Birthday Boy!

A highlight of my birthday every year is getting a card from Mum.

This year it only arrived a few days late (which is quite good for her), although I did have to journey to the main sorting office in Willesden to collect it and pay extra postage because she hadn't put enough stamps on it.

But it was worth it.

You see Mum thinks I am about nine years old and her cards always feature cartoon furry animal of some description engaged in some comedic scene. And this year's (featured above) was a belter – a cartoon bear playing snooker.

I think at some point in the dim and distant past she must have asked me if I liked one of the cards she sent. And I obviously wasn't really listening and must have unthinkingly answered in the affirmative because every year I now get something like this.

I think I'm going to have break the news to her that I am now 38 and don't really like cartooon furry animals any more. At the same time I may also have to tell her that I no longer take sugar in my tea because whenever I go back home she still puts two spooonfuls in my cup because that's how I used to have it about 30 years ago, despite repeated attempts to tell her otherwise.

And worringly she's probably the sanest member of my family back home...

Pat O’Kane v John Kelly: Match Report...

I went to a poker club called the Equal Chance in Walthamstow at the weekend as two of my friends were playing a money match at eightball pool for about £15K between them.

Older Brother was also in town on one of his rare forays into London and he came along too.

Here's my report on the match which was published on uk8ball.com. I think it's quite good...

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Cometh the hour, cometh the man… and at 2am on Sunday 27 May after 12 hours playing 55 frames of pool, Pat O’Kane had a black tight on the top cushion with the white awkwardly out of position.

The black was pottable but it was also missable and with his opponent John Kelly having two yellows left in bad positions the chances are O’Kane would have got another go at it even if it had rattled and the white had run safe.

But it had been a long day and a long night so nothing was guaranteed…

Frames 1-10
The match kicked off at just gone 2pm with ten frames of World Rules shared between the players at 5-5. This was an opening set of tight play with limited chances even though Kelly threw in two very solid breaks and clearances in this run and O’Kane hit one quality break and finish of his own.

What was noticeable, however, was that O’Kane hit the lead at 1-0, 2-1, 3-2, 4-3 and 5-4 and was never behind. And he had chances to be in front but for a full length of the table double on the black by Kelly in the eighth frame.

Frames 11-20
The next ten frames were Fed rules and O’Kane suddenly found his game and let his arm go. He was helped in this by the fact that Kelly, who had potted consistently well in the opening ten frames, suddenly missed key balls and O’Kane simply stepped up to take out simple finishes. So suddenly 5-5 became 6-5, 7-5, 8-5, 9-5, 10-5, 11-5, 12-5 and 13-5 as the frames slipped away from Kelly.

The Peckham man did rally to take the last two but the damage had been done and O’Kane took the set 8-2 for a 13-7 lead.

Frames 21-30
The next set reverted to World Rules and Kelly took a frame from a dry O’Kane break then broke and dished one of his own to close the gap to 13-9, but O’Kane produced a break and dish of his own then claimed the next for a 15-9 lead.

The next frame was a bit scrappy and Kelly won it but the next saw a superb finish from O’Kane to keep a six-frame gap at 16-10. Kelly then won a long tactical frame but O’Kane responded by knocking in a superb black for 17-11. Kelly took the next and had a chance in the last World Rules frame of the set. But he didn’t take his chance and O’Kane stepped in for an 18-12 lead.

After five and a half hours play O’Kane had held the World Rules player at 5-5 and 5-5 and won the Fed Rules 8-2. O’Kane had certainly given the partisan crown something to cheer and Kelly had much to ponder…

Frames 31-40
The next Fed Rules set began with Kelly taking on a big finish and leaving himself a black down the long cushion. He missed the black and O’Kane cleared but Kelly then hit a confident finish for 19-13.

Frame 34 saw the finish of the night and it came from O’Kane. For the first time in the match Kelly had won a tactical battle at Fed Rules for control of the table and had the bottom right-hand pocket swamped with yellows – but even worse O’Kane had two reds tied up in this mess. O’Kane had two other red balls in open play and potted his fifth red ball which was over the top corner pocket to screw the white the full length of the table behind his two reds with the white virtually finishing on the corner knuckle of the pocket covered by Kelly’s yellows. But he sighted an off plant into the middle, jacked his cue up and hit it to perfection. He also needed to hit it at pace to spring the other red and the intended pot flew into the middle pocket and sprung the other ball and left him a chance at a game he was out of. It was a brilliant shot.

That shot and that clearance were the highlight of the night and it made the scores 20-13. More importantly it gave O’Kane a huge amount of momentum at a time when Kelly was starting to apply himself and get some results from his tactical endeavours.

Kelly took the next in solid style after O’Kane missed a finish and O’Kane repaid the compliment when Kelly did the same for 21-14, but the O’Kane momentum was building and he took a good pressure finish for 22-14, then an O’Kane break and dish made it 23-14. Kelly tried to keep up and was unlucky to land awkwardly on a black after good work to get there. He missed the attempted double and O’Kane took his chance for a 24-14 lead.

The next two frames were a bit scrappy and were shared but O’Kane now had a commanding 25-15 lead. He couldn’t let it slip. Or could he?

Frames 41-50
It was now back to World Rules and Kelly had yet to win a set and with O’Kane five frames from victory he needed to. In the opening frame Kelly took tactical control and the game when he had his chance for 25-16. He then broke off and put the white off the table – but the black also found the pocket, the frame was reracked but O’Kane took it for 26-16. Kelly then nailed a pressure black for 26-17 but as Kelly broke for the next the white flew off the table again and this time the black didn’t pot. O’Kane took his two visits and mopped up for 27-17.

With the pressure now really on Kelly suddenly found his game. O’Kane may have seen the winning line or felt fatique but he started going for game every frame and Kelly showed superb composure to hold on, take control of the table when he could and win the remaining World Rules frames for 27-23.

For the first time in the match he’d taken six frames in a row and more importantly he’d also won a set of ten frames 8-2. And the gap was now only four frames…

Frames 51-59
It was now back to Fed Rules and before the set began there was a great scene. The partisan O’Kane support, who had previously been letting their feelings known, were talking to John Kelly and congratulating him on the previous set, while O’Kane was simply sat down and keeping his focus. The Chat’s great friend Ross McInnes was sat next to him and next to the Flying Scotsman was Maltese Joe, both silent but clearly hoping just their mere prescence would will their man on.

It was a wonderful moment and the tension, which had been building all night, was suddenly a tangible thing. So this was a rare moment of calm and reflection as the match neared its closing stages…

Now the nerves were jangling because Kelly missed a tough black and O’Kane stepped in to stop the rot at 28-23. O’Kane missed a finish in the next and Kelly put in a good pressure finish for 28-24, then won another for 28-25. It looked like he was heading for 28-26 in the next but he landed touching a black he needed space to pot. He attempted a cross double, missed and O’Kane potted his three remaining yellows and deposited the black for 29-25. It was a hearthbreaking moment for Kelly and his support. It was all nearly over.

The Peckham man, however, wasn’t done yet and knocked in a super pressure clearance for 29-26.

But the end was near and O’Kane dug deep in the next and played his best tactical frame of the night by grouping balls and giving himself a nest to run into. He won several lots of two shots, potted Kelly’s balls then went for game himself and he got it – and the place erupted.

After all the build-up, the animosity and the forum slatings there was a warm handshake at the end. It was O’Kane’s night but Kelly had played his own part in the drama and came out of it with a lot of credit for his gutsy bid to battle back from the brink.

Closing Thoughts
O’Kane had always said his inspiration for this match was his great mate John Bowyer and there was a wonderful moment in the 55th frame when O’Kane looked up to the heavens before he broke and quietly said a few words to himself hoping for some divine inspiration from his deceased pal.

Typically with O’Kane his timing was slightly out and it was the next frame that brought him victory, but anyone who was present in the Equal Chance could not have failed to have noticed the genuine tide of emotion that carried him to victory. His composure throughout the match was impressive but the utter joy as the final black went in was something to behold.

In some ways this match was a victory for the romantics against the realists as the old stager rolled back the years against the commitment and dedication of the new kid on the block, a new kid who’ll probably be claiming pro status for himself on the IPA Tour next year and a new kid who will have better days with a cue in his hand than he had at the Equal Chance.

So maybe it was the spirit and the inspiration of John Bowyer that was the difference in the end for O’Kane, the extra fuel in the tank when the foot pressed down on the pedal for the last time.

And if that was the case it was a fitting tribute that a game between pool players from opposite sides of the political fence came together to provide such an absorbing match, a match that was also watched by pool players from both sides of the rules divide.

Because when push comes to shove, ignoring the rules and the politics and the squabbles and the political allegiances, the things that unite pool players – a few games, a drink, a laugh, the camaraderie, the will to win, even the occasional bet – are much greater than the things that divide them and these are the simple things that should be celebrated and enjoyed.

And, as the victor O’Kane will probably testify, that’s something John Bowyer could have told you.

28 Weeks Later...

I thought 28 Days Later was quite good. It was a smart, well-made, intelligent rehash of the zombie flick formula and it was British to boot. Hurrah!

So I had high hopes for the sequel, 28 Weeks Later, and it's OK. It's pretty much a retread of its predessor with new bits about US imperialism, foreign policy and Iraq analogies thrown in for good measure.

Robert Carlyle's a bit under-used but elfin beauty and film newcomer Imogen Poots is very watchable. And France gets infected with the rage virus in the closing credits.

So that's probably a happy ending...

How To Look Good Naked…

I’m in love with a gay man from Leicester. At least I think he’s gay as he’s as camp as several row of tents in a tent warehouse in a town called tentsville and he knows how to look fantastic in clothes I can’t even pronounce let alone think about wearing.

But to be honest it’s so hard to tell these days. It was OK in the Seventies when we only had John Inman on telly. It was easy then but in this era of gender-bending it’s just so confusing. I blame Boy George. Or George Michael. Or George Bush. Well, he could be…

However the sexuality of my new love is neither here nor there (although if a straight fellla manhandled women the way he does it would constitute rape and not fashion advice). What matters most is that I am in love with him and I want him to come round and give me a good seeing to.

Sadly I don’t think he ever will as I quite like my body and I’m not a woman so his mission doesn’t include me.

I am, of course, talking about the wonderful Gok Wan, fashion stylist to the stars and presenter of How To Look Good Naked. In this series, he meets women who hate their bodies and, by giving them a few style tips and helping rebuild their ebbing confidence, he teaches them to love their body and quite often love themselves a bit more.

It sounds really horrible, like some awful retread of a format previously pioneered by Gillian McKeith with food or that fashion Nazi Nicky Hambleton-Jones with plastic surgery or those two shockingly terrible posh birds Trinny and Susannah with clothes.

But the difference between Gok and those truly horrible people is that he genuinely cares about his subjects and so the show is actually about them rather than about him. And it works brilliantly.

Last night’s episode featured hippy earth mother Lisa Mayall. She didn’t like the way she looked and hid her body away. Apparently nobody had seen her naked for three years. But enter Gok with his bag of tricks and by the end of the show she posing naked and walking down a catwalk in underwear.

This sort of telly can be really terrible. It can be about promoting the brand a presenter (McKeith), showing off how clever a presenter is (Hambleton-Jones) or just giving airtime to posh idiots who in any other walk of life but telly would be booted out onto the street and told to get a proper job (Trinny annd Susannah).

But How To Look Good Naked works because it is about the subject and not about the presenter – and that’s why its presenter comes out of it looking better than any of the rather fab outfits he cobbles together.

Gok for president!

Other Woman News…

The Other Woman is livid. And it’s not the fault of me or even her particularly lovely boyfriend.

And I mean livid. The sort of 28 Weeks Later red-eyed rage which means she moves at great speed and operates with greater-than-normal violence.

This is because the Other Woman is in the throes of buying a flat with her fella and they’d found somewhere, put a deposit down, got it taken off the market and were in the final stages of the purchase.

The flat in question, however, is part of quite a swish-looking complex and they were all systems go until somebody noticed a discrepancy with the address – and it turns out the flat they wanted to buy was not for sale at all. Like ever. Never was – even though it was widely advertised and the sale had got quite far before anyone realised the mistake.

Now I’ve heard all types of stories about greedy and crooked estate agents and crap and incompetent solicitors. And it may be true – or the people who are selling the place may have had a better offer and have chosen to lie rather than admit to the sort of shady gazumping practises estate agents and cash-hungry vendors are famous for. But this mistake/lie really takes some beating.

Which is quite ironic because I think she’s now on her way round to beat them and roundhouse kick the fuckers to death. If her fella doesn’t get there first…

Dead End…

My dead cat was cremated and her ashes returned home yesterday in a black plastic pot with a brass nameplate with the inscription ‘Marge’.

On the plus side she leaves less hair around the house than she used to, but on the minus side it’s not quite the same getting her to curl up in my lap as I sit down to write.

The Missus sensed I was still a tad upset and kept her counsel when I requested her ashes be kept in my office until we found a decent burial site in the garden, and the Boy just stared in a confused manner as I shouted him downstairs and told him to welcome Marge home.

On the day Marge died me and the Missus were talking and I said something along the lines of ‘She was a rescue cat, we looked after her and loved her, and at the end she died surrounded by those she loved. There are worse ways to go…’

Sadly none of these have yet befallen Margaret Thatcher, Tony Blair, George Bush, Robert Mugabe, Gillian McKeith or Ross Kemp but we live in hope, eh?

This point did, however, bring up a discussion on dying and how we’d like to go so I’m now working out my funeral plan and here’s what’s so far decided:

i) Music to include: Lust For Life by Iggy Pop; I’ll Never Get Out Of This World Alive by Hank Williams; Our Last Song Together by Neil Sedaka; and finally Firestarter by The Prodigy (must be done as a singalong as the coffin goes in for cremation).
ii) Readings to include: Something short by Bukowski (So Now from Betting On The Muse but substitute ‘Linda’ for ‘the Missus’). Nothing from the Bible. It’s too long and everyone will want to get to the pub.
iii) Wake to include: No tears, paper party hats, streamers and rude jokes. No-one is allowed in unless they have a prepared joke and everyone must tell their joke to at least three people.

I think that’s quite a good start.

Rain...

It poured down at the weekend, the Missus commented on the miserable weather and I admitted it was all my making.

She looked at me, puzzled.

'What do you mean it's all your making?'
'I caused the downpour.'
'How?'
'Well you know the Boy brought a rainstick back from Australia?’
‘A rainstick?’
‘Yes. An Aboriginal hollow stick with painting on the outside and sand on the inside.’
‘Right…’
‘Well I went into his bedroom yesterday to drop washing off and I picked up the rainstick and gave it a good shake – and, hey presto, it’s chucking it down. Ergo it's all my doing’
‘You do realise all the weather forecasters said it would bucket it down this weekend. And all the weather reports in the papers predicted the same thing too.’
‘Prediction, schmediction. I did it.’
‘So you’re actually claiming your previously unmentioned shamanistic powers and a bit of tourist tat provoked a downpour?’
‘Yes.’
‘A downpour I don’t like because I want to go out today and not get soaked?’
‘Heap powerful magic!’
‘That's a Native American Indian stereotype and not Aboriginals you clot!’
‘Us shamans are all brothers irrelevant of skin colour.’
‘Well if you did cause it it’s clearly just something else that I can blame you for. Idiot!’

Some arguments are just not worth winning.

The Lives Of Others…

It’s a German film and it’s on at art house cinemas up and down the land. It’s got subtitles, too, but don’t let that put you off because it’s bloody brilliant.

Set in East Germany in the early 1980s, it tells the story of a Stasi high flyer who gets the job of spying on a famous writer. But while he has the scribe under surveillance he falls for his actress girlfriend and starts to find his own humanity – and go against his professional duty – after observing the joy of their lives.

There's not a weak performance on screen and, even though it's very much an ensemble piece, Ulrich Mühe (pictured) is moving and beautifully under-stated as the Stasi agent who risks his neck for those he's observing.

It’s already a multi award-winning film so I’m not really saying anything new. But it’s one of those rare life-affirming films where you walk out of the cinema and you realise the way you view the world has changed just a little bit – and for the better.

A Matter Of Life And Death…

The National sometimes decides against something classic or something new and decides to go for something a bit offbeat and populist instead. Hence Theatre Of Blood, a stage version of the highly camp Hammer horror starring Vincent Price, which was staged a few years ago with Jim Broadbent in the main role.

And following in this tradition comes A Matter Of Life And Death, a stage adaptation of the 1946 Powell and Pressburger movie starring David Niven as a pilot fated to die who falls in love with a wireless operator (Kim Hunter) then bizarrely avoids death and has to fight for his right to live at ‘heavenly’ court.

The film is pure kitsch and the stage adaptation takes this as its lead and it’s fun and unapologetically sentimental, with a live band and slushy songs underlining the romantic theme of love conquering all.

Co-produced by the National with Kneehigh Theatre, it’s a visually stunning adaptation and so there are plenty of acrobatics and wire work. Some of the stage images, such as time ‘standing still’ with a bed on a swing held stationery at an acute angle by several of the cast and several hospital beds forming a stairway in the climactic scene, are also beautifully crafted.

But at heart it’s a simple story and I couldn’t help thinking the musical interludes were just theatrical wallpaper to cover the gaps while they used the basic furniture of beds and two aluminium staircases to assemble yet another clever piece of circus-meets-inventive-non-naturalistic scene setting.

It’s still quite good fun, though, and it does have a poignant anti-war message tagged on the end. And the leads of Tristan Sturrock, Lyndsey Marshal and Douglas Hodge are all solid.

It’s not a major piece of work but it's fun and a good show for a date.

Blade Runner...

I was cycling through Hyde Park on Saturday and I cut through one of its main thoroughfares near the Serpentine and suddenly surrounding me were loads of people roller-blading.

The girls were definitely in the minority and were generally thin and Spanish or Oriental, while the men were in the majority and were all thin as rakes and dressed in a ludicrously fashionable manner and acting in a breathtakingly camp way.

As I was cycling through all I could think of was: 'This is the most gay-looking ensemble of men I have ever seen. And they all rollerblade. And the rollerblading with its pirouettes and hip movements actually enhances their gayness.'

I was going to stop and ask if it was a gay men's rollerblading meeting, but then I realised I may come across as a bit of a homophobe so I cycled on.

God knows. Maybe I secretly am a homophobe – or maybe I secretly wish I was gay and able to rollerblade in such a camp and unfettered manner...

Leaves Of Glass...

Me and the Missus went see Leaves Of Glass by Philip Ridley at Soho Theatre on Friday.

I saw Ridley talk at a writers’ seminar a few months ago and I liked him a lot. He was urbane, witty and very approachable. He’s also an artist and a photographer and he uses his visual output to influence his literary one.

The show also marked the directorial debut by Soho’s new artistic director Lisa Goldman, formerly of the Red Room, so I was looking forward to it.

The play tells the story of a successful businessman and his artist brother who are both haunted by a horrible secret from their past, a secret they both have to face and exorcise so they can move forward in their lives and their relationships.

Ben Wishaw and Trystan Gravelle play the warring siblings with Gravelle giving the stronger performance out of the two with weaker material. Maxine Peake is funny and generally OK as the businessman’s wife and Ruth Sheen does an at-times moving comedy turn as the boys’ mother.

It’s a touching and spooky piece and the second half where everything starts to get explained is definitely more satisfying that the first where the central conflicts are set up.

There are some beautifully written sections in it, too, and some very strong images but I wasn’t sure whether the good bits were good enough to carry the less-good bits.

It’s still worth a look, though.

Bye Bye Marge...

I’d never really got people and their attachment to pets before.

I was often bemused when perfectly rational friends broke down in uncontrollable sobbing when their cat or dog died. ‘It’s only a bloody animal,’ I thought.

But then me, the Missus and the Boy got cats, a mother and daughter from a local animal rescue centre, and I suddenly totally got it. The unconditional love, the affection, the companionship, the physically calming effect of them curling up and letting them stroke you while they purred away.

And I know all this talk of stroking sounds a bit pervy but it was never like that. Honest. I’m no moggy-fiddler.

The mother cat, Marge, was a great big lazy black and white lap cat. She was christened Marge because when she came to us she’d been spayed and the dye they’d used to cover the fur was bright blue and the wound was shaped like Marge Simpson’s hair.

The daughter cat, Buffy, was a tabby who generally shot around the place and killed things in the garden. The general rule was that Marge was mine and the Missus’ cat while Buffy was the Boy’s cat.

Over the years I became massively attached to Marge as she often curled up in my office when I was writing and she’d often claim part of the bed too, but over the past few days she got very sick very quickly so this morning me and the Missus took her to the vet and he advised us to have her put down to stop her suffering any more.

Bizarrely I pride myself on being very good in a crisis and the worse the crisis usually is the more controlled I generally am – but suddenly I was sobbing uncontrollably and turning into a gibbering wreck.

When we got out of there I pulled myself together and the Missus handled it in her usual fashion by cracking very bad taste jokes.

Now I know it’s not a global disaster and that countless human lives have not been lost, and I also know it sounds vaguely ridiculous, but I actually loved my cat more than I love a lot of people.

And I’m going to miss her and her ability to shed white fur all over the house. RIP Marge.

Headline Of The Week…

Former Culture Club star Boy George is facing assault and false imprisonment allegations.

He apparently hired a ‘male model’ he met on an internet site for £400, then woke him from a bed in the singer-turned-DJ’s apartment at 5am by jumping on him with a friend, before dragging him to a wall hook, tying him up to a wall then producing a box of whips and S&M toys.

The ‘male model’ apparently fled when he had the opportunity and contacted the police.

The Mirror headline: Do you really want to hurt me?

Well it made me laugh.

An Apology…

After cycling into work for quite some time I have realised I was maybe a tad harsh on black cab drivers.

It is true that some of them were utter shits when I first started out, but over the past several months I’m learning that on the whole they’re OK. As road users they’re generally careful and, apart from the horrible group I first encountered, most of them seem to be an OK lot.

Most white van drivers, however, remain utter scumbags who should not be allowed on the road – ever – and should be sterilised. That way they’ll never breed and if the operation goes awry it will be no great loss to the gene pool. Harsh but true…

Other Woman News...

The Other Woman has been away in Chicago at the main hapkido school and has returned full of renewed enthusiasm for all things martial arts.

She is also about to become a home-owner with her proper fella and was discussing said move in class with another student. But sadly the other student hadn’t quite grasped our ‘special’ relationship and got a bit confused.

‘So you and Paul are moving in together?’
'Paul?'
'Yes. Aren't you going out with the that tall chap with glasses?'
'Er, no…'
'But he kisses you a lot'
'That's because he's my Other Man…'

The other student looked blank. Fortunately the conversation was interrupted at this point but the subject of kissing came up later with a male student who recounted how I happily kiss him too.

I’ve always seen it as a sign of affection because – apart from learning different ways to potentially cripple or seriously hurt people – I’m a bit of a tactile softie really.

But maybe I am an affection slut, a bit like one of out cats who’ll do anything to be stroked.

Or maybe I’m just a slut? But at least I'm a happy slut...