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.