Blade Too!

As a martial arts student I have a fascination with martial arts weaponry and in the past I've bought a couple of things to play with.

The first of these is a kubotan. This is essentially a short steel rod with one blunted end and a keyring at the other end. It is essentially grasped tight in a fist and the end which protrudes from the bottom of the fist is used to strike vulnerable parts of a potential attacker via a hammer fist strike (striking downwards or across and hitting with the bottom of the clenched fist). It has other nifty blocking and trapping applications, too, but it's at its most lethal with this one strike.

I also treated myself to a pair of nunchucks last year and these are much more difficult to master as to generate power you need to really whip them round, but if you don't know how to avoid them on the return or how to catch them on the return they can clatter you on the head. And it hurts. Quite a lot. Honest...

Over time I'm got a few basic strikes down with the chucks and I've got a basic understanding of the stabbing and blocking tricks but I'm still working on combination strikes as these are a bit tricky.

My newest weapon, however, is a sword. Even better it was bought for me by the Missus for Xmas. Sadly (pictured below) it's made out of foam and is only 2ft long. I don't think she takes my hobby seriously.

Or it may even be a comment on something else...

Izzit Cos I Is Racialist?

We had problems with the neighbours earlier this year when they were getting pissed and shouting and playing loud music into the early hours of the morning.

So I asked a couple of times for some consideration and when that met with no response I reported them to the council. Bizarrely this did the trick as I also told them it was me who'd reported them so they came round to ours and apologised and we assumed that was that. I said if there was a problem in future I'd text them or knock on their door and also said it was obviously visa-versa. Job done...

But come 4pm Christmas Day the upstairs flat are playing their stereo so loud that the bass is actually making it impossible for us to listen to the TV downstairs. Or anywhere else in the house. Now considering we were downstairs in our home and they were upstairs next door and there was a wall and a floor between us that's quite a feat!

So, as previously agreed, I politely pootled round and rang their doorbell to be confronted by the woman from the downstairs flat and the woman from the upstairs flat and her daughter. So I politely asked if they wouldn't mind turning their music down a bit. I thought this was a simple and polite request.

But instead I got an earful...

It turns out I am a nosey neighbour who is always making complaints, who has nothing better to do with his time and should move to the country if I want silence. And to top it all off it turns out that 'they' (my neighbours) listen to music differently to 'us' (me and my wife).

Although it wasn't clearly stated it was implied that because my wife and I are white and the neighbours are West Indian that there is a huge cultural divide which means they need and have a right to listen to music whenever they want and at whatever volume they want. And because I am white I don't understand this. In fact by me asking them to turn their music down I am probably infringing on their cultural rights to express themselves.

So I'd like to take this opportunity to apologise to all my West Indian friends for my ignorance of your ways. But it's your fault because you've never behaved like this or been inconsiderate like this and, according to my neighbours, you're supposed to.

And I'd also like to apologise to all my West Indian friends because apparently I am an unwitting racist – or maybe I just find it hard to consistently tolerate inconsiderate cunts.

You figure it out and please let me know...

Make Your Own… 'Johnny' Depp!

I always make the Missus a present for her birthday or for Xmas.

Previous gifts have included a DIY liposuction kit, a self-powered hairdryer and a puppet theatre version of Guys And Dolls when I initially thought I couldn’t get tickets for her.

But this year is my opus magnus of self-built presents. And even better it’s what practically every woman in the world wants – their very own 'Johnny' Depp. So here’s how you do it…

INGREDIENTS
A five-pack of Durex
Two bendy plastic spines for binding documents
Sellotape
A picture of Johnny Depp

METHOD
Carefully open the Durex packet and remove the contents. Attach the plastic spines inside the top and bottom of the empty packet and bend so they make the shape of legs and arms. Take two Durex and attach as feet and take two Durex and attach as hands. Then attach the remaining Durex as a neck. Take the picture of Johnny Depp and cut out the head. Attach the picture to the neck Durex and voila. 'Johnny' Depp!

ALTERNATIVES
If the woman in your life is a rugby fan it could be 'Johnny' Wilkinson, if she’s a former punk it could be 'Johnny' Rotten and if she’s a Corrie fan it could be 'Johnny' Briggs. The main gag, though, is obviously that the UK slang for Durex is 'Johnnies' so it really only works with Johnnies.

Consider this idea my gift to you. Merry Xmas.

Religion News...

At the moment it's Islamic fundamentalist this and Al Qaeda terrorist that. So I just thought I'd give a quick thumbs-up for the sterling work currently being carried out by the Scientology movement.

It's easy to knock a religion based on a totally fictitious series of sci-fi novels written by L Ron Hubbard, a pulp writer who was famously quoted as saying: 'I'm going to invent a religion that's going to make me a fortune. I'm tired of writing for a penny a word'.

It's also easy to laugh at a religion that boasts those heavyweight intellectuals Tom Cruise and John Travolta among its most-famous followers.

And it's hard not to grin a smirk of admiration at the German government who are out to ban Scientology because they view it as a cult that suppresses people and their personal freedoms.

But I think good on the Scientology movement because in these days where nutcase Muslim fanatics from the Arab world are getting all the fundamentalist religious press, it's good to see the Western world producing a few fanatical zealots of its own and at least trying to even up the score.

So well done you crazy Scientologist mothers. Fine work...

How To Get More Sex…

It’s easy to mock ITV. With the exceptions of Corrie and Emmerdale it screens little drama of any real quality, it hasn’t produced a decent comedy in two decades, its glut of real-life schlock and tawdry quiz shows are barrel-scrapingly awful, and at times its news coverage is so desperately tabloid it make the News Of The World look respectable.

So I promised myself I wasn’t going to ridicule this once-great institution any more. It’s not just shooting fish in a barrel… it’s like having a prize fight with Stephen Hawking where I’m allowed to use guns against him using catapults and me pushing him and his chair from the top of a very high flight of stairs the day before the scrap begins to make sure he has no chance at all. It’s that easy…

But then I chanced on a series on Thursday night entitled How To Get More Sex and my resolution crumbled.

The basic thrust (f’nar, f’nar) of the show is that the programme-makers go out on the streets to conduct various cod experiments to test out certain theories about sex and sexual attraction.

So one section features two men stood outside an expensive car with one dressed as the City gent and the other dressed as his chauffeur. Then passers-by are asked who is the most sexually attractive and various talking heads grace the screen to talk about the results.

Intercut throughout the show are cheeky snippets from various Carry On films and Brit sex comedies of the 1970s, plus other voxpop reports from similar types of experiments at speed dating groups.

It’s pretty tawdry stuff and its attempts at being informative and naughty all at the same time are depressingly tawdry. And any show that features Janet Street Porter and Edwina Currie discussing their sexual preferences is just plain wrong. Even if you happen to be Mr Street Porter or Mr Currie. Yuk!

Bizarrely it’s the sort of show that Five actually do quite well as Five would just straight ahead and feature the sex bits but ITV just make an utter arse of because it still thinks it’s a ‘serious’ channel. Instead the show should probably be called How To Get More Sex (We’ll Show Rude Bits. Honest! Please Watch Us. Help Our Ratings. Go On…)

Avoid at all costs.

The Best Joke. In The World. Ever...

Saw a friend of mine last night.
'Alright Tel. How are you?'
'Not too good.'
'Why?'
'I've had some problems so I've had to have a pacemaker fitted.'
'You're joking?'
'No straight up. Got a little Kenyan fella who runs in front of my car...'

Simply Red...

The grading results are in and I am now the proud possessor of a brand spanking new red belt.

And much as I was excited to get my new belt it was quite a sad moment when I hung my old belt (brown with red stripe) on my office door with its predecessors. I’ve enjoyed life as a brown belt and I felt comfortable at that level. Now I have to adapt to life as a senior belt and that’s going to mean I have be more focused.

On the plus side it’s going to be at least six months to a year before I grade again so I have plenty of time to consolidate and improve my boxing punches... and my stances... and my forms... and my previous skill sets... and my special hand techniques... and the new form I have to learn... and the skills for the next belt... and my etiquette…

It could be a long year…

Art News…

We have eaten tea and the Missus and the Boy have left me alone and I am bored so I decide to get creative with Quality Street wrappers again.

I am being-creative when the Boy comes into the kitchen and looks at me in a puzzled way.
‘What are you doing?’
‘I’m being creative…’
‘Are they sweet wrappers?’
‘Yes…’

He pauses and looks at my first effort (pictured above) before passing comment.
‘I think you’re retarded…’

The Missus then enters the kitchen and looks at the table.
‘What on God’s earth are you doing?’
‘I’m being creative…’

The Missus looks at the Boy who looks back at her as if to say ‘He’s nothing to do with me. You fucking well married the idiot!’ The Boy sighs and leaves and the Missus ponders my creation then offers kind words of wisdom.
‘You’ve lost the plot!’

I don’t think I’ll bother being creative any more…

Fashion News…

It is Saturday morning and the Missus is telling me off.

Apparently I am too generous with the Boy and my attempts to buy him clothes of his choosing last weekend then trying not to accept the money he offered to repay me for purchasing them has not gone un-noticed.

Consequently I am getting ‘parenting’ advice and a truncated version of the Missus’ advice goes something like this:
‘The problem is we give him an allowance and if he is to ever appreciate the true value of money he has to realise that if he wants expensive clothes then he has to save up for them…’

But this versions lasts for at least 10 minutes less.

Later that afternoon the Boy is eyeing up an expensive jacket in Zara. The Boy has developed a very good eye for clothes and fashion and the jacket does look very good on him. It does, however, also cost more than £100.

So hence my surprise when the Missus offers to pay for it as a treat. The Boy looks suspicious when the offer is first made, but once he’s ascertained there are no strings attached and realises he’s had an absolute touch he agrees to let her purchase the said item.

I immediately raise an eyebrow but before I can even form a line about ‘the importance of teaching the Boy the real value of money’ in my head, the Missus jumps in and offers a new caveat to the Buying Boy Presents Rule.
‘I’m his mother. I’m allowed to…’

I’ll never understand women…

PS. I had my first shave of the week on Saturday night and ended up leaving a tache in the middle of my lip. To be fair the likes of Hitler and Mugabe may have ensured it now has unfortunate associations but it actually looks pretty good. I may start a new trend.

PPS. I won’t be starting a new trend as the Missus pointed out that looking like a facist dictator may not be a good thing. Not even in the name of fashion.

Other Woman Who Loves Other Women News…

I am in class and I am paired with the OWWLOW (Other Woman Who Loves Other Women) and we are working on choking techniques.

The basic thrust of these is that they give you an escape route if somebody grabs you from behind, the side or from the front and allow you to turn a potentially not-very-good situation into one where you suddenly have control of your opponent and can do all sorts of ‘Bad shit’ as the Boy and his peer group would no doubt say.

Consequently we have to get quite physical with each other and, as she is in quite a cheeky mood, she dumps me on my arse then offers me the following compliment with a large smirk on her face.

‘You’re very good at going down. In fact there’s something very satisfying about the way you go down. In fact you go down really well…’

For once I am speechless in class. The OWWLOW is not only bloody lovely but she’s also superb at hapkido and has knocked me around the Dojang on many occasions – but this is the first time she’s defeated me with sauciness.

I think it should be a new set of techniques…

Fashion News…

I went out shopping with the Missus and the Boy on Sunday and I made two superb purchases.

The first was a pair of black long-johns for cycling and I tried them out this morning and I have to say I am massively impressed with the whole concept of long-john-ery. To be fair they are essentially tights for blokes and they are not the most aesthetically appealing garment (and as a proud possessor of well-defined legs I was a tad upset to discover they may not be suitable for evening wear). But overall they’re a winner. No mistake.

The second and more joyful purchase, however, was a new hat.

Many years ago when I was a thrusting young community theatre writer and director I had a hat that was like a beanie hat with a small brim. Sadly it got lost one drunken night out in the People’s Republic of Goole and I was never been able to replace it, despite trawling through several Army & Navy Stores.

But yesterday my search ended and I found it. I genuinely didn’t realise a cheap hat could make me so happy. The Boy, however, was very embarrassed as I stopped before every mirror in every shop to admire my new purchase. He was even more embarrassed when I enacted my new hat joke in the middle of a crowded Kensington High Street.

I said ‘Who am I?’ took off my hat, pretended to poo in it then put it back on my had and said ‘Beam me up, Scotty!’ The Boy looked blank and walked away and the Missus looked perplexed then walked away too.

Left alone I said the punchline:
‘William Shat-hat-ner…’

Hypocrisy News...

The Vatican has condemned Amnesty International because they have stated that women have the right to choose whether or not to have an abortion.

Amnesty are arguing this is a basic human right that women, especially victims of rape, should have. Amnesty are not saying it is morally right or wrong but that it should be an option available to all women, especially in poor countries where some 70,000 women annually die because of illegal or backstreet abortions.

The Catholic Church discussing the sanctity of human life seems a bit rich, especially when it quite happily watches millions die from Aids-related illnesses in Africa because of its policy on contraception.

And any institution which has a history of systematically covering up widespread cases of child abuse (step forward the Catholic Church) should perhaps get its own house in order before it starts discussing morality with anyone else.

Just a thought…

Belt Up!

‘You’re having a f***ing laugh, right? I can’t f***ing believe what I’m seeing! Jesus H f***ing Christ! I’m really f***ing unhappy about this!’

This was one potential reaction when I glanced at the new hapkido syllabus during a busy day at work on Monday and discovered things had changed and I maybe wouldn’t be getting my much longed-for red belt after my grading on Sunday.

Instead I quietly seethed most of the day then went home and was very grumpy. Sulky even… So I explained my predicament to the Missus who was quite puzzled and suggested I speak to my instructor about my concerns.

So yesterday I dropped my instructor an email asking what belt I graded for. The reply came back that it was red. So I was going to reply and ask how this could be because on the new syllabus there was new stuff for this level that I had yet to learn.

Fortunately I was no longer manic at work so I double-checked the new syllabus before I sent this email – and this time I realised I’d actually read it wrong. The new stuff was for the next belt, which I now discover I already know the skills for as they were included in my previous belt before everything changed. So in theory I’m actually closer to the next grading rather than further away.

There’s a moral in there somewhere about not trying to make rational decisions based on wrong or misunderstood information. Or maybe it’s the sort of story my instructor and her teacher would tell about seeing things for what they are and not through the eyes of personal insecurities or a hassled mind.

Or there’s always the Missus’ point of view when I explained my error to her:
‘You really are a f***ing idiot at times…’

Either one works…

Something For The Weekend…

Myself and the Missus saw Arcade Fire on Sunday night at Ally Pally and they were bloody fantastic.

The Missus suggested I listen to their first album Funeral when she bought it a few years ago, but I ignored her as she sold it to me by saying ‘It’s gothy folk music and it’s so you it’s unbelievable!’

Then she reminded me of this view when she bought their new album Neon Bible last year. And I thought I'm not that predictable in my musical tastes, surely?

But now I've seen them live I have to admit that she was absolutely bang on the money and it’s only a matter of time before I become a fully fledged fan.

If you’re not convinced listen to the video for No Cars Go on You Tube. It’s very good…

Grade Expectations…

On Sunday I grade for my red belt at hapkido and I’m feeling remarkably chipper and upbeat about the whole affair.

I’ve been quite nervous on previous gradings so to go into a test for a higher belt so full of optimism is a very welcome change.

This latest belt test features spin kicks, Korean judo, choke escapes and another form. I’ve absolutely nailed two of those areas and am OK on the others and, even better, I’m no longer carrying a knee injury I thought would stop me from grading.

Confidence, positive thoughts, it’s gonna be great…

But there’s a little nagging doubt. I mean, this year I was equally confident I was going to win a playwrighting award and I was also going to win a Surrey pool event – and look what happened there…

So better not dwell on that. As the Boy says when discussing stress: 'You just don't let that shit mess with your head...'

Honey Monster...

I developed an allergy a couple of years ago and I was tested and it turns out I have hay fever triggered by grass pollen.

Consequently I have been dropping allergy tablets by the truckload for the past two years in an effort to stem the constant sneezing, runny nose and itchy eyes.

A few months ago I was discussing this problem with a friend and one of his friends joined (ramraided her way into) the conversation and suggested a good homeopathic remedy was to take honey with tea. So I tried this and, even though I can't tell whether it's working or not, I thought I'd persevere...

Then yesterday I saw the previously mentioned conversation interloper and I realised that she is an idiot which means I have followed the advice of an idiot. In fact if she had told me to rub excrement all over my face and put the word 'homeopathic' in front of her suggestion I would have probably given it a go.

The Missus and the Boy are right. I am an idiot but even worse I am now an idiot who follows the advice of other idiots. There is no hope...

Spider-Man...

I like Louise Bourgeois, the sculptor and artist whose work is currently on show at the Tate Modern.

The Missus went to see Bourgeois's exhibition with her mum and I have yet to visit but I really adored the huge spiders she did when the Tate Modern first opened in 2000 and which took pride of place in the massive Turbine Hall for several months.

This is what they looked like:

So as myself and the Missus have spent the weekend chilling out by playing Scrabble and eating Quality Streets I decided to make my own Bourgeois spider out of the foil sweet wrappings. This is what it looks like and I think it's quite good:

I am now working on a bigger version but it means we have to eat at least three family size tins of said sweets. But it is in the name of art.

I may have found a new career...

Kickass Goes Jackass…

One of my favourite series of recent times has been the excellent Mind, Body And Kickass Moves.

In this initial BBC3 series of 12 documentaries, martial arts expert Chris Crudelli travels all over the globe examining different martial arts from different cultures.

He then followed it up with a six-part series called Kickass Miracles, which focused on the more esoteric side of martials arts training. This again was utterly fascinating but it also featured one of the nastiest but funniest moments I’ve ever seen on TV.

In it an escrima master goes through a ritual to demonstrate how he can switch himself into fighting mode and he attempts to show how this ritual empowers him and even makes his arm invulnerable to the hacks of his own razor-sharp machete.

And I’ve now found it on Youtube. Just type in kick ass miracles-escrima jackass.

Enjoy…

Pornucopia…

This is a true story that happened to a friend of mine…

My friend of mine was feeling a little jaded. He’d been very busy at work, his wife had been away and several other things had gone pretty badly wrong.

So to cheer himself up he decided he’d buy some 1970s pornography. Modern porn didn’t really float his boat but 1970s stuff with real women, men with tashes and body hair, corny plots and fantastically cheesy soundtracks always kept him entertained.

So he went to a shop in Soho to treat himself – but when he got there he was too embarrassed to go into the shop let alone buy anything so he wended his way home.

Pondering his embarrassment he decided to go in semi-disguise and he opted for the look of a French tourist as anyone with any knowledge of world affairs knows French men have no shame when it comes to matters of sex and any one of them would rut a polo while smoking a Gitanne if the urge came upon them.

So wearing a hat, some stout hiking shoes and carrying a backpack, and using all his acting skills to get into the character, he finally entered the land of smut in Soho. The store was busy and as he was still feeling slightly embarrassed he decided to find a place away from the busy spot to work out where his intended target DVD would be located. The TV section was empty so he backed into there so he could get the lie of the land.

Unfortunately TV did not mean television section as he previously thought. It meant transvestite section.

On realising this he backed out of there at a rate of knots and looked for the door. But he got the wrong door and ended up in another section of the store standing next to two women, one of whom turned to my friend and exclaimed ‘It’s all men in here. Have you noticed?’

Not knowing what to say he adopted his French tourist character and simply replied ‘Oui madam…’ and left.

Fortunately next door was another store and my colleague entered to find it was empty apart from the man serving behind the counter.

Even better a quick peruse through the titles on the shelf and it was pay dirt as there was a classic 1970s film called The Opening Of Misty Beethoven that ticked all the boxes. So he picked it up and headed to the counter and, even though a hen party then entered the store, it was surely a matter of buy the film and off.

But no…

The man at the counter struggled to find the disc and searched through his files but to no avail. Then he shouted downstairs and asked for the film by title. Seconds later a little man runs up the stairs and shouts ‘Don’t have that. But we do have one where Mozart fucks a group of nuns.’

At this point the hen party are intrigued by what my friend is trying to buy and head on over to the counter to investigate. Having had his recommendation rejected the man returns downstairs but as my friend is heading out of the door he runs back up clutching the missing DVD in his hand.

My friend pays for it and is about to head out of the shop when the man behind the counter then tries to sell him a loyalty card but after five minutes of explaining he is not interested he finally gets out of the shop.

He’s stood in the transvestite section of a store, he’s pretended to be a Frenchman, he’s been pegged as a man who wants to watch nuns having sex and he’s even been offered a loyalty card scheme for pornography fans. But he’s got it and it’ll be great as he saw the film when he was 15 and it was very funny.

So later at home he finally goes to play the DVD and puts it in his DVD player – and it's the wrong region…

Halloween…

I went out to play a pool match last night and I saw a friend I hadn’t seen in a while.

We got chatting and I asked him how his missus and his daughter were. So we discuss playing pool and other bits and bats and we’re having a laugh. Then I asked him something along the lines of what his girl was up to tonight and he replied she’d gone to a Halloween party dressed as a pumpkin and she looked really cute.

So I said that was brilliant because when she gets back from the party and he was back from the match he could end up getting jiggy with a pumpkin.

The conversation died and he just stared at me. Then the penny dropped.
‘You do realise it’s my daughter who’s gone to the party dressed as a pumpkin, don’t you?’
‘No. I thought you were talking about your wife…’
‘No. It’s my daughter…’
‘And your wife didn’t dress as a pumpkin as well?’
‘No…’
‘Oops…’

Welcome Home…

Teenagers, like most other pack animals, sense weakness so five hours before the Missus landed at Heathrow the Boy switched from caring, considerate teenager who thinks his stepfather is pretty cool to sarcastic little shit who think it’s funny to wind him up…

The scene is a late breakfast with me and the Boy sat at the kitchen table. He starts to chomp his food in a very audible manner. I choose to ignore it but it then goes on for five minutes during which time he has broken the world carrot-noise-eating records and, somehow, he has even managed to eat hummus loudly.

So I interject.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Nothing…’
‘Are you taking the piss out of me eating?’
‘Yes.’
‘But I don’t eat that loudly and even if I did it never bothers you…’
‘But it bothers Mum and she’s not here so I’m sticking up for her feelings…’

The Missus eventually returns and we head off out for a welcome back family curry. During which the following truths become all too apparent.
i) The Missus would not think twice about leaving me if Cillian Murphy from 28 Days Later and Sunshine were to avail his services.
ii) Seoul is pretty ‘soul-less’.
iii) The Boy has clearly decided his place in the grand scheme of things is of dominant male in the household. This obviously means I am the comic relief.
iv) I cannot eat onion bhajis correctly. In fact I am actually criticised by the Missus for eating Indian finger food with my fingers.

It’s good to know that things are obviously back to normal…

Holiday!

I’ve had a week off work and it’s been fun.

It was originally going to be me, the Missus and the Boy spending a week doing family bonding stuff in London, but it didn’t work out that way as the Missus was invited on a swanky week-long press trip to South Korea (prompting my joke that her tour guide must be a Koreas advisor).

So it’s been me and the Boy and we’ve had a pretty chilled out time of it. As he’s nearly 17 the last thing he wants is to spend large amounts of time with one of the ‘olds’ so he’s been out with his mates, strummed his new guitar, surfed the net and played one of his many game consoles. He's maybe done some homework too...

With the example of the Boy to follow and no Missus for moral guidance I’ve also reverted to teenage archetype and, apart from cleaning and cooking duties and a few bits of freelance writing, I’ve slummed it big style.

So here are the highlights of my slumming week so far:

i) Watched martial arts movies Azumi and Azumi 2. These are based on a Manga comic about a female assassin and are OK.
ii) Played lots of pool. I could have done something of use but I’m on holiday and I’ve neglected my pool for too long now.
iii) Enjoyed the best kebab in the world travelling back from a pool match in Sutton after sinking several pints of Guinness.
iv) Went to the pictures and watched the excellent and intelligent drama Rendition with the Boy. It was his choice of movie too. He’s very cool.
v) Watched half an hour of Deal Or No Deal and fantasised about punching that smug, bearded twat Noel Edmonds in the face… with a jackhammer… until his head disintegrates into a bloody red pulp. He really is totally loathsome and the show is one of the most bizarre things I’ve ever seen on screen with contestants bringing in crystal balls and pictures of loved ones to 'guide' their choices.
vi) I would watch Deal Or No Deal: The Snuff Movie, though, where Edmonds is chopped up and a separate part of him is put in the 15 boxes. There would be no prize but it would entertain me more than watch desperate people scrummage around for money…

So left to my own devices my life is not quite rock and roll but maybe simple pleasures like a kebab, a few films and a few pints of Guinness is where I’m at now.

Pipe and slippers here we come…

MP Watch…

At last! After two letters and one email and nine months of waiting I finally have a response from Brent South MP Dawn Butler about her position on the cancellation of the SFO (Serious Fraud Office) investigation into the Al Yamamah military contract.

And her position is… she’s repeating the Government line by stating in her letter that it was ‘made in the countries best interests nationally’.

Bloody cop out. The letter is also so sneakily written that she just repeats this line and doesn’t even mention whether she agrees with it or not. Oh, and she can’t use apostrophes and doesn’t know the difference between ‘country’s’ and ‘countries’.

On the plus side she has forwarded my letter to Defence Minister Kim Howells MP and asked him to write to me expressing his thoughts on the matter.

I thought that was quite a nice touch as it passes the buck but also shows that she is trying to get me an answer.

So on the plus side she has written back to me and tried to get me an answer, which is good. But on the minus side it did take ages and she still hasn’t expressed her views on corrupt arms deals, which is less good but very politician-like.

She’ll go far will this one…

Emperor Jones...

Me, the Missus and the Boy went to see Eugene O'Neill's play about an imaginary black dictator in the Caribbean at the weekend.

Paterson Joseph of Peep Show fame played the title character who is ousted when his corrupt regime becomes too much for his fellow countrymen and he has to flee for his life from rebels out for his blood. While on the run he faces up to the ghosts of all those he has maligned before finally facing justice.

It's the third time I've seen Joseph on stage after his roles in An Oak Tree and Saint Joan and each time he's thoroughly impressed me. The play may be a little thin on story but it only runs for 70 minutes and Joseph is thoroughly engaging as the swaggering emperor brought down to his knees by his own guilt and people.

Sadly one of the ushers at the National, a rude old thing with a face like a slapped arse who obviously got her kicks from playing the jobsworth card, pissed me off on the way in. I was going to write a letter of complaint but then I realised I should rise above it and instead wish her and all her progeny slow and lingering deaths.

Actually that's probably not right either so instead I will write a letter of complaint as my taxes fund that bloody institution so effectively I'm paying for somebody to be unpleasant to me.

Fucking arts funding. Cut the lot of it...

Rich Hall: A 10-word Review...

Funny US comedian but better when he rants and swears.

Crackers...

The Tate Modern is one of my favourite places in London.

But sometimes this wonderful institution gets things wrong and, even though I’ve seen fantastic stuff such as the Louise Bourgeois bronze spiders in its massive Turbine Hall, I’ve also seen some cock.

And the latest piece of installation art to grace this space really does take the piss-flavoured biscuit. Because, and I shit you not, it’s a crack in the floor.

It’s called Shibboleth and it’s by Colombian artist Doris Salcedo. The crack begins at the entrance to the hall and branches off in certain places and starts to widen until it reaches the end of the hall. In some places it’s deep and others it’s skinny and that’s about it. Oh, and it’s supposed to represent the fact that society is divided along racial lines.

Remarkably the panel on Newsnight Review who discussed this nonsense were utterly wowed by it. ‘Salcedo is a genius!’ opined one. I remember people saying the same about Tracey Emin...

In my book Emin is a genius as she managed to convince some cocaine-hoovering moneyed twot (it's a combination word joining twat and tool) to part with several thousand pounds for a representation of a bed where she’d had a few fucks. Now I thought that was clever, particularly for Emin’s bank balance, and I think Salcedo is a similar creature, a latter-day snakeoil saleswoman of the modern art world.

So here’s the plan…

I reckon the Tate should close this Salcedo nonsense down immediately and instead celebrate home-grown talent. Luckily my grandfather used to dig holes for a living. The difference between him and Salcedo was that his holes served a useful purpose to get access to water drains and the like. So I reckon we go into the Tate when it’s shut, Polyfill Salcedo’s work in and recreate a few of my grandfather’s best holes.

I know for a fact he did loads of them so I bet there were some real beauties in his back catalogue. And if Salcedo can dominate the Tate Modern with her skinny hole I reckon my grandfather’s massive holes must be odds-on for the Turner prize at least.

Training Day…

I have just finished a martial arts class and I am in the changing rooms at the gym.

In this class I was helping a lower-belt learn an escape from a front hold that basically sees you grab the opponent’s head with both hands and twist his head so he either falls away or his neck eventually breaks. It’s a beautiful technique and so effortlessly violent that you have to be careful when learning it or teaching it otherwise it can hurt.

I spent about five minutes going through this technique and at some point my neck got a little jarred so I finish class and head for the shower and stand under a hot stream of water directing the shower head onto the sore part of my neck.

No good. It still hurts… so I stand in the changing rooms moving my neck around and pushing my chest forward and trying to get rid of this crick in my neck. Still no good so instead of pushing my chest forward and moving my neck around I throw my whole body forward and my head back and I’ve now nearly got it. If I can just push everything forward a bit more…

It is then I realise I am being stared at by the only other man in the changing rooms, who wears a hat and looks like John Inman. It is then I also realise I am standing naked and it actually looks like I am thrusting my genitalia in the direction of the John Inman lookalike who is 3ft away from me.

What to do? I smile and motion as if to say ‘I’m just stretching out’ but instead my hands face him palm up at waist height. With my chest and head back and my lower area prominent it looks like I’m presenting myself to him. Idiot, idiot, idiot... He simply straighten his tie, rolls his eyes and smiles. He walks past me and waves on his way out.

I may have just instigated some complex form of mating ritual with an elderly gay gentleman. Oh dear…

One For The Splattman!

A friend I made through playing pool died a few weeks ago.

His nickname was Splattman because his second name was Platt and it rhymed and also because it’s a rule that all pool players must have nicknames. Hence the bizarre looks I sometimes get from work colleagues when I’m chatting to one of my Surrey pool-playing mates on the phone and I go off on tangents about Nosher, Noggsy, Spindle, The O, Strivdog, Petulance, Textbook, Bullet, Slippery or Shaggy.

The Splattman played for Berkshire and he was always a determined player on the table and he often beat more talented players because of his sheer will to win. His story of becoming a county A Team player was a triumph of will over ability in the best sense of the phrase, but win or lose he’d always have a pint and a chat and a joke.

One of my friends even gave him a new nickname at one tournament we were both playing in when he realised that with his big specs and his prominent nose he looked like me. When I told Splattman the rest of the boys thought he looked like me and he’d been christened ‘Brooksy’s dad’ by the Surrey contingent, he pondered for a moment before commenting that he didn’t realise his looks had gone so far downhill. Funny fucker…

Anyway… there was a big national tournament at the weekend and my former team made the semi-finals and in memory of the Splattman many of the people at the event were sporting little badges bearing a picture of a pint of Guinness, which was his favourite tipple, and the message ‘One for the Splattman’.

As I’m in semi-retirement I didn’t go to the event at the weekend but a friend furnished me with one of the badges last night and I belatedly had a couple of pints for you.

Rest in peace mate...

Ani Di Franco...

The little folk singer was back in the UK last night playing a small warm-up gig to kick off her European Tour.

After a break of nearly two years the tickets for this 300-people gig were snapped up when they went on release, and Di Franco didn't disappoint her eager fans with a 90-minute set of old classics (Napoleon, Gravel) to more recent stuff (78% Water and Studying Stones), as well as three new songs.

Hammell On Trial (a cross between the folk and political sensibilities of Billy Bragg and the acid tongue of Kenneth Williams) supported and he was pretty good too.

The real star for me, though, was Bush Hall, a classy and intimate little venue just around the corner for its more famous cousin of Shepherd's Bush Empire, where Di Franco will be playing in just over two weeks.

She was upbeat and more relaxed and much less contemplative that other gigs I've seen her perform over the last 10 years. Hammell rocked too, the venue was excellent, the Missus enjoyed it and so did I. And I got pissed on canned Guinness. Result!

Kenny...

It's a comedy moc-doc about a chunky thirtysomething Australian who works in the portable toilet business and maintains and cleans all manner of loos at various of festivals and other social bashes.

So it has poo jokes galore but it also has a very sharp, very funny and surprisingly touching script. It also has Shane Jacobson who is excellently under-stated as the forever put-upon toilet technician with a big heart and a great line in philosophy.

But all the small cast give top-drawer performances, from Eve Von Bibra as Kenny's air stewardess love interest and Ronald Jacobson as his ogre of a father.

Basically it's bloody funny and it tugs at the heart strings in unexpected ways. In fact, to quote the film itself, it's funnier than a 'bum filled with smarties'.

It should get an Oscar. Or something like that. It beats the arse off of any other comedy released so far this year...

Pure Gold....

The latest show at Soho is Pure Gold by Michael Bhim. It’s co-production between Talawa Theatre, Britain’s premiere black theatre company who celebrated their 21st birthday this year, and Soho.

It’s tells the story of Simon, a black bus driver who wants to give his girlfriend Marsha and son Anthony the good life, but can’t accept that the colour of his skin means he faces a life of continual prejudice whenever he tries to get his head above water. Having lost his job he needs cash quick so he turns to his dodgy cousin Paul and finds himself involved in the murky world of driving illegal immigrants into the country from France.

There’s a couple of subplots about Marsha wanting an education and curmudgeonly pensioner neighbour George demonstrating the true value of friendship, but the crux of the story is whether Simon will take Paul’s money and sell his soul or whether he’ll return the money and realise that wrong isn’t right whatever the motivation.

Clarence Smith’s performance as downtrodden everyman Simon holds the evening together and even when the script gets clunky he remains engaging. Mark Monero and Leonard Fenton are superb as dodgy rogue with a heart Paul and nosey neighbour with a heart George, Golda Rosheuvel is OK as Marsha (even though it’s not a particularly sympathetically written role) and 12-year-old Louis Ekoku is excellent as the son torn between his mum’s morality and his dad’s aspirations.

Sadly it’s not an extraordinary play in any way. It’s a kitchen-sink drama set on a London sink estate (a sort of kitchen-sink-sink drama if you like), and even though it’s pretty tightly written and much of the dialogue is sharp and brisk it’s not anything more than a superior episode of EastEnders made flesh. And that's a shame because there's much here to suggest Bhim can write something stronger.

Other Woman News...

The Other Woman is a very worried Other Woman...

Our martial arts teacher has told her she has to 'exercise her glutes' so she can sidekick with more power and somewhere along the line in the Other Woman's head of comedy reviews, shoes, snooker and handbags this got translated as 'Your arse is flabby and you really should do something about it...'

So consequently I spent several hours last night telling her how wonderful her arse is. To be fair she does have a very good arse and how anyone on the planet could accuse it of being in any way unshapely is totally beyond me. But she obviously can and it's getting her down...

In fact her arse worries are currently even over-riding what many saner people would see as her more pressing concern, namely that several religious nuts are out to get her after she did a TV review and made a gag about the Catholic church.

The latter prompted letters of complaint to her editor and has made her something of a celebrity in her office.

If any of these religious nuts do finally get hold of her, though, she could always disarm them by getting them involved in a conversation about her arse. If they made any disparaging remarks I'd back her to take the lot of them out.

And I don't mean to a restaurant...

Philistines...

See... Told you so... You clueless imbecile idiot fucks... What have you done?

Well if you're not keeping up with the story so far I'll tell you what you've done. If you thought the Cadbury's drumming gorilla advert was really funny you're to blame because I flicked on the TV a few nights ago to see a TV advert for the Best Of Phil Collins on CD.

And it wasn't some satellite channel that no bugger watches. Oh no... it was ITV1 that several million hapless fucks watch. Then I switch on XFM, usually a bastion of decent music, and even they're discussing how Phil Collins may be cool again.

Well let's clear a couple of things up:
i) He is not cool. Never has been. Never will be.
ii) He is not good. Never has been. Never will be.
iii) His music is middle-of-the-road shite that would even make fellow mediocrity Chris 'One Eyebrow' De Burgh wince.
iv) He was even shit by 1980s standards and pretty much everyone else was shit then too.

So don't buy his records. By buying his records you are vindicating a no-talent zone and subliminally convincing everyone else to aspire to mediocrity like it's a good thing. It's not, he's not.

So pretend you're on Grange Hill if anyone offers you a Collins record and just say no. The man in worse than Sting and Ross Kemp all rolled into one. And he wrote Another Day In Paradise which makes Lady In Red look like a Beethoven symphony.

Saint Joan...

George Bernard Shaw’s masterpiece about Joan of Arc is having a stunning revival at the National Theatre.

The play may be 80-odd years old but its key theme of religious zeal (in the shape the holy-voice-hearing dressmaker, turned warrior, turned scapegoat, turned eventual saint) versus the state (in the shape of England, the Catholic church and the rival French barons) is perhaps even more relevant now than when it was first written.

Because in a modern age of Muslim suicide bombers and aggressive right-wing Christianity in the White House it begs the question: how does society react to religious fervour when it threatens to undermine the law – even when that religious fervour is devout?

The play itself is simple enough. A dressmaker named Joan hears messages from God and wins over the French barons, the church and the Dauphin in order to drive the English out of France. But when the French people begin to love her rather than the state and its apparatuses she becomes a problem and is eventually betrayed by those who once supported her and sold to the British, where she is burnt as a heretic.

Anne Marie Duff is superb in the title role. The Missus always rated Duff in Shameless (and pretty much everything else she’s been in) while I preferred her Shameless co-star Maxine Peake. But after seeing Duff live I think the Missus is right and Duff is the next Helen Mirren while Peake is probably a more talented version of the next Babs Windsor.

Paterson Joseph and Paul Ready are also good as the treacherous Bishop of Beauvois and the Dauphin but nobody puts a foot wrong. In fact it’s a testament to the entire ensemble that they manage, with some help from a spartan set and haunting music, to fill every inch of the huge Olivier stage.

It is three hours long but the time flew by. It’s one of those shows that makes you believe in the power of theatre again and makes you realise why the National is still a vital cultural institution. Go see…

Gorilla advert…

Somebody was extolling the hilarity of the Cadbury’s gorilla advert yesterday and I had to stop them.

I didn’t stop them because I had anything I actually wanted to say to them. I just wanted them to stop talking. Fortunately they did. Because if they didn’t I would quite possibly have ripped their heads off and shat in the gaping, blood-seeping hole that was their neck just to really ram the message home that it is NOT FUNNY!

It’s a soul-less corporate approximation of something ad-hoc and raw dreamt up by some Armani-suited advertising fuck who thinks he’s hit the marketing equivalent of the g-spot.

Even worse, every time that piece of shit is played on TV it generates royalty money for Phil Collins, that irksome, stage-school, smug, talent-free, Tory-supporting wankwipe who already has more cash than he’ll ever need. It also runs the danger that the balding, least-talented member of Genesis may contemplate a comeback if he actually believes he is hip again.

So the next time somebody tells you this advert is cool shoot them. At least two or three times to make sure they can never rise again – or procreate any future idiot oxygen thief children to rob the planet of its much-needed resources. The revolution starts here…

Other Woman News...

The Other Woman invited me and the Missus to a School Disco a while ago...

For the uninitiated these are nightclub events where adults dress in school uniform and dance to hits from the Eighties and get pissed. The Missus was none too keen to don school uniform and even though I was up for it I felt it politic to decline.

I forgot all about this until last week when the Other Woman told me of her plans for the weekend and reminded me of her impending uniform-based fun with Saucy Sirvan (one of our mutual hapkido friends), her sister and a Toxic Slut.

Weekend over and the Other Woman and Sirvan sent me a link to pictures of their night out.

So, there I was, flicking through about 50 of these shots when a work colleague came up behind me to discuss something... while on-screen was a picture of the Other Woman and three lovelies cavorting around dressed as schoolgirls.

He looked at me, looked at the pic and smiled.
'It's OK. She's a friend...' I said by way of explanation.
'Yeah...'
'No. Really...'
'And I suppose you were "really" writing a play about Victorian prostitutes too?'

I remember back and the last time he approached me like this I was researching Meat, my play about Victorian prostitution, on the web and discussing it with him.

So I try a different tack...
'You know something. Hands up. I am busted. You're right... I love porn. Women-dressed-as-schoolgirl porn particularly. Can't get enough...'

He looks at me conspiratorially.
'It's OK. Me too...'

He walks away. I have a new friend in the office pervert...

Elling...

He’s a bright bloke that John Simm… He does cult films like Human Traffic and 24-Hour Party People, acclaimed TV dramas like State Of Play and Life On Mars, and he’s so cool he even pops up in Dr Who as the Master.

He has a knack of picking the right projects at the right time. And the Missus fancies him too. In fact if he was any sharper he’d cut himself. The multi-talented little Manc shit...

So what of his latest foray on the London stage?

Well for a start it’s an unusual project so he gets points for that. It’s an adaptation of a Norwegian absurdist comedy, which was a novel, a stage play then a film. The English stage version is adapted by Simon Bent, whose own plays include Goldhawk Road and Wasted, and it was first shown at the Bush Theatre before transferring to Trafalgar Studios where it’s currently running.

Simm plays the title character, an uptight mummy’s boy with a compulsive mental disorder who is let out of his asylum to try and adapt back to ‘normal’ life in Oslo. Back in ‘normal’ society he shares a flat with his former room-mate at the asylum and it’s basically their story of finding a life beyond the walls of their former institution.

There’s a love story of sorts, several odd-couple comedy turns and a plot about Elling becoming a poet who hides his work in sauerkraut boxes in supermarkets. There’s also the obvious gag about ‘normal’ people sometimes being more nutty that the people who are incarcerated.

Simm proves he’s a capable stage actor with a gift for comedy, his wide-eyed odd-couple partner is affectionately played by Adrian Bower (the desperate-for-a-shag games teacher in Teachers), and Ingrid Lacey, Keir Charles and Jonathan Cecil are all good value too.

But with the likes of Simm and Bent onboard you could be forgiven for expecting better. Sadly it’s not the sum of its hippest parts and you also have to wonder if it would have got half the glowing publicity it’s received without Simms’ involvement.

Having said that it’s still an enjoyable enough evening and if you fancy a laugh with its heart in the right place it’s worth a look.

New Words...

The Missus is away on a business trip so my mind is wandering and today I've invented a new word...

The word is 'flonked' and it is made up of 'plonked' and 'flopped' and it describes the action of a man (usually drunk) in a pub or a nightclub taking out his penis to try and impress his friends or potential partners.

It is a verb and it should be used in the following manner:
'Did you see the look of horror on that girl's face when Rentboy flonked his Toby on the bar?'

I should probably get a proper hobby or something...

Nigella Express...

It may come as no surprise to anyone who's ever spent any time in my company, but I have very little shame. I'll quite happily admit to all manner of breath-taking stupidity and sexual shenanigans from my drunken (and even my sober) years...

In fact two of my favourite 'self-as-idiot' stories involve one spectacularly unimpressive sexual performance and one gruesome sexual injury. But even my worst in-bed behaviour has never been anywhere near as flagrantly pornographic or erotic as Nigella Lawson in front of a TV camera.

Take Nigella Express on BBC2 for example…

In last night's episode the curvaceous one winked, smiled and fluttered her eyelashes through some recipes… for some people… she was probably friends with… at some point in her life...

To be quite honest I wasn't paying much attention to the cooking. But that’s because I am a man and as such I was instantly seduced by her lilting, suggestive tones and the soft-focus lighting as she did her thing in the kitchen. It was like an episode of the Red Shoe Diaries (soft-porn series narrated by David Duchovny while talking to a dog) populated by food fetishists.

Because the sad truth is Nigella Express and pretty much every other one of her cookery shows is all about a posh bird getting flirty and making everything sound just a little bit suggestive and even slightly dirty. And it's got to the point where even she's so bored of the joke now that she’s become a parody of herself.

Fortunately I am on hand to sort the matter out. So here’s the plan…

I suggest she ditches the cooking altogether and just makes porn. Or failing that she sticks to the cooking but does one episode where she's banged every which way that is humanly possible while she's cooking. Then she'll have got it out of her system, the TV producers responsible for her shows will have seen what they've been after all along and the viewing public can watch her make food instead of being titillated by a bored posh bird making food sound suggestive because they’ve seen all their fantasies acted out in full technicolour anyway.

Sadly if she doesn't do either of the above it won't be long before she's so bored that any suggestion of coquettishness goes out of the window and she'll be delivering scripts exactly like the one below:

NIGELLA (Bored and monotonal):
‘When I’m feeling ravenous and I want something really satisfying I long for my husband’s special sausage. It’s big and it’s meaty and it’s something I feast on whenever I can. God how it fills me up. But my husband’s big, meaty sausage doesn’t come looking good enough to eat straight away. Oh no… First I have to work it between my fingers to make sure it’s the right size and shape. I also have special equipment to make sure it’s hot and steamy, then to finish it off I cover it in my special juices before gorging on it. I particularly love the way the juices dribble down my chin when I’ve got too much in my mouth and it’s nearly hitting the back of my throat…’

This will happen. You’ve been warned…

Ani Di Franco...

Hurray! The little folk singer is back touring the UK this year after a lengthy lay-off because of medical reasons and because she's also recently become a mum to daughter Petah.

But thankfully she's now back gigging in Europe and and as well as doing a big gig at Shepherd's Bush Empire she's also doing a much more intimate show to kick off her European Tour at the Bush Hall.

So me and the Missus are off to both. The Missus is not massively keen as she always gets dragged along to see Ani and we've experienced both brilliant and mediocre gigs, but I'm uncommonly excited about this as Di Franco is one of the few artists I've really stuck with through her ever-evolving style and ever-widening political gaze.

She's also released a new album called Canon which is out in October. Part retrospective and part greatest hits, it also has re-imaginings of five of her favourite songs. One of these, Both Hands, is featured on her MySpace page.

Happy listening!

Present Tense...

The Missus celebrated her birthday yesterday and I splashed out big-style on presents.

But the thing that impressed and fascinated her most was not the very expensive theatre tickets, or the limited addition Tintin book, or the CDs by an old punk band she once loved. Oh no...

It was a wooden pop-up toy of Gilbert and George that I bought her as a joke for £12. It's the equivalent of buying a child an expensive Xmas gift only to see them discard the gift then play for hours in the empty box.

I may never understand women...

Venus As A Boy…

I went to Soho Theatre last night to see their latest show Venus As A Boy, a touring production by the studio of the NTS (National Theatre of Scotland).

I’ve seen a few shows by the NTS at Soho and I’d really liked their work so I had high hopes for this too. Based on a novel by Luke Sutherland and adapted by actor Tam Dean Burn, it tells the ‘true’ story of a young boy from Orkney and his bizarre and at times moving journey of sexual awakening from his home island via Glasgow and finally London, where he ends trapped as a transsexual prostitute until his death.

In many ways it’s a bit of a bizarre piece. It was introduced as a monument-cum-epitaph to its ‘real-life’ central character and it was also a piece of theatre that touched on the borders of performance art. But was it any good?

Well yes and no. It was essentially a one-man show with Tam Dean Burn playing the lead role of the boy-turned prostitute, nicknamed Cupid, and about 10 other characters too and his performance was quite compelling. It was obviously a project he’d crafted with much love and his compassion for all the roles he played really shone through.

Author Sutherland was also on stage to provide accompanying music and this was quite haunting and really added to the atmosphere and the intimacy of the evening. The staging was quite Spartan and the use of props and costumes was inventive too.

But the story had a few too many plot holes (a fleeing Cupid’s pimp magically turning up in Orkney to bring him back to London), a few too many bizarre coincidences (a raped skinhead managing to again find his attacker Cupid in the whole of London within eight hours of their first meeting) and some unconvincing emotional switches (Cupid betraying the transsexual prostitute he loves in a fit of jealousy).

Perhaps these issues are better explained in the book but even as a piece of gritty magical realism they stretched the credibility of the tale a bit too much. That said it’s an interesting and at times compelling piece and the performance of Tam Dean Burn was worth the admission price alone.

It’s a play that certainly deserves to find its audience in London. I just don’t think I was it, even though it’s more creative and heartfelt than most of the schlock currently on stages in the capital.

MP Watch...

Q. How many MPs does it take to reply to a letter from one of their constituents?
A. Fucking millions if the name of that MP happens to be Dawn Butler from Brent.

I wrote to Dawn as she's my local MP to ask her about her position on EDM 595 (Serious Fraud Office Investigation into the Al Yamamah Military Contract) five months ago. I got no reply so another letter then an email followed. And still no reply.

So I contacted CAAT (Campaign Against the Arms Trade) to ask if any other of their supporters in Brent had contacted her on this issue without success.

And apparently I'm not the only one. CAAT have records of two other supporters contacting Dawn Butler and her not bothering to reply or even acknowledge their letters either.

If it was a chance to get her face on the front page of the local newspaper I bet she couldn't reach the postbox quick enough. It's no wonder people think all politicians are worthless, untrustworthy, uncaring fucks when they can't even be bothered with the simple courtesy of answering a letter.

You'd almost think they don't care about the issue of big-business corruption in the country they are part of governing... D'oh! There's the answer!

Bill Hicks…

I’ve just finished reading a book entitled Love All The People… which was given to me by the Other Woman last year.

As I’m now cycling into work I am bereft of Tube time to read so I’m devouring less literature than usual, but I got round to reading this last week and I’m glad I did.

The book is a compendium of comedy routines, interviews, lyrics, articles and letters by Bill Hicks and it offers a fascinating and entertaining route into the world of one of the US’s most influential comedians.

Hicks had been a stand-up comedian since his early teens but in a very successful gigging career of 15 years he never got the big TV breaks in the US. This was essentially because American TV executives considered his material, which included routines on the hypocrisy of far-right Christian zealots, corrupt US politicians, the pro-life lobby and the evils of a corporate-led and consumer-driven society, too risky for Middle America.

But as Hicks pointed out when one of his guest spot routines was infamously pulled from the David Letterman Show for this very reason, he’d played shows in Middle and every other part of America for 15 years so he knew they understood jokes there too.

Hicks did, however, find instant fame and acceptance in the UK where he could deliver his material and his views uncut on TV – and unmeddled with by the raft of TV executives who caused him so much trouble on the Letterman show.

Sadly the show he was working on with Channel 4 never saw the light of day as Hicks died in February 1994 at the age of 32 from cancer – and, to paraphrase a famous Hicks joke, we have proof that injustice exists in the world when John Lennon, Martin Luther King and Bill Hicks are dead and Coldplay, George Bush and Ben Elton are still going strong.

Hicks may have been something of an outlaw comedian with a dark side in his time, but his book is a life-affirming, thought-provoking and entertaining read.

When in Rome IV…

Today we visited the Church of Saint Peter and the Vatican and in a churlish display of anti-religious fervour that would impress most moody 14-year-olds I sported my Sisters of Mercy T-shirt with the pentagram.

As we arrived at the church the Pope was giving an audience and this was quite bizarre because he’d namecheck a church or charity then a section of the crowd would cheer, then he’d go on and namecheck somebody else and another section of the crowd would cheer. It was a rock concert with no music or charisma.

The Vatican Museum, however, was quite impressive with loads of Egyptian and Roman artefacts but as soon as this section was over we went into piety overdrive. Gallery after gallery of scenes of Christ’s suffering and penance in various forms from painting to sculpture to tapestry… I felt quite assaulted by the relentless imagery and how it was designed to pummel me into a submission of faith.

It was about this point that I wanted to let rip with a tirade on the evils of a religion designed to keep the poor in their place and educate them to accept injustices in this lifetime for the promise of something better in the next, and how anyone who was dumb enough to believe should simply wake up – or better still leave the planet and give the rest of the gene pool a fighting chance of survival…

Then I realised I was being a tad zealous myself. I just have to accept that I have no religious fervour of any description after dabbling with it as a 13-year-old – but I do believe in acceptance and forgiveness and tolerance. I also try to live and let live and I genuinely strive to love all the people (even politicians, irresponsible journalists, religious zealots, evil media barons and Ross Kemp) all of the time.

But sometimes it’s really difficult…

PS. A fellow Goth did spot my T-shirt and commented to his girlfriend ‘That’s beautiful that is…’ God bless you my friend.

PPS. See the irony of the above comment? See... It’s sometimes hard to adjust…

When In Rome III...

Today we have explored the Forum (Ancient Roman ruins), the Palantine (Ancient Roman ruins on top of a hill) and the Colosseum (Ancient Roman ruins in the shape of an arena).

It was stupidly hot and although it was pretty awe-inspiring I felt thoroughly over-loaded on Roman ruins. The Missus and the Boy were also not impressed by my new comedy joke. This went something along the lines of me saying ‘It’ll be good when it’s finished…’ whenever we passed a partially ruined or partially recovered monument.

By 4pm this gag was wearing a little thin and both were threatening violence if I ever repeated the joke again. So I tried to defend myself:
‘I’m just demonstrating how to crack a joke then give it additional shelf-life…’

The Boy looks at me despairingly.
‘You’re actually demonstrating how to crack a joke then run it into the ground before stabbing and shooting it to death to ensure it has actually died.’

The Missus raised her eyebrows as if to agree with him. I may need to rethink my routine from here on in…

When in Rome II…

We are in Rome, which is perhaps not the best place in the world to voice my long-held opinion that Catholicism is one of the evils pervading the world.

I am explaining this theory to the Boy who has a look of utter bewilderment on his face as all his did was ask what I thought of a church we’d just passed. Fortunately I am close to the end of my sermon on Catholicism:

‘…the bottom line on any religion for me is that it should be a positive force for humanity and Catholicism spreads its belief system in already impoverished countries, converts the local populace then tells them they can’t use contraception to protect themselves against the already established threat of Aids. So in many South American and African countries where Catholics have gone to spread the word you have impoverished local communities where Aids is widespread and health workers can’t teach contraception because it’s against the religion. So not only is the disease spreading but the population is growing and large numbers of those newborn are born infected.’

The Boy ponders my sermon on the roof terrace of our hotel then chips in with:
‘I may convert to Judasim.’

The Missus is now intrigued – and a little worried. She is deeply cynical about any organised religion.
‘Why?’

The Boy replies.
‘They may sacrifice pork and their foreskin but they do get really good holidays…’

We concede he has a point. The Boy is perhaps a comedy genius…

When in Rome I…

‘When in Rome do as the Romans…’ is of course the accepted wisdom when visiting the Italian capital.

However when I single-handedly tried to form a quasi-facist imperial state based on military might invading other countries and assimilating their cultures people just looked at me in a funny way. So I turned tourist instead and joined the Missus and the Boy walking around the place discovering ancient monuments.

And it’s very pretty and it’s quite funny walking around a street corner to discover another 2000-year-old lump of temple. But there’s a lot of tat too.

Take the Pantheon, a stunning Roman temple that was then turned into a church. Architecturally and visually it’s a stunning piece of work… then you get outside and there’s a man dressed as a Fisher-Price version of Mark Antony and a fat woman dressed as Cleopatra who try to grab you and convince you to have your picture taken with them.

I spotted this odd couple and pointed them out to the Boy.
‘That’s the fattest Cleopatra I’ve ever seen…’
‘Yeah. And she’s not even bothered to try and look Egyptian either….’
‘He’s got a plastic sword too.’
‘And she’s got blonde hair. I’m sure Cleopatra didn’t have blonde hair…’

Myself and the Boy are also playing Nun Watch. It’s the same rules as Goth Watch but it’s seeing who can spot the most bizarre-looking Nun. The Boy is so far winning this because he spotted somebody who looked like Gillian McKeith.

More from Rome later…