Crappy New Year…

Me, the boy and the missus went to visit one of my friends who’s moved outof the smoke for the sunny climes of St Albans today.

He and his wife have a three-year-old son who basically looks on me as an intellectual equal and today has christened me Uncle Poo instead of Uncle Paul.

Rather sadly I now know this will stick and it will now always be Uncle Poo.

Welcome to 2007. I hate *kids…

* I don't really.

Don Juan In Soho…

I like Patrick Marber. I liked him on various Steve Coogan and Chris Morris TV shows and I liked his first stage play, Dealer’s Choice. And even though I wasn’t a massive fan of Closer, his award-winning four-hander that later became a hit film, I could see that it was a well-written piece.

And Don Juan In Soho is a similarly well-crafted animal. Adapted from Moliere’s play it transports the infamous sexual libertine to contemporary London. Here he woos, seduces and marries a virginal and pure wife then dumps her once he’s had his wicked way.

Her non-too chuffed brothers then threaten revenge unless this creature of utter ego and passion can repent his ways and save himself. Magnificently, of course, Don Juan can’t do this because it would mean denying who and what he is so he ends up knifed dead in the street by the vengeful siblings.

Staged in the intimate Donmar, the play is well-acted and well-directed. Marber’s dialogue and humour are as sharp as ever and Rhys Ifans is eminently watchable in the title role as the man admired for his lust but also damned for it.

But for all its production excellence and strong cast the play isn’t a major piece of work. At its best it’s an admirable attempt at saying something important about living and experiencing life rather than watching it go by. At it’s worst it’s knob gags disguised as philosophy.

It’s still not a bad evening out, though.

Merry Xmas: Part Two…

The neighbour up the road continues to annoy the shit out of us and everyone else in the street with his constant boom-boom, house-shuddering music whenever he’s leaving or parking up his silver BMW. So today I decided to head outside and have a friendly word.

I was very reasonable and very calm as I asked him if he wouldn’t mind turning his music down. In response I got a load of mouth about him playing his music any ‘fucking volume’ he wanted to whenever he wanted to.

It got a bit heated from his point of view and it was very bizarre because I wasn’t in the slightest bit worried he would hit me. In fact part of me was actually hoping he’d take a pop so I could say I acted in self-defence. But he scuttled off into his flat, which he shares with his fellow BMW-owning, loud-music-playing, bad-wig-wearing partner, as quickly as his dented macho pride would allow.

I fully understand noise pollution is one of the prices of living in Central London but the man is clearly an ignorant twat of the first order and I will be having more words with him over the week. My plan is to wear him down with reasonabless. I’ll report back on this…

It was quite refreshing to know that Kensal Green, however, was not the only potentially dodgy neighbourhood in London this Yuletide because Walford is clearly another area with many troubles of its own.

The Christmas EastEnders saw the demise of E18 matriarch Pauline Fowler who died because:
i) she got a clump from her former daughter-in-law, then lesbian ex-daughter-in-law and now daughter-in-law-to-be-again Sonia
ii) she died of a broken heart after realising what a miserable old bag she’d become to her family and friends
iii) the actress Wendy Richard had had enough of them destroying the legacy of a once-great show and her once-believable character and decided to get out before it went further downhill

To say the Christmas EastEnders was the worst thing on TV would be an exaggeration. But probably not much of one. At all.

To see Bradley’s dad Max suddenly declare he really fancied his son’s former girlfriend Stacey Slater and always had done was writing of the worst kind. It was loads of exposition to explain why nobody had noticed it before and a purely convenient coupling aiming to grab ratings rather than make any real stab at proper character-based drama. The sort the show used to do when it was in its glory years.

You can almost hear the EE script conference:
‘We need a shocking affair…’
‘Sonia could be a lesbian.’
‘Done it.’
‘How about Max getting it on with his son’s ex-girlfriend?’
‘Brilliant. Hang on. Haven’t we done something like that before?’
‘Not recently but Corrie have.’
‘Did it go down well?’
‘Yes. Really well.’
‘Right then. We’ll nick it…’

The Max and Stacey affair, the death of Pauline, Minty and Garry dressing up, Devil child Ben (he who was laid next to and staring at a stuffed pig’s head during the aborted Beale wedding a few weeks before) and Phil’s new bird Stella, Billy and Honey…

A bit like my neighbour it was all hot air and noise with no reason or substance to motivate behaviour. Bring back Eldorado. All is forgiven…

Merry Xmas: Part One…

…James Brown is dead!

Well that was the news that greeted me after unwrapping a veritable mountain of presents from the missus. Highlights of these, in case you’re interested, were the complete Laurel and Hardy on DVD and tickets for Amy’s View by David Hare.

But the death of James Brown was announced as soon as I put Radio 4 on and it brought a smile to my face – not because the great man had died but because the radio announcer reported his death in a cut-glass, highly polished accent then went on to list the following tracks in the same accent:

‘He was famous for songs such as Papa’s Got A Brand New Bag and Sex Machine…’

The death of the Godfather of Soul reported in the most soul-less and non-funky accent on earth. What a tribute…

Maybe It’s Because I’m A Londoner…

I love a good book and any reading matter on my adopted home of London is always welcome as I familiarise myself with its history and quaint customs, such as racist cab drivers and miserable-as-fuck-shop-assistants.

My current tome is entitled London: Wicked City: A Thousand Years Of Prostitution And Vice by Fergus Linnane. I’m only just getting into this but already it’s throwing up wonderful script ideas because for large parts of its early history the Church actually controlled and profited from prostitution in the parts of London where it was permitted.

In the Middle Ages prostitutes were known as Winchester Geese because the Bishop of Winchester controlled and took taxes from the trade of prostitution in Southwark. My favourite snippet so far, though, is that one Middle Ages lady of the night went by the delightful soubriquet of Clara Clatterballack.

And this information came in very handy when the missus and myself were walking home last night discussing cycling.

‘It’s got cold. Maybe I need to buy some long cycling shorts. They look ridiculous but I bet they keep you warm.’
‘Or you could just cycle to work in your work clothes. Lots of people do.’
‘I don’t want to sit at work in my sweaty cycling gear.’
‘Maybe you just sweat more than is normal…’
‘I don’t sweat more than is normal. I just sweat when I exercise.’
‘But cycling is hardly exercise!’
‘I cycle 40 miles a week. That’s proper exercise!’
‘Not really…’
‘Sorry I forgot. You’re an expert on exercise!’
‘I’m just stating that it’s not really proper exercise and it shouldn’t make you sweat that much.’
‘Sod off Clatterballacks…’
‘What?’
‘Nothing… It’s French. It’s a term of endearment…’

I think I got away with it.

The Zen Of Cycling...

I was biking home the other night and I noticed how many people sped past me. I also noticed how many of these people were either much older or much fatter than me.

I was also in class recently and I noticed that even though I have attained quite a decent level and a decent belt at hapkido there are many people in the class who are both lower belts than me yet are much faster or quicker learners than me.

I was pondering these issues earlier today and realised these separate issues are actually the same issue and have the same twofold root.

i) I am not as competitive as I used to be. At one point I would have taken the overtaking cyclist as a personal affront to my manhood and charged past the perpetrator leaving them with nothing but the dust from my tyres while thinking something derogatory. It was the same with hapkido for a while.

ii) I enjoy hapkido far too much to actually do anything about my worries that people are better than me. In fact in terms of hapkido I enjoy the journey too much to worry about when I arrive at the destination. The same is generally true of cycling.

This could mean I have reached a point of understanding and possible spiritual maturity.

Now if I can only stop making knob jokes at any given opportunity…

New Labour – Old Corruption…

So Blair and the Labour government have stopped an SFO (Serious Fraud Office) investigation into an alleged bribe to Saudi officials paid by BAE Systems in order to secure a lucrative arms contract.

That would, of course, be the same BAE Systems who are massively subsidised by the UK taxpayer and the same BAE Systems who are part of an arms industry that is also massively subsidised by the UK taxpayer.

And that would be the same SFO whose investigation was also funded over two years by the UK taxpayer and the same SFO who had secured new and damaging information about what went on and who paid whom.

In short BAE were busted and Blair and chums saved their bacon by interfering with a due legal process.

Sadly the level of complicity between Labour and big business will not be a surprise to anyone who’s read any Mark Curtis or Nick Cohen, or to anyone who has watched or read Mark Thomas, or to those who have followed the work of groups such as Amnesty International or CAAT (Campaign Against the Arms Trade).

But even though I qualify on all the above points I must admit I am a little surprised at the blatant chutzpah and obvious political expediency of this decision, by the fact that they clearly don’t care if people add two and two and make a very reasonable four.

It is a startling demonstration of the arrogance of power – and it’s quite disgusting.

Fortunately the CAAT and Cornerhouse (a civil rights group) are legally challenging the decision to halt the SFO inquiry so there is still hope BAE will be properly exposed.

Whatever the outcome, though, Blair must go – and take his legacy of corruption, war and illegally empowering big business with him. This is corruption the end of the Major government would have been proud of...

Sex And the Chippy…

The boy is at school, the missus is busy putting together newly delivered furniture and I have just come out of the bath before going to work. I've checked myself out in the mirror sans bath and I think I’ve lost weight after several months of cycling so I walk into the living room to seek confirmation.

‘Do you want to see me naked?’ I ask confident that my newly toned body will impress the missus.
‘No. I’m building cabinets,’ she replies without even looking up.

Crestfallen is not a strong enough word for it…

Seasons Gratings!

My martial arts teacher is a woman named Tammy Parlour. Saboumnim Parlour, to give her proper title, runs the London branch of the Wol Ge Kwan Hapkido Academy where I train.

But when it comes to gradings she invites the founder of the academy, Master Gedo Chang, from the main school in Chicago to conduct events.

As he visits the UK three times a year I’ve been fortunate enough to grade under Master Chang and attend his seminars and without doubt he and Saboumnim Parlour are two of the best teachers I’ve studied under. Ever. Anywhere. At anything.

Master Chang also lectures on his visits and one of his favourite subjects is how ki exercise, which is a bit like tai chi, yoga and meditation all rolled into one, works.

To do this he uses a jar full of water which has dirt at the bottom and a lid on the top. Then at the start of the lecture he takes the clear jar, shakes it and disturbs the dirt which mixes with the water so nothing can be seen through it.

He then goes on to explain how the stresses of life can make the human mind a bit like the cloudy jar as it too is a thing that can possess utter clarity but too often it has everyday worries polluting it.

He then settles the jar at the side and begins demonstrating ki exercise techniques and explains how the combination of slow movements, regulated breathing and meditation helps settle the mind so it can metaphorically resettle the dirt at the bottom of the jar.

By the end of the lecture the dirt in the actual jar has generally settled back to the bottom and the water is clear again. It’s a wonderful illustration of a complex idea.

Anyway it was bearing this in mind that I signed the class Christmas card for Master Chang. In my head I meant to write ‘the dirty water in my jar is becoming much clearer, many thanks’.

But as it was following a very tiring lesson and there wasn’t much space on the card I cut some corners and ended up writing ‘my dirty jar is much clearer, many thanks’.

Sadly I wrote the word ‘jar’ like ‘jam’ so my philosophical message of thanks to the most respected man in the academy read ‘my dirty jam is much clearer, many thanks’.

There are times I should fire myself…

On Religion…

The thought of going to a ‘topical’ or ‘theme’ play usually makes me want to wretch. Actually that’s an understatement. Imagine how the average Daily Mail reader would react to a bukkake film featuring a Princess Diana lookalike and you have a better idea of how it makes me feel.

I’ve seen too many earnest plays exploring the whys and wherefores of murders, rapists, extremists and the like that are both glib in their examination and pat in their conclusions. David Hare and his verbatim theatre plays on topical subjects are one of the few exceptions to this because he’s an excellent writer and far too intelligent to come down on the easy side of the glib answer. But the rest of them? Urghh!

On Religion at Soho Theatre, however, is a timely play discussing religious fanaticism and faith that succeeds on every level.

Written by Mick Gordon, one-time associate director at the National, and philosophy professor AC Grayling it describes itself as a ‘theatre essay’. But don’t be put off. It’s academic meat in no way detracts from a thoroughly absorbing 90 minutes.

The play examines the whole issue of faith and religious idealism through a family of staunch anti-religion figurehead and university lecturer mother Grace, stoic Jewish dad Tony, one-time lawyer-turned-priest son Tom and his pregnant girlfriend Ruth. And it’s through the interaction of these four characters after a tragic death that discussions on faith and religion emerge and various arguments are wrestled with.

Gemma Jones brings intellectual muscle and conviction to the role of Grace, Elliot Levey is convincing as the son Tom who turns his back on defending the guilty to argue for a more understanding religion, and Priyanga Burford is superb as the girlfriend caught in the middle of the warring family.

For me the best performance was that of Pip Donaghy as the understanding and stoic father Tom, who acts as the touchstone of love and tolerance for the family. But it’s very much an ensemble piece where each works off the other in a beautifully orchestrated manner.

It’s a very human play about a very complex issue and it succeeds as a theoretical discussion, a highly wrought and emotional piece of drama and a cleverly directed play.

On Religion does what good theatre should do. It engages the brain and engages the emotions and it asks questions and avoids easy answers. It’s the best play in London this year (and probably next year too as it ends on the 6th of January 2007).

Worth £12.50 of anybody’s money.

Tornado News…

A tornado hit Kensal Green about five streets from FBTP Towers yesterday.

A few people were injured, several houses suffered millions of pounds worth of damage and gangs of roaming journalists and TV producers eager for news stories and footage had to go without their lattes and toasted ciabatta sandwiches for several hours as the high street was cordoned off.

‘It’s a disgrace,’ said one BBC cameraman. ‘I’ve covered genocide in Rwanda and even there we managed to rustle up a decent Mocca and falafel in pitta bread.’

In related news a typhoon also hit Croydon and wiped out four entire blocks. It caused £17 worth of damage.

Bag Lady...

From Beer To Paternity Towers has recently undergone some decorating and tidying up and this means the missus has had to clear some of her old shit out of the house. And, horror of horrors, this means she has had to rationalise her bag tree.

For the uninitiated the bag tree is a many-branched old coat stand that houses her myriad collection of shoulder bags, handbags and other-use bags (her term not mine). Before she set about rationalising this bizarre item I counted how many bags it was providing refuge for and the number was 46. I have seen department stores with fewer.

She did, however, send several for recycling and seemingly threw many more out and it suddenly became less of an obstacle to pass on the stairs. For about a week...

But then I noticed bags started turning up in other places (such as on the back of doors and on coat hooks elsewhere in the house). Take the episode of Star Trek with the Tribbles and turn the madly breeding little furball creatures into handbags and you have the right idea of what seemed to be happening in the house.

Myself and the boy are close to drowning in bags.

Fortunately help may be at hand as she has now bought two very expensive new bags so her need to fill up the house with cheaper versions may have been abated for a while.

Or it may just have reached an expensive new stage and me and the boy will soon be out on the street as our places are taken up by her two new chums from Mulberry…

Tracks…

The train home from London to Yorkshire,
Used to be exciting:
First time back from college,
Bringing the college girlfriend home,
Returning to see newborn babies
And finally back with my wife,
Though grandma preferred the college love
And told the wife so. She took it well.

But now it’s a chore,
A reminder of a past no longer mine.
Yet by some fluke of blood
I’m still related to them:
The gamblers, the never-left-towns,
The alcoholic brother
Overkeen to follow his father’s
Stumblings into the drunkard’s grave.

Little bruv, of course, has done well.
The slick sales patter
That talked a thousand knickers into surrender,
It’s now made him a wealthy contender.
Nice car, nice house, nice kids
When he could have hit the skids.
And now he even earns more than me.
The shit.

Of course, there was a time
I was close to my kin,
Keen as mustard to do the right thing.
Not so much now though...
Because like stops on a Tube
Distance happens in stages
And now I rarely call, haven’t written in ages.
We’re just too far apart on the tracks…

Out Of Step...

Me and the boy are braving Oxford Street on the first Saturday in December.

My task is to help the boy secure a new winter coat and we venture into a shop to try our luck. Within seconds he has immediately discounted most of the stock and has narrowed his search down to two.

Both of these look very stylish and both are in keeping with his current look of indie-guitar-band boy with long hair. A few seconds later he has the coat of his choice and I am handing over the money to buy it.

The whole operation takes less than five minutes. We leave the shop. I stare at him. He looks uneasy.

'Why are you staring at me? I've told you before NOT to stare at me...'
'I'm just stunned.'
'Why?'
'You did the whole coat-buying thing with ruthless efficency. And you also chose something that looks really good. I'd have spent ages and still probably bought something that made me look like a kiddy-fiddler.'
'That's because I'm stylish and you're not.'
'I am stylish. I'm down with the kids...'

He stares. I realise I am being pitied by a 16-year-old boy.

'Just a tip... It's saying things like "I'm down with the kids" that makes you not.'

We walk on in silence. The little shit is probably right...

Hypothetical Question…

If a tree falls in a forest but there is nobody around to hear it or see it is my wife still right that it’s probably my fault?

Mrs Tea…

I am home in the kitchen cooking our evening meal.

For some reason that escapes me the missus and the boy are also both in the kitchen reading. This is a rare occurrence because I have formally banned anyone else from the kitchen when I am cooking because unrequested 'helpful' culinary advice and me with sharp knives is a dangerous combination

After a few minutes I venture into the living room to grab something and notice the light is on. This is a cardinal sin in the From Beer To Paternity household as we’re keen to do our bit for the planet. So it’s time to chastise the missus for wasting electricity in the same way she lambasts me for all manner of minor anti-conservation crimes. At any given opportunity.

I turn the light off and return to the kitchen to continue making our meal.

‘Do you want a cup of tea?’ she asks on my return.
‘Yes.’
‘Cool.’

Pause.

‘Oh… Just a tip, but if you really want to save the planet and not use up its precious fuel resources you could try turning lights off when you’ve been in rooms you’ve vacated. It’s such a waste.’
‘How do you know I wasn’t going back in there?’
‘Because you’re in here!’
‘I was making a cup of tea then heading back to read my magazine.’
‘You could still have turned the light off before you left the room. It’s such a waste.’
‘Actually it burns more electricity to turn it on and off than it does to just keep it on in such a short space of time.’
‘You’ve made that up.’
‘No I haven’t.’
‘It’s obviously a lie. Act locally, think globally. That’s my motto.’
‘You’re an idiot. That’s my motto.’
‘Fuel waster!’

I have the last word and return to making the meal before she can get another one in. A pause. Then the boy sniggers. I look up to see him laughing into his book then turn to see the missus suppressing a giggle.

She hands me my tea. They are still giggling. I drink it. They both openly laugh.

‘She spat in that.’ says the boy helpfully – but only after I’ve slugged a mouthful.
‘You spat in my tea?!’ I am stunned. She smiles. Like a cat toying with a particularly stupid mouse.

‘Don’t pick arguments with me. You always lose…’
‘You spat in my tea!’
‘And at least it’s recycled spit.’ offers the boy.

There will be repercussions. Probably…

The Secret Agent…

I’ve decided I need an agent to help punt my work around TV and theatre land so I have set about finding one. I think it’s going to be a long process but I’m hoping a combination of my general chutzpah and charm and writing talent will win the day.

I discussed this with the missus while we were packing and paying at the supermarket after our big weekend shop. And, as usual, she was full of helpful advice.

‘Well you obviously need an agent that has the right contacts.’
‘You know I never thought of that…’
‘By that I mean one that can get your scripts to all the right TV producers and the like.’
‘Actually I was thinking of getting one that didn’t know anybody…’
‘But that’s just stupid…’
‘I was being sarcastic.’

Pause. I continue to shove shopping into a bag. She’s ignoring it. Then it comes…

‘Ouch! What was that nip for?’
‘Because you were sarcastic when I was merely trying to help.’
‘But stating the bleeding obvious is hardly helping, is it?’
‘Don’t be confrontational or I’ll nip you again.’
‘I’ll hit you if you do. And I’ll do it through a pillow so it doesn’t leave any marks and you can’t prove anything in court…’
‘You could use a bag of oranges as well…’

I survey the shopping.

‘Do we have any oranges?’
‘No.’
‘Pillow it is then…’

It is at this point I realise the woman on the till is staring at me. She hasn’t noticed the affection behind the banter and she has me down as a wife-beater.

I could plead my case that it was only friendly chat between a loving husband and wife. But I decide to stay quiet knowing it will only make matters worse.

The missus pays and we leave. I am marked down as a bad person…

Pulling…

BBC 3’s newest sitcom kicked off last night and I’m pleased to report it’s actually quite good.

Pulling is written by Dennis Kelly and Sharon Horgan, who also plays its lead character Donna, and it follows three thirtysomething female friends coping with love, life and men.

Donna is the mostly befuddled one who nearly married her witless boyfriend Karl before calling it off at the last minute when she realised she wanted more out of life.

Karen (Tanya Franks) is the alcoholic, party animal, primary teacher one who’s out to shag anything that moves, and Louise (Rebekah Staton – who I admit to having a bit of a crush on) is the grounded but wannabe romantic one who fails to get the guy.

Cavan Clerkin also deserves a mention as the jilted ex who’s pathetic and sympathetic at the same time.

It’s not particularly new territory and it’s a bit No Angels meets Manstrokewoman in style and in the world views it espouses, but it’s well written, well acted and at times very nicely underplayed. It has good downbeat dialogue and some cracking lines.

It will also fill the Lead Balloon-shaped hole in my viewing schedule now that Jack Dee’s brutally dark sitcom (the TV highlight of the year as far as FBTP is concerned) is drawing to an end.

Feeling buoyed by Pulling I also decided to watch the opening episode of the second series of Tittybangbang. I was a little lost in the first series as the sketch situations were promising and the characters intriguing and I kept hoping it would be funny. Somewhere. Once. Please… But it wasn’t. Not ever.

And it’s sad to report that this Lucy Montgomery and Debbie Chazen vehicle hasn’t improved any in its second incarnation. It so badly wants to be wacky and offbeat that it’s forgotten to be funny. And that’s quite a serious crime for a sketch-based comedy series.

But as Meat Loaf very nearly said, one out of two ain’t bad…

Let’s Talk About…

OK. It’s time for some honesty.

And I mean real honesty – not the sort of guff semi-educated-but-desperate-for-action blokes use to con girls into thinking they’re the sort of man who can openly share emotions and in turn respond to the emotional needs of a female partner. No, no, no, no, no! We’re not talking anything as vague as that sort of old shite. At all…

I mean real honesty. So here goes… I like sex. Really like it. Quite a lot actually…

Doing it is obviously tops but I also admit to a passing interest in talking about it, reading about it and even sometimes watching it. But much as I like all these things I realise I am an absolute amateur in the world of sex when compared to the good folk behind A 21st Century Girl’s Guide To Sex on Five.

Because they are bonkers for it! And by that I mean utterly mad. Really mad…

This late-night documentary series (wink, wink) features reports on all sorts of stuff, from orgasms and masturbation to role play and toy use. And it’s done with just enough quasi-scientific boffin-nonsense attached that it very nearly convinces viewers that it’s not soft-porn masquerading as ‘something serious’. At all. No sirree!

My first sighting of this series occurred a week ago when the opening episode took a look at the female orgasm. And when I write ‘took a look’ I really mean ‘took a look’ because the show features two performers who spend large periods shagging the brains out of each other with all manner of microscopic cameras on wires attached to their genitalia for the benefit of the viewing public.

So we have a minute of the couple shagging (always against a plain white background because THIS IS SCIENCE) then the scene switches to what’s happening inside.

The show’s makers are obviously very chuffed with this hi-tech gadgetry because they use it several times. So a report on furry handcuffs cuts back into internal footage of a penetrated vagina, while a voxpop on vibrators cuts into shots of the female shaggee lying on her back getting jiggy with the male shagger as a voiceover explains some new-fangled position called the lunar-rabbit riding the spacehopper or some such tosh.

I can’t decide if it’s rubbish or genius but it’s clearly the sort of wet dream letter-writers to The Daily Mail have been waiting decades for (so they can watch the series, record it, rewatch it, rewind it several times then complain about it).

And if it upsets that bunch it’s not wasted TV in my opinion. More please! Probably…

Knickers!

Myself and the missus are pottering around Westbourne Grove, a very trendy and quite well-heeled part of London right next door to Notting Hill.

With Christmas coming up I had been toying with the idea of buying her some underwear from Agent Provocateur and, as we are in the area, I take her to their shop.

On entering I actually think I’ve walked into a brothel with the staff wearing tight-fitting and short-skirted nurses uniforms and billboard adverts that could pass for soft-core porn on the walls.

The missus picks up several things that, to be fair, look low-rent hooker-wear. The prices, however, are anything but low.

Fortunately after examining the shops’ wares for 10 minutes the missus turns round and passes judgement.

‘I could never wear any of this.’

I am divided by this response. On one hand I’m thinking ‘Result’ as it’s stupidly costly and I’ve avoided ridiculous expense, but on the other I’m annoyed because I like the idea of buying her something stupidly pricey.

‘But why not?’ I ask.
‘Because I’ll look like a fat prostitute.’

This could be a trap. Stay quite or talk? I think. I pause. Then I speak…

‘But at least you’ll be my fat prostitute…’

She smiles. We leave the shop without buying anything. The punch could still come, though...

Hare Raising…

Just read an interview with the playwright David Hare in last weekend’s Observer.

For my money Hare’s remained one of the most consistently coherent and important dramatic voices of the past 30 years and I’ve been lucky enough to see some excellent productions of his plays, most recently The Permanent Way at the National a few years ago.

His new play, The Vertical Hour, is opening in the US and, as opposed to his verbatim theatre plays that discuss recent events through the voices of the people involved in the public arena, this is one of his personal political plays where world events are discussed and debated by imagined characters in a tighter domestic setting.

The feature also included an extract from the script and one speech contained the sort of ideas that proves Hare’s validity to me.

‘The politicians dismantle communities, then complain that community no longer exists. They incubate the disease, then profess to be shocked when people catch it. “Oh , why can’t people behave?” It’s a good question. But when the people who make the law become lawless themselves, what can you do?’

Couldn’t have said it better myself. But that’s why I’m not David Hare.

Well, yet…

Headline Of The Week...

I was at work yesterday when a spread showing pictures of Pauline Fowler’s funeral in EastEnders landed on my desk. My headline suggestion for it was:

Inter The Dragon!

People stared…

Sacked!

I may officially be fired from the Goth Ensemble of Great Britain. This is because I bought an album by fey, folk, classical duo Shelleyan Orphan.

A friend at college introduced me to them in 1987 and I was quite taken, then today I suddenly had an urge to listen to them again. So now I’m quietly chilling at work to chirping cellos, swooping vocals and melodic strings. They are worth a listen.

Sadly that means I am a sham of a Goth – although I did buy the remastered version of First And Last And Always by the Sisters of Mercy yesterday so they may still allow me in.

Big Break!

So… I’ve finally done it… After 10 years I’ve now officially hung my pool cue up after playing my last competitive game for my adopted county of Surrey.

Whether the break will be for a few years or more permanent will largely depend on how the writing goes next year. I probably won’t miss playing that much but I’ll certainly miss my friends, my team-mates and the rest of the people on the south-east eightball scene.

I’ve taken lengthy breaks from the game before and survived without it, but it will be odd to have the first Sunday of every month free for the first time in a decade. There will be a part of me that badly misses it when the opening match of February 2007 comes round but I’ll get over that soon enough. And the once-a-month Monday hangovers won't be missed either.

In fact it’s quite exciting as I’ve now made the leap from pool player to former pool player who can now spend more time writing.

So no excuses not to succeed as a writer now. Well, apart from the fact I may be rubbish…

The Erratic Erotic...

From Beer now has a sister website exclusively for erotic fiction. It's called The Erratic Erotic and it's where me and my friends will be publishing our various attempts at erotic fiction (smut if you prefer).

The link is on the links bar on the right...

X Marks The Spot…

Myself, the boy and the missus are sat around the kitchen table after tea (supper or evening meal for readers in the south). The movie X2 is on the TV and myself and the boy are discussing the merits of the film when the missus interjects and asks the boy a question…

‘So why is he called Cyclops?’
‘Because he shoots laser blasts out of his eyes.’
‘But that’s not what a cyclops does…’
‘Sorry?’
‘I said that’s not what a cyclops does. A cyclops is a mythical creature which has one eye and… Well that’s it.’
‘Well when Cyclops is in his superhero costume he has a visor with a long thin lens which opens to emit the laser blast. So in effect his blasts come from one focal point or eye so it looks a bit like a cyclops.’
‘But he’s wearing glasses.’
‘He’s not in his costume yet.’
‘Is he short-sighted as well then?’
‘No. It’s just that…’
‘I think Cyclops is a rubbish superhero name.’
‘Well it’s better than two-eyed-mutant-with-potential-short-sightedness-who-shoots-laser-blasts-out-of-his-one-eyed-visor-man!’

There is silence. The missus thinks for a moment. Sometimes this is not a good thing.

‘I’m going upstairs to pack.’
‘Are you leaving us?’
‘Only for a few days. I’m going on a works trip to Italy – and you are now son-who-was-going-to-get-present-but-isn’t-anymore-man.’

I snigger. The missus moves her disapproving gaze onto me. That’s two of us without presents…

Countdown…

Next week is smut week on From Beer To Paternity as my erotic short story is finished. It’s called Dirty Girl and it features a midget with a weird taste in sexual titillation.

So if smut (or high-end erotic fiction) is not your thing then better give it a miss. You have been warned…

Accidents Will Happen…

I broke something the missus was storing in my office today. But fortunately I glued it back together.

I don’t think she’ll notice…

Cabaret…

I hate most musicals. In fact if it were left to me most musicals would be banned. A bit like Tories, racists and free speech for morons.

Cabaret, though, is one musical that avoids my anti-musical radar because it manages to combine astute political commentary with a great score and a sharp script. So it was an upbeat version of me (plus the missus) that went to the Lyric to see the show’s latest West End incarnation. And it was a bit of a mixed bag.

The show is essentially two love stories, that of American Clifford Bradshaw and showgirl Sally Bowles and that of boarding house landlady Fraulein Schneider and Jewish grocer Herr Schultz, set against the backdrop of decadent Thirties Berlin as the Nazi Party comes to power. Much of the play is also set in the Kit Kat Klub where the musical numbers comment on the action and satirise the rise of the Third Reich.

Essentially it’s pretty dark stuff with one love story ending because the showgirl is a self-destructive drunk who aborts the American’s child and the other ending because the German businesswoman cannot marry the Jewish man she loves in a political climate dominated by anti-Semitism.

The social backdrop also shows a society that is so glutted and corrupted by decadence that it is on the edge of self-destruct like Bowles herself. So everything about the show should reflect that by starting dark and sleazy before descending into a world where the Nazi Party could actually come to power and the death camps could go ahead…

So enter TV camp funnyman James Dreyfus as the Kit Kat Klub MC and the evening starts off with lots of cheeky comedy numbers. Even the nudity and the dance routines concentrated on sexiness and sassiness rather than sleaziness and that tone stayed pretty much throughout the evening. And that didn’t work when the director had tagged on a gas chamber scene to the closure of the Kit Kat Klub at the end of the play. It was almost an addition to underline what was to come where if the threat of menace had been stronger earlier that particular addition would have worked better

Dreyfus was OK in the MC role but his voice wasn’t strong enough and the menace of the role never really came through. He was cheeky and odd but never scary. I also saw him in The Producers a year ago and he was similarly OK in that but an actor who could really sing (and act) would have been better.

Michael Hayden was strong as Clifford Bradshaw but he didn’t really have much to work with against the squeaking, twittering Sally Bowles of Anna Maxwell Davies. Her voice also just wasn’t very strong.

Sheila Hancock and Geoffrey Hutchings as Fraulein Schneider and Herr Schultz added some class to the evening as the elderly lovers who cannot share a life. They both brought real pathos to the evening and injected some much-needed depth.

Overall it wasn’t bad and director Rufus Norris made a decent fist of it with some pretty inventive staging, but it’s a symptom of the West End that TV stars such as Davies (Bleak House) and Dreyfus (My Hero, Gimme Gimme Gimme) need to be cast to put bums on seats when stronger actors in strong roles would have served the show better.

Still worth a look, though.

A Reader Writes...

Dear sir

Last night at home I was amazed to be settling into my armchair to view one of my ‘hobby videos’ and suddenly find my front door assailed by gangs of costumed youths demanding gifts with menaces.

Having spent a large part of my later years in Kuala Lumpa with my good friend and business colleague Kinky Norris, I had never experienced the imported tradition of ‘trick or treat’ borrowed from our US cousins before.

Now I don’t wish to appear anti-American as the Land of the Free has brought us many great practices such as legalised brothels, non-French Chardonnay and electing criminals as Presidents (still hope for Kinky yet I say). But is encouraging the young to begin careers as extortionists something we should be encouraging?

I decided not and immediately went out to the sweetshop then the chemist and upon returning home I placed the sweet wrappers around the incontinence-inducing pills I’d bought.

Perhaps when their parents have finished cleaning up the resultant mess they’ll think again about letting their little Jemimahs and Tarquins go around banging on the doors of total strangers demanding gifts reinforced by threats.

Yours

Colonel Dwight Micklewight
Pall Mall Club
London

Colour Prejudice…

Pearl ashes, oak apple, antique earth, amber gris, dragon’s blood, ultramarine ashes…

Myself and the missus are choosing a colour to paint the bedroom. I had originally absolved myself of all responsibility for matching colours and selecting shades based on the fact that I have no ‘artistic eye’ for such matters.

But the missus has decided that she no longer likes the colour she originally selected so it’s back to the drawing (or painting) board. So I’m now helping the process…

‘How about this one?’
‘It’s black, isn’t it?’
‘Sort of…’
‘I am not painting our bedroom black. You are no longer a student.’
‘But it’d be really cool…’
‘I repeat. I am not painting our bedroom black.'
'But...'
'Ever.’

Pause.

‘How about this one then?’
‘It’s the shade down from black, isn’t it?’
‘Might be…’
‘Don’t make me hurt you…’

Pause. Change of tactic.

‘But black’s the new black.’
‘Not it’s not. Grey is.’
‘What’s black then?’
‘Black is what is not going in our bedroom.'
'OK...'
'Idiot.’

That’s that sorted then…

Holiday...

A week off work. Hurray! Sadly the week has been pencilled in for decorating so me and the missus have been getting down and dirty – and not in a good way...

I felt all manly at first as apart from prepping the big bedroom I also repaired the lock on the shed door by drilling through the two plates of the handle and bolting it in place. Hell, I even planed the door so it fitted better.

But two days in and any romantic notions I had about the benefits of manual work and skilled labour have rapidly disintegrated. It's hard work and it's bloody dull.

Fortunately as a journalist I know I can return to work and have a rest...

Notes Of A Dirty Old Man…

American novelist and poet Charles Bukowski is a long-standing literary hero of mine and for a few years of my life I did try to emulate some of his exploits (such as his constant drinking – although I did fail miserably on bedding hundreds of women and writing gritty novels and gut-wrenching poetry).

Bukowski took on all manner of heavy labouring and dignity-stripping menial jobs to fund his writing and he virtually lived on skid row for many years before making it. One line of income that he did dabble in, however, was writing erotic stories for porn magazines so this is one thing I’ve always secretly liked the idea of doing.

And this possibility came a step nearer when a recent conversation with a work colleague revealed she had spent a small part of her career doing exactly that and she kindly explained the ins and outs (pardon the unfortunate phraseology) of the industry.

I was discussing this with the Other Woman and a mutual friend last night and they also voiced an interest in this line of work so we are now each writing a 500-word porn story with a possible view to publication in any of the UK’s leading jazz magazines (personally I want Razzle solely so I can list The National Journal Of Speech And Drama, The Daily Express and Razzle on my writing CV).

Anyway we have two weeks from today to produce the finished articles. And I’ll obviously publish my results here…

Other Woman News…

It was Hapkido grading on Sunday and, apart from me failing to break a board with a snap punch and resorting to a thrusting punch then kicking one of my friends in the face during a sparring session, all went pretty well.

In fact after catching a flu bug and smashing my collar bone pretty badly in the past two weeks I was just delighted to get through it. Hell I’m even quietly confident I might have passed…

My Other Woman was also grading and it was the first time I’d seen her grade in about a year – and suddenly she was no longer my pool and drinking buddy but had metamorphosised into this no-nonsense, hard-arse martial artist with strong stances and snapping kicks and punches. Scary…

In the pub afterwards she also regaled me with the latest instalment of her father’s impulse purchasing habit.

Her dad recently retired and has a history of buying wacky and strange things. For example the Other Woman returned home from work one day to find a full-size pool table in situ at their house. No word of warning. It was just there. And it still is…

Anyway his latest buying wheeze was a box of fireworks. The Other Woman thought this was a fab idea for a family night with toffee apples and colourful explosions in the back garden.

Then she read the box and realised he’d actually bought the sort of fireworks that councils use. For large-scale public displays. Of about 10,000 people. So they weren’t very suitable for letting off in a small garden in Surrey.

My Other Woman was nearly toast. Quite literally…

Alive…

I cycled into town this morning at 6.30am so I could park my bike at work then cross Blackfriars Bridge to head to my usual two-hour Tuesday morning hapkido class.

It was still dark and raining when I set off and the roads and parks of my journey were pretty empty. It was even relatively quiet coming over Westminster Bridge at 7am and that’s usually filled with engine-gunning driving nutcases at every hour.

I love London when it’s quiet and the addition of the rain made the roads and streets look like something from a 1940s B&W movie. It was sweet…

At one point I was on a cycle lane going through Hyde Park and I happened to glance at my front light and I saw a few drops of rain fall past its beam and I suddenly had that feeling of communing with a time and a place and being utterly at one with everything.

I sometimes have those moments during hapkido when a technique works or a kick connects just as I intend it to and it’s so perfect I just want the moment to stay. I also used to (when I wasn’t too pissed to ignore them) have those moments playing pool. It was a great feeling when I knew I’d hit the shot so well that I could feel the ball hitting the back of the pocket before it had happened.

Sadly that happens less these days on the pool table but with my desire to practice waning it’s probably just as well that particular chapter is reaching a hiatus.

But new opportunities are opening up. And my liver will probably thank me in the long run…

The Seafarer...

Went to see The Seafarer written by and directed by Conor McPherson at the National Theatre on Saturday.

I was looking forward to this as I thought The Weir was one of the best stage plays of the past decade and his movie I Went Down was pretty bloody laugh-tastic too.

And The Seafarer was pretty good. It told the story an itinerant brother returning to the family home to look after his blind brother at Christmas and it included the McPherson stock-in-trade of slapstick sight gags, drunken ramblings and seamless Irish comedy patter. Then the Devil arrived determined to claim the soul of the sighted brother via a game of poker…

It was enjoyable stuff with a bit of an upbeat message about the redeeming power of love thrown in but it just didn’t fully add up for me and it all seemed a bit too pat. Like a sitcom the play had a convenient comedy ending and that undermined the better work that had gone before.

For all that, though, it was still a very solid piece of work. Jim Norton was superb as the visually impaired brother Richard, Ron Cook (with his occasional slipping accent aside) was nicely understated as Satan and Conleth Hill was entertaining as Richard's hapless drinking buddy Ivan.

Well worth a look.

Like A Virgin...

As was infamously discussed in one of the opening scenes in Reservoir Dogs, the lyrics to Like A Virgin relate to the fact that Madonna felt like she was making love for the first time – even though in reality the old slapper had already been around several blocks more than a few times.

And, quite bizarrely, I find myself in a similar state to the baby-adopting former Miss Ciccone as I too am starting to feel quite edgy about putting myself through something that should by now hold few surprises for me.

Yup it’s grading on Sunday and I’m getting hyped but trying to disguise it by pretending to be quite detached from it all. On the plus side I’ve got my techniques more or less down, my form is in decent shape and my spin kicking has been breaking boards for some time now.

On the minus side my chumo sigi (boxing punches) need some work and my head is not as focused as it should be. So in a bid to increase my ebbing confidence I’ve kept a bit of the board that I smashed up at a class yesterday on my desk to remind me that if all else fails I can break things.

That should do the trick. Hopefully…

On Yer Bike: News...

In a bid to make myself a more proficient road user I have taken to reading the Highway Code so I know exactly what my rights are.

And basically I have as much right to be on the road as anyone else and this knowledge has filled me with much joy. It has also made me vehemently chastise any driver fuckwit who does something stupidly reckless that endangers my life.

Like last night, for example, when I was changing lanes near Westminster Bridge. I’d done everything correct such as looked back, checked for oncoming traffic, clearly signalled then moved over – only for some utter twat in a Merc or a BMW to cut over two lanes when he realised he’d missed his turning.

I handled the situation with decorum:

‘You reckless wanker. You nearly wrote off two cars and my bike! Read your fucking Highway Code you coke-addled City twat!’

Also in a bizarre opinion u-turn on a previous topic I am starting to notice some drivers of black cabs are actually quite nice and very courteous. Some of them are obviously still utter wankers (a fact usually demonstrated at least once a day on my cycling trips) but my opinions on this topic are being revised.

White van drivers, though, are still to be avoided (on the road as in life).

My newest maxim, though, is that the more flash the car the bigger the cunt inside it.

Foot Off!

The missus has been to see her doctor about pains in her foot. Apparently she has tennis elbow – but in the foot rather than in the elbow. This is causing a great deal of amusement to the boy over dinner.

‘So you have tennis elbow?’
‘Yes.’
‘In the foot?’
‘Yes.’
‘But you don’t play tennis…’
‘I know.
‘Or play anything for that matter. So how did you get a sporting injury?’
‘It’s probably from a while back.’
‘Do injuries recur after THAT long?’
‘Do your homework!’
‘Done it. Look, it’s just probably something simple.'
'Like?'
'Like... Ouchy Foot.’
'Ouchy Foot?’
'Yes. Ouchy Foot.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’
‘Is the pain in your foot?’
‘Yes…’
‘Does it make you wince and go “Ouch!”?’
‘Yes but…’
‘It’s Ouchy Foot then. Probably terminal. Do I get the house?’

The boy is showing great comedy promise…

Play: Work In Progress...

I've been ill with this flu bug thing so I have nothing of any note to write about.

So here's something from a new play that I thought was quite good. You may, of course, disagree...

*******************************************************

SCENE 4: EXTERIOR. SUNNY
Grams: Copperhead Road by Steve Earle.
Thirtysomething Texan Amelia walks on stage in a swimming costume with a towel draped on her. She is wet and is talking on the phone. On-stage is a hold-all which has a dog. The dog yelps from inside the bag.

AMELIA
Yes, papa, we were close at one point and he did break my heart a little – but that’s because he is a man and when it comes down to it all men are just sons-of-bitches who should have their peckers cut off then be left to bleed to death in a pit full of pissed-off vipers. (Pause) No, papa, of course I don’t mean that about you. I’d never cut your pecker off. Nor leave you to bleed to death in a pit full of vipers. I mean, how would momma feel about that? (Pause) Damn right she’d be pissed off… I mean, you with no pecker and momma with no man. She’d be mad as hell and we don’t want a mad-as-hell momma, do we? No sir! (Pause) Just don’t you worry about me, papa, because I’ll find him and if that no-good son-of-a bitch has taken your money and thinks he’s not going to repay his debts then I’ll just have make sure the no-good son-of-a-bitch becomes a dead son-of-a-bitch! (Pause) And thank-you for the dog poppa. I love him so much. (She kicks the bag. Yelp!) No I’m not at all angry that he chose to defecate all over my freshly painted bedroom. After all diarrhoea brown goes so well with rose petal pink, don’t you think? No, we’ve got over that little spat and now he’s even coming for a swim with me. He looks so cute. You know, I think he’s gonna like the water so much that he won’t want to get out of it. (Pause) I love you too papa. And I’ll call when I have more news. (She turns the phone off. She addresses the bag) Now sweetcheeks, why don’t we see if you can breathe underwater.

She picks up the bag and walks off.
Cut to…

If Music Be The Food Of Love…

I’m quite a bright fella. In fact that’s using false modesty to under-sell my intelligence. I’m pretty bloody clever really. But I’ll admit there are large gaping holes in my knowledge bank.

For a start I am rubbish at languages. Never got to grips with any of them. Not even French and that’s easy. You just say everything quickly, eat garlic and horses and use lots of hand gestures. Or is that Italian?

Anyway I know bugger all about classical music and in a bid to address this I have been buying the odd CD here and there for the past year or so.

My first buy last year was Beethoven’s Nine Symphonies and I’ve struggled with these for some time as they’re a bit clumpy-clumpy, bangy-bangy.

Now Stravinsky. Quite like him and The Rite Of Spring. Hell, he even wrote some of the cello music for Jaws. Top fella from what I’ve heard so far.

My fave find so far, though, is John Tavener. He’s a little bit Gothic, a little bit epic and a little bit Medieval and a little bit New World all mixed together. I particularly like how he combines elements from various religions with other musical influences to create a new mythology examining the problems of our times.

So it says on the booklet with one of his CDs anyway…

My father-in-law has recommended Steve Reich so I may well be dipping into him soon too. It’s a brave new world of aural delights!

I love finding new things. Even if most of them are a few centuries old…

Sketch: Great Movies Our Time…

FX: Filmed in black and white.
GRAMS: Downbeat Klezmer music plays.

A middle-aged man sits in his office at a factory. He is smartly dressed in a suit waistcoat and trousers. His shirt sleeves are rolled up and in front of him are several bottles of wine and spirits. Some are empty and a few dozen empty glasses sit on the table before him. He drunkenly pours himself another drink from one of the bottles. He carefully goes to drink it but cannot coordinate his movements and misses his mouth. He mutters a drunken curse and his head flops onto his desk. He snores.

Cut to…
A factory worker rushes into his office.

WORKER
Sir, sir. The troops are coming…

Cut to…
The man raises his head. A pen from his desk is embedded in his head. He looks perplexed. His hands fumble over his head but he cannot find the pen.

Cut to…
Thee factory worker.

WORKER
Sir. The troops…

Cut to…
The man has located the pen. He yanks it out and looks at it. He then turns to the factory worker.

MAN
Troops? Fuck ’em!

He flops his head back onto his desk. The factory worker shrugs and walks out.

VOICEOVER
From Dreamjerks Pictures, the untold story of a Holocaust hero… Schindler’s Pissed. Coming to a cinema near you soon…

END

White Open Spaces...

The reviews for White Open Spaces at Soho Theatre were not good. In fact they were quite bad. The reviews, however, were wrong because it’s an entertaining and thought-provoking hour.

Devised by Shropshire touring theatre company Pentabus in conjunction with BBC and BBC Radio 4, the show explores the idea of an unspoken apartheid in the English countryside.

The play is formed of seven 10-minute monologues and while it’s true that some were better written and better performed than others the play still hung together as a whole very well.

The standout monologues were the opening two, which focused on a white man blanking his black girlfriend at a society wedding and a black landlord pinning a ‘no travelers’ sign to his pub door, and the last one, which focused on a farmer's wife who rammed her shopping trolley into a black stranger in the village supermarket.

These three in particular were very funny and quite moving.

The other four pieces although perhaps not as strong still worked well and the idea of hiring different writers to pen each monologue helped the different textures of the pieces and provided different voices.

All the monologues also linked together really well thematically to provide moments of real tenderness, such as the lost Pakistani man who admits to a farmer who’s caught him trespassing on his land that he’s just split up with his girlfriend. The farmer touches his shoulder in a moment of solidarity and support – and in moments such as these the piece offers hope for a more integrated and understanding society.

It’s a smart piece of drama on a tough subject. It’s handled with sensitivity and care and it opens up an important discussion. Just what good theatre does do.

Well worth a look.

Dark Yellow…

Went to a rehearsed reading of the above play by American playwright Julia Jordan last night.

It was part of a week of rehearsed readings by the Operating Theatre Company, a group who specialise in staging new plays and working with new writers and it was pretty decent fayre.

It told the tale of a man and a woman who hooked up after meeting in a bar. But the man was a robber who was seeking absolution for shooting the woman’s kid – or so he thought until the final reveal showed he’d got the wrong woman.

The play was just over an hour long and by twists and turns the twosome gradually revealed more about themselves until the woman finally learnt the man’s real agenda and faced a choice of whether or not to kill him.

Some of the dialogue was pretty sharp and funny and some of it was quite tender and poetic but for me the play didn’t hang together enough.

Having said that, though, it was only a rehearsed reading and I suspect it’s a far-from-finished piece and there was certainly enough potential for it to be something much stronger and much more intriguing.

And the entrance price of £2 made it the cheapest night I’d had out in the West End for quite some time.

Anyway, you can find more information about the company and their work on: www.operating-theatre.co.uk

Trinny And Susannah Undress…

I’ve worked as a TV journalist and shit-shoveller for many years and few sights can strike fear into my heart. True, the memory of Keith Chegwin nude (Naked Jungle) and Les Dennis towelling his bare arse (Extras) are two visions that can still send a shudder down my spine, but by and large I am so de-sensitised to the goggle box that I can stomach pretty much anything.

Then I read the TV guide last night and stumbled across the words Trinny And Susannah Undress… I suddenly felt that night’s evening meal start to head North. It couldn’t be? Surely? Two sloans whose only real claim to fame was knowing how to make people dress slightly better by spunking a few grand up the wall getting their kits off. Had ITV really become this poor?

Fortunately the title was intentionally misleading and Skinny and Fatty (to give them their rather wonderful Viz names) were merely rehashing their BBC show on a new channel. But here’s the twist…

Now they’re hoping their skills at spending cash on clothes can also help repair flagging relationships by getting couples whose zing has gone ming to become bling again (I’m so down with the kids…).

So step forward Elle and Lester, a couple who’ve not had sex for four months and who spend most of their time looking after their two autistic kids.

Then enter the Sloans whose job it is to put some magic back in their lives by putting them in slightly nicer clobber and using this simple task as a vehicle to examine the husband and wife’s relationship (and obviously give themselves the sort of ratings this voyeuristic, intrusive tosh will doubtlessly deliver).

You sort of know the rest. They spend a while ripping the piss out of the old them, then help them become the new them, then take them to a posh place so they can get some time on their own without the kids.

It’s the sort of self-help show the TV schedules are now littered with. But the difference between the likes of Jamie Oliver and Ian Wright and these two preening halfwits is that the former go on a journey where they genuinely care – and Trinny and Susannah merely care about getting ratings.

Cue Fatty taking the bloke to a sex shop and recommending light bondage, cue Skinny asking the wife if she’d had an affair in front of her husband. Nice…

It was car-crash telly under the guise of consideration and it was exploiting people who could probably have done with some professional relationship counselling rather these two simple sloans who obviously think clothes are the answer to everything.

What next? Aids epidemic – buy ‘em some jeans. Cancer? No problem, floral prints are in. It’s ridiculous and it extends my long-held view that Viz is still the only decently entertaining thing this pair have ever appeared in.

Get off my telly. Now!

On Yer Bike! New Words...

Now I am a veteran London cyclist of nearly two days I am getting to grips with road use and several new and exciting terms.

One of my favourite new terms is ‘Watch where you're driving you fucking idiot!' I have already had occasion to use this once and it was directed at a black minicab who thought it would be a jolly wheeze to see if he could squash me between a parked car and the side of his vehicle.

I felt I may have been harsh with my strong words of yesterday about drivers of black cabs but now I see that I was not harsh enough. Treble the Congestion Charge for all I care and make it treble that treble for those anti-cyclist black-cab-driving scum-fucks. You know who you are and we know where you live (usually because you've got BNP posters in your UPVC conservatory attached to your pebble-dashed house).

Another term of note is 'creeping'. This is when a car coming out of a junction creeps over the stop line of that junction in a plea to let him or her through. This is particular fun when the driver also chooses to ignore oncoming cyclists and keep on moving out. At speed. While talking on a mobile phone.

I may soon start cycling wiith weaponry. That'd learn 'em...

On Yer Bike!

I am now a cyclist and I am biking into work.

My initial battleplan was to use this exercise to help increase my stamina at hapkido as the academy is constantly attracting younger, fitter and more skilled martial artists who have high belts in other arts. But having pootled around sans bicycle I can now see the attraction of cycling for its own sake. I reckon I could be hooked.

I bought my new bike via a cycle-to-work scheme and picked it up on Saturday and had a ride around on it. But today was the first big test of cycling into work and it sort of went OK.

But I have so far learnt the following:

i) Drivers of black cabs are utter cunts.
ii) Other cyclists are generally very courteous.
iii) Drivers of black cabs are utter cunts who don’t give a flying fuck if they prang you or not or drive too close for comfort.
iv) Young men who drive white vans are generally to be treated with the same regard as drivers of black cabs.
v) There are not enough cycle lanes in London.
vi) Drivers of black cabs are utter cunts who don’t give a flying fuck if they prang you or not or drive too close for comfort or drive straight through the cycle lane and anyone in it if it means they can pick up a fare.

I will, of course, be reporting back on further cycling discoveries but I reckon that’s enough for one morning.

Balls!

I went training and was in the changing room yesterday when an elderly gentleman came out of the gym and undressed to go to the shower.

He was mid-fifties and he stripped naked and instead of grabbing a towel and heading off to the showers as most people do he paraded around the changing room for a good five minutes. This was odd but what was odder still was the fact that he had the smallest knob and the hangiest, biggest testicles I have ever seen. They were literally inches away from his knees.

I found it hard not to snatch a few sneaky glances and I caught somebody else doing the same. It could have been quite embarrassing for two young men to be caught staring at an old man's testicles but they were so extraordinary that when we both caught each other's eyes we merely shrugged as if to say: 'They are quite spectacular – and just a little bit freaky...'

Anyway, Big Plums headed off to the showers, or so I thought, and I put my head down to put my socks and shoes on then tie my bootlaces. It was then I saw something move in my peripheral vision and I raised my head as Big Plums eased his way past me to retrieve his shower gel. And they were inches away from my face.

I had nightmares about it last night and I still feel sullied...

Roland Rat?

OK. So it’s a bit like shooting very big fish in a very small tank with a very large gun. Like a bazooka. Or one of those surface-to-air missle things. Or a Trident…

But Trust Me… I’m A Holiday Rep on Five is about as barrel-scrapingly bad as it gets. In fact I’d rather watch every single episode of Ultimate Force while tied to a chair with matchsticks propping open my eyes to ensure I didn’t miss a single second than chance upon this again.

The basic premise is that half a dozen minor celebs are parachuted into some ghastly Club 18-30 type hellhole (in this case Malia in Crete) and then made to work as a rep for some equally ghastly holiday company (in this case Olympic).

So cue minor celebs taking a bunch of chavs on a booze cruise and hating their drunken behaviour, cue minor celebs moaning about working long hours and cue minor celebs grouching about doing the job the publicity-greedy fuckers signed up for in the first place.

Those ‘stars’ taking part include DJ Brandon Block, TV chef Nancy Lam, comedian Roland Rivron and three people I’ve never heard of – and that’s quite a feat because in my role as a TV journalist I can still name most of the cast of Family Affairs (RIP).

The episode I caught on Saturday night when myself and the missus returned from a night out featured new rep Paul Burrell entering the fray. He, of course, is the Diana butler chap and rather brilliantly he had no idea who the other ‘celebrities’ were.

This sent Roland Rivron off the deep end and he behaved like an utter twat.

Now Rivron has always made me laugh in previous incarnations. Raw Sex were genuinely funny, his chatshow where he interviewed people while floating in the Thames was inspired lunacy and his sitcom A Set Of Six was cruelly under-rated.

But he’s now decided to behave like an idiot and appear on this bilge.

Times must be hard and rather than be annoyed I can only hope he walks out, returns to the UK and lamps the agent who persuaded him this would be a good career move.

That would also make much better telly than this trash.

That's Entertainment!

The missus is a sucker for musicals and I thought I’d pulled off quite a coup by getting her tickets for the West End show Seven Brides For Seven Brothers last month for her birthday as it’s one of her fave shows.

Sadly a week before her birthday she happened to mention that in no way, shape or form did she wish to see the show as the reviews had utterly panned it. But I argued that:

i) That information would have been useful before I bought the tickets.
ii) Reviews aren’t always correct and can’t always be trusted.

So she countered by saying that she’d quite happily go as we had good seats and I promised to buy her chocolates.

Well we went on Saturday with an open and limited expectations and the show still managed to disappoint. The cast weren’t up to it, the on-stage energy was sorely lacking and the choreography and overall production values just seemed a bit half-baked. The male lead Dave Willetts had a weak voice and the supporting cast had major problems holding American accents and projecting at the same time. And that’s a basic sort of skill for an actor to master.

To add insult to injury we were also charged £24 for four G&Ts.

In fact I’d have been happier if the entire cast and the woman serving at the bar were wearing face masks and carrying bags labelled SWAG as the entire sham was daylight robbery from start to finish.

So here’s my review of Seven Brides For Seven Brothers and you can trust it if you want: It was shit. It wasn’t even mediocre. The only half-decent thing in it was Shona Lindsay in the female lead and she only looked good because everyone else was so shockingly bad.

In fact I’m quite tempted to ask for a refund…

Boxing Clever…

Let’s face it. On the whole telly is largely a pernicious and malevolent force continually aiding and abetting a celeb-obsessed, tabloid-fed society to chasm down into a never-ending pit of mediocrity and crassness.

But sometimes telly can actually do some good.

Take the ubiquitous Jamie Oliver. The gets-where-shit-doesn’t mockney geezer TV chef (who anyone sane wanted to punch about four years ago) did a good deed by opening his Fifteen restaurant and teaching disadvantaged kids to cook, then he topped that by getting the Blair government to gets off its pontificating arse and commit money and policy into getting the nation’s kids to eat better.

Redemption complete in my eyes.

In fact he can probably go and bugger the entire populace of the Anna Scher Theatre School on live TV and I’d still think he’s an OK sort of guy. In fact I’d probably like him more for the latter as it may mean the little darlings would be so traumatised that they’d stop wanting to act, therefore not appearing on EastEnders playing rough kids but rough kids with perfect skin, air-brushed smiles and RP diction. Little fuckers…

Anyway the success of Oliver has, of course, spawned another C4 vehicle that extends the caring and sharing telly franchise with Ian Wright's Unfit Kids.

In this series the usually perma-grinning Wrighty takes a group of sullen, unenthusiastic and overweight kids and tries to get them doing the sort of activities (well, any activities actually…) that will see them take some interest in their health.

And it’s hard work but the former England’s striker mix of enthusiasm and grumpiness comes shining through as he slowly makes headway with the sort of kids who are low-income heart attacks waiting to happen.

Bizarrely it’s quite compelling TV as Wrighty struggles to make an impact on the kids and, what in other hands could have been quite crass, turns into something moving as he gets to like the kids and they get to like him.

In last night’s episode he chatted to one of the kids whose dad has just come back into his life and he discussed how his own son dislikes him at the moment after leaving his mum for a new life.

It was touching stuff and it works as good telly and good campaigning. More of the same would be good – but no Anna Scher kids. Please!

The Creatives...

Went to a seminar on launching magazines yesterday and had to come up with various shell concepts for the oldies market. One of mine was:

'Euthanasia Weekly: Thinking Inside The Box'

People stared...

Make ‘Em Laugh!

Saw Dylan Moran (introduced on the PA as ‘Dylan Moron’) at Hammersmith Apollo on Friday. I saw his Monster show a few years ago and it was very funny but, I am sad to report, this outing was pretty lame.

Two 45-minute sets of semi-coherent rambling with the occasional good gag thrown in does not an enjoyable night make. And the 30-minute break between halves so the venue could cash in at the bar was taking the piss.

Moran is always a laconic comic and that’s his schtick but I got the impression he wasn’t in the mood and this was a shame as a few thousand people paying £25 per ticket should have provided some incentive to put on a more polished show.

Mark Thomas the week before was playing a much smaller venue at Soho Theatre but still managed to be more slick and engaging – and he was talking about the bloody arms trade!

But I suppose even comedy veterans like Moran sometimes do a duff gig and, as my DVDs of Black Books continue to make me laugh well into the fifth showing, he can probably be forgiven.

Fortunately the new series of Extras also started last week and was superb so I felt I’d had my quota of good comedy entertainment for the week.

The second outing of the Ricky Gervais and Steve Merchant comedy sees supporting artist Andy Millman have the chance to star in his own comedy series – and the first show saw his initial optimism whittled down as the integrity-filled TV he envisaged creating turned into a cliche-filled abomination.

Gervais as Millman is always on the money and Merchant as his idiotic agent is similarly good. Ashley Jenson, though, still steals the show as Millman’s faux-pas-prone pal Maggie Jacobs and I love the fact that Shaun Williamson is still around as he’s one the funniest things in it.

Christ, I may even stay in on Thursday nights now…

The ShIT Crowd…

The office printer decided to go on the blink today because a toner cartridge needed replacing.

Our procedure for such things at my particular words factory is to contact our IT department, be passed around two or three people for ten minutes, then be patronised for another five minutes when I get the right person until they promise to send one of their minions to take a look at the problem.

But today they adopted a new tactic. I explained the problem and, drawing on their years of experience and countless degrees in computer and electronic engineering, they advised me to ‘Pick up the toner cartridge and waggle it a bit.’

I pointed out that I had already exhausted the waggle option, which caught them a bit off-guard – until they followed it up with more sage advice…

‘You could try waggling it a bit harder...’

They went to university for that…

Paper Tigers…

The past two weeks have seen the streets of evening London turn into a battleground of rival newspaper vendors trying to palm their respective freesheets off on passing punters.

In the purple corner in London Lite (spelt just like that), the bastard child of the Evening Standard and Metro from Associated Newspapers whose vendors dress in bright purple tops. In the other purple corner is thelondonpaper (honest, not capped or punctuated just like that), the hip upstart from News International whose vendors also wear bright purple tops and dish out their wares from under stands with bright purple umbrellas.

This means myself and the missus can now no longer walk from work to the Tube (a journey of about 10 minutes in total) without at least four folk from either rag accosting us and pushing their publications right under our noses.

Just outside Waterloo is where the freesheet battleground is at its hottest with one very vocal vendor deafening all around him in a bid to get rid of his pile of papers. Each paper has at least five or six folk here and into this mix this week came several people from a mental health charity.

Bizarrely they also wore bright purple tops and it just all got too confusing with the soundscape loop going something like this:

‘London Lite! Free London Lite!’
‘thelondonpaper! Get thelondonpaper here!’
‘Mental health. Mental health concern here!’

Only in London could something this bizarre seem entirely commonplace. And only in London could everybody just walk by and totally ignore the sheer lunacy of it all…

Glasses Half Empty…

Medical science is a wonderful thing. OK, so the common cold is still one step ahead and pesky cancer is still giving it a bit of a kicking but on the whole it’s rather brilliant what they can cure these days.

And in this category laser eye surgery is one of the recent advances that grabbed my attention as several pals have had it done and reported impressive results so I finally worked up the courage to go for a consultation with a view to getting it done at Xmas.

No more specs, no more fiddling around with contact lenses before hapkido, no more worrying about getting that first scratch on an expensive new pair of glasses…

The possibility of a brave new world was suddenly opening up before me.

This sort of optimism was, of course, just asking for trouble and lo it appeared when 20 minutes into the consultation the optometrist told me I couldn’t have it done as my eyesight is too poor (although apparently with my specs I have better than 20/20 vision).

I was a bit glum over this and promptly arrived home and let rip on the punchbag for a good half hour. The missus and the boy then arrived home and I broke the news to her.

‘We can put men on the Moon and medical science can apparently cure most things but my eyesight is beyond even that sort of technology. I’m afraid you’re still married to a speccy spacker…’

The missus smiled.

‘Well, you were a speccy spacker when I married you so I’m not unhappy with that.’

I smiled too.

Happy Birthday!

The missus celebrated her birthday yesterday so I did my impression of a loving husband and showered her with gifts aplenty.

The missus is quite difficult to buy for because, like me, if she wants anything she just tends to buy it herself. Fortunately trips to Molton Brown, Jo Malone and the Tintin Shop, plus anything with Johnny Depp, are always sure-fire winners to get the present-buying ball rolling.

One tradition that money can’t buy, though, is my yearly task to make her a gift. Previous hand-crafted-by-me presents have included a self-powered hairdryer made from empty toilet roll tubes (blow in one end and the air travels round a u-bend out through a funnel and, hey presto, dry hair!); a DIY liposuction kit (complete with big syringe); the Fatkins Diet Book (a mini book with the words ‘Eat less cake and do more exercise. That’s it!’); and, my favourite, a mini theatre that myself and the boy made when I feared I wouldn’t be able to get her tickets to Guys And Dolls. The mini theatre featured the musical Guides And Dolls and had pictures of Girl Guides and dolls on stage (this was going to be Guide Dogs And Dolls but I couldn’t find enough pictures of guide dogs).

This year’s offering is my latest invention (see above). It’s called Hate Weight Mates and you simply cut them out and pop them over the digital readout on the bathroom scales. Then when you get weighed the next morning it’s suddenly not so bad.

I think it’s a great idea! I may go on Dragon’s Den…

Goth Watch: Update...

A friend and fellow scriptwriter writer and blogger (check out the rather excellent Velvet Empire link on the right) sent me the following email this morning:

‘I was dining in Pizza Express in Soho last night when two middle-aged Goths on a date came and sat at the table opposite. It was a treat for the eyes to see two ageing Goths in full regalia (stack-soled shoes, red fishnet tights, him with long flowing dyed black hair, her with neatly plaited dyed black hair and a skull-encrusted staff resting in the umbrella holder by the door) holding hands over a Margherita (extra pepperoni) and fanning themselves with their feather-plumed fans. Sadly, as my companion pointed out, you don't see as many Goths as you used to these days. However chivalry is not dead in the Goth world and I'm pleased to report that Mr Goth paid the full bill. I wonder if they met on GothicMatch.com?’

You have been warned. Goth-spotting will soon be an Olympic sport…

Viva Espana!

Me and the missus went to see Volver by Pedro Almodovar yesterday.

It was a truly fabulous movie with the usual quirky storyline and offbeat characters seeking redemption through love. Penelope Cruz played the lead character but it was a really strong ensemble piece.

I’m quite a fan of Almodovar and I could rattle on for ages about how Bad Education is a really uplifting film… or how Live Flesh is a visually stunning movie… or how Matador is really tragic…

Well, I could but I have major problems pronouncing his surname so any verbal praise for the Madrid movie maestro usually sounds like this:

‘I really like Alodomerar…’ Or this: ‘I’m a big Amoldovarerer fan.’

Try as I might I have a mental incapacity to translate the name I can write perfectly well into a word that I can pronounce. To be fair, it could be a family-based illness, as the missus has a similar problem with the phrase ‘I agree with you and you are right’ and the boy always uses ‘Idiot’ when what he actually means is ‘loving stepfather’.

So I usually keep quite when this subject of Almodovar comes up and wait for them to get round to discussions on Benny Hill or Dick Emery. And this can take serious time…

Ponce!

Today myself and a work chum ventured to a new place down The Cut near Waterloo called dressed2kill (www.dress2killgrooming.com). It’s essentially a place that sells bespoke suits and coats for men but it also has a barber shop in the basement. And it’s a barbershop that does hot towel wet shaves with shiatsu massage.

Now this may sound terribly poncey and not at all the sort of thing that a rugged, hard-drinking, pool-playing, ass-kicking Yorkshireman would ever do. Never. Ever in fact. Fortunately he didn’t turn up and it was the chilled-out, latte-drinking, metrosexual, would-be writer version who visited instead.

For 30 minutes of pampering it was £20 and (outside of women, books, drugs and the odd good play) it was possibly the best £20 I have ever spent.

Now, though, I am feeling the need to let the other version of me loose because the gentleman playwright side has been indulged far too much of late.

But he’s currently being caged by nice-smelling things from the shave. For the time being anyway… Probably until the next pool tournament.

Which is Saturday. Oh dear…