Black Belt Grading: Part VIII...

I have passed part one of my black belt grading. I am delighted and relieved in equal measure.

Now it's continual assessment for four months followed by a written paper in April with continual assessment for another four months afterwards. If all goes well I could be wearing my black belt in August. If it doesn't I have to start the whole process again from scratch.

There's plenty more hard work ahead and I need to do some work in a few areas but I'm on my way. And very happy about it.

Merry Xmas: Part II...

Our friends from Oz are visiting over Xmas and I've been getting very excited about seeing them and mentioned this to the Missus.
'I'm really looking forward to seeing them.'
'Well don't get too excited.'
'What do you mean?'
'I just don't want you to get over-excited...'
'Why?'
'Because if you get over-excited you'll get giddy and loud and have a few drinks then have a few drinks too many...'
'You think I'm like an over-excited child drinking too much pop and and eating too many sweets, don't you?'
'Of course not, darling...'

She then picks up a cloth and wipes my top lip.
'Ice cream...' she says, helpfully.

Merry Xmas: Part I...

Above is a picture of the surprise present I bought for the Missus.

Can you guess what it is?

Black Belt Grading: Part VII...

The Missus has been very considerate and caring of late and, since the Black Belt grading, quite romantic and tactile by her usual standards.

This obviously aroused my suspicions so I decided it was time to confront her about it.
'You're being very sweet at the moment.'
'I know.'
'Are you dying?'
'No.'

Pause. Then she adds:

'You are...'

Who says romance is dead?

Black Belt Grading: Part VI...

My black belt grading is over and I thoroughly enjoyed it. I could have been sharper on a few things and it took me two goes to break two boards at one point but overall I felt like it was a pretty good day at the office.

The previous day was a senior belt class and it felt like everything I touched turned to shit and I spent large parts of Saturday evening wondering why I was even bothering to turn up to test the following day.

But I woke up the next day and stretched and got my head right. Then before I knew it I was getting up to be an opponent for the lower belts and, to quote Madonna, got into the groove.

Unless you've been through something that intense where you spend months training and honing your skills and pushing yourself to the limit it's difficult to explain what goes through your mind in the months and weeks beforehand but for me there were plenty of moments of panic, self-doubt, fear and nerves.

Then as soon as I was up testing and sparring I remembered something quite simple: to relax and breathe and enjoy the moment. And seven years of training suddenly came down to something so simple.

Best gag of the day belongs to the Missus. Because of my ongoing knee injury I'm not throwing lots of kicks so I've been relying heavily on my boxing during sparring and the head of the academy was kind enough to compliment my hand techniques.

At the end of the grading I went over to the Missus and asked her what she thought of it. She smirked and replied: 'Well... I've always told everyone you have excellent hand techniques...'

I married well.

Black Belt Grading: Part V...

It's Friday night and I have a red belt class tomorrow then it's time to grade on Sunday.

I want to borrow a line from John Carpenter's They Live and say something like 'I'm here to chew bubblegum and kick arse - and I'm all out of gum' but that would be quite silly. And gum chewing in the dojang is strictly forbidden and kicking arse also suggests a level of enjoying violence that would be severely frowned upon when I'm there to demonstrate control and grace under fire.

So the line would end up going something like: 'I would be here to chew bubblegum but that's against dojang etiquette and I would be here to kick arse... if only I'd gone to a slightly more aggressive and more ego-filled school where oneupmanship is the name of the game instead of learning both the martial and the art.'

But that's quite a shit quote so it's probably best to say nothing and just get there.

On the plus side the nerves are now kicking in a bit so I'm starting to get a bit on edge. But that's a good sign. Edge is good.

Black Belt Grading: Part IV...

Three sleeps now until grading day arrives and I've had a No.1 haircut. This is something I always do before every grading and usually before any important pool match because, quite simply, it makes me feel quite good about myself.

The Missus, of course, hates it and her previous opinions on the haircut I've now sported for about 13 years have included:
'It make you look like a thug.'
'It makes you look like a care in the community case.'
'It makes you look like a kiddy-fiddler.'
'It makes you look like the type of exceptionally gifted lover, wit and writer that any woman in her right mind would want to have several goes on. Then invite her younger and better looking sister to have several goes on too. Then invite her twin sisters, etc...'

I may have made the last one up. But tonight is my last training session then it's pretty much here. I'm calm, collected and confident. And ready...

Black Belt Grading: Part III...

It's quite unnerving. In fact it's quite worrying... but I'm quietly confident about tackling my black belt grading in six days.

I've put the work in, I pretty much know what I'm doing and now it's just a matter of enjoying my remaining few classes, before arriving on Sunday and waiting for the nerves to start so that final surge of adrenalin kicks in to get me over the line.

One of my training partners filmed us going over our techniques last week and there are times I look quite competent. I surprised myself. Who knows, there may be a black belt martial artist lurking in there somewhere after all?

Let's hope so, eh? And let's also hope that he doesn't do something really fucking stupid and gets himself badly injured between now and Sunday. That would be very bad...

Other Woman News...

The Other Woman sent an email yesterday linking to a quite nifty game her long-suffering other half had created to help pull in punters to a website his company runs. Rather suspiciously, however, she used the term 'lovely' before his name so my curiosity was instantly piqued because I've never heard her say anything affectionate about him in public before. Unless he buys her chocolate. Or sweets.

So my mind was racing: Had she cooked something the previous night and accidentally poisoned him and was trying to throw detectives investigating the case off the scent? Had she done something really bad to jeopardise her relationship with a man who is quite frankly better looking and more intelligent than her?

It seems not...

When I approached her about this she confessed because it was getting near Xmas she decided to be nice about him in public in the hope of getting better presents. But when I pointed out this virtually made her a hussy she didn't take kindly to the accusation.

When I also pointed out the phrase 'chocolate tart' was invented for her she also did not take too kindly to the insinuation.

And finally when I suggested a far easier way to achieve male compliance she simply told me I was sexist and crude.

I don't know. You try to help people...

Black Belt Grading: Part II...

It's my own fault. Preparations for my black belt test were going far too well. My badly injured knee was sort of OK and my less badlly injured knee was pretty much healed up. Even my rotator cuff injury was not a concern. I was even quite relaxed and starting to enjoy myself.

Then I was doing some no-contact sparring with an over-exuberant opponent who thought it would be a good idea to stick his elbow straight through my foot at full force. I obviously carried on with the class and the sparring as I thought it wasn't too bad... but by the time I got home and the adrenalin had stopped flowing I suddenly realised that my foot was bruised to buggery and hurting quite a lot. Swearing hurting. Like proper swearing.

Now it's a waiting game. After resting it most of the weekend I can spar lightly and kick lightly but any type of lateral or pivoting motion is out of the question. And as I need to perform spin kicks to break boards my foot may need some quick recovery or the kicking some supple bodily negotiation.

So, in the words of Cher, if I could turn back time I'd like to say the following to the opponent responsible:
'You clumsy, careless, half-witted fucking oaf. What does 'no-contact' mean in your numb-skulled world? Does it mean I can repeatedly punch you in the fucking face till your skin is flayed off? No. Thought not. You brain-dead fucking cum-bucket for pox-ridden sailors.'

Of course, I could say that. And Cher probably would as I understand she's bit potty-mouthed. Probably too much exercise. Or plastic surgery.

But I won't say anything because I'm too polite. And I wouldn't really mean it. And he didn't do it intentionally. I'd just be venting and I know that wouldn't help.

And I have 12 days to heal up then I have a grading to pass. And my trusty ibuprofen gel seems to be helping. So it's best to let it go and just write about it instead. At least that way it's out of my system...

Black Belt Grading: Part I...

It's now 18 days until I grade for my black belt. My injured knee seems to be sort of mended and holding up and other niggling injuries on one of my ankles and one of my rotator cuffs seem to be fine.

I've also pretty much got a handle on all of my techniques, both old and new, and some dodgy foot placement in forms aside I'm quite confident. In fact if I can get there in one piece without any more dramas I'm looking forward to it.

That confidence still didn't stop my first grading anxiety dream last night, however.

In it I was in a packed do-jang surrounded by my fellow students and trying to break a wooden board that I just couldn't break. In the dream I knew it was because I was tense and not moving fluidly but the more I couldn't break the board the more tense I became.

After yet further failures of one sort or another the dream ended with the head of the academy telling me I was a nice chap who just wasn't good enough. I may also have been naked. And some female students may have been pointing at my genitals and laughing.

Sometimes that sort of dream, whether it's about hapkido or writing or pool or anything else, stays with you for a while and shakes your confidence.

But I already know I need to be relaxed and I know the not being good enough bit is bollocks. And I'm proving it in 18 days.

Rejection...

As a writer sending scripts to various theatres and TV production companies I am used to rejection. In fact I have become hardened to it.

But I have just received my worst ever rejection letter in response to a radio comedy show I sent out a few weeks ago. I'd worked hard on the show and really liked it but, to quote the letter:

'...it didn't make me laugh enough... and that is the one single thing we're looking for when we expectantly crack open a new comedy script.'

I'm still not convinced they have a point but I will reread the script and reconsider. But the production company in question have also produced some dross among the good stuff they've done so they don't always get it right either.

So: self-delusion or self-belief? It's tough to know the difference but there are times you have to trust it's the latter and just carry on.

To quote Winston Churchill:
‎'Success consists of going from failure to failure without loss of enthusiasm.'

But then again Winston Churchill was also funny. Fact. Then again maybe I'd be good at war...

Drunk...

The final county pool game of the season is always a messy affair as several of the team usually venture out for a few drinks afterwards. And that's a few more drinks than the usual few post-match drinks too.

And as my friend Shaggy and two of the Croydon fellas were my drinking companions for the evening, and as it was my last blowout before knuckling down for my black belt test in four weeks, it was never going to be a sober night.

Previous evenings out with Shaggy have ended with him in hospital after falling off a pavement and breaking his ankle, and the two of us being threatened with death by a man carrying a bike in Hampshire. Fortunately as we also had two mutual friends along for the evening – and thanks the delights of a pub near Reading station that was packed with London Irish fans – the night was lovely and incident-free. Our little group even made friends with two local girls who'd been to watch the rugby.

In fairness my head was not a good place to be on Monday morning and I had distant memories of weeing in sturdy plastic bag on the train when I found the only toilet was broken, then carrying it home until I found a drain to pour it down. But at the time I think I decided it was what Hannibal in the A Team would have done in an emergency weeing situation so I felt I was in good company.

But now there's no more stupidity. It's knuckle down time. I have a black belt to earn and four weeks to nail my final preparations. Gulp...

Ancient Worlds...

I'm quite a fan of history. History is big, cool stuff and I'm rarely happier than when I'm reading or watching anything on whatever chunk of big, cool history happens to have caught my imagination.

So I was looking forward to watching new BBC series Ancient Worlds in which archaeologist and historian Richard Miles explores the roots of civilisation. And if episode one is anything to go by, I'll probably stay with it as he's an engaging presenter and the idea of examining 'us' 'then' is a smart idea.

Two things annoy me, though.

The first is that Miles is a bit too sexy to be doing this. I want my historians older and uglier and I certainly don't want them to flirt with me. And Miles does.

Sometimes when he talks directly to camera he tilts his head in a coquettish manner and lowers his voice to speak in a husky yet smooth tone that makes him sound like a telephone sex line gigolo. He may be discussing ancient city Uruk but he could just as easily be whispering sweet nothings and wooing millions of viewers into his book-filled boudoir.

The second is that he looks like a slimmer and more debonair version of a bloke I used to work under who was a major arsehole. Let's call the major arsehole Mike. Because that was his name.

Mike was an arsehole and a pedant beyond belief and, added to this mix, he was also a smug, self-righteous twat. So much so that when my football team was scheduled to play his team some years later I actually offered financial rewards for anyone who stuck their studs through his ankle.

In retrospect I'm not proud of this course of action. Although it was the most satisfying £20 I ever spent. But if you'd have ever met Mike and spent more than five minutes in his company you would have offered me more funds to increase the bounty on his ankles. So that he was crippled for life. And therefore much less likely to ever enter your social sphere again. Fact.

And Miles looks a bit like him. So if he can sort out his appearance and his habit of flirting with the camera I'm sure I'll grow to love him and his show.

Thanks.

Cack-handed...

The very flash and very expensive new kitchen is nearly fully installed and fully functioning at From Beer To Paterinty Towers.

Sadly I am not allowed to use any appliances until the Missus has given me detailed instructions on how everything works because, apparently, I'll 'probably break something' because I'm a 'cack-handed twat'. I'd like to protest that I'm not quite as clumsy as the Missus thinks but sadly it would be a protest in vain.

Recent damages include snapping a metal spade in half, damaging the bath and destroying an electic can opener. And I wasn't doing anything bizarre with any of them either. I was just using them the way they were intended to be used. Sort of...

One item that certainly will not be getting damaged when it arrives, however, is my new cue. It's being made by one of the best cue-makers in the country and it's a replica of an antique Riley tombstone cue I've wanted for at least two decades.

It may be very sad but I'm so excited. It's an early Xmas present to myself. Expensive kitchens are rubbish. New cues are where it's at...

Grappling...

I'm a little bit obsessed with grappling and groundfighting and, if the opportunity arises, I can spend ridiculous amounts of time rewatching the technique videos on the excellent Submissions101 website with Ari Bolden or the equally excellent stuff on Youtube posted by Stefan Kesting (www.grapplearts.com).

But I came across something new the other day and it's an online course run by Ryron and Rener Gracie of the Gracie family at their website www.gracieuniversity.com, which offers full testing and belt certification via camcorders.

I'm a little sceptical about online courses in anything, particularly in something like a martial art where your best learning tool is often the feedback of your opponent, but I've joined and looked at the first video and it's well put together, very informative and very slick – and, hell, it might even work with a decent training partner.

But with a black belt grading at hapkido in the offing I should probably be focusing on that instead. Grappling remains a fun distraction, though, particularly when the path to black belt at hapkido feels like a real struggle a lot of the time...

Healthy Eating Tips...

Don't eat a large bag of grapes followed by a whole bag of wasabi peas.

Your stomach and the porcelain won't thank you...

Other Woman News...

The hapkido academy recently ran a raffle to raise money towards new mats and I won two prizes: number one was a bottle of wine that lasted about two hours from receiving it to finishing it off; number two was a home-baked chocolate cake that was cooked over the weekend and given to me last night.

The cake caused much amazement in class as various fellow martial artists admired and lusted after it. But that's because it looked a pretty amazing cake. And on tasting, it didn't disappoint either... so much so that next year I am running and fixing the raffle so I again win the cake.

The Other Woman, however, may fight me for that honour. On hearing I had cake in class she immediately offered to perform any act so she could taste some. And I mean 'any' act. I could have probably demanded 'water sports' and she'd have agreed for cake.

When this tactic failed she then tried another ruse to claim that as we were such good pals I should offer her half the cake as she'd offer me half the cake if she'd won it. I snorted at this as I know full well that nothing comes between the Other Woman and cake.

One of the first times we went out to play pool she bought chocolate and when I moved in to take a bite the look she gave me suggested that I'd just offered to felate her grand parents after anally inserting copies of The Daily Mail in front of her parents. And all I wanted was a bit of Snickers... And with cake it's even worse.

I nearly took pity at the end of the class as she looked bedraggled and tired and was eyeballing the cake box like a lunatic. I imagined this was how junkies must feel before they burgled a pensioner to get cash for another fix.

Fortunately the cake was successfuly smuggled out of class while she was talking to another martial artist. But I fear denying her cake may be the end of our friendship. Unless I can placate her with a Crunchie. Or a Lion Bar...

Sick...

The Missus has been very ill and laid up in bed for two days.

She finally ventured downstairs last night when I was watching episode two of The Apprentice. She curled up on the sofa with me and watched for about 10 minutes before turning to me and saying.
'They're all totally reprehensible people. There are not enough bullets in the world for any of them. Come the revolution not one of them will survive...'

It's good to see her back to her old self.

Hair Today...

I decided my facial hair was obviously to blame for a lack of confidence and form at a recent county pool match so I took an executive decision and shaved it all off.

The Missus, however, was not happy.
'My God. What the hell have you done?' was her initial response.
'I've had a shave.'
'But you've shaved everything.'
'Don't you like it?'

The Missus pondered then delivered her verdict.
'The problem is that you look like a big baby when you're clean shaven.'
'OK...'
'And your head looks far too big and there's just too much of your face.'
'You want me to grow it back then?'
'Yes...'

Of course, I stood my ground and stated I would not. For about three minutes.

Intensive Weekend...

A few weeks ago myself, the Other Woman and 26 other martial arts students spent two days at an intensive hapkido weekend. And, apart from various bits of my body refusing to function properly for a few days afterwards, it was a lot of fun.

Kicking, punching, takedown techniques, forms, joint manipulation, groundfighting and hapkido theory were all covered and there was a huge amount to take in.

It did make me realise, however, that I am a long way off testing for my black belt at the moment. Before I got injured in June I felt as though as I was close to being there but post-injury and post-holiday everything feels much further away, with my techniques rusty, my forms not very sharp, my confidence drained and my sparring sluggish.

But I was talking to my friend The Actor and his girlfriend is also an actor. Unlike him, however, she hasn't had a large amount of work so she's done several admin jobs to keep the wolf from the door, but she's also refused to give up on her dreams and has kept plugging away at auditions. And it's paid off as she's just landed a role in a touring show that will also play in the West End next year.

Like the pool and like the writing, I've always known perseverence is the key. And I know that with my martial arts studies and the black belt grading too, but it was nice to hear about The Actress and have the point emphasised.

Sometimes it's just about staying in there. Nothing of any real value ever comes easy. To quote Vince Lombardi: 'Winners never quit and quitters never win.'

The Apprentice: Series Six...

'You've never met anyone like me... I'm totally unique...' spouts some posh halfwit on his audition tape for the latest series of The Apprentice.

Two points flop-haired, suit-wearing, twat-face...

Point one: You're not 'totally unique' because the word 'unique' is an absolute so it should never be qualified. It would be like saying 'You are the very biggest cunt in the world' or 'You are the last-ever person I would very ever speak to if all the other people in the world were utterly dead and my life depended on human contact to stave off a wish to end it all by driving six-inch nails into my forehead with a cricket bat.' You see how that works?

Clue: the qualifying words 'very', 'ever' and 'utterly' should not be there. Like 'totally'. And I bet your education cost thousands....

Point two: TV viewers have met many people like you before. Every series of The Apprentice features at least half a dozen of you corporate-soundbite-spouting oxygen thieves. On the plus side, however, the great fun of watching the show is that the audience can piss itself laughing as you brag about how fantastic a salesman you are... then struggle to sell fish or cheese at a street market because you've failed to understand basic concepts such as pricing. You wanker.

Yes. It's back. The Apprentice kicks off next week and, as per usual, I'll be enjoying the ride as the over-educated and pompous wannabe business folk are torn a strip off by the ever-ebullient Sugar until only a few decent candidates remain.

Having looked at the audition tapes on the BBC website, this year's intake look pretty much par for the course with the usual selection of bankers, totally bonkers, stockbrokers, entrepreneurs and salesmen. There does seem to be a large number of bullish, posh City rugger-bugger blokes and three potentially kooky women. But we've met clones of most of them before in previous series. And they were humiliated. And they will be again. Great.

The only sane two out of the new bunch seem to be a woman called Joanna Riley and a former Marine named Chris Farrell. But I'm sure other favourites will emerge as the series goes on.

So enjoy. And if you have a preference for City-type fellas who are bullshit-spouting corporate arse biscuits then your luck is probably in.

No wonder the economy has collapsed if several of these are the calibre of folk in charge.

The 500 Club...

It's been a good year in my local pool league and in my interleague pool team, too, but 2010 has been a largely frustrating year at county pool. To put it simply, I can't buy a frame and I'm about to return my poorest A Team stats in 25 years.

Even worse I've put the hours in on the practice table but the results just aren't coming. It's true I've missed a few absolute sitters to win a few extra frames this year but it's also equally true that I've been shooting dead in too many frames, meaning that whenever I come to the table I'm in major trouble to begin with.

On the plus side, however, I did play my 500th frame for my county pool team at the weekend and I won it as well. Although I did miss a straight black in the middle to win it on my first opportunity.

It means I now join quite an exclusive little club in the history of my county pool team. It's not a major achievement in the grand scheme of thing but it's a nice one. I've not only being good enough to play that many frames at that level but I've been committed enough to stick around and play that many frames.

When the season is not going well on the table at least I have that crumb of comfort to cheer me up. And, of course, the season's not over yet so there's still time to turn it around. And there's always next year. Probably...

Other Woman News...

Me and the Other Woman attended an intensive weekend of martial arts seminars and by the end of the weekend we were both utterly exhausted so we retired to the pub.

We'd had a minor spat earlier in the day after she'd bought a copy of The Mail On Sunday because it had a free Kylie CD. She argued the quality of the CD excused her decision to purchase and therefore fund the right-wing, racist and homophobic rag while I argued no amount of free stuff could ever warrant buying that vile publication.

So we renew hostilities over this in the pub and one of our friends around the table asked how we'd ever become friends in the first place if this is how we carried on. The Other Woman pondered for a second before offering:
'It's because I attract idiots.'
I countered with:
'It's because I attract sluts.'

We eventually made our peace over a pint but the Kylie Incident, as it is now known, will remain an icy plateau to which we will never return less we both slip off mid-argument and plunge to an unpleasant death.

I returned home and was explaining our debate to the Missus and ended my argument with:
'I mean, you wouldn't buy Mein Kamp if it came with a free handbag, would you?'

The Missus paused to consider the proposition.
'Depends on the handbag.'

The women in my life are in cahoots to send me insane.

The Last Wrestlers: A Far-flung Journey In Search Of A Manly Art...

Marcus Trower was a martial artist who became obsessed by wrestling – but not the costumed hi-jinks of Big Daddy and chums in the UK or The Undertaker and his ilk in the US. Trower loved real wrestling and researched then trained wrestling techniques with several partners in his native England until a mystery illness struck, an illness which meant he had to take a lengthy break from any strenuous activity for several years.

His book chronicles his own love affair with wrestling, his illness and recuperation, and his journey around the globe to visit the last outposts of the sport where wrestling exists as it has for hundreds and, in some cases, thousands of years.

Trower joins wrestling schools in India and Brazil, as well as journeying to Nigeria to witness the wrestling styles of two remote tribes and visiting Mongolia where wrestling remains a national obsession. He also briefly discusses the tradition of wrestling in England and Ancient Greece and forms his own theories about the origins of this ancient sport.

The only criticism of the book is that he never examines the flourishing college wrestling system in America in any real depth but, that minor point aside, the book is a fascinating and entertaining read very much in the style of Angry White Pyjamas by Robert Twigger. It is peopled with fascinating characters and written in an accessible and easy-going style and Trower remains a very likeable narrator.

Well worth a look.

The Car...

Me and the Missus are in Greece and her Jet-setting Photographer Brother has joined us for a few days so he decides to hire a car.

I cannot drive and the Missus hasn't driven for years but having seen what passes for road safety in Greece we're confident we could have a go and get away with it.

In short Greek drivers are nutcase-on-crack dangerous behind a wheel. Fortunately the Jet-setting Photographer Brother is a seasoned driver on several continents so we decide we are in safe hands.

So we head off to pick the car up but when we arrive at the car hire place one very grumpy woman takes a look at his driving licence and tells him it is no good. The licence is Australian and she will not accept it as proof of his driving credentials. He has driven on all continents and never crashed. From what we've seen if he was blind he would still be the safest driver on this island. But she is not having it and we walk away without a car.

To add insult to injury we then get a cab home home driven by a lunatic whose idea of customer service is to drive with Guns 'n' Roses blaring out as he narrowly avoids oncoming traffic.

As we get out of the cab the Missus turns to her brother and smiles before adding:
'He's allowed to drive here.'
Her brother smirks.

We arrive at the hotel bar and order drinks. As we sit down a father arrives clutching his two-year-old daughter who in her hands has a set of car keys keys she is fiddling with.

I lean over to the Jet-setting Photographer Brother and join in.
'She's allowed to drive here, too...'

The gag runs for the rest of the evening.

Word Of The Day...

I am on holiday in Greece with the Missus and I am playing Scrabble and come across the word 'boi', which apparently is slang for a lesbian who dresses like a man.

All this and thousands of years of culture, too.

Learning is a wonderful thing.

Pants II!

I am in the bedroom with the Missus after having a shower and I am sporting the much-derided and recently purchased Y-fronts.
'I don't think they look too bad. They look a bit retro sporty,' I say in their defence.
'They look awful,' replies the Missus.
'Well they are very comfortable.'
'They are horrendous. I may well burn them if you leave them anywhere near me.'
'Well I am going to wear these pants with pride,' I state aiming to end a discussion that is clearly not going in my favour.

The Missus smirks.
'You should wear them at Pride... with nothing else.'

Pants I!

Me and the Missus are going on holiday for two weeks so I cycle into town to make the last of my holiday purchases, namely a few t-shirts and some new boxer shorts.

So I fold up my bike and nip into Uni-Qlo and grab two t-shirts, a very funky polo shirt and what I assume are four pairs of boxer shorts. Job done.

So I arrive home and the Missus, the Boy and the Boy's Girlfriend are sat in the kitchen. So the Missus inquires about my shopping trip.
'How did it go?'
'I'll show you...'

So I reach into my rucksack and pull out the two t-shirts.
'Suppose they're OK,' says the Missus.

Then I go for the banker and pull out the polo shirt. The Boy takes a look and sniggers while the Missus smiles the smile she reserves for children with learning difficulties.
'You don't like it, do you?' I ask.
'It's a little...'
'Gay.' adds the Boy.

So I try the polo shirt on and they are right, prompting the Missus to add:
'It looks like you are a straight man trying to channel his inner gay.'

But worse then follows...
'Well at least the boxer shorts are nice!' I add flinging them on the table.

It is only when I open the second packet that I realise I have have picked up some Y-fronts by mistake. And they are horrible Y-fronts. The sort of Y-fronts a pensioner with a wee-stained truss would turn his nose up at.

The Boy is now giggling uncontrollably until the Boy's Girlfriend tells him to stop. I am beaten. I admit defeat.
'See what happens when you don't come clothes shopping with me!'

The Missus gives me a hug.
'Don't worry,' she says. 'It will never happen again.'

Old People...

I generally like old people. But I now have an exception to this rule and that is the old woman who has a habit of shuffling past From Beer To Paternity Towers when I am putting the rubbish bin out.

The first night I saw her she smiled at me. So I smiled back and she asked me a question that I didn't quite catch so I smiled and said something bland back.

But I saw her a week later and she asked what sounded like the same question again, which was:
'Are you moving house?'

I've now seen her twice since and she has asked exactly the same question and, to be frank, I think she's taking the piss by implying that I look like I live in a rubbish bin.

And to think I gave to Help The Aged at the weekend. The sarcastic old cow.

Making The Grade...

Several of my peers graded for their black belts a few weeks ago. I had hoped to grade alongside them but even though I'd been putting the hours in I wasn't up to speed. This was frustrating.

Then I injured my knee so I couldn't continue training to start making the necessary improvements I needed to make to ensure I'd be ready for the next grading in November. And that was really frustrating.

I still attended the grading, though, to support my wannabe black belt colleagues. The Other Woman also graded and was fab. Because we see other socially and have a flirty banter which borders on the occasionally filthy I sometimes forget how she's a strong martial artist in her own right. It was good to watch her and be reminded of this.

There was also quite an emotional moment at the end of the grading when the Other Woman Who Loves Other Women was presented with her black belt. The OWWLOW cried. I was pretty close myself.

It's heartening to see the people you love do good stuff and be rewarded for it. It also offers you resolve to ensure those days come for you, no matter how far off they may seem at the moment...

Alex Higgins: RIP...

It was in the early 1980s that I first picked up a snooker cue and I instantly fell in love with cue sports of all descriptions. And it's a passion that's stayed with me...

It was English eightball pool that I eventually decided to focus on but I also played snooker and was an avid fan of the game in the period throughout the 1980s when Steve Davis was in his pomp, and then in the 1990s when Stephen Hendry firmly established himself as the best player to ever play the game. Even now if a tournament is on TV it takes all my will power not to sit down and watch it and forget about anything else. Like my wife. Or eating.

The man largely responsible for this ongoing love affair was a player from Belfast who won his first world title in 1972 then won his second amid emotional scenes where he was joined on stage at The Crucilble in Sheffield by his wife and child in 1982. The man was Alex 'Hurricane' Higgins and to this day I have to see a player with such natural ability or vision in cue sports of any discipline.

Living as a Higgins fan was sometimes a tough existence. Just as he was capable of shots and breaks of breath-taking brilliance, he was also capable of missing the easiest of shots or self-destructing through a combination of booze and a fiery temper. Higgins lived life on a knife edge and that's also how he played his snooker.

And existing as a Higgins fan was also never a good experience if you were a betting man. He did win tournaments but he was also capable of throwing away winning leads by taking on shots of such audacity that even veteran commentators were baffled.

To be a Higgins fan was to put yourself firmly in the camp of the outsider fighting against the snooker establishment - an establishment, ironically, Higgins' popularity had helped turn into a huge money-making industry.

The nemesis of Higgins, of course, was Steve 'Interesting' Davis and he was everything that Higgins wasn't. If Higgins easily bored of the practice table, Davis lived for it; if Higgins could be found drunk in a nightclub at 2am the day before a big match, you could be sure Davis was tucked up in bed with his cocoa by 10pm. And Davis was virtually unbeatable.

But the fact that Higgins was the outsider and the bad boy and the underdog just made his victories all the sweeter. His 1982 World Championship Final victory against Ray Reardon was one of the sporting highlights of my youth, especially considering it followed his epic semi-final against Jimmy 'Whirlwind' White, a match still considered to be one of the all-time greats among snooker doyens.

My favourite Higgins match, however, was the 1983 UK Championship Final when he faced Davis. I remember watching the afternoon session in patches through several TV shop windows when I was out shopping with the family. And it wasn't pleasant viewing: Davis battered Higgins with a humiliating 7-0 first-session booting.

But then came the evening sessions and the street fighter in Higgins woke up and over the next three sessions he fought back to win the final and the title 16-15. It was a stunning performance and perhaps his finest moment. It was also one of his last great moments on the table as future form proved intermittent and disciplinary problems lead to an eventual suspension.

Higgins then began to feature only on the front pages for drunken behaviour, various personal and relationship problems, one assault and for health-related issues such as the throat cancer that he developed in his later years. It made painful viewing.

But recently Higgins had started playing again and was doing the odd exhbition and his cancer seemed beaten and his health improving. But it was only a brief respite and he died today aged 61.

Davis once described Higgins as 'the only true genius that the game of snooker has ever produced' and, while that may not be strictly true, his ability to see shots and the vision of his break-building, plus a very under-rated safety game, was a stunning thing to behold when in full flight.

An old mate of mine became quite good friends with Higgins for a while in the late 1990s and I had the chance to meet him. But I turned it down. Higgins was one of my heroes but I was also aware that he was a troubled man who could sometimes be very unpleasant and I didn't want to meet that man. I wanted the hero and for me that's always what Higgins was and will remain.

Rest in peace, Alex.

Guilfest

Me and the Missus, plus our Yorkshire Chums From St Albans and their We-Get-Him-If-They-Die-Kid, ventured over to Guilfest at the weekend. This was a largish music festival at Stoke Park in Guildford and headlining on the day we went were Ndubz and the Human League.

The Missus is an old punk and gig-goer of many years experience and when we were first going out we compared notes on the gigs we'd been to. She reeled off the Clash, the Jam and a veritable who's who of all the important punk, new wave and ska bands of the late Seventies and early Eighties... while my rather paltry offerings included the Housemartins, the Mission and the Waterboys. If our share-and-compare was a boxing match it would have been ruled a no-contest.

Rather brilliantly, though, one of her first gigs was the Human League in their Being Boiled and pre-girl backing singers days so it was quite a sweet moment when they came back on stage for one of the encores and performed... Being Boiled. She was happy.

Other highlights included Hazel O'Connor doing a version of the Snow Patrol song, Chasing Cars, and Kid Creole and the Coconuts.

My only concern here was that the Kid is now 60 and still allowed to be the Kid but the Coconuts are obviously not the originals and were replacement Coconuts. I imagined the Kid has to sit down with the Coconuts every so often and tell them they're going to be replaced.
Kid: 'Girls... I've got some bad news for you. I need to send you to the Coconut retirement home and get some younger models.'
Coconut 1: 'We're still good for another, Kid. Honestly...'
Coconut 2: 'We're young at heart. We're still Coconuts!'
Coconut 3: 'Come on. You're 60 and you still call yourself the Kid!'

Another highlight of the day was taking our friends' We-Get-Him-If-They-Die-Kid to his first grunge gig in the Indie tent. The band was a group called Japanese Voyeurs and they're quite rocky and they have real potential. They're very tight musicians who also manage to get that raw and growly grunge sound and they have a single out on iTunes. Four songs into their set I turn to ask the We-Get-Him-If-They-Die-Kid what he thinks.
'They're very loud, aren't they?'

Comedy moment of the day, however, was walking past the Kidszone area to hear some wag had put a Gary Glitter song on. Now that's pretty funny.

But Guilfest was great. A really friendly and fun day out.

Quiz Question...

Q. Which English castle suffered badly from smoke damage in the Eighties?
A. Roy.

Home Rule...

The new From Beer To Paternity Towers is quite wonderful. The Missus is happy, I am happy, even the Boy is quite impressed when he visits from university... although I suspect he still hasn't forgiven us for moving away from London and all his mates.

The cats, however, are having territory issues.

Our new neighbours (who are very nice) have two older, bigger cats who apparently used to be regular visitors in our new home as they were on friendly with the previous owners' cats. But now they are persona pussy non grata and they are having trouble getting the message.

What they are getting, however, is right on our bloody nerves by pouncing on our cats every time they venture into the garden, so much so that they now only venture out when me or the Missus go into the garden with them.

This is slowly starting to annoy me as I am increasingly acting cat bouncer in our garden so I am considering marking territory in the only way cats understand. I initially thought about spraying the places the neighbours' cats sit with lemon as cats hate citrus. But the Missus thought that wouldn't be strong enough. So I asked her if I should mark territory the way cats mark territory.

'So you want to wee on the wall where the neighbours' cats sit?'
'It's an idea...'

The Missus shakes her head then stops and smiles.
'Actually that's a really good idea. You should do it when the school that our garden backs onto is open and all the school children are on the playing field too. That will help the process...'

Sometimes she’s just not supportive.

Chris Sievey: RIP...

Comedian Chris Sievey (aka Frank Sidebottom) died last week.

With his outsized, cartoon, papier mache head and his whimsical flights of fancy, Chris's creation Frank Sidebottom was a real one-off. Frank was a showman and singer who never hit the big time but believed he sort of had; think of a slightly angrier and more ridiculous and frustrated John Shuttleworth and you're sort of there.

It was a truly fantastic comic creation.

Author Jon Ronson, who in the early days used to play keyboards in Frank's backing band, was on the radio at the weekend lamenting the passing of his former mate and told a great story.

Apparently Chris (with full Sidebottom head on) and Ronson were touring and driving down Edgware Road in London on the way to a gig when Chris demanded that he pull the van over and briefly park up. Ronson duly obliged and Chris in Frank persona and head rolled down the window and buttonholed one bemused passerby.
'Excuse me, mate. Is this London?'
'Yes,' replied the slightly confused fella.
'Well can you tell me where you want this wood?' asked Chris in Sidebottom mode.

I don't think I've heard anything more ridiculous or funnier. Ever.

Dream Lover...

I am having a dream. The Missus is having an affair with a photographer and I have tracked them both to his very swish place and confronted her. He is in the bedroom and she will not let me confront him so I give her the option to leave him and come home with me.

But the total cow decides to stay another night and tells me she'll be home in the morning. I leave upset...

I tell the Missus about the dream when I wake up. Does she offer succour for my night-time distress? No. Instead she offers the following words of comfort.
'It's highly unlikely to happen. I'm far too lazy to have an affair with anyone...'

Thanks.

Team Talk...

Come on England! Come on you over-paid, over-hyped, over-exposed, affair-adoring, self-obsessed, roasting-loving, disgraceful set of human beings.

For once remember you are football players with a job to do and a nation behind you...

DISCLAIMER 1: This was written three hours before kick-off. The management reserves the right to edit any posts and change its opinion in the event England get an utter booting.

DISCLAIMER 2: At least were not the French.

Charity...

The Missus is back from a press trip. I am filling her in on my activities during her absence and I mention I took one of the bags of clothes the Boy had sorted out for charity to the drop-off point.
'Which bag would that be?'
'The smaller of the two bags...'
'The bag with the Boy's old boxer shorts?'
'Yes...'
'The bag I told you not to take because they don't want old boxer shorts with the crotch worn through?'
'You never said that...'
'I did. You just chose to ignore me...'
'But they do want stuff like that.'
'Why would they want old boxer shorts with worn-through crotches?'
'To recycle as rags...'
'Rags?'
'...to stuff children's toys with.'
'So in your world children's toys are stuffed with the old boxer shorts of teenage boys? Boxer shorts with the crotches worn through?'
'It's eco-friendly.'
'It's not particularly hygienic, is it?'
'It helps children build up resistance to disease...'
'You're an idiot...'

It's good to have her home.

Media Careers Advice: Part III...

Job title: fashion mag girlies

Job description: Who cares? It's a soul-less and pointless profession in an even more vacuous world populated by the intellectually challenged, the vain and the inept. Sadly in the wonderful world that is the media at some point you will run into a gaggle of these dead-behind-the-eyes, stick-thin, air-headed bints... and if you possess any trace of concern for humanity it will be all you can do to stop yourself unloading with a Malcolm Tucker-esque tirade. Or shotgun. Particularly if you end up stuck in a lift with these tweeting and chattering air thieves as they bitch about some totaly inane nonsense to do with shoes.

I hate them all with a passion that gives me energy and, although some people would call my solution to their existence genocide, I prefer the term gene-pool-cleansing.

I think we’d survive without them...

Salary: Pay them in buttons and tell them it's a new style of money. They're all too stupid to discover you are lying...

The Zen Of Pool: Conclusions...

An article I wrote for my martial arts school's magazine...

‘From one thing know ten thousand things…’
Miyamoto Musashi

Some facts… I’m good at eightball pool. At 16 I was invited to play for my senior county team and some 25 years, two trials for the England team and one national title later I’m still playing at county level. So I’m still good.

The problem with being good at something, though, is that it’s a constant battle to maintain standards. When you can do something to a high level it’s frustrating when you struggle to maintain that level. So being good at something does carry problems.

Fortunately at hapkido I never experienced these issues. Having no martial arts experience and limited ability any minor success in class was a triumph rather than a failure. And as much as it annoyed me to pretty much get everything wrong for the first two years I didn’t beat myself up about it. After all Hapkido was something I did for fun.

Some seven years later and with a black belt grading looming, however, and that’s not an excuse I can use any more. I’m no longer quite so useless and the desire to maintain a standard is now as necessary in my martial arts studies as it is when I grab my cue and head off to a match.

So inspired by the above Musashi quote I decided to apply the lessons I’d learnt from my cue sports discipline and apply them to the martial arts one and see where I went…

Stance
The bedrock of any cue sport is the stance. The theory is that if you have a balanced stance you are much less likely to move on a shot, which is a common cause of missing a shot. In short the more solid your base the better chance you have of lining up correctly behind the shot to deliver a smooth stroke to hit the white ball.

In hapkido the stance is also a vital factor. A solid base and distribution of your weight allows you to unbalance and throw an opponent, to launch kick and punch combinations, and to torque your hips to generate additional power without losing balance or leaving yourself vulnerable. In both disciplines a stable connection to the floor is vital and a good stance is quite literally the foundation of everything.

Delivery
In pool how you ‘deliver’ the cue is a key factor. Beginners struggle to maintain a smooth stroke when holding a cue. Their legs, bodies and arms move so when they aim at the white ball they often tend to stab at it from a variety of angles because they haven’t mastered the ‘delivery’ of the cue. To ‘deliver’ a cue through a shot requires a fluid motion that starts with a backswing then accelerates the tip towards the white ball until it strikes it before it returns to a starting position. It is a simple and elegant motion that is neither dramatic nor exciting but consistent and smooth.

To my mind delivering a kick or a punch requires a similar understanding of the mechanics involved. Punches and kicks are fluid motions that have a definite start point at their initial chambering and a definite contact point as they strike their target before reverting back to a guard position.

Both disciplines have ‘delivery’ systems that rely on repeating simple, fluid mechanical actions. But such simplicity in both disciplines in only based on hours of practice.

Focus
Maintaining focus when playing in tournaments can be a demanding experience. Most individual matches last about an hour and if you get to the later stages of the event you’ll have won four or five matches and will have spent up to nine hours in the venue. To help retain focus during matches I have mental routines I go through before getting down to play the shot to ensure I’ve analysed the situation and worked out my best option.

I adapted some of these habits into hapkido so now if I’m sparring I try to maintain a certain body shape. It helps by programming my body and mind into understanding that I’m sparring… in much the same way that touching my watch when it’s my turn to take a key shot at pool reminds me to take the time to check my options.

Interestingly the issue of focus is one area where the study of hapkido has influenced my pool game. I realised a while ago that it’s no accident that my best hapkido lessons usually follow a ki class. And that’s because my body is relaxed and my mind is clear so I can easily tune into what I’m doing. So if I’m struggling with a technique instead of getting annoyed I mentally step back from myself and analyse what’s wrong.

And this is something I’ve brought into my pool game a lot in the last year because if you make a mistake at pool it’s often tempting to try to rescue the situation by playing a high-risk but low-percentage shot. And in my youth I was able to get away with that approach but these days I no longer have that same on-the-table aggression so I’ve borrowed a lesson from my hapkido and I step out of the situation, analyse and find a smarter option.

Conclusion
The main truth I’ve rediscovered, though, is if I want to keep playing pool at a high level then I have to put the hours in on the practice table. And that means running drills to keep my basics consistent. And the same lessons apply at hapkido.

To quote Musashi: ‘The key is training. One must continue to train.’

Media Careers Advice: Part II...

Job description: art department

Duties: In the 1970s it was easy to spot potential kiddy-fiddlers or other sexual deviants. They were usually men with glasses who wore long coats and spoke in soft voices. They were also kind to their mothers. If they hadn't killed them.

But in this age of cyber-space wizardry and cultural homogeneity it's much more difficult to know what you're dealing with. And it's the same with art department people. Like paedophiles they come in all shapes and sizes and they're generally pretty tough to spot and it's even more difficult to understand the amount of utter bilge they come out with.

So here's a test to help you spot them and also see if it's the career path for you.

1) Do you understand the concept of a deadline?
a) Yes.
b) Does it have to be a deadline? And does it have to be in that colour? If we had a few more days we could make it a really aesthetically pleasing deadline. We go to press today? How about I get it to you next week? With new pictures? And a new design?

2) You have a problem to solve that has a straightforward solution. Do you?
a) Solve it in a systematic and intelligent way that ensures your deadline is met?
b) Throw a huge hissy fit like a pre-menstrual teenager, go cry in the toilets for an hour, refuse to do any work until everyone accepts you are 'creative' and have a right to be temperamental, then consult some feng shui manual before begrudgingly completing the task with a face like a slapped arse.

If you've answered 'a' then you are probably quite sane and should never consider a career in the media. Go learn a proper trade. If you answered 'b' start learning the latest design package now. You're destined to be an art desk diva. Well done.

Salary: You deserve every penny. Not.

Nightmare...

It is hot so I am sleeping with no clothes on and the duvet is on the floor. This is not an attempt to paint an alluring picture. It is just a fact. Stay with it...

Sadly the little cat has recently got into the habit of waking me and the Missus up at 5am by dive-bombing the bed to demand food. Fortunately we have now become quite hardened to her demands so we can ignore her and sleep through.

Now the dive-bombing approach has failed, however, the cat's latest trick is scratch at one of my exposed bollocks until I wake up. Sadly she has yet to figure out that me screaming in pain is no way to guarantee her being fed. Or remaining alive.

Stupid cat. Poor bollock.

Hotel Joke...

A vicar is booking into a hotel and says: 'I hope the porn channel in my room is disabled.'

'No. It's just normal porn like every room you sick f***er!' replies the receptionist.

Media Careers Advice: Part I...

Job description: chief sub-editor

Duties: Imagine you are a monkey in a zoo in a cage with other monkeys. As the opening time for the zoo approaches it is your job to tidy the cage but the other monkeys insist on throwing shit at each other and have now started eating their own shit and other people's shit too. It is your job to sort all this shit out and when the other monkeys sod off to sleep in the back of the cage you just end up standing there, covered in shit, being stared at by the visitors who want to know why you are covered in shit.

You could explain it to them but you know it's pointless. After all they are visitors to a zoo and you are a monkey and they'd just never understand how the other monkeys can get so much pleasure out of throwing shit about and eating their own shit.

So you stand there, covered in shit, hoping it will be better tomorrow. But it won't be. Ever...

Salary: Probably not enough.

Pret A Manger...

I've just been into Pret A Manger and several of the serving girls are wearing caps with the logo 'Just roasted!'

That's surely not a good thing to advertise...

Statistics...

Apparently statistics show that only one in seven dwarves is happy.

Back To Black...

I have learnt all the techniques for my black belt grading so now begins the real work to ensure they are all up to scratch so it's been training, training, training whenever I can. I am, however, struggling with the first set of the two sets of techniques I need to master to successfuly grade.

These are essentially attacking techniques where there is no momentum coming at you so you have to generate the momentum from your opponent who is in a standing position by utilising correct posture and maintaining a firm base while taking then disrupting your opponent's balance. And it's hard work.

When an oponent's momentum is coming towards you it's much easier to merge with it and redirect it because he's essentialy jeopardising his base to begin with. But when he's not it's much harder.

Fortunately I was playing pool one night this week and I'd left myself a virtually impossible shot to dislodge a ball and a penny suddenly dropped after I'd played the shot. The ball was an easy enough pot but it was a one in a hundred shot to generate the angle or the position needed off the pot to move my last ball off the cushion to make it pottable.

But instead of getting annoyed I relaxed and just committed to the shot and cued it so well that I actually managed to do it. Even my watching colleague, a player and a peer of many years experience, couldn't believe the shot I'd played.

So the lessons for hapkido are to commit to the shot (or the attack) and rely on and trust the technique. After all I only managaed to cue the ball so well because everything was aligned correctly. This type of alignment also applies to hapkido.

Martial arts, like pool, starts with a firm base from the floor then ends with well-executed movements elsewhere. It also relies on a mental commitment to each and every shot. After all laziness on easy shots usually results in missed shots.

It sort of makes sense to me. To paraphrase Musashi, if you can the find the way once you can find it ten thousand times and when it comes to pool I know the way so I need to copy the lessons.

Hell's Kitchen...

Both myself and the Missus work hard for our money and while I generally spend mine on stuff I want she tends to feel guilty about doing the same.

We are in town shopping and she is umm-ing and ahh-ing about treating herself so I give her a pep talk.

'Look. We work really hard for our money so we shouldn't feel guilty about spending it on stuff we want,' are the words of wisdom I offer.

A pensive look comes over her face then she smiles.
'Yes. You're right,' she says.

Three days later she shows me the quote for the new kitchen.
'How fucking much!?' This is my initial reaction.
'But you said we shouldn't feel guilty about spending money on stuff we want...'
'I thought you were going to buy a handbag or a dress. I didn't mean a designer kitchen that I'll also be paying for!'
'But it will be a lovely kitchen...'

She smiles again. I have already lost the argument. It's a good job she can do the sex stuff...

The Singing Detective...

My chances of turning into the Singing Detective (pre-medication and pre-stint-in-hospital) may be receding after a trip to see my new doctor.

My new doctor is lovely. Sadly she away when I last visited the surgery so I got a less attractive locum inserting a digit into an orifice. This is a shame as I wouldn't mind my proper new doctor sticking her finger up my arse at any time.

Sadly she only asked me to drop my trousers so she got a glimpse of my superhero underpants but I could tell she was impressed by my smalls fashion sense as she gave me a new prescription of anti-hystamine tablets, a tube of steroid cream and some other lotion to rub on the affected bits.

Applying the cream wasn't pleaseant and it wasn't pretty and if there are two unsexier words in the English language than 'steroid cream' I have yet to read them. And I have read a huge amount of filth.

Having a body plagued by unsightly rashes made training very interesting, though, and rather than opt for the explain-to-everyone-I'm-not-contagious line I decided to cover up by wearing a base layer under my do-bok.

This was great as it meant I had no more skin eruptions but it was really hot and I sweated buckets. So it was a week of steroid cream and sweat. Nice...

On the plus side I had a cracking birthday and I also came across this brilliant quote by Ancient Greek poet and soldier Archilochus:
'We do not rise to the level of our expectations. We fall to the level of our training.'

I reckon that's on the money.

PS. I also got the new iPod.

Happy Birthday...

I am 41 in a few days and I'm looking forward to having a quiet day at work then spending the evening with the Missus and the Boy.

But what do you get the 41-year-old who has everything? Simple. An eczema-like skin condition caused by a brand new allergy to something.

Great. What I really wanted was a new iPod...

Fashion News...

It is Bank Holiday Monday and me, the Boy and the Missus are heading into town to do some shopping.

I am about to head through the front door when the Boy stops me.
'You're not going out like that, are you?'
'I'm not shaving the 'tashe. We've had this discussion. The 'tache stays.'

The 'tache has been a constant source of amusement to the Boy ever since I grew it at the behest of the Missus, who claimed that growing a drooping Dirty Sanchez 'tache would soften my 'severe face'. I decided to give this a go as it meant the Missus was happy and it also meant I could pretend I was Chuck Liddel when I was sparring at martial arts.

Sadly I have recently realised that the 'tache combined with the sideburns make me look more Seth Armstrong (played by the late, great Stan Richards) from Emmerdale than hardened UFC warrior.

The 'tache, however, still stayed.

'I'm not worried about the tache,' adds the Boy.
'What is it then?'
'It's them...' says the Boy pointing to my jogging bottoms.
'And what's wrong with them?'
'You're about to go out in your pyjamas.'
'They're jogging bottoms...'
'They're pyjamas. I have a pair upstairs...'

I turn to the Missus for support.
'Are these pyjamas or jogging bottoms?'
'They're pyjamas...'
'But I've been going out in these for months!'

The Boy laughs, before adding:
'It's a good job that people have been too busy staring at your stupid facial hair to notice then, isn't it?'