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...