My Missus The Ninja...

It's a standing joke at From Beer To Paternity Towers that even though I am the martial artist and the boxer, the Missus remains the most dangerous member of the family...

Recently she has also developed Ninja-like skills of instigating then ignoring an argument and letting it drop before I even know what's going on. This has become known as one of her Ninja arguments because I don't know where they come from or how they mysteriously manage to vanish and leave no trace but they do exist.

A case in point was our recent trip to the cinema to see The Hangover. We arrive a few minutes before the film is due to start and I am stood in the queue for popcorn and drinks while she returns from the loo.

So I am quite happily waiting when she appears at my side with the following question.
'Why have you not got drinks and popcorn from the self-service kiosk?'
'Because I can get them here and they'll do it for me...'
'But there's a queue and it will save us time.'
'It will save us about 30 seconds...'
'I'm only trying to help...'
'Well you're not – and don't always assume that just because I choose to do something one way that your way is automatically better.'

This all seemed innocent enough but two sentences later I am on the receiving end of a barage that accuses me of drinking any drink we get to eat in the cinema, eating all the popcorn we get to eat in the cinema and of engineering the argument in the first place so I could fulfil my secret wish to buy nachos which she hates as she has to listen to me eat them. Then to top it all off I've apparently got the arse with her!

Then 30 seconds later it's all gone and for all intents and purposes her outburst could never have happened. But I know the Ninja argument crept in, did its damage then left again. And behind her contented eyes is the look of a stone-cold killer with shuriken in one hand and a katana in the other...

Gilbert And George...

The Missus took me to see the latest Gilbert and George exhibition Jackfreak.

It's on at two venues, one is the achingly fashionable White Cube in the equally achingly fashionable Hoxton and the other is a gallery in Mason's Yard just off Piccadilly Circus.

The shows are essentially Gilbert and George's take on ideas of English identity, which in their eyes are bound up with ideas of religion and sporting achievement and warfare and even a bit of nosey neighbour paranoia. The pieces themselves are huge and each rectangular picture is comprised of framed square panels which when combined with their use of illuminated colours make it look a bit like a stained glass window.

And that's quite apt because some of this work borrows iconography from religion and uses it to playfully examine ideas of religion in national identity.

It may sound dull and academic but it's not. Gilbert and George are very funny and quite happily take the piss while respectfully making relevant points on all manner of subjects through their art.

Although the Missus is a long-time fan it was my first time at a Gilbert and George exhibition and I found the scale of their work impressive. But, more importantly, it was funny and accessible. Well worth a look...

Lights, Camera...

The Boy is making his first proper short film as a writer and director and I've been roped in to co-ordinate the fight scene.

It is 11 years since I have directed anything and now I have a couple of recent drama school graduates to put through their paces and block in a fight scene I plotted out with the Boy the night before.

Several of the Boy's friends have also been drafted in as film crew members so I have the double pressure of not making a tit of myself in front of them and embarassing him and, more importantly, remembering how to break down an action sequence into its component parts then put it together so it functions as a coherent whole.

And to put it frankly I am bricking myself.

Surprisingly, though, it actually goes OK and I remember that I can actually still do this, expecially when the two guys involved turn out to be really up for it. It almost makes me nostalgic for the life of play directing and producing I was once part of instead of the somewhat lonely path of writing I have now embarked on.

Once I've done my bit I fade into the background and watch the Boy do his stuff. He works well with the actors and he knows what he is doing and what he wants.

But then I remember he is now no longer the Boy. He is 18 and hungry to achieve and he has that confidence of youth where absolutely anything is possible.

I watch him work and although the child is still very much there he's also a grown-up and all sorts of worries and worst-case-scenario anxieties about him heading off to university fade away.

I now know he'll be OK when he leaves home in a few months to study film production, both on the course and off it. He's gonna be just fine...

Happiness...

I look in the mirror
Big nose, thick specs
And now
sporting sideburns.

In looks at least
I am
every inch
my father’s child.

I remember
when he looked
pretty much
like I do now.

I have an image of him,
still on the docks
and playing football,
though not semi-pro any more.

I often wonder
did he ever regret
not taking the chance
to play the game he loved as a pro?

Was he really
happy enough
with a marriage
and us?

I smile and realise
That I am now
the same age
as he was then.

And rather
than just accepting
this happiness
I feel my ambition kicking in.

But maybe he knew that
failing at something you want
is more painful than succeeding
at the less you accept.

True Romance...

Me and the Missus are relaxing at home. She is talking:
'You're an utter lunatic and you can be a real spastic... but I do quite like you at times.'

After 12 and a half years together she is finally mellowing towards me.

Who says romance is dead?

Black Belt...

I passed my last grading for my red belt, black stripe last year and it's taken me a good six months to revisit all my old techniques and reach a decent enough standard to enable me to start learning new techniques for my black belt grading (expected some time in late 2010).

There are 20 black belt techniques to learn in all, which then combine with the other 90-odd techniques that I've learnt for all my previous belts, plus the 10 forms and all the hand strikes and kicks and knees and elbow strikes and special hand techniques and punching combinations and board breaking and sparring...

If I think about it to much it can all seem quite a long way off and quite daunting. But then I remember I can actually do some of this stuff and some of it I'm even quite good at. And the stuff I'm less good at I need to tackle like I tackle everything else: dismantle it, understand it, repeat it and learnt it.

I did this with my hand strikes at the start of last year. They weren't good enough so I went off to box and I'm now quite confident, sometimes over-confident, when it comes to using my hands. And that's because I dismantled it, understood it, repeated it and learnt it.

I'm now doing a similar thing with my kicking on my weak left side. I've added a sidekick drill to my weekly routine and soon I'll add a roundhouse kick drill to that. Then I'll do the same with my forms and anything else I'm weak on.

I finally feel like I'm seeing faint glimmers of light at the end of the tunnel on this black belt lark and I'm starting to feel like I'm going to get it rather than hoping I may get it.

Application beats talent every time. I need to remember that – in hapkido and in many other things...