Black Belt Grading: Part II...

It's my own fault. Preparations for my black belt test were going far too well. My badly injured knee was sort of OK and my less badlly injured knee was pretty much healed up. Even my rotator cuff injury was not a concern. I was even quite relaxed and starting to enjoy myself.

Then I was doing some no-contact sparring with an over-exuberant opponent who thought it would be a good idea to stick his elbow straight through my foot at full force. I obviously carried on with the class and the sparring as I thought it wasn't too bad... but by the time I got home and the adrenalin had stopped flowing I suddenly realised that my foot was bruised to buggery and hurting quite a lot. Swearing hurting. Like proper swearing.

Now it's a waiting game. After resting it most of the weekend I can spar lightly and kick lightly but any type of lateral or pivoting motion is out of the question. And as I need to perform spin kicks to break boards my foot may need some quick recovery or the kicking some supple bodily negotiation.

So, in the words of Cher, if I could turn back time I'd like to say the following to the opponent responsible:
'You clumsy, careless, half-witted fucking oaf. What does 'no-contact' mean in your numb-skulled world? Does it mean I can repeatedly punch you in the fucking face till your skin is flayed off? No. Thought not. You brain-dead fucking cum-bucket for pox-ridden sailors.'

Of course, I could say that. And Cher probably would as I understand she's bit potty-mouthed. Probably too much exercise. Or plastic surgery.

But I won't say anything because I'm too polite. And I wouldn't really mean it. And he didn't do it intentionally. I'd just be venting and I know that wouldn't help.

And I have 12 days to heal up then I have a grading to pass. And my trusty ibuprofen gel seems to be helping. So it's best to let it go and just write about it instead. At least that way it's out of my system...

Black Belt Grading: Part I...

It's now 18 days until I grade for my black belt. My injured knee seems to be sort of mended and holding up and other niggling injuries on one of my ankles and one of my rotator cuffs seem to be fine.

I've also pretty much got a handle on all of my techniques, both old and new, and some dodgy foot placement in forms aside I'm quite confident. In fact if I can get there in one piece without any more dramas I'm looking forward to it.

That confidence still didn't stop my first grading anxiety dream last night, however.

In it I was in a packed do-jang surrounded by my fellow students and trying to break a wooden board that I just couldn't break. In the dream I knew it was because I was tense and not moving fluidly but the more I couldn't break the board the more tense I became.

After yet further failures of one sort or another the dream ended with the head of the academy telling me I was a nice chap who just wasn't good enough. I may also have been naked. And some female students may have been pointing at my genitals and laughing.

Sometimes that sort of dream, whether it's about hapkido or writing or pool or anything else, stays with you for a while and shakes your confidence.

But I already know I need to be relaxed and I know the not being good enough bit is bollocks. And I'm proving it in 18 days.

Rejection...

As a writer sending scripts to various theatres and TV production companies I am used to rejection. In fact I have become hardened to it.

But I have just received my worst ever rejection letter in response to a radio comedy show I sent out a few weeks ago. I'd worked hard on the show and really liked it but, to quote the letter:

'...it didn't make me laugh enough... and that is the one single thing we're looking for when we expectantly crack open a new comedy script.'

I'm still not convinced they have a point but I will reread the script and reconsider. But the production company in question have also produced some dross among the good stuff they've done so they don't always get it right either.

So: self-delusion or self-belief? It's tough to know the difference but there are times you have to trust it's the latter and just carry on.

To quote Winston Churchill:
‎'Success consists of going from failure to failure without loss of enthusiasm.'

But then again Winston Churchill was also funny. Fact. Then again maybe I'd be good at war...

Drunk...

The final county pool game of the season is always a messy affair as several of the team usually venture out for a few drinks afterwards. And that's a few more drinks than the usual few post-match drinks too.

And as my friend Shaggy and two of the Croydon fellas were my drinking companions for the evening, and as it was my last blowout before knuckling down for my black belt test in four weeks, it was never going to be a sober night.

Previous evenings out with Shaggy have ended with him in hospital after falling off a pavement and breaking his ankle, and the two of us being threatened with death by a man carrying a bike in Hampshire. Fortunately as we also had two mutual friends along for the evening – and thanks the delights of a pub near Reading station that was packed with London Irish fans – the night was lovely and incident-free. Our little group even made friends with two local girls who'd been to watch the rugby.

In fairness my head was not a good place to be on Monday morning and I had distant memories of weeing in sturdy plastic bag on the train when I found the only toilet was broken, then carrying it home until I found a drain to pour it down. But at the time I think I decided it was what Hannibal in the A Team would have done in an emergency weeing situation so I felt I was in good company.

But now there's no more stupidity. It's knuckle down time. I have a black belt to earn and four weeks to nail my final preparations. Gulp...

Ancient Worlds...

I'm quite a fan of history. History is big, cool stuff and I'm rarely happier than when I'm reading or watching anything on whatever chunk of big, cool history happens to have caught my imagination.

So I was looking forward to watching new BBC series Ancient Worlds in which archaeologist and historian Richard Miles explores the roots of civilisation. And if episode one is anything to go by, I'll probably stay with it as he's an engaging presenter and the idea of examining 'us' 'then' is a smart idea.

Two things annoy me, though.

The first is that Miles is a bit too sexy to be doing this. I want my historians older and uglier and I certainly don't want them to flirt with me. And Miles does.

Sometimes when he talks directly to camera he tilts his head in a coquettish manner and lowers his voice to speak in a husky yet smooth tone that makes him sound like a telephone sex line gigolo. He may be discussing ancient city Uruk but he could just as easily be whispering sweet nothings and wooing millions of viewers into his book-filled boudoir.

The second is that he looks like a slimmer and more debonair version of a bloke I used to work under who was a major arsehole. Let's call the major arsehole Mike. Because that was his name.

Mike was an arsehole and a pedant beyond belief and, added to this mix, he was also a smug, self-righteous twat. So much so that when my football team was scheduled to play his team some years later I actually offered financial rewards for anyone who stuck their studs through his ankle.

In retrospect I'm not proud of this course of action. Although it was the most satisfying £20 I ever spent. But if you'd have ever met Mike and spent more than five minutes in his company you would have offered me more funds to increase the bounty on his ankles. So that he was crippled for life. And therefore much less likely to ever enter your social sphere again. Fact.

And Miles looks a bit like him. So if he can sort out his appearance and his habit of flirting with the camera I'm sure I'll grow to love him and his show.

Thanks.

Cack-handed...

The very flash and very expensive new kitchen is nearly fully installed and fully functioning at From Beer To Paterinty Towers.

Sadly I am not allowed to use any appliances until the Missus has given me detailed instructions on how everything works because, apparently, I'll 'probably break something' because I'm a 'cack-handed twat'. I'd like to protest that I'm not quite as clumsy as the Missus thinks but sadly it would be a protest in vain.

Recent damages include snapping a metal spade in half, damaging the bath and destroying an electic can opener. And I wasn't doing anything bizarre with any of them either. I was just using them the way they were intended to be used. Sort of...

One item that certainly will not be getting damaged when it arrives, however, is my new cue. It's being made by one of the best cue-makers in the country and it's a replica of an antique Riley tombstone cue I've wanted for at least two decades.

It may be very sad but I'm so excited. It's an early Xmas present to myself. Expensive kitchens are rubbish. New cues are where it's at...

Grappling...

I'm a little bit obsessed with grappling and groundfighting and, if the opportunity arises, I can spend ridiculous amounts of time rewatching the technique videos on the excellent Submissions101 website with Ari Bolden or the equally excellent stuff on Youtube posted by Stefan Kesting (www.grapplearts.com).

But I came across something new the other day and it's an online course run by Ryron and Rener Gracie of the Gracie family at their website www.gracieuniversity.com, which offers full testing and belt certification via camcorders.

I'm a little sceptical about online courses in anything, particularly in something like a martial art where your best learning tool is often the feedback of your opponent, but I've joined and looked at the first video and it's well put together, very informative and very slick – and, hell, it might even work with a decent training partner.

But with a black belt grading at hapkido in the offing I should probably be focusing on that instead. Grappling remains a fun distraction, though, particularly when the path to black belt at hapkido feels like a real struggle a lot of the time...

Healthy Eating Tips...

Don't eat a large bag of grapes followed by a whole bag of wasabi peas.

Your stomach and the porcelain won't thank you...

Other Woman News...

The hapkido academy recently ran a raffle to raise money towards new mats and I won two prizes: number one was a bottle of wine that lasted about two hours from receiving it to finishing it off; number two was a home-baked chocolate cake that was cooked over the weekend and given to me last night.

The cake caused much amazement in class as various fellow martial artists admired and lusted after it. But that's because it looked a pretty amazing cake. And on tasting, it didn't disappoint either... so much so that next year I am running and fixing the raffle so I again win the cake.

The Other Woman, however, may fight me for that honour. On hearing I had cake in class she immediately offered to perform any act so she could taste some. And I mean 'any' act. I could have probably demanded 'water sports' and she'd have agreed for cake.

When this tactic failed she then tried another ruse to claim that as we were such good pals I should offer her half the cake as she'd offer me half the cake if she'd won it. I snorted at this as I know full well that nothing comes between the Other Woman and cake.

One of the first times we went out to play pool she bought chocolate and when I moved in to take a bite the look she gave me suggested that I'd just offered to felate her grand parents after anally inserting copies of The Daily Mail in front of her parents. And all I wanted was a bit of Snickers... And with cake it's even worse.

I nearly took pity at the end of the class as she looked bedraggled and tired and was eyeballing the cake box like a lunatic. I imagined this was how junkies must feel before they burgled a pensioner to get cash for another fix.

Fortunately the cake was successfuly smuggled out of class while she was talking to another martial artist. But I fear denying her cake may be the end of our friendship. Unless I can placate her with a Crunchie. Or a Lion Bar...

Sick...

The Missus has been very ill and laid up in bed for two days.

She finally ventured downstairs last night when I was watching episode two of The Apprentice. She curled up on the sofa with me and watched for about 10 minutes before turning to me and saying.
'They're all totally reprehensible people. There are not enough bullets in the world for any of them. Come the revolution not one of them will survive...'

It's good to see her back to her old self.

Hair Today...

I decided my facial hair was obviously to blame for a lack of confidence and form at a recent county pool match so I took an executive decision and shaved it all off.

The Missus, however, was not happy.
'My God. What the hell have you done?' was her initial response.
'I've had a shave.'
'But you've shaved everything.'
'Don't you like it?'

The Missus pondered then delivered her verdict.
'The problem is that you look like a big baby when you're clean shaven.'
'OK...'
'And your head looks far too big and there's just too much of your face.'
'You want me to grow it back then?'
'Yes...'

Of course, I stood my ground and stated I would not. For about three minutes.

Intensive Weekend...

A few weeks ago myself, the Other Woman and 26 other martial arts students spent two days at an intensive hapkido weekend. And, apart from various bits of my body refusing to function properly for a few days afterwards, it was a lot of fun.

Kicking, punching, takedown techniques, forms, joint manipulation, groundfighting and hapkido theory were all covered and there was a huge amount to take in.

It did make me realise, however, that I am a long way off testing for my black belt at the moment. Before I got injured in June I felt as though as I was close to being there but post-injury and post-holiday everything feels much further away, with my techniques rusty, my forms not very sharp, my confidence drained and my sparring sluggish.

But I was talking to my friend The Actor and his girlfriend is also an actor. Unlike him, however, she hasn't had a large amount of work so she's done several admin jobs to keep the wolf from the door, but she's also refused to give up on her dreams and has kept plugging away at auditions. And it's paid off as she's just landed a role in a touring show that will also play in the West End next year.

Like the pool and like the writing, I've always known perseverence is the key. And I know that with my martial arts studies and the black belt grading too, but it was nice to hear about The Actress and have the point emphasised.

Sometimes it's just about staying in there. Nothing of any real value ever comes easy. To quote Vince Lombardi: 'Winners never quit and quitters never win.'

The Apprentice: Series Six...

'You've never met anyone like me... I'm totally unique...' spouts some posh halfwit on his audition tape for the latest series of The Apprentice.

Two points flop-haired, suit-wearing, twat-face...

Point one: You're not 'totally unique' because the word 'unique' is an absolute so it should never be qualified. It would be like saying 'You are the very biggest cunt in the world' or 'You are the last-ever person I would very ever speak to if all the other people in the world were utterly dead and my life depended on human contact to stave off a wish to end it all by driving six-inch nails into my forehead with a cricket bat.' You see how that works?

Clue: the qualifying words 'very', 'ever' and 'utterly' should not be there. Like 'totally'. And I bet your education cost thousands....

Point two: TV viewers have met many people like you before. Every series of The Apprentice features at least half a dozen of you corporate-soundbite-spouting oxygen thieves. On the plus side, however, the great fun of watching the show is that the audience can piss itself laughing as you brag about how fantastic a salesman you are... then struggle to sell fish or cheese at a street market because you've failed to understand basic concepts such as pricing. You wanker.

Yes. It's back. The Apprentice kicks off next week and, as per usual, I'll be enjoying the ride as the over-educated and pompous wannabe business folk are torn a strip off by the ever-ebullient Sugar until only a few decent candidates remain.

Having looked at the audition tapes on the BBC website, this year's intake look pretty much par for the course with the usual selection of bankers, totally bonkers, stockbrokers, entrepreneurs and salesmen. There does seem to be a large number of bullish, posh City rugger-bugger blokes and three potentially kooky women. But we've met clones of most of them before in previous series. And they were humiliated. And they will be again. Great.

The only sane two out of the new bunch seem to be a woman called Joanna Riley and a former Marine named Chris Farrell. But I'm sure other favourites will emerge as the series goes on.

So enjoy. And if you have a preference for City-type fellas who are bullshit-spouting corporate arse biscuits then your luck is probably in.

No wonder the economy has collapsed if several of these are the calibre of folk in charge.

The 500 Club...

It's been a good year in my local pool league and in my interleague pool team, too, but 2010 has been a largely frustrating year at county pool. To put it simply, I can't buy a frame and I'm about to return my poorest A Team stats in 25 years.

Even worse I've put the hours in on the practice table but the results just aren't coming. It's true I've missed a few absolute sitters to win a few extra frames this year but it's also equally true that I've been shooting dead in too many frames, meaning that whenever I come to the table I'm in major trouble to begin with.

On the plus side, however, I did play my 500th frame for my county pool team at the weekend and I won it as well. Although I did miss a straight black in the middle to win it on my first opportunity.

It means I now join quite an exclusive little club in the history of my county pool team. It's not a major achievement in the grand scheme of thing but it's a nice one. I've not only being good enough to play that many frames at that level but I've been committed enough to stick around and play that many frames.

When the season is not going well on the table at least I have that crumb of comfort to cheer me up. And, of course, the season's not over yet so there's still time to turn it around. And there's always next year. Probably...

Other Woman News...

Me and the Other Woman attended an intensive weekend of martial arts seminars and by the end of the weekend we were both utterly exhausted so we retired to the pub.

We'd had a minor spat earlier in the day after she'd bought a copy of The Mail On Sunday because it had a free Kylie CD. She argued the quality of the CD excused her decision to purchase and therefore fund the right-wing, racist and homophobic rag while I argued no amount of free stuff could ever warrant buying that vile publication.

So we renew hostilities over this in the pub and one of our friends around the table asked how we'd ever become friends in the first place if this is how we carried on. The Other Woman pondered for a second before offering:
'It's because I attract idiots.'
I countered with:
'It's because I attract sluts.'

We eventually made our peace over a pint but the Kylie Incident, as it is now known, will remain an icy plateau to which we will never return less we both slip off mid-argument and plunge to an unpleasant death.

I returned home and was explaining our debate to the Missus and ended my argument with:
'I mean, you wouldn't buy Mein Kamp if it came with a free handbag, would you?'

The Missus paused to consider the proposition.
'Depends on the handbag.'

The women in my life are in cahoots to send me insane.

The Last Wrestlers: A Far-flung Journey In Search Of A Manly Art...

Marcus Trower was a martial artist who became obsessed by wrestling – but not the costumed hi-jinks of Big Daddy and chums in the UK or The Undertaker and his ilk in the US. Trower loved real wrestling and researched then trained wrestling techniques with several partners in his native England until a mystery illness struck, an illness which meant he had to take a lengthy break from any strenuous activity for several years.

His book chronicles his own love affair with wrestling, his illness and recuperation, and his journey around the globe to visit the last outposts of the sport where wrestling exists as it has for hundreds and, in some cases, thousands of years.

Trower joins wrestling schools in India and Brazil, as well as journeying to Nigeria to witness the wrestling styles of two remote tribes and visiting Mongolia where wrestling remains a national obsession. He also briefly discusses the tradition of wrestling in England and Ancient Greece and forms his own theories about the origins of this ancient sport.

The only criticism of the book is that he never examines the flourishing college wrestling system in America in any real depth but, that minor point aside, the book is a fascinating and entertaining read very much in the style of Angry White Pyjamas by Robert Twigger. It is peopled with fascinating characters and written in an accessible and easy-going style and Trower remains a very likeable narrator.

Well worth a look.

The Car...

Me and the Missus are in Greece and her Jet-setting Photographer Brother has joined us for a few days so he decides to hire a car.

I cannot drive and the Missus hasn't driven for years but having seen what passes for road safety in Greece we're confident we could have a go and get away with it.

In short Greek drivers are nutcase-on-crack dangerous behind a wheel. Fortunately the Jet-setting Photographer Brother is a seasoned driver on several continents so we decide we are in safe hands.

So we head off to pick the car up but when we arrive at the car hire place one very grumpy woman takes a look at his driving licence and tells him it is no good. The licence is Australian and she will not accept it as proof of his driving credentials. He has driven on all continents and never crashed. From what we've seen if he was blind he would still be the safest driver on this island. But she is not having it and we walk away without a car.

To add insult to injury we then get a cab home home driven by a lunatic whose idea of customer service is to drive with Guns 'n' Roses blaring out as he narrowly avoids oncoming traffic.

As we get out of the cab the Missus turns to her brother and smiles before adding:
'He's allowed to drive here.'
Her brother smirks.

We arrive at the hotel bar and order drinks. As we sit down a father arrives clutching his two-year-old daughter who in her hands has a set of car keys keys she is fiddling with.

I lean over to the Jet-setting Photographer Brother and join in.
'She's allowed to drive here, too...'

The gag runs for the rest of the evening.

Word Of The Day...

I am on holiday in Greece with the Missus and I am playing Scrabble and come across the word 'boi', which apparently is slang for a lesbian who dresses like a man.

All this and thousands of years of culture, too.

Learning is a wonderful thing.

Pants II!

I am in the bedroom with the Missus after having a shower and I am sporting the much-derided and recently purchased Y-fronts.
'I don't think they look too bad. They look a bit retro sporty,' I say in their defence.
'They look awful,' replies the Missus.
'Well they are very comfortable.'
'They are horrendous. I may well burn them if you leave them anywhere near me.'
'Well I am going to wear these pants with pride,' I state aiming to end a discussion that is clearly not going in my favour.

The Missus smirks.
'You should wear them at Pride... with nothing else.'

Pants I!

Me and the Missus are going on holiday for two weeks so I cycle into town to make the last of my holiday purchases, namely a few t-shirts and some new boxer shorts.

So I fold up my bike and nip into Uni-Qlo and grab two t-shirts, a very funky polo shirt and what I assume are four pairs of boxer shorts. Job done.

So I arrive home and the Missus, the Boy and the Boy's Girlfriend are sat in the kitchen. So the Missus inquires about my shopping trip.
'How did it go?'
'I'll show you...'

So I reach into my rucksack and pull out the two t-shirts.
'Suppose they're OK,' says the Missus.

Then I go for the banker and pull out the polo shirt. The Boy takes a look and sniggers while the Missus smiles the smile she reserves for children with learning difficulties.
'You don't like it, do you?' I ask.
'It's a little...'
'Gay.' adds the Boy.

So I try the polo shirt on and they are right, prompting the Missus to add:
'It looks like you are a straight man trying to channel his inner gay.'

But worse then follows...
'Well at least the boxer shorts are nice!' I add flinging them on the table.

It is only when I open the second packet that I realise I have have picked up some Y-fronts by mistake. And they are horrible Y-fronts. The sort of Y-fronts a pensioner with a wee-stained truss would turn his nose up at.

The Boy is now giggling uncontrollably until the Boy's Girlfriend tells him to stop. I am beaten. I admit defeat.
'See what happens when you don't come clothes shopping with me!'

The Missus gives me a hug.
'Don't worry,' she says. 'It will never happen again.'