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.