.'

Solar...

There was much excitement at From Beer To Paternity Towers as my new play, Melt, neared completion of first draft stage.

It's about a cartography professor who was once a big noise in the environmental movement. Sadly his inability to keep his cock in his trousers saw him leave that sphere and end up lecturing on geology and cartography at a minor university – until a major corporation asks him to go on secondment to the Antarctic to help their mission to map the place for mineral reserves.

So I was delighted (irony warning – I actuallly mean really bollockingly fucked off) when reviews of Ian McEwan's new book, Solar, came out last week as it's also about a shagaholic professor who journeys to the Antarctic and it has an environmental theme too.

I'll obviously still finish the play but I sort of feel that my thunder has been stolen. I reckon I could have McEwan in a fight, though.

And fortunately I have an idea for a new play. I'm going to take the songs out of the musical My Fair Lady and turn it back into a drama for the stage...

50 Ways To Leave Your Lover...

It's a slow work day and myself and my work colleagues have noticed that the Simon and Garfunkle song 50 Ways To Leave Your Lover quite clearly doesn't have anywhere near 50 suggestions on how to terminate then walk out on a relationship.

So we decided to find 50 new ones that fit snugly into the metric pattern of the song. Our suggestions so far:

'Smash her back door through, Hugh.'
'Get a new girl, Earl.'
'Shoot her dead in the head, Fred.'
'Dump her by text, Rex.'
'Touch up her mother, brother.'

And here's some from several pool-playing colleagues:
'Tell her she's fat and she's got to go, Joe.'
'Treat her like John Terry, Jerry.'
'Flash her in a mac, Jack.'
'Tweek her on the tits, Fritz.'
'Smash her in the granny, Annie.'
'Cum in her eye, Kia.'
'Cum in her hair, Claire.'
'Touch her kid, Sid.'
'Go to bed with her sister, mister.'
'Burn her with the iron, Brian.'
'Say she looks like Shamu, Stu.'
'Tell him you're actually a man, Jan.'

And, just so we're not accused of sexism:
'Tell him he's rubbish in bed and he has a small willy, Millie.'

Make up your own. It's a great game...

Floored Genius...

Today my status as a DIY demi-god took a major tumble when the Missus realised there was a leak in the kitchen.

So when we got home I spent an hour checking the drains outside then examining the washing machine but everything looked OK. Then I realised the cold water pipe connection was partially out of sight and when I checked it was damp. I then pulled the false floor and the lino up and a large chunk of the kitchen floor was sodden.

I then fessed up that as I originally plumbed the washing machine in it was my fault. Probably...

The Missus stood in the kitchen with half the floor up and a huge wet patch soaked into the floor. I was expecting all manner of hellish taunts and instead I got the following.
'It's OK. It doesn't matter.'
'Sorry?'
'It's fine. We got to it in time and it'll dry then we'll just put the flooring back...'
'And that's it?'
'Yes.'
'The kitchen will just be a tip for a while...'

We have tea with half the kitchen covered in towels to soak up the water and half the floor leaning in a corner. Then the penny drops.
'I no longer have an argument not to get the new kitchen done, do I?'

The Missus smiles. We had been planning to gut it and redo it next year. I get the feeling next year may be happening sooner than I thought...

Down With The Kids...

The Boy was back from university for a few days and he brought his girlfriend with him.

He remained as sarcastic and opinionated and pedantic and belligerent as ever where I was concerned and it wasn't long before he and the Missus were tag-team belittling me. It was almost like he'd never been away.

But it was great to see him. And his girlfriend is utterly lovely and clearly very smart. I also got the impression she knows how to put him in his place should such an act be needed.

I also managed not to embarrass him. Sort of...

I had planned to buy a few posters of the Village People and put them up in his bedroom as a little joke for when he and his girlfriend got home. Sadly the Missus pooh-poohed the idea.

There was one moment when we were sat at dinner, though, and I asked him what he and his girlfriend were doing the following day.
'So what are you guys doing tomorrow then?'
'Not a lot...'
'Just chilling, eh?'

There was a sigh from the Boy. I realised I had broken a cardinal rule by trying to use a 'young person's' word. I tried to extricate myself.
'It could have been worse. I could have said "chill-axeing".'

The Boy just looked at me, looked at his girlfriend then shook his head and went back to eating his risotto. I am not down with the kids. And never will be...

Aussie Rules...

Apparently there have recently been race riots against immigrants from the Indian subcontinent in Melbourne.

And the Australian campaign against these race riots? Have a 'Vindaloo against violence'.

It's genius. I love Australians. They have that Yorkshire way of thinking and speaking that can cut all the fat off an idea and reduce it to its main thrust.

And they also do it with a sense of humour too. Bloody love 'em...

Class Act...

My martial arts instructor is holding extra classes for students who'll be taking their black belt grading later this year.

The first one was yesterday and everything from my footwork to my stances to my techniques were lovingly pulled to bits for two and a half hours.

There's an old saying in poker that if you look round the table and can't spot the idiot then that means it's you. Yesterday reminded me of this.

It made me smile so much I forgot to be annoyed with myself. For a while at least...

All Heart...

Valentine’s Day was a roaring success at From Beer To Paternity Towers.

I bought the Missus some B&W horror movies, I learnt to cook kedgeree and I also treated her to a little poem which went like this:

'Rose are red,
Violets are blue,
I've got a knife,
Get in the van...'

Who says romance is dead?

Ear, Ear...

Thanks to my ongoing allergy and one very violent sneezing fit that lasted for about two hours on Xmas Day 2008 I now have partial deafness in my right ear.

When I eventually kicked up a fuss about it my doctor sent me for an MRI scan and I went in today to collect the results.

The first thing the doctor told me was that it was good news as he'd checked the MRI scan and it showed that I don't have a brain tumour. This was news to me as I wasn't aware I was at risk but, apparently, neural damage that results in hearing loss in some very rare cases can be caused by a brain tumour placing pressure in the aural area.

Unfortunately when he first told me this I initially misheard him and thought he said 'brain tuba' so we were talking at cross purposes for the opening five minutes.

Sadly he then told me the damage to my hearing was probably permanent... but he did offer me the chance to get fitted for a hearing aid if the condition degenerated any more. I am 40 years old and I have the option of having a hearing aid. I veered between manic laughter and Malcolm Tucker-esque swearing on the walk from the surgery to the station.

The Missus has been very sympathetic, though. Well, apart from cracking the obvious 'Pardon' gags. And threatening to trade me in for a younger model. Love her...

Tao Te Ching...

This much-revered Taoist text which was (or was not) written by a sage called Lao Tzu in the 5th century BC is split into 81 mini chapters and is considered one of the gems of Eastern culture.

It's basic message is consume less and want less and enjoy life and its simple pleasures but it contains so much more.

My favourite quotes so far after giving it a second read are:

'To know others is wisdom
To know yourself is enlightenment.'

'The sage consider the stomach
And rejects the eyes.'

'Nothing in the world is softer or weaker than water
Yet nothing is better at overcoming the hard and strong.'

It's so tied into the martial art I study it's not true. These remain things to ponder with a black belt grading on the horizon...

Other Woman News...

I am out playing snooker with the Other Woman and we are discussing the subject of 'crushes', that is 'crushes' as in quite fancying someone rather than grabbing hold of someone and choking them to death like some mad boa constrictor serial killer.

And suddenly the impossible happened. I actually managed to disgust her. Without even thinking about it I said something so filthy that she was rendered speechless. And this is genuinely a rare thing. For a moment I realised what it must feel like to be a God.

Obviously she didn't stay quiet for long. That would never happen.

But now I know that whenever I need to find a quick way out of any future argument with her I just have to mention the words 'splatter', 'face' and 'plasterer's overall' and the job is done.

Failing that I can just buy her chocolate...

Stock...

My new play about heritage and family and a brick robbery is finished and sent off to several theatre companies who deal with new writing.

It's always a good feeling to get a play finished and to be happy with it and to feel some optimism about it maybe getting on somewhere.

But there's always the threat of rejection letters and the gnawing worry that maybe you're just not good enough.

But then you go to the theatre and see something really rubbish and realise that if that found a home then you at least have a fighting chance so you start something else.

Perseverance is the key. In all things...

A History Of The World In 100 Objects...

I love my status as a Brit and there are many great things to be proud of being a Brit: a long tradition of democracy, freedom of speech, that whole sense of fair play thing, a breath-taking literary and scientific heritage...

The list goes on and on and I haven't even started to wax lyrical on the Battle of Britain or Coronation Street yet.

But in this age of a media populated by dumbed-down celebrity tales and real-life documentary schlock, the BBC remains a shining beacon of hope ready to tackle the would-be barbarians and philistines who'd otherwise invade the airwaves and TV screen and fill them with programme ideas that, quite frankly, would make Alan Partridge's bone-headed suggestion of Monkey Tennis to Tony Hayers seem like bona-fide ratings winners.

Of course, even the mighty Beeb sometimes gets it wrong and produces work of breath-taking crassness: see the recent sitcom Big Top with Amanda Holden if you can stand more than a few minutes without wanting to gouge your eyes out with chop sticks and fill the holes with molten lead so you never have to watch anything so bad again.

But more often than not the Beeb is bang on the money and it's sometimes so spectacularly right that you just want to pick it up in your arms and hold it like a lover you never want to let go.

A case in point is A History Of The World In 100 Objects, a series of 15-minute shows currently on Radio 4. Each show takes one of 100 objects that has been selected from the British Museum and explains the significance of that object in its period and also examines how it demonstrates the evolution of human beings.

Narrated by Neil MacGregor, the Director of the British Museum, it's a wonderful series and reminds you that radio and TV can be entertaining, informative, fascinating and educational.

Objects range from a Clovis spearhead to a battery to the Great Wave Off Kanagawa (above) and the show runs in chronological order. Each of the 100 shows is also available to download as a free podcast.

It's truly wonderful stuff and should win every award going, from the Nobel Prize to BBC Sports Personality Of The Year.

It's 15 minutes a day for five days a week spread over 20 weeks. Go on... treat yourself...

Romance...

It is cold and wet and I am walking home arm-in-arm with the Missus and I want to tell her about a quote I read.
'I read something really good today.'
'You reading online porn again?'
'No. Marcel Proust actually.'
'Go on then...'
'Well he said "Love is time measured by the heart." Don't you think that's fabulous?'
'What does it mean?'
'Well it's obvious, isn't it?'
'Sounds like a load of old cock to me.'
'Well it means that when you are with someone you love that time is no longer judged by the usual apparatus of timekeeping such as a watch or a calendar, but it's measured in terms of emotional commitment and happiness and contentment. I think it's a great quote.'

The Missus turns and looks.
'I prefer to think that "Love is caring about somebody enough to resist the temptation to smash their face in when they're really annoying you."'

Proust's quote had more poetry...

Bum Deal...

Some families pass on untold wealth and million-pound properties to the next generation... some people pass on a great family name that ensures they have access to the higher echelons of society... my family inheritance is haemorrhoids, with possibly a bit of alcoholism, gambling and dementia thrown in.

And today the first part of that genetic legacy threatened to arrive. I visited the doctor to chase up some test results of an MRI scan I had last year and, in passing, mentioned another symptom so she asked me to drop my trousers so she could have a look.

And before I knew it she had a digit inserted up my anus and was having a rummage around. Although I had nothing to gauge her technique against I felt she was very smooth and, if you've never had a posh-sounding lady insert her finger up your anus first thing on a snowy morning, I can report that it is not an entirely unpleasant experience.

But the upshot of her investigation was that if untreated I may be saying hello to one part of the family legacy sooner than I'd anticipated. And the treatment? Suppositories. The size and shape of sniper bullets.

I just hope I don't have a bad bout of farting as I'm bending over or I may end up shooting someone.

Rooted: Part II...

I've been working through some hapkido techniques in my head and trying to remember the footwork patterns involved.

Footwork has consistently been the bane of my martial arts studies but I've been working on this for the past three months in class and chinks of light are appearing. Sometimes. Now, however, I realise I may be becoming a tad over-obsessed as I started dreaming about it last night.

In my dream me and my fellow hapkido students were training but instead of us training in the do-jang we were training in the sports hall of my old school, which in my school days was a place of torture as I'd totally opted out of anything vaguely sporty. We were also not in uniforms but in old-stylee gym kit and my instructor was giving instructions which I could not hear no matter how hard I tried.

Consequently everyone else was performing a punching, blocking, kicking routine with emphasis on the footwork part and when it got to me I just stood there not knowing what to do. Feeling a bit silly.

I've had this type of stress dream before, usually after a play I've directed is over, and in it I'm on stage struggling to recall lines other people have been saying. After the dream repeats for a few nights I usually remember the lines then it goes away.

In the martial arts dream, however, I went for a walk and chilled out by a river and told myself not to worry about it. Then I cried... Bizarrely I now realise the river was the same one I walked down when I lost an election at college to run the student union magazine. I cried then too.

Wow. School sporting frustrations, college defeats and failures and bad footwork. Fortunately I can do something about the last one.

And I can always hunt down and kill those responsible for the other stuff...

Rooted: Part I...

In my former life as a community theatre writer and director one of the big ideas I was into was the idea of 'rooting', which – unless you're Australian where it means something totally different – translates as the idea of establishing firm foundations and a firm understanding of basic principles behind a project so that it continues growing long after the initial burst of excitement is over.

For me 2009 was all about 're-rooting' so now that 2010 has kicked in I'm ready to roll.

On the martial arts front 2009 was about getting myself into a position where I could think about grading for my black belt in 2010; in my writing it was about having a play I was happy with ready to send out when 2010 starts and having another one ready to finish by the first third of the year; on the pool front it was about rediscovering my urge to compete at a decent level; and on the home front it was about relocating and settling into a new home and a new town so myself and the Missus can enjoy a new life now the Boy is at university.

Consequently I'm realy looking forward to 2010. I've always believed that life (like pool and martial arts) is always about position and if you put yourself in the best position to strike effectively then you give yourself a half chance at success.

So I'm rooted, I'm in position and I'm raring to go. Let's have a look at you, 2010...

'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...