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