Ear, Ear...

It's been a quiet Christmas and more quiet for me than most because I've managed to lose the hearing in my right ear.

This is a most unusual malady and I think it was triggered when my hay fever type allergy went into overdrive on Christmas Day and I had a violent few hours of sneezing and something went pop in my eardrum.

Ironically the Missus had bought me several CDs by Philip Glass and I've sort of managed to listen to these with my good ear and buzzing and delayed sounds in my dodgy ear. But as it's Philip Glass that may also just be the CD.

I'm assuming it's just an infection of some sort or a temporary bit of damage to the eardrum as I'm not keen on life with dodgy hearing and I'm asuming it will sort itself out after a trip to the doctor.

On the plus side, of course, it does mean whenever the Missus or the Boy are taking the piss I can pretend I haven't heard them and ignore them completely. In fact I could do this with everyone if I don't feel like talking.

In some ways it could be the perfect Christmas present...

It's A Wonderful Life...

It's Xmas Eve and me and the Missus have been to see It's A Wonderful Life at the new local arty community cinema that's just opened near us.

The Missus is a real sucker for old movies and Xmas and this particular offering coupled with the seasonal atmosphere has made her go all girly. And that doesn't happen often.
'Did you enjoy it?'
'I loved it. I didn't cry though...'
'Well you've seen it lots of times.'
'I have...'
'So you're probably immune to its emotional bits...'
'Yeah. Probably...'
'It's like watching a porn movie you've seen lots of times. You know where the best bits are and when the money shot's coming...'

There is silence. The winter air suddenly feels a bit more chill. There is a stare too. The sort of emasculating and exasperated stare only certain wives can give.
'You have just taken my favourite movie and compared it to people coming in a porn film...'
'I merely meant you knew where the emotional climaxes were and so you were prepared for them...'
'You have sullied the evening.'
'I only meant...'
'Don't speak to me again. Ever.'

Other Woman News...

Me and the Other Woman have met up for a pre-Xmas drink and the beer and the conversation is flowing – until she drops this little gem into the proceedings.
'I know what I meant to ask you... Would you ever shag an Ewok?'

Sensing this is not as straightforward a question as it seems I delay my response.
'This is a trick girl question where even the right answer will turn out to be wrong, isn't it?'
'Not at all,' she replies. 'It's just that my other half sometimes says that sleeping with me is like shagging an Ewok because I'm quite short. So I was just wondering whether you'd shag an Ewok and think it was wrong?'

I take my time. A wrong answer here could damage years of friendship.
'Well for a start you're not covered in fur and you've also got a good two feet on most Ewoks. Even the big ones.'
'That's what I said.'
'And he's presumably not complaining about this either before or during said shagging?'
'No. Any shagging would be off the agenda if he did...'
'Well... if it was an Ewok in you form then I'd definitely not worry about it. In fact I think it would be fab...'
'And in Ewok form?'
'Not terribly interested...'
'Sure?'
'OK. I'd still probably give it a go. Don't knock it till you've tried it, sort of thing...'
'Good. You also should remember that Ewoks are quite resourceful. If they can make things that swing from trees to smash hi-tech weapons then a shagging hammock and all sorts of S&M paraphenalia probably isn't beyond them either...'

So there you have it. Ewoks: the sexual deviants of the universe...

The Weighting Game...

I rarely make New Year Resolutions as I figure trying to think about changing things when I'm half-cut and as generally miserable as I am on New Year's Eve is a bad idea.

But one thing I am definitely continuing next year that I've started already is to use weights as part of my training regime.

Bizarre though it may seem for a big-nosed, speccy beanpole, I used to be a bit of a gym bunny but I generally found it quite dull and no matter what weight programme I adopted I never put any weight on my arms. It was simply a case of 'I've always had skinny arms and that's probably always going to be the case'.

Since I started hapkido, however, I haven't worried about it as my arms and grip quickly became much stronger and all I wanted was functional muscles rather than big-bulging, chick-attracting biceps.

Since I've started boxing, however, things are happening and while I may never be Lou Ferrigno I may yet lose my twiglet arms. And I figure this would also be a bit of a boon because more arm muscle would help protect my shoulders and elbow joints, which have both been injured in the past few years.

Weight training has always been a contentious issue in the martial arts as it's always thought that technique and speed generate power rather than brute strength. Another worry is that excessive strength may make a martial artist forget technique and rely on power.

But much recent thinking has argued against this and the rise of UFC has made a lot of martial artists realise that sometimes technique and speed aren't enough against well-trained, all-round fighters.

Anyway... I was enthusiastically explaining this to the Missus but she was watching Strictly Come Dancing and told me to be shut up.

She probably doesn't need weight training.

Belt Up!

Yesterday I was awarded my black stripe after I passed my recent grading at hapkido, which means my next grading will be for my black belt. Gulp...

On the plus side I don't have to worry about this for some considerable time but on the scary side I now have to really get my arse into gear in every class because it now gets serious and I have to do so. It's going to be hard work.

But I also have to remember that it's been hard work so far anyway. In fact it's mostly been a journey of persistence and determination over ability so I shouldn't expect anything to change too dramatically because at heart I remain a bright bloke trapped in the body of a (now slightly less) befuddled half-wit.

Most encouragingly, though, I've now seen three of my peers grade for their black belts and the thought of going through the test itself is much less frightening than it once seemed. In fact part of me is already starting to relish the idea.

So I'm sure it will all be fine. Probably...

Sports Personality Of The Year...

Lewis Hamilton is a F1 driver and the current F1 world champion.

He is also a Brit who is about to become one of the richest sportsmen on the planet yet he has chosen to live in Switzerland rather than reside in the UK to avoid paying tax to the country of his birth.

If this is the case then a simple way to remind the viewing public of the fact that he is a tax-dodging scumbag would be to ensure he is never allowed to be included in the voting for the BBC Sports Personality Of The Year Award again.

Instead the BBC should place him in the category for Overseas Sports Personality Of The Year Award because if he no longer wants to be a Brit then we shouldn't have to pretend he is and he shouldn't be allowed to pretend he is either.

I'm glad cyclist Chris Hoy beat him into second place for the main award.

Clean Break...

We are eating dinner with the in-laws and the Missus is discussing costumes for fancy-dress parties with her much younger sister.
'I've got a French maid's uniform,' says the younger sister.
'Maybe I could get a French Maid's uniform too...' suggests the Missus.
'Will it actually mean you do some housework?' I politely ask.

She politely tells me that it won't...

Family Values...

It is Sunday and we are visiting the Missus' family in leafy Barnes for an afternoon feed.

We arrive at the house and I knock on the door, which prompts a several-minute critique from the Missus on why I should have used the doorbell rather than the knocker.

Fortunately such ridiculous witterings are nothing new. In the past the Missus has also criticised me for breathing too loudly. And the fact the Boy now often adds his twopennethworth as well has pretty much made me immune to their verbal nonsense.

So we are sat down eating and my father-in-law mentions the fact that's he's often bullied in his house so I offer my version of the earlier events.
'I actually got criticised for knocking on your front door rather than using the doorbell this morning.'
'I know exactly how you feel. But it's even worse for me. I live with two grumpy women.'

I turn to the Boy who is sat at my right and look at him before commenting:
'So do I...'

The Boy tells me to go away. And not politely...

Artful Dodger...

Most of the Boy's teachers really like him and like teaching him, too, but one of them is an utter nightmare.

I've met her on a few occasions and, to nutshell it, she is an utter cow with a very patronising attitude and very bad people skills when it comes to dealing with either adults or teenagers. She was the Boy's art teacher when he was doing his GCSEs and he went into this course full of enthusiasm, but that was soon removed by her constant sarcasm and unsupportive critiques of his work.

So we asked one of his other teachers about her and he admitted she had 'an unfortunate manner' while one of his schoolmates quite sadly added 'She's just lonely...'

So myself and the Missus told the Boy to just get on with it and keep his head down and he did and passed, no sodding thanks to this wretch of a teacher I might add.

He was delighted and when he finished the course and started his A Levels we all assumed it would be his final dealings with her. Then when he joined the Sixth Form she tagged along as the new head of year and she's been a similarly patronising cow when it comes to her recent dealings with him.

Myself and the Boy were discussing this last night and I suggested that he should just save all his contempt for the last day of school when he could approach her and simply say.
'You know, Miss, you've been thoroughly unpleasant to me ever since I've known you but I have sympathy for you because I do pity an old woman who's watching her life ebb away rather than living it.'

The Boy, however, has another plan.
'I was going to be more direct and just say "Oi cunt! Good fucking riddance!"'

Perhaps sometimes the direct approach is best...

Water Theory...

One of my favourite pictures is The Great Wave Off Kanagawa by Japanese artist Katsushika Hokusai.

It's part of a set of 36 pictures that Hokusai created as woodcuts depicting different views of Mount Fuji. But Fuji isn't really the central component of many of these pictures. It's often in the background or to one of the sides and the focus of the pictures tends to be events unfolding a long way away from the mountain, like the fishermen battling the power of the wave in the Great Wave or the tea house at Koishikawa the morning after a snowfall.

The Great Wave, however, remains my favourite out of this set as it's not only utterly beautiful but the image of water as a potent force inexorably driving forward is something I find utterly compelling. I love the idea that all waves start as small and often insignificant things but grow and gather force the further they travel along a certain path.

One of the key philosophies in hapkido is Yew or water theory. It basically states that water is usually considered something soft but water always find a way around or through even the hardest rock by constantly driving against it and finding a weak point then wearing it down. Water can also be something that is both incredibly powerful or incredibly soothing and it can also be totally formless and adapt to its circumstances.

The Great Wave is a constant reminder of these things and whenever I get near grading the Great Wave always appears as a screen saver on my machine at work and at home. I'm grading on Sunday and well ready as my head is pretty much where it needs to be.

Knob gags will be back next week...

Pussy News...

The new kitten, Willow, is starting to have the run of From Beer To Paternity Towers after been cooped up in the living room for the past few months while various builders have been working in the house.

The downside of this is that she and our other cat, Buffy, are now starting to run into each other several times a day and they're sort of working out how to handle each other amid the snarling and hissing.

Buffy, of course, is a lethal killer and regularly brings us 'presents' of the small, furry and bloody variety at 4am in the morning, prompting the Missus to turn into the housemaid from Tom And Jerry cartoons as she shrieks for help while standing on the bed.

Willow is also showing signs of following in Buffy's footsteps as a mouse recently escaped from Buffy and ran through the gap under the living room door a few weeks ago. The poor mouse obviously thought it had made it to freedom. Then it ran into Willow and she made short work of it.

To encourage this disposition the Missus has recently bought three toy mice which Willow now chases and savages around the kitchen. Last night she also climbed into our bed and decided a certain part of my anatomy was also fair game, meaning it's padded boxer shorts in bed from now on.

Anyway... the upshot is I now have two female cats in the house, all of who can sometimes be affectionate but have clearly decided that brutal violence is a much more entertaining option.

Can't imagine where they got that from...

Sally Morgan: Star Psychic...

The world may be heading towards financial meltdown and the omens for a speedy recovery may not be good, but ITV can always be relied upon to cheer up a discontented nation... or alternatively heap yet more schlock and misery on an unsuspecting public with its latest attempt at creating a she's-one-of-us, real-life, salt-of-the-earth D-List telly star like that old thing off Driving School.

Welcome to the world of Sally Morgan: Star Psychic...

The basic premise of the show is that celebrity psychic Morgan, a bubbly, fiftysomething with a body shape like an enlarged Ewok, meets and greets various celebs and other punters for the 'first time' and displays her pyschic gifts to all and sundry by delving into their pasts to reveal astonishing facts and helping guide their futures.

Interestingly the show opens by claiming that Morgan was a trusted confidant and psychic reader for the late Princess Di, like that alone means we should implicitly trust and believe in her. But once you delve beyond the surface of that little fact it's not exactly a ringing endorsement as our Sally didn't have any visions of a car crashing in a Paris subway to help protect her star client.

In the main body of the show Sally uses her psychic gift to astonish and bewilder various D-List celebrities (the Cheeky Girls, a couple of Page 3 stunnas, that bird off the Scottish Widow adverts, Jennie Falconer), before she then gets to grips with members of the public.

Some of the former celeb-bilge is bizarre because Morgan throws so many keywords and guesses out that when one of the celebs latches onto something it's like the Red Sea has opened. It's miracle time! The fact that Morgan is all enthusiastic machine-gun delivery and touchy-feely with people is also quite a clever ruse as viewers accept her as a chatty old girl who always talks a lot so they conveniently forget the bits of guess work and loaded phrases leading up to the miracle moment that were wide of the mark or ignored. And conveniently viewers don't see the bits that were edited out either.

But it's in the latter non-celeb section where it gets quite intriguing because it ventures into the arena of emotional pornography where vulnerable and needy members of the public lay themselves open to be hoodwinked by more fishing and digging until one of the guesses gets lucky.
'I'm seeing man... He's very close to you... Have you had a man who's passed over to the other side? He's very proud of you...'
'Yes. My dad/brother/uncle/brother* passed away...'
'Did he have a favourite coat?'
'Yes...'
'It was a dark coat, wasn't it?'

Sadly some of it is quite clever and I must confess I don't know how she does all of it.

For example she knew pretty early on that one the Page 3 girls was pregnant but a decent cold reader would have spotted the hands on the stomach in a protective guard immediately. It's also well chronicled how other psychics use intricate networks of information so they can prep up on psychic tourists who've visited other psychics before and it wouldn't take a genius to figure out how facts about 'surprise' guests could be leaked ahead of schedules through a helpful TV production bodkin.

Remember: just because you can't see the strings it doesn't mean there aren't any.

As far as I could tell Morgan is a coldreader par excellence in the guise of Blanche from Coronation Street voiced by the cast of Loose Women. All of the cast of Loose Women.

But in essence it's end-of-the-pier and bottom-of-the-barrel stuff which has none of the style or presentation of Derren Brown and, even more dangerously, purports to be the real thing rather than trickery whose method is exposed at the end.

It's shocking that ITV puts this bilge on TV. If they want to do something genuinely interesting in this area then bring Phillips in and subject her to proper scientifically controlled conditions with people she can't previously research or cold read and not publicity-hungry celebs who are booked months in advance.

Sadly, of course, that wouldn't be interesting or good telly. But then again neither is this – unless you're Morgan, of course, whose business (£1.50 per minute with one of her hand-picked team of psychics or £30 for 20 minutes via credit card) is probably booming as more needy and gullible folk flock to her website...

Making The Grade...

I grade for my black stripe at hapkido in 11 days and I'm a tad nervous.

It's been a year of niggling and nasty injuries and my recent bout of flu totally knocked me on my arse so I'm still not operating at full strength. Even worse the sort of training sessions that I'd normally fly through are currently turning into a bit of a grueling ordeal.

My body feels like the Starship Enterprise in Star Trek when it's under attack from the Kingons and the shields are struggling to hold up and Scotty is shouting 'She cannae take it, captain!' from the engine room.

Apart from my current stamina issues I also need to tighten up my stances. And I need to run through everything else I've learnt over the past five years. But that's all I need to worry about.

Oh... apart from learning the Korean words for the techniques I'll be tested on. Still, nobody said it was going to be easy...

Other Woman Who Loves Other Women News...

I am grading for the belt before black in just over two weeks and as I've had bits and bobs of time off injured and ill over the past four months I am trying to get back up to speed so I don't make a total arse out of myself.

Fortunately the OWWLOW (Other Woman Who Loves Other Women) passed the same grading last year so I spent an hour going through stuff with her this evening. She's a very good martial artist and as she's also a dancer she looks incredibly graceful when she's moving. She's also an utter athlete and it makes me realise I still have a tendency to be a bit of a brawler rather than a nimble-footed ninja-in-training whenever I take some time to watch her.

But if I'm going to spend an hour getting hot and sweaty in a room with a woman who's not my wife then I'm glad it's her. And I also love the fact that she give me advice like 'You need to spread your legs a bit wider' without smirking.

Well, without smirking too much...

Going Victorian...

My need for amusing facial hair has resurfaced so my sideburns are back.

My brother-in-law thinks I look like cannibal butcher Hilary Briss from the League Of Gentlemen while the Boy is convinced I've gone all Victorian and am trying to emulate Sherlock Holmes.

Consequently any time I mention anything to the Boy it suddenly turns into a gag about something Victorian or detective-related. For example:
'What school did you go to?' asks the Boy?
'Goole Grammar School...'
'Are you sure you didn't go to an elementary, my dear Watson, an elementary...'

The odds on me paying for his very expensive 18th birthday present are getting longer by the day...

Pussy News...

The new kitten Willow is getting bigger and has taken to sleeping in a wooden bowl on a table in the living room.

I commented on this and suggested Willow was maybe a little bit mental.
'She'll fit right in living in this household then,' replied the wife.

Probably a fair point...

All Heart...

I am in hapkido class and really going for it and feeling fabulous then suddenly I have horrible chest pains.

My heart feels like it's about to burst out of my chest so I stop and sit down for about 15 minutes until I can gingerly move without pain. It is quite scary. My body hasn't rebelled like this before. Ever. Even in my feral drinking, smoking and carousing years...

So I eventually feel able to move without pain and I slowly make my way home and explain what happened to the Missus and the Boy in and in their usual sharing, caring way they demonstrate their love and concern.
'Can you shut up as we're watching TV?'
'And I'm trying to eat pizza...'

The next day I phone NHS Direct and they suggest I visit my local doctor. One phone call later and I'm booked in to visit my doctor the same morning and he checks me out and sends me off to a hospital in Paddington for an ECG. I get to Paddington and get the ECG done within five minutes of arriving at the hospital then I head back to my local doctor's surgery where I manage to book an appointment for later that evening and I give him my ECG results and I get the all-clear.

So two appointments with my local doctor and one hospital visit in one day. The NHS are doing great work.

My body, however, has clearly had enough and three days later I succumb to the flu. And it's proper flu as well. Bugger...

Goth News...

Me and the Missus are visiting Barry Stir, an old friend who is in the legal profession.

He lives in Nottingham and when he's not donning a wig and gowns to be in court he's a concert-going Goth with a penchant for the Sisters of Mercy and Killing Joke. So when we're out and about and and he's taking us to his fave pubs we inevitably end up in the goth/rock pub in town.

It's a place of wonder and I want to stay there for ever and take pictures of all the weird and wonderful people on display. I tell the Missus these are my people and this could very well be my new spiritual home.

She tells me I am a nearly fortysomething man wearing jeans and a jacket and in no way look like one of them. I try to explain that the tribe of Goth is about internal as well as external attributes but she doesn't listen and talks to Barry Stir instead.

The next day we are out and about in town and we chance upon the two Goth/punk/S&M shops in Nottingham – and the Missus wants to go in. Result! So I encourage this and she gets into a discussion about tribal-style earrings with the woman who owns the shop. Even better, she buys some of them and toys with the idea of buying more.

The Missus is slowly turning Goth from the ears out...

Other Woman News...

The Other Woman has broken her arm in two places when she landed awkwardly during a falling drill that involves jumping over people then going into a breakfall.

It was a freak accident and there were operations involved and she subsequently has a heavily bandaged and swollen arm that now has steel plates in it to knit the bones back together. Ouch...

But with a Halloween party coming up she's decided not to let her swollen arm get her down or stop her planned festivities. In fact she's decided to utilise the fact that one of her arms is twice the size of the other one and go to her Halloween party as... Hellboy.

I think she's a genius. Well, a genius who's about to coated in red body paint...

Rambo...

I have to confess I love Sylvester Stallone. I genuinely think he's a very clever bloke and I still think First Blood and Rocky are pretty good films so I was rather pleased when the Rambo DVD arrived through our letterbox.

The plot of Rambo is hardly Chekhovian: former Vietnam vet John Rambo is now a boatman who's hired to take several religious do-gooders into Burma where they hope to dish out Bibles and provide some medical care. But they're captured by nasty Burmese army types and he has to return to rescue them with a bunch of mercenaries.

It's pretty standard Rambo fayre but at just over 80 minutes there's not too much time for character development. There is shedloads of bloody violence, though, as everyone's favourite former Green Beret cuts his way through swathes of nasty Burmese soldiers and saves the day.

The Missus watched the movie with me and she claimed it was the worst film she'd ever seen. I argued, however, that it was a telling critique of US foreign policy and the morality of the peace movement because the only way anything got done was through violence and warfare – even though it fundamentally didn't change anything (apart from Rambo himself, who returns home to his family in America).

I said I saw this latter development in particular as another analogy of what US foreign policy should be and that the US should follow Rambo's idea and get out of troubled areas and head home to sort out their own problems first.

The Missus told me I was an idiot. I, however, think I may be a foreign policy expert-in-waiting.

Picture Perfect...

One of my work colleagues showed me a mobile phone picture of the baby she's currently carrying.

You could tell it was a baby's face in the womb and it was quite cute in a black-and-white baby-in-the-womb kind of way.

She didn't seem too happy, however, when I asked how she got the phone in situ to take the photo. Girls, eh...

Hot Stuff!

I am out with the Missus and we are having a curry with the Other Woman, the Other Woman's Real Fella and the Other Woman Who Loves Other Women.

The conversation is pretty convivial, the food is good and all is going well – until the discussion gets onto Leon and I happen to mention that I thought Natalie Portman was very attractive in the film. There is a moment of silence then the Other Woman's Fella points out that she was about 13 when that movie was filmed and suddenly the entire table looks at me as though I should be on some type of register.

I try to defend myself by explaining the film is not just about the central character played by Jean Reno but also about the sexual awakening and maturing of a young girl heading towards womanhood but it doesn't work. I may as well have been Peter Sutcliffe or Fred West for the rest of the evening...

The next day I am at a county pool match and I relate the discussion to my county team-mate the Web Guru And Antique Cue Expert and he ponders the situation and gives his opinion.
'There are people that it's OK to like in your head but you should never talk to anyone about them...'

That's probably very good advice. Or maybe he thinks I'm some type of pervert too...

Wise Words...

'You've got to take pleasure in small things because there aren't enough big things in life to make you truly happy.'

I thought this was a truly fantastic quote and is a philosophy very close to my own. Then I realised Nigella Lawson had said it and, sadly, I'm not too keen on Mrs Curvy-Food-Is-Sex-Cook-Who's-Shacked-Up-With-The-Architect-Of-Bringing-Thatcher-To-Power.

So if anyone asks I'm going to pretend it was William Blake. Or Hitler...

Bruce Almighty...

The Missus has a potential new entry on her allowed list and she's even considering removing Johnny Depp to make room for him.

So who is this sexual behemoth? Well, actually, it's Bruce Parry.

For those who've never come across the delightful Mr Parry, he's an adventurer whose current series, Bruce Parry’s Amazon, sees him travel up the Amazon River to explore this region and meet the tribes and people who work there.

It's a truly fabulous series and in the episodes I've seen he's already made himself violently vomit for several mornings in order to purge his body in the same way that the tribe he's visiting do. On top of this he's also imbibed hallucinogenic potions, joined a criminal gang making cocaine in the jungle and joined a small family logging firm chopping down part of a rainforest.

But the thing that makes this such a must-see show is the fact that Parry is such a fabulous presenter who's genuinely open to new experiences and really enthusiastic when it comes to finding out about the people and their lives as he journeys down the river. No po-faced Western ideas of superiority here... only genuine interest and genuine compassion.

He's wonderful and the show is fab. And he's also a former Royal Marines Physical Training Instructor so he can probably bonk for bloody hours too. Consequently I may have to increase my exercise regime to compete with my wife's newest addition to the allowed list – unless, of course, Parry has a go at crocodile wrestling in the next episode and comes a cropper.

Sadly I love myself so I'd probably mourn too and also lament the fact the wife can't shag him. He's that bloody nice...

Happy Anniversary...

Last week I celebrated five years of martial arts training at hapkido and with it came a bit of a breakthrough as far as my mental approach was concerned.

For much of this year I've had no grading to prepare for so I've been watching other people spar during class and paying attention to what they were doing and working out how I could counter it. In fact in my head I'd turned sparring into something of a competition and worked out how I could get inside and utilise my slowly evolving boxing skills.

Then the penny finally dropped on Thursday and I realised if I want to pass my next grading then I should really be focusing on myself and polishing my skills and not worrying about any other bugger's.

On the plus side, however, I have nicked a couple of nifty fighting techniques from other martial arts to act as defences/weapons in sparring so it's not been a total waste of time. One is a Muay Thai kick called a 'teep' which involves kicking the thigh of an opponent's kicking leg, while the other is a double elbow strike borrowed from a Cambodian martial art called Bogatar.

But I now need to stop worrying about that and get my arse into gear as it's eight weeks and counting until I grade for my black stripe, which is the belt before black. And it could be a tough few months to get up to speed...

Martial Lore...

I attended an intensive hapkido course this weekend.

The Other Woman and the Other Woman Who Loves Other Women were there too and I can honestly say that, after two days of kicking and punching and throwing and joint-locking and wrestling and ground-fighting, my body has never ached so much from any form of exercise...

The weekend basically happened because the chief instructor from the main academy was over from the US for a week as she's good friends with our instructor and so they ran an intensive weekend-course-cum-bootcamp for a group of academy students.

And it was spectacularly fab with really good teaching and lots of eager students learning new techniques or refining old ones. It was particularly good from a personal point of view because it provided an injection of enthusiasm when I needed it most and it reminded me that, even though I still have much to learn and refine, I can actually do some of this stuff. In fact I'm even half-decent at some of it.

I could make black belt yet. Maybe...

On Cue...

As a long-time pool and snooker player I have always had a bit of an interest in old snooker cues and the various Riley tombstone cues, so named because the Riley badges on the butts are shaped like a tombstone, are something I've always thought were quite beautiful.

And now I am the proud owner of my first antique Riley cue. The downside of this, however, is I've now decided I want to own one of each of the Riley tombstone cues, of which there are five or six different ones so I now have a new collecting mania.

Sadly the Missus has decreed we need the bathroom doing so I have to find money for this just as I'm finding a new hobby that may require additional funds too.

So antique snooker cues or new bathroom? It's a tough call. Fortunately there is always the excellent website www.thecuecollector.com where I can window-shop if all else fails...

Potty Mouth...

We are eating dinner and the Boy is discussing the film Taken and saying it has had awful reviews so I try to defend its lead actor.
'That's a shame as I quite like Liam Neeson. He was great in The Big Man and Schindler's List'
'I've never seen The Big Man but I'm probably going to watch Schindler's List tonight...' says the Boy.
'Have you never seen it?'
'No.'
'I thought you'd have seen it...'
'Why?'
'Well it's quite an important movie. Spielberg gets serious sort of thing...'
'Well I'm watching it tonight.'

I smirk and remember a gag.
'A friend of mine told me to watch Schindler's List many years ago but he warned me that I'd need a box of tissues. So I bought some tissues but there was nothing to have a...'

The Missus intervenes.
'For God's sake! Do not crack jokes about wanking to Schinder's List at the dinner table.'

I get the sort of look she reserves for spare room offences. So I hold my tongue and comfort myself with the thought that in an alternative reality my wife is Jane Austen and I have gained immortality as one of her books ends with the line...

'Because, dear reader, I married the cloth-headed, potty-mouthed fucking idiot...'

Progress...

A friend of mine works at Asda Magazine and I was asking her if she recalls the advert where shoppers walked around the store and, after paying for their groceries, slapped the pocket on their backsides to show that it had more change in it after shopping there rather than shopping at any other rival store.

I think it was voiced by Molly Sugden and I pointed out that such an act may now seem old hat and vaguely sexist but it was in the 1970s when slapping a young woman's arse was deemed a reasonable thing to show on TV.

These days, of course, such actions are frowned upon and the advent of feminism has put something of a halt to this sort of behaviour. Especially if men are also involved. And especially if the arse-slapping is not requested or sought.

In fact these days it's called 'sexual harassment'. And they call it progress, eh?

Gone To Pot...

Last week saw the presentation night for the singles pool league I've been playing in for the past year and a half. It's a pretty decent standard and competing in it has no doubt helped my form return somewhat, so much so that in the last season I finished second in the top division and above at least two players who are better than me.

But it was also a bit of a sad moment as I'm taking a break from playing pool again to focus on my hapkido studies as my next grading is for my black stripe and the one after that will be for my black belt.

So I have to get focused for at least the next three months – then maybe much longer...

Consequently I've been slowly getting back into fighting shape and I'll be taking some lessons about how I got back into half-decent form at pool into my hapkido studies after feeling like I've been treading water in class for the past year.

For a start at pool I got back on the practice table and started putting the hours in and, even though the bike's been getting some road miles on it and I'm getting personal tuition at boxing, I need to put the hours back in at hapkido.

But I think most importantly I have to remember why I wanted to play pool at a decent level again and that was quite simply because I enjoyed it. And when I played well it made the hours of knocking balls around a table on my own all worth it.

Sadly I haven't really enjoyed hapkido training too much recently but that's probably because I haven't been fully focused on it. But like playing pool at a decent level again I guess it's just gonna need time until the work bears fruit and it all starts to click again.

And if it doesn't I can always pick up my cue again, eh?

Just Kidding...

EastEnders currently has a storyline with a new character called Tony. He's a paedophile who's been grooming his girlfriend Bianca's stepdaughter Whitney and it all looks set to be very grim viewing indeed...

The head honcho of all things Walford, EastEnders Executive Producer Diederick Santer, has just been on Radio 5 defending the storyline and saying how he believes it's a positive thing that this plotline may provide a forum for real cases of paedophilia to be discussed and information about grooming to be more widely disseminated. He also ended his interview on the note that if one paedophile is arrested because of this story then the plotline will be doing its job.

What a pompous prick. His job is to produce a half-decent soap opera and not provide help to the police force, because the last time I checked they were responsible for arresting wrongdoers and not some tit from TV. The last time some well-meaning dumbell unleashed this particular debate, halfwit News Of The World readers ended up attacking the premises of paediatricians.

Regardless of Santer's pontificating about good drama being rooted in real issues and his so-called good intentions, this storyline is clearly about grabbing headlines and making the producer's name as a 'controversial-which-means-good' TV man rather than a producer of quality drama.

Frankly it's a ridiculous storyline. And Lucy's much better looking than Whitney...

Pussy News...

The new cat has now been living at From Beer To Paternity Towers for almost two weeks and the Missus and the Boy are totally enamoured with her.

She's been christened Willow (our other cat is called Buffy) and she's into everything and clambers over anyone who happens to sit down in the front room where she is currently housed.

Willow also has a good line in playing bite the finger, foot, hand, leg or any other appendage that happens to be available. Biting and scratching a person's ears also seems to be her other favourite game. While sitting on their head.

Because she clings onto people and their clothing – and because she is a kitten who has yet to work out how to retract her claws – the Missus, the Boy and myself are currently covered in scratches.

But it was only when I was at the gym getting dry in the changing rooms after hapkido last week that I realised the full extent of this as my back, neck and arms are scratched to buggery.

So I look like I'm either having lots of aggressive sex or have started self-harming. Or I have a mental new kitten. Draw your own conclusions...

Betrayal...

Me, the Missus and the Boy are heading out for curry and the Missus is telling the Boy that she'd been invited to a press show for a new Nintendo game entitled Lego Batman, which is something to do with the new film Dark Knight film.

And the Boy is aghast that she's turned it down as in his eyes she missed out on getting some free stuff, such as a copy of the game which would have obviously gone to him.
'I can't believe you turned it down. Can't you contact him and tell him you'll go? Or better still contact him and tell him I'll go?'
'Sadly the invitation was only for me...'

I now get interested.
'What do mean you it was just you?'
'How do you mean?'
'Well wasn't anyone else invited?'
'No. It wasn't for anyone else. It was just me...'
'Was it in a discreet hotel room somewhere by any chance?'
'Don't be ridiculous.'
'I suppose he's quite a hunk is Mr Lego Batman fella, is he?'
'He is quite attractive, actually...'

It as this point the Boy again intervenes.
'Well you should go see him and get me some free stuff then...'
'So you think your mum should commit adultery to get you a free game?'
The Boy doesn't even pause.
'Yeah. Obviously...'

Happy Birthday...

It's birthday time for the Missus again and, in a bid to win the husband of the year award for 2008, I have pulled out all the stops.

Tickets to Sadlers Wells, 3000-year-old Egyptian jewellery, a subscription to Vanity Fair, the list goes on...

I thought these presents would go down a storm but the Missus had other ideas, especially as our house now has a new kitten.
'My best birthday present was our new kitten...' she opined in a careless moment.

I used to think the kitten was adorable but I'm starting to hate it now. This means war...

The Pyjama Game...

I read a fantastic book called The Pyjama Game: A Journey into Judo while I was on holiday.

It's written by a journalist called Mark Law and it traces his gradual interest and subsequent immersion the world of judo as a practitioner as well as tracing the history of the martial art in its political, sporting and social context.

It's a fantastically well-researched book and a thoroughly entertaining read. It essentially does for judo what Angry White Pyjamas by Robert Twigger did for aikido and is every bit as good.

Well worth a look whether you're a martial artist or not.

Back Home...

Me and the Missus arrive back from our holidays. We left the Boy at home as he decided he didn't want to travel abroad with the olds any more.

So we arrive home eager to chat to him about whether he had a good time and whether everything was OK. The Missus was worried throughout the trip as it was the first time we've left him for any length of time.

'So how was it?' she inquires.
'Great. Had my friends round, played poker, drank beer, watched films, chilled out... When you going again?'

It's official. We are redundant as parents...

Holiday Romance...

The holiday apartments we’re staying at are jolly nice and we’ve already made friends with some of our fellow holiday-makers. Two of our chums are a pair of sisters who have pretty much travelled everywhere in the world and we've also palled up with a very nice family from Portsmouth and their kids.

Everyone is very polite and very civilised and most of the people we’ve met seem to have been coming here for years. But there are two new arrivals, a pair of women who have piqued the Missus’ interest.

They’re both fiftysomething and are holidaying together. I think they’re either lovers or old friends but the villa complex owner has christened them the 'nice ladies’ and this seems quite fitting, although one of the 'nice ladies' has a face like a slapped arse and both steadfastly refuse to have anything to do with anybody else in any way, shape or form.

They are very much the sort of 'ladies who lunch' but the Missus has decided they’re lovers and has rechristened them ‘ladies who munch’. This is the sort of gag I would usually crack. I must be rubbing off on her…

PS. One of the 'ladies who munch' has come down with a stomach bug that's been doing the rounds. The Missus reported the news to me and I suggested it must have been something she ate. We smirked like children.

Quick on The Draw...

One of the little tasks I've set myself while on holiday is to come up with some ideas and storyline for a graphic novel I'll be writing with one of my oldest friends.

He came up up with the initial concept but, as per usual, I've shot off at several angles and come up with what I think is some pretty nifty stuff. In order to do this I've taken a notepad and started doing storyboards but the only problem with this is that I'm sub-nursery standard at art.

But I've persevered and done quite a bit of work on this, even though my artistic failings have somewhat hampered my progress. Anyway while on holiday me and the Missus have made friends with a lovely family with two young kids from the Portsmouth area.

So I was sitting down sketching storyboards and writing dialogue and the little boy, seven, comes to sit by me and asks what I'm doing. I explain myself and he decides he wants to do some drawing too and rushes off and gets his notepad and starts to draw. And he's better than me.

Then to add insult to injury his sister, four, sidles up and asks the same question. So I explain and she also deicdes she wants to draw too. And she's about my level.

Humbled by children. But I tell myself I'm a writer and not an artist. Well, a not-very-successful writer. Up till now...

Up The Gary...

Me and the Missus are on holiday on the Geek island of Lemnos and are sat down eating dinner.

I say dinner but I really mean tea but because I am now an adopted cockney and have picked up the vernacular of their posher members dinner is now the evening meal and lunch is what in the north is dinner as in dinner ladies and dinner money.

But I digress. The Missus is eating and becoming quite vexed about Gary Glitter, a man she has a passing knowledge of after briefly kissing him while working at a gig venue in her native town of Aylesbury one Christmas.
‘He’s out soon and I reckon the British press are going to hunt him for all he’s worth. I think they’ll drive him to commit suicide…’
‘And you think that’s a bad thing?’
‘No. He’s a kiddy-fiddler and he deserves whatever he’s got coming, especially when he had the chance to serve his time and start a new life but decided to piss that opportunity away in Vietnam.’
‘I actually think you’ve missed out a few steps in the Glitter-to-top-himself process…’
‘How?’
‘Well for a start I think you’ve underestimated the sick nature of the British press… I reckon one of the tabloids will do a big exclusive interview where he claims he’s seen the error of his ways and all he wants is the chance to rebuild his life. They’ll run this then when he next fucks up as he inevitably will they’ll round on him then and use that interview as ammunition against him because they’ll pretend they were suckered in by him and wanted to give him an extra chance but now he’s betrayed them they’ll slaughter him good and proper. Hence the suicide…’
‘You think they’re really that depraved?’
‘Absolutely, but there’s more… As a reaction against the press all the Glitter fans will demand a re-release of one of his hits and they’ll buy it as a backlash against the sanctimonious press and ensure it’s No.1.’

The Missus looks at me like I’m an idiot.
‘I’ll bet you money…’
‘How much?
‘£50?’
‘Done…’

When it happens you read it here first…

If The Cap Fits…

Me and the Missus are on holiday on a fabulous and pretty much untouched-by-tourism-and-Brits island called Lemnos.

The Boy had the choice to join us but instead stayed at home, officially relegating us from cool parents to the ‘olds’ he’d now rather not be seen out in public with.

So myself and the Missus are sat at breakfast and she is contemplating whether to stay by the pool or head to the beach.
‘I’d quite like to go the beach today but there’s nobody near the pool and it would be really quite and we’d pretty much have the placed to ourselves. Get rid of the hat. But on the other hand the beach is supposed to be pretty uncrowded in the morning…’

To be perfectly honest I am still a bit sleepy and half-listening to her and half-thinking about a comic I have recently started writing with a friend of mine. So I give my default response designed to prevent me from making a decision and therefore getting into trouble for making the wrong one.
‘Whatever you fancy, honey. I’m not fussed either way…’

Later in the day we are walking into the nearby town and the Missus is talking about the possibilities for daytrips but now I am slightly more with it.
‘There’s an evening boat trip to see dolphins which sounds like it could be quite nice as we’re still sailing as the sun sets and there’s also a day boat trip around the island which stops off at secret beaches and coves and the like. Get rid of the hat. I don’t think we should do the trip to the other island, though, because…’
‘Hang on. What about the hat?’
‘What hat?’
‘My hat. You said something about my hat…’
‘I didn’t.’
‘Yes you bloody did. You said “Get rid of the hat”’.
‘I was hoping you wouldn’t notice…’
‘Are you trying to get me to do what you want by subliminal suggestion?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why don’t you just ask me?’
‘Because I know you love that hat, even though it’s skanky and it doesn’t suit the shape of your head, and if I ask you get rid of it you’ll just dig your heels in because you’re a stubborn git.’
‘I love my hat…’
‘See…’
‘But subliminal suggestion. That’s a ridiculous idea…’
‘Yes. It is... Get rid of the hat.’

Pussy News...

The Missus continues to go crazy over the impending arrival of the new family kitten she's already christened Spike (as our other cat is named Buffy).

But she has now gone even more bonkers because our one new cat has suddenly grown to two (to be named Willow). They arrive when we get back from holiday, by which time our new kitten might well have grown into about 20 new cats.

There's a scene in Trainspotting where an elderly heroin addict is found dead in his flat surrounded by his cats after contracting toxin plasmosis because he couldn't clean up the cat excrement from all his cats any more. They simply over-ran the place as he lost the will to live.

I am seeing my future...

West Side Story...

I took the Missus to see West Side Story at Sadlers Wells at the weekend.

And, even though I am not the greatest fan of musicals the world has ever known, it was pretty bloody fabulous. The Bernstein score and Sondheim lyrics make it such a complete and coherent story and from a writing point of view the way the narrative motors along yet still makes total emotional sense never fails to impress me.

The musical ensemble number at the end of the opening act where Tony and Maria sing Tonight and the Jets and the Sharks sing their song about the rumble never fails to knock me on my arse as it all builds to a whacking crescendo, and the leads playing Tony, Maria and Anita were superb. The staging was also pretty inventive too.

I used to be a real community arts leftie then moved onto writing and directing in Fringe theatre but visiting Sadlers Wells and quaffing wine is rapidly becoming one of my fave things. And it's nice to see a story about race hatred involving gangs and stabbings to take your mind off life in contemporary London. Oh, hang on...

Family Planning...

I have finished tidying up after cooking tea for me and the Boy. I have also trained like a lunatic today so I am sprawled out on the sofa in the kitchen watching some halfwit get himself a new arsehole ripped after bringing some ludicrous idea to the ever-smug moguls on Dragon's Den.

The Missus is also in the kitchen making herself something with no calories after returning from her exercise class when the Boy comes back into the kitchen and opens the fridge.
'Where's the Strawberry Cheesecake ice cream?'
I decide to fess up.
'I finished it.'
'You finished it? All of it?'
'I was hungry...'
'But that's my favourite.'
'Well I paid for the cunt!'

The Missus interjects with a polite 'Excuse me...'
I realise my mistake.
'Correction... We paid for the cunt...'

I turn to the Missus seeking approval but there is only a look of disdain on her face. Chicks, eh?

The Ultimate Fighter...

In my ongoing, currently injury-prone quest to become a better fighter I decided to have a further delve into the world of mixed martial arts and treated myself to a DVD, which bore the macho title The Ultimate Fighter.

It's basically the first series of a reality show where 16 mixed martial artists all train together and compete against each other to win one of two professional contracts with the UFC. Think of The Apprentice meets Big Brother with full contact fighting and blood and lots of posturing and you're more or less there.

The 16 martials artists are split into two teams, one headed by 'UFC legend' Randy Couture and the other headed by 'UFC legend' Chuck Liddel. The two fighters who eventually win the contracts, one middleweight and one light-heavyweight, then get the chance to also become a 'UFC legend'.

As you may gather the show is not short on hyperbole but it's remarkably watchable, even though the episodes tend to focus on the dynamics of the housemates as they try to big themselves up in front of their rivals rather than on giving tips on how to perfect a rear naked choke.

The episodes then arrive at the money shot of the two fighters battling it out in the octagan at the end of each episode until eventually only the winners remain.

Apparently it's quite a hit show in the US where it's now up to series seven. And, god forgive me, after watching the first series I may even buy another one.

Or I just may remember I have a brain and finish reading Peter Aykrod's excellent book on the Thames instead. It's a close call...

Crimewatch...

Barry George is a comedy genius. Think about it...

He served eight years for a crime he didn't commit and now tells everybody: 'It couldn't have been me because... I was busy stalking somebody else at the time.'

I would loved to have been in the police interview room when he came out with that little gem. Somebody must have pissed themselves laughing, surely?

How Corrupt Is Your Government?

The story so far…

In 2007 the Blair Government halted a Serious Fraud Office Inquiry into a £43bn BAE Systems arms deal with Saudi Arabia, citing ‘national security’ as the reason for the inquiry to be cancelled.

But in April this year the Campaign Against the Arms Trade (CAAT) and the Cornerhouse won a High Court ruling which cited that the Government’s decision to cancel the inquiry was unlawful.

The Government immediately demanded the right to appeal and this week got this ruling over-turned.

The upshot of this, of course, is that the truth about the corrupt business practices of BAE and its links with the bribe-happy Saudis will never be fully uncovered, but apparently if you’re a multi-billion pound industry with friends in high places you are above inconvenient things like the law that the rest of us have to adhere to…

But that’s not the end of the story…

Because the Government has now introduced the Constitutional Renewal Bill, part of which would ensure that parliament or the courts can no longer question decisions based on ‘national security’.

So not only will we know never know just how corrupt this deal was but any future such arms deals will now be protected from scrutiny because all those involved have to do is cite ‘national security’ and, hey presto, any sensitive or potentially embarrassing information is magically off limits.

The fact that the elite protects itself is nothing new but the fact its mechanisms of protection grow ever stronger and are becoming more blatant is quite shocking. If this happened in some tinpot African dictatorship liberal England would shake its head in disgust.

But it’s happening here and I find that deeply sad for our democracy and a little frightening too…

Rejection...

I achieved a personal record for my latest play being rejected today.

It was rejected by one theatre company within a seven-day period – and that included time for the script to travel there and time for the rejection letter to travel back. It also included a weekend...

Today I've also had a quite damning report back from another theatre company I sent the play to.

I should be depressed. My confidence should be knocked. I should be humbled.

But I'm not. Fuck 'em. Their opinions are wrong and I remain right in my view that it's a strong and well-written play.

And the Missus thinks I don't take criticism well...

Alpha Male...

I had a discussion with the Missus last week and made a comment suggesting she'd landed on her feet to snag an alpha male like me for a husband.

Her reaction was to snort with derision and point out that the alphabet was not long enough to classify the type of male I actually was. But I chose to ignore her words and rise above it as that's what an alpha male would do.

So tonight we are watching a BBC1 TV show called John Barrowman: The Making of Me. In this Barrowman, a gay man so far out of the closet he would never find his way back from Narnia, did some research into what it was that made him gay. Was it genetic, was it environment, was it upbringing, etc?

It was a pretty good programme and Barrowman remains an eminently likeable TV personality, but at one point some science bodkin told him that an easy way to find out if you are more masculine than feminine is to find out whether your ring finger is longer than your index finger. If this is the case it suggests that there was a high level of testosterone in the womb when you were forming and so are very male. If it's the other way round, however, it suggests there was not as much testosterone so you will be more feminine.

The Missus tried this test first and her ring fingers were longer than her index fingers. I toyed with the idea of pointing out that this may explain her continual aggression and violence but thought it would not be politic to mention this. The Boy then tried this and he is also of a fervently masculine bent.

Finally I tried it and it's apparently astounding that I'm not wearing dresses. But I've always secretly thought I was a gay man trapped with the body and desires of a raging heterosexual. And so apparently has the Missus...

Fight Quest VI...

I went to a hapkido grading yesterday to see several friends be put through their paces and it was all pretty fab. I did, however, feel pretty left out as I couldn't be an opponent for anyone as I was still nursing an injury...

So when I got home I went in the back garden and trained on my own for about an hour to see how my injury was doing and it's sort of pretty good, so good in fact that I ventured to the boxing gym today to have a bit of a workout.

I'd been there about half an hour when a very pleasant chap asked me if I wanted to spar a few rounds and I declined, citing injury recovery as my reason. Then a few minutes later my boxing coach came over and encouraged me to give it a go with the words: 'You may be recovering from injury but this is your chance to hit a Tory MP...'

So I was soon gloved up doing some light sparring and it was good fun. He was about the same level as me as a boxer and he was also a very nice fella.

So it looks like I'm nearly back to full fitness and, even better, I can now say I've been gently banged around the ring by a Tory MP and I loved it.

Make your own gags...

Movie Madness…

Myself and the Boy ventured to the big Movie and Comic Book Convention at Earls Court this weekend.

We pride ourselves on being movie and comic fans but with the geek taken out, although if truth be told I am at the forefront of my own campaign to reclaim the word ‘geek’ and use it as a term of empowerment in the same way the gay community now uses the word ‘queer’.

There was quite healthy turnout for this event and myself and the Boy were fascinated to see that lots of people had dressed up for it. So we’re wandering around and we turn one corner and there’s a man dressed in a home-made Transformers costume, we turn another corner and there’s a very sweet lesbian couple walking round hand-in-hand (but one of them is dressed as a Jedi knight with light sabre hanging from her belt).

There was also a young girl dressed as Red Sonja who was getting quite a lot of attention, mainly because she was showing quite a lot of flesh and you get the impression not many attendees got the chance to get up that close to a near-naked woman. Add in a few dozen folk in Star Trek costumes, many bods dressed as comic characters and various people in horror and other sci-fi movie garb and you get the idea.

It was the sort of place where Tron Man would be king. In fact the only place where Tron Man would be king…

The Boy sported his Green Lantern t-shirt and I felt particularly under-dressed as I hadn’t even worn the obligatory comic character t-shirt showing allegiance to the tribe of geek. Then walking around one corner the Boy suddenly says something to me that sounds like ‘There’s no way he’ll fit into an X-man…’

So I look around trying to spot the X-man in question without success.
‘Where?’ I ask.
‘There!’ says the Boy pointing in front of us.
‘I can’t see any X-men…’
‘X-wing. I said he’d never fit in an X-wing.’

I look ahead and see a very portly chap dressed like an X-wing fighter pilot from Star Wars. And he was right. He never would fit into an X-wing. The Boy, however, remained still stunned I misunderstood him.
‘I said X-wing not X-man. I mean, how is anyone going to fit into an X-man?’
I pause.
‘He could try to shag him…’

The Boy looks at me in disgust.
‘You’re so wrong in the head…’

Apparently a portly man dressed as an X-wing pilot trying to anally rape another man dressed in an X-men costume is beyond the pale. Modern youth, eh?

Pussy News...

The Missus thinks I am a lunatic because I talk to our remaining cat Buffy, whose mother passed away last year.

The Boy also thinks this a tad odd and he will often come downstairs when the Missus is out and ask me who I was talking to. When I reply 'I was just talking to Buffy...' he looks at me as though I'm not not quite right in the head and wanders off muttering insults under his breath...

But the Missus has now decided she wants a new kitten in the house and has herself started having full-blown conversations with Buffy about how she'll feel about us getting a new kitten (which she has already christened Spike). The Boy is also making casual inquiries about the views of the cat on our impending kitten arrival.

But even worse the Missus is behaving in quite an affectionate way as she tries to convince me that this new addition to From Beer To Paternity Towers will be a good idea. Now I'm not used to marital affection as I've never had it and, to be quite honest, I find it slightly disturbing.

But I am also secretly enjoying the power that being the kitten deal-breaker gives me. I think I could get a new cue out of this if I play my cards right...

Fight Quest V...

A common complaint among most men is: 'My wife doesn't understand me...' But there is a much worse condition than that and it is the following: 'My wife understands me perfectly. In fact she understands me so perfectly that her understanding is almost telepathic.'

For example, when I was trying to find late Victorian pornography last year as part of research for a play I could happily explain this to my wife and she didn't bat an eyelid because she understood. Similarly when I found the grave of a famous Victorian prostitute last year I went visiting and my wife understood.

I fear, however, I now may have crossed a line and that line is watching Nuts TV.

For those who have yet to sample the delights of Nuts TV it's essentially pub sports, fighting and really badly produced soft porn masquerading as 'adult' entertainment shows. Like the magazine it is based on it's tawdry rubbish aimed at knuckleheads but last night I became one of those knuckleheads as flicking through the TV channels I spotted it had a show on cage fighting.

So I decided to watch this as, despite injury, I am still a wannabe UFC fighter and I thought it would be good research.

The show featured two cage fights from what looked like a leisure centre in Barking or Grimsby and it reminded me how little toe-to-toe battling is involved in cage fighting as the first fight ended up on the ground and stayed there for most of its two rounds, while the second ended in a knockout in about 10 seconds.

It was also hardly glamorous stuff and this is the sort of arena wannabe fighter have to start off in if they want to get anywhere. Frankly it's along way from the UFC...

So I may have to learn Brazilian ju-jitsu or some other ground-fighting art if my bid to be a proper fighter is ever to be realised. Or I could just be like the guy who got knocked out and be a journeyman punchbag.

Or I could just ensure I'm back in working order and stick to the hapkido and boxing training I do without the risk of serious injury by knocking this perhaps foolhardy idea on the head...