Happy New Year...

So. What will 2014 bring? Here's the nut-shelled plan so far, then I can compare my hopes and ambitions with the actual outcomes in one year's time…

i) New theatre company. I was planning on starting my own company but I am now involved with another one instead. And we have big plans involving a varied season of new work and ACE funding.

ii) Martial arts. I will continue to improve in 2014 and this is the year I will finally compete.

iii) Writing: Finish the new stage play, finish the first draft of the CDA play and finish the new TV comedy idea.

In summary, one theatre company, some competitive martial arts and three new scripts. That's enough to be going on with. For now...

The Waterboys...

I've had an ongoing love affair with the music of The Waterboys for nearly three decades.

I first heard a crackly bootleg tape of one of their early gigs when I was about 16 or 17, and I instantly fell in love with their big, driving sound and pseudo-Celtic rock mysticism that was part WB Yeats and part William Blake, with some 1980s politics thrown in.

Their debut album, The Waterboys, with its haunting masterpiece, Gala, and the still brilliant Savage Earth Heart impressed and still does. But my adoration of that album was soon overtaken by the excellent second album, This Is The Sea, and the booming third, A Pagan Place.

Then they released Fisherman's Blues in 1988.

Some fans loved the raw Irish folky rock sound of the 1988 album while it bemused others who wanted more of the heavily produced sound of its three predecessors.

I loved them all and have consistently bought anything The Waterboys or Mike Scott as a solo artist has released since, so I was delighted when they announced they were doing an anniversary tour to celebrate 25 years since the release of Fisherman's Blues. Even better, former band members Steve Wickham on violin and Anthony Thistlethwaite on saxophone and electric mandolin were also onboard. And they were coming to my home town. Tickets were rapidly bought.

And the gig didn't disappoint. They played lots of stuff from Fisherman's Blues but also dipped into other albums with A Girl Called Johnny, Don't Bang the Drum and The Raggle-Taggle Gypsy.

Singer Scott was an engaging and charming frontman and the memory of this gig wiped away the stain of the only other time I saw them, which was in 1990 when they touring the Roam to Roam album and they put on a pretty lacklustre show in Southampton.

But this gig was wonderful and I was delighted to finally see the fabulous Waterboys gig I'd waited almost 25 years to see. Happy camper...

Other Woman News…

The Other Woman is a black belt martial artist who has just passed the first part of her second dan exam. She’s a tiny powerhouse in sparring, her strikes break wooden boards and her low spin kick is probably the best I’ve ever seen in the decade plus I’ve been doing this and other fighting arts.

A while ago she and her sister went on a zombie experience. In this, a group of participants are locked up in a warehouse or a shopping centre and are attacked by actors in full make-up pretending to be zombies. It sounds like quite good fun.

There are certain agreed parameters, however, to ensure everyone’s safety so the zombies never touch the participants and the participants are not allowed to touch the zombies.

The Other Woman, however, rounded one corner and a zombie pounced out of the shadows to scare her and her sister… so instinct took over and she punched him in the chest and sent him crashing to the ground. She was very apologetic and the zombie recovered. Eventually.

But fact: My Other Woman kicks arse and kills zombies. Just when I don’t think I could love her any more, she finds a way…

Commercial Break...

The great Bill Hicks once said that anyone who calls himself an artist, but then whores himself out to sell product is off the artistic roll call. Done, finito, no longer allowed in the club, etc…

While he does offer sympathy for struggling artists who need the money when they're starting out, he lambasts multi-millionaires who sell themselves to push product for ethically dodgy multi-nationals just so they can add to their millions.

The rest of the routine is scathing about George Michael hawking Diet Coke and is probably one of the few things that is too obscene to be printed here.

I’ve always agreed with Bill Hicks on most things and the latest set of adverts pushing Sky and its various products reminds me of his argument.

One advert features national treasure Joanna Lumley, and another features a faux conversation between Ruth Jones (of Gavin and Stacey fame) having ‘a perfectly natural chat’ with actor chum Robert Lindsay about how brilliant Sky’s various services are.

For me, one of the truths in life is that the only thing you ever really own is your name. And these ‘artists’ have sold theirs to promote the TV arm of a multi-national whose newspapers are alleged to have hacked into the mobile phones of dead British soldiers and at least one murdered schoolgirl. And they must be aware of this but they still choose to ally themselves with it anyway.

Corporate whores selling themselves for the Murdoch buck. Well done…

Dream Lover...

It is early in the morning. I am heading out to work, but the Missus is wide awake and keen to let me know about her latest dream. The Missus has a long history of bizarre dreams, but this one is unusual for the relative lack of violence.
'I dreamt you were having an affair with a French woman...'
'Was she pretty?' I enquire.
'Sultry, lithe and elfin,' she answers. 'You brought her to my mum's house and introduced her as a friend, then you told me you'd been having an affair with her for years.'
'How did you react?'
'I beat you up, then I beat her up...'

I ponder the dream.
'You do realise I'd never have an affair, don't you?'
'Yes. I know that,' she replies.
'Though the French woman sounds lovely. Did you get her phone number?' I inquire.
'It would be wasted on you. The only place anyone as stunning as that would ever look at you would be in a dream. Probably a wet one...'

She does love me, really. Probably...

Other Woman News...

I am in the pub with the Other Woman. It is a normal evening. We are chatting. About stuff. When she offers the evening's most memorable quote:
'The other thing about fucking somebody in the skull is this...' she mused.

I love my Other Woman. She offers sanity in an increasingly insane world. I am much better for having her in my life.

English Martial Arts...

Terry Brown is an English martial artist who began training in kung-fu in 1967 and has nearly five decades of fighting experience under his belt.

In 1980, he began researching English martial arts, and he's now one of the leading authorities on a vast subject that includes using weapons, such as the broadsword, the bill, the quarterstaff, the sword and buckler, and the sword and dagger, and using no weapons, which involves bare-fist fighting and wrestling.

His book, English Martial Arts (Anglo-Saxon Books, 1997) is a very informative and entertaining read, chronicling both the cultural shifts and historical conditions that, from perhaps as early as the sixth century onwards, helped forge a nation of warriors with its own indigenous fighting style.

The book not only includes a potted history of English martial arts and records its eventual decline, thanks mainly to improvements in ballistics, but also includes great stories about some of its early heroes. These include bare-fist fighting champions James Figg, Jack Broughton and Daniel Mendoza; plus some of its lesser-noted characters, such as Elizabethan sailor Richard Peeke, who was captured by the Spanish and agreed to fight for his freedom against up to six armed men at once... as long as he could use a quarterstaff. Peeke defeated his opponents and won his freedom.

The early chapters chart how the Company of Maisters, the governing body who controlled schools of self-defence and the teaching of martial arts in England, was established. The Company of Maisters was obviously important as it won royal patronage from both Henry VIII in 1540 and James I in 1605, and the 'schools of the science of defence' that flourished under the banner of The Company of Maisters were run along the lines of other respectable trades with strict rules and regulations.

The schools also had a strict order of promotion, very much like the ranking and belt system in many modern martial arts, and students first entered as a Scholar, before being promoted via a series of open challenges to the rank of Free Scholar, Provost and then Master. The Company of Maisters itself was governed by the Four Ancients, who were the four most senior members of the organisation.

Brown's book also includes details on the theory of fighting, such as the Four True Times, the Four False Times, the Four Grounds and the Four Governors, organising rules from more than 700 years ago about how and when to attack, which will make complete sense to anyone who's ever taken part in a sparring session, whether it involves weapons, hands and feet, or just hands.

It's a wonderful book that's clearly written by someone who's passionate about his subject. And it's also worth remembering that, with the current resurgence of martial arts thanks to MMA, England also has much older martial arts traditions to sit alongside its rich history of boxing and wrestling.

Anyone fancy a bit of quarterstaff work?

Masters Of Sex...

I return home from a busy day at work, followed by a martial arts training session. I am exhausted. The Missus, however, is quite chipper as her latest freelance project is going quite well.

'How was your evening?' I inquire. I am a caring husband. This is what caring husbands do.
'It was fab. I finished my work then watched Masters Of Sex on Channel 4. It was very good,' she replies.

I know Masters Of Sex is a much-heralded drama series starring Michael Sheen. I also know the Missus has a crush on the aforementioned Mr Sheen. He's on her allowed list.

'Well, it's got "him" in it, hasn't it? You were obviously going to enjoy it,' I say. Trying not to sneer. But failing.
'It has nothing to do with "him". It's just a very good series, although he is excellent.'
'You fancy "him", don't you?' I say. Before realising I am descending into teen umbrage.
'Yes. I suppose I do. He's unconventionally attractive. I like unconventionally attractive men. Hence you...'

This is what is called a backhanded compliment. It's also called an insult. 'Unconventionally attractive'. It will be my epitaph...

Other Woman News...

Me, the Missus, the Other Woman and the Other Woman's Long-suffering Boyfriend recently went to a mutual friend's wedding.

They'd kindly offered me and the Missus a lift as we were all staying overnight at the same hotel. Sadly, their car had a few problems with a dead battery so we had a slight drama getting there.

We made it, however, and the wedding was a blast... but, when it came to leaving the following morning, we had another battery problem so the four of us were stranded in a hotel car park for more than an hour waiting for the battery to recharge.

We kept ourselves amused and here are some of the things we learnt:
i) The Missus wants to start her own pottery and ceramics business.
ii) The Other Woman wants to grow vines and produce her own wine.
iii) The Other Woman's Long-suffering Boyfriend speaks much sense when he questions the Other Woman's lack of any horticultural knowledge of any description.
iv) It's probably OK for me to like Jay-Z. Even though I'm realistically too old, too white and too middle-class. As long as I don't keep 'fucking going on about it'.
v) The Missus is 'sick to death' of her 'idiot husband' 'poncing about with his stupid, fucking hair' and wishes 'he'd just have it fucking well cut.' Apparently.

Sound Advice...

I've been discussing my current writing projects with my oldest friend. Her advice is:
'Stick with the criminals and the prostitutes. It's your bag, baby!'

She has much wisdom, does my oldest friend.

Stewart Lee...

Stewart Lee, better-known as the husband of 2013 Fosters Comedy Award-winner Bridget Christie, remains one of the best stand-up comedians I’ve ever seen.

His latest show, Much A-Stew About Nothing, is currently touring the UK before taking up residency at the Leicester Square Theatre in London from November 2013 to January 2014, prior to filming a new series of the BAFTA-winning Stewart Lee’s Comedy Vehicle for the BBC.

The new stand-up show is Lee doing three half-hour sets for what will eventually be material for episodes of the new TV series, then throwing in an extra ten minutes of new and untried material as an encore.

The three sets are full of the usual Lee tropes, such as exasperation at the audience not getting some of the gags, then explaining why the gags are funny and how they set up something that will appear later in the show. There’s also the usual mock frustration with the modern world, and his despair and failure to understand much of its fascination with celebrity culture and its political torpor. Routines about his role as a father and a husband also put in an appearance.

It’s familiar Lee territory and it’s brilliantly done, and his stand-up stage craft as a performer and the quality of the material he presents make Lee worth a dozen other comedians currently clogging up the TV schedules like fat tissue in an artery.

Lee makes you laugh and makes you think. Go see him... before some arts critic from The Daily Mail can take no more of him and goes postal at one of his gigs. He’s brilliant.

Sticking Point: Part II...

My tahn bong (short staff) training continues at hapkido.

I was hoping to be a natural at this because it heavily relies on hand and eye coordination, and that is a skill set I'm comfortable with. But, sadly, I was hoping to be a natural at many things in life and they never materialised. I also realised a long time ago that the concept of being 'a natural' at anything is utter rubbish, and dedication, hard work, commitment and perseverance are the only things that really matter.

Consequently, I'm spending a lot of time working on basic strikes at the moment and hoping it will all come good. I will yet be Daredevil with his trusty billy club.

Public House: Part I...

My new theatre company is slowly taking shape. I have two large-scale projects in the early stages of development, two potential writers, some serious academic back-up, several possible venues, some initial funding contacts established and a fledgling website.

My next tasks are to register it as a limited company at Companies House, then set up a bank account and, by December, I should be good to go for its launch show next year.

It's going to be tough and probably not without a considerable amount of stress. But I think I've found a way to fund it and make it sustainable.

I used to do this without worrying about it. It was just something I did and any obstacles were things to deal with en route. I'm now about to start doing it again. It's scary and it's exciting... but if you don't push yourself, you'll never know how far you can go.

RIP Willow: Part II...

Myself and the Missus buried the ashes of our dead cat Willow at the weekend.

We dug a pot-bound twisted willow tree out of its pot and moved it into a bigger one near the back door, with her ashes placed at the bottom of the new pot.

We both cried a bit as we said a last goodbye, but I like the idea she's now home and close-by.

I even caught myself talking to her in the garden the other day, then explained to our remaining cat, Buffy, what had happened and why she was no longer around. I always talk to my cats. I sometimes prefer them to most people.

Rest in peace, Willow. You are home.

The Little Book of Prison: The Play: Q&A...

Here's part three, the post-play question and answer session with Frankie Owens, after the rehearsed reading of the play, The Little Book of Prison.

The play by Paul Brooks is a stage adaptation of the award-winning book by former convict Frankie Owens, which was directed by Jack Lynch and produced by LynchPin Productions Theatre Company at the Guildford Fringe Festival in July 2013.

The Little Book of Prison: Part Two...

Here's part two of the rehearsed reading of the play, The Little Book of Prison.

The play by Paul Brooks is a stage adaptation of the award-winning book by former convict Frankie Owens, which was directed by Jack Lynch and produced by LynchPin Productions Theatre Company at the Guildford Fringe Festival in July 2013.

The Little Book of Prison: Part One...

Here's part one of the rehearsed reading of the play, The Little Book of Prison.

The play by Paul Brooks is a stage adaptation of the award-winning book by former convict Frankie Owens, which was directed by Jack Lynch and produced by LynchPin Productions Theatre Company at the Guildford Fringe Festival in July 2013.

RIP Willow: Part I...

Our youngest cat, Willow, was hit by a car today. One of our neighbours knocked on our door to inform us that the accident had happened and our seriously injured cat had crawled under a nearby car. So I had to go and drag her out from under it and, accompanied by the Missus, rush to the vet to see what they could do.

Willow looked awful and was panting and could barely move and, even after she was stabilised, put on painkilling medication and x-rayed, it didn't look good. She had a broken leg, a broken pelvis, kidney damage and internal bleeding... so we took the decision to have her put down.

It was a horrible decision to make: but, bizarrely, seeing her no longer suffering rather than in the absolute agony I initially found her in offered some consolation. I'm also grateful she was spotted by our neighbours as the thought of her slowly dying in agony under a car would have been too brutal.

This is the second time I've been through the process of having a seriously ill cat put down and it remains a truly horrible experience. Myself and the Missus walked home from the vet and both vowed we were never having another cat when our other one, Buffy, eventually dies.

But having pets remains a sort of life lesson. You can only get love if you give it but in giving love you also expose yourself to be hurt, betrayed or bereft. If you don't give love, however, then you may as well be dead yourself.

So, bearing that in mind, we'll probably change our position about getting a new one when we're over the pain of losing this one.

RIP, Willow. You were greatly loved and you'll be sorely missed.

Sticking Point: Part I...

I've been studying the Korean martial of hapkido for more than ten years, and every grading and every belt en route to my first dan came with its own challenges and problems.

I've now had my prized black belt for a few years and it's still a challenge to retain the standards that got me there in the first place. But, as pointed out by Winston Churchill, 'Success consists of going from failure without loss of enthusiasm.' So I just remember that struggles remain part of any process when you're trying to improve.

I started training for my second dan a while ago and I've just graded for the first part of it, so it's something I'm particularly remembering. I passed the grading so I started officially training with my first martial arts weapon yesterday.

The name of the weapon in Korean is 'Tahn bong' and this translates as 'short stick'. And I'm particularly excited about this because, as a kid (and as an adult), one of my favourite superheroes was Daredevil, a blind superhero who used a short stick.

So if times get tough and I'm struggling to learn new techniques for my second dan, I'm going to console myself with the quote from Churchill and remember work and failure always comes before success... and the fact I could be a real-life Daredevil complete with short staff in a few years.

Holiday: Part I...

Me and the Missus are back from a fortnight in Corfu. It was very much a sun, sea, sand and relaxing holiday and a chance to recharge the batteries, but now it's over I'm raring to go.

First up is the Little Book Of Prison play and how we develop the script. I'm meeting the book's author in a few days to discus how we do this. I'm thinking radio play and possible theatre tour and he's thinking Podcast.

Then it's the Contagious Diseases Acts play for my new theatre company. I've done a lot of research on this while on holiday, perching myself on the balcony with several books on prostitution and a notepad, and I think I've now got a good handle on how I want to develop the project.

And I also want to grade at martial arts at the end of the year.

So that's three pretty clear goals to aim for. Let's go...

The Little Book Of Prison: The Reading...

The first and second rehearsed readings of my new script, The Little Book Of Prison, have come and gone and it's been a thoroughly enjoyable but quite demanding experience.

Now, after a hectic time on both the work and creative fronts, it's time to take some down time and assess not only where this play goes, but where my new theatre company goes and how it gets there.

And, fortunately, a holiday in the sun beckons so it's two weeks of winding down and taking stock... and getting ready to come back stronger and make some things happen.

Watch this space...

Nostalgia...

I recently met up with a couple of old friends from my college days. Unusually for somebody who's so confident about pretty much everything, I was a bit nervous about this.

For starters, you never know how people may have changed and, secondly, they've both made their mark, one as a recording artist and the other as a TV director, and I never feel as though the potential of my youth has been fulfilled. Not yet anyway...

But it turned out to be a fab evening and they were wonderful and entertaining company, and kind and considerate... essentially the sort of adults you want all your friends to be and you hope all teenagers turn into.

We're now back in touch and we'll hook up again. They're the sort of people any sane person would want in their life and it made me a little sad that it had taken all three of us more than two decades to regain contact.

Filthy...

I'm working long hours and arrive home to find the house 'cleaned' by the cleaners. But as I wander around trying to unwind, I constantly spot bits of dirt that they've missed. I am annoyed and consult the Missus, who is now in semi-retirement and at her most relaxed for years.
I, however, am not relaxed and need to vent. So I do:
'They're cleaners but they don't fucking well clean.'
'They do most of it,' replies the Missus, more interested in watching TV.
'But there's dirt on the mantlepiece in the kitchen. That's basic cleaning because it's visible. It's not even advanced cleaning.'
'You really are like the girl in this relationship, aren't you?' replies the Missus.
'How?'
'You just see dirt everywhere. Then you get upset about it. Like a girl...'
'I'm not a girl. I'm just not a fucking slob.'

I am annoyed. Then I realise my OCD is taking over as I start to straighten things on the coffee table in the living room. Straight lines for everything. Everything in straight lines. With no dirt. That will make the world a better place...

The Book Of Mormon...

The Missus bought me tickets to The Book Of Mormon for Xmas and we went at the weekend and it was fabulous.

It's essentially a musical about two Mormons, one smart and full of pride and the other slightly half-witted and clueless, who venture to a Ugandan village in a bid to convert a desperate populace to the Mormon religion. Once here, they encounter a failing Mormon chapter, Aids, a local warlord and all other manner of problems, while also taking a journey through the history of the Mormon religion via Star Wars and Star Trek. There's a bromance and a love story, too.

Created by Trey Parker and Matt Stone of South Park fame, it's crude and irreverent but it's also bloody hilarious and it's a beautifully crafted show.

I'm a big fan of Parker and Stone. I think their long-running TV series South Park was laugh-out-loud funny while the movie Team America was one of the most astute works of art I'd ever seen discussing America's role in global politics. And the fact the latter was a genuinely funny piss-take made using Supermarionation puppets a la Thunderbirds made it all the better.

The Book Of Mormon takes the musical form and takes crude humour to point out the flaws in the Mormon religion without openly ridiculing it. And the flaws it points out in Mormonism obviously have wider implications about religious fanaticism elsewhere in the world.

It's brilliant and it's funny and, like team America, it's very smart in what it says and how it goes about saying it. It's populist without dumbing down and it's a genuinely funny and also inspiring piece of work.

Play Time...

I have a new play reading on at a local Fringe Theatre venue in a Guildford pub.

The play is an adaptation of the award-winning The Little Book of Prison by Frankie Owens, and it had its first outing earlier in the week, with author Frankie in the five-strong cast.

I'm currently in the middle of rewrites but it's been a very rewarding process so far.

For a start, I've been under the gun in my professional life with four weeks of 12-hour days at work, so I've had to really discipline myself to get this written during my commuting time over the past six weeks. And this is something I intend to continue.

It's also been a rewarding process because I've taken source material that was very good in the first place, added something of myself into it, and made something very strong. And now myself and the book's author are collaborating on the rewrites and I think we'll end up with something even stronger.

I'm very pleased so far. And we're also talking about developing the play for radio, too, and a few other projects. And we're both mad John Sullivan fans. This time next year, Rodders...

Food For Thought...

Me and the Missus are in town sat in a coffee shop. This is a regular routine now we are no longer young things going out to pubs.

We are discussing James Gandolfini, the American actor behind Tony Soprano who died recently. We are both fans of The Sopranos so genuinely lament the loss.
'He was only 51.'
'Yes. That's no age,' ponders the Missus.
'He at least had a solid body of work behind him, though.'
'He also had a solid body. And he was only a year or two older than me,' adds the Missus.
'And he wasn't anywhere near as big as you either...'

Weight gags with any women are dangerous territory. And this one could have gone either way. Instead the Missus bursts out laughing. I may well pay later, though...

Broken...

It's all change at From Beer To Paternity Towers...

I am in the throes of starting a new job while the Missus has taken voluntary redundancy, so I'm currently working longer hours while she's enjoying the prospect of well-deserved time off away from the giddy world of being an editor in the homes magazine market.

I'd already expressed concern that this could mean I would become her latest project to micro-manage, which she denied – and then told me to make her a cuppa while she decided what we were doing at the weekend.

But she is becoming a new woman and starting to do lots of things she's always been interested in, such as pottery and craft stuff, and some stuff that she actively dislikes but wants to do anyway, like running. She even had my tea on the table when I got back from work late three times this week.

I was starting to fear I make have broken her and my feisty, sarcastic girl was in danger of becoming some sort of Stepford Wife.

Then we met in the pub last night and I was greeted by the following words:
'I ran for 30 minutes today and I was sweating like a fat lass after a cake.'

On the way home she then bought me a kebab. Maybe she's not broken after all.

Quote Of The Day...

'A mind is like a parachute. It can't work properly if it's not open.'
Frank Zappa

Train-in Day...

Me and the Missus are walking to catch the train to get into work. This is pretty much our daily routine, although she insists on arriving at the platform a good 20 minutes before the train actually leaves. 

Fortunately, she has successfully applied for voluntary redundancy so her working days travelling in with me are coming to an end.

‘I won’t miss this when you’re no longer working,’ I comment.

‘What? Getting to the station on time?’ she asks.

‘It’s not on time. We’re ridiculously early every single morning.’

‘It amazes me that for somebody who is so obviously OCD that you seem to have a blind spot when it comes to punctuality. You are Mr Last Minute…’

‘It’s not ‘last minute’. It’s finely honed and perfectly scheduled.’

‘I just like to get there early so I get a seat and I don’t end sitting next to an idiot.’

‘Well I end up sitting next to an idiot every morning and it doesn’t upset me…’

She glares. I suspect that comment may mean no ‘relations’ for a few days…

Romance...

It is Sunday morning. Me and the Missus are laid in bed discussing a mutual friend.
'Has he got a girlfriend yet?' I ask.
'Don't think so...' replies the Missus.
'That's a bit sad.'
'Yes. Good people shouldn't be lonely,' ponders the Missus in a moment of compassion, before adding: 'He'll never know what it's like to see passion turn to painful irritation and ongoing annoyance.'
'You make our relationship sound like thrush...'
'What? Putting up with an annoying cunt for long periods? I couldn't possibly comment. Cup of tea?'

Love is sometimes like this...

Fact Of The Day...

Wigan = one trophy in eight years.
Arsenal = zero trophies in eight years.

Discuss...

Found Drowned...

Me and the Missus went to the Watts Gallery just outside Guildford at the weekend.

GF Watts was a celebrated Victorian artist who worked mainly as a symbolist painter but also dabbled in social realism and sculpture and even had a few paintings that were almost impressionistic.

His second wife Mary was a potter, who was very much part of the arts and crafts movement, and the Watts Gallery with the Watts Chapel just down the road was fab.

I also saw the original of Found Drowned by GF Watts, a picture of a prostitute who committed suicide in London. I'm trying to get permission to use this painting as the key image for the project I'm working on about the Contagious Diseases Act, which will be the launch project for my new theatre company.

The company is called Public House Theatre and will be launched later this year. More details on this to follow...

All Change...

I'm moving into new territories and things are changing again.
Both at work and, more importantly, outside work.
But it's sometimes good to shake things up.

And I think I like Jay-Z. It may be a midlife crisis...

ITV Comedies…

ITV has been a wasteland for decent comedy ever since Rising Damp wowed a nation in the 1980s. Since then it’s been pretty awful fayre. Only the hit-and-miss-and-not-really-very-funny vulgar-thon Benidorm has offered any sign that comedy may yet have a life on ITV…

But recently there’s been a glut of new comedy shows on ITV with two big-profile shows and one lesser-heralded vehicle.

Vicious is the flag-bearer for the new ITV comedy renaissance. It stars Sir Ian McKellen and Sir Derek Jacobi as two ageing gay lovers, with Frances De La Tour as their sex-mad fag hag chum. There’s also the hunky, young neighbour upstairs that the elderly trio want to ride like a Blackpool donkey.

The main gag in Vicious seems to be that the two old gays and De La Tour’s character are ‘vicious’ and catty and the laughs presumably are meant to come from the outrageous things they say to each other. But the problem with this premise is that the exchanges need to be more ‘vicious’ for this to work. And they’re not. Instead they’re gags that are so telegraphed I had time to leave the room, make a cup of tea then come back into the room and stroke the cat (not a euphemism) and beat the protagonist to the punchline before they delivered it. It’s that laboured.

Vicious is a really bizarre show. The acting talent attached is astonishing but it’s like the last 30 years of comedy have never happened and we’re in the land of comedy ‘pooftahs’… but without the genuine warmth of a John Inman in Are You Being Served. I genuinely wouldn’t have been surprised if there was a guest spot from a Black And White Minstrel. It felt that hackneyed and that dated…

The Job Lot is a sitcom set in a Job Centre with Russell Tovey as a disillusioned member of staff, Sarah Hadland of Miranda fame as his quirky, insecure and eager-to-please-and-be-accepted boss, and Jo Enright of Life’s Too Short fame as a monotonal, deskbound autocrat who takes great delight in belittling everyone around her, both staff and jobseekers.

It’s not terrible in the same way that Vicious is and there are some nice moments in it but it’s not either really funny or really clever. One scene saw Tovey quit his job then change his mind when he left the building and realised the new temp arriving for work was a stunner. The exit of Tovey’s character wasn’t painful enough or farcical enough... and the introduction of a Benny Hill soundtrack would not have surprised me at the moment he saw the new office temp. There’s a genuinely funny idea here along the lines of the BBC2 sleeper hit The Smoking Room but I’m not sure this is it.

Plebs is the third of the new ITV shows I’ve seen and it’s a sort of Inbetweeners set in Ancient Rome and it’s actually the best of the three, even though it doesn’t boast the prime-time slot of the other two shows and is tucked away at 10pm.

It’s a bit bawdy and a bit raw and not particularly subtle but the script is much sharper than the other two shows. Tom Rosenthal is also very good as the unlucky-in-love Marcus and Ryan Sampson is excellent as his put-upon slave Grumio

The distancing effect of setting it in Ancient Rome works well and allows the writers not only the chance to mine the seam of historical anachronism but it also lends the whole enterprise a certain charm along the lines of Up Pompei.

It’s the best show of the three and it deserves a wider audience. And while Vicious may be pretty poor and The Job Lot sort of OK, at least ITV is back investing in new comedy shows. So that’s good news even if the quality of the output is a bit questionable.  

Old...

I turned 44 a few weeks ago. Fortunately I'm probably in the best health of my life and have so far avoided the family triple whammy of dementia, piles and baldness that seems to strike many men in my family.

Even so, the one fate I cannot seem to avoid is joining a certain marketing demographic as, one week after my birthday, I was invited to book a cruise on some Saga-type holiday. 

I'm expecting the advertising flyers for rubber sheets, bath chairs, care homes and natural Viagra courtesy of Pele any day now. 

I couldn't be less impressed. Innit.

Thrown...

In hapkido, each belt has a separate set of skills attached and I struggled through every single set of skills I had to learn on my way to black belt. At times it was a tortuous process, probably more so for my long-suffering instructor and fellow students, and even today I still find myself making basic errors on things I should know.

The only time this didn't happen, though, was on a set of skills called Yew Sool, which are the Korean equivalent of judo throws. In doing Yew Sool, I suddenly found something I could do and understood almost automatically. Suddenly my off-balancing, timing, momentum and foot movement were all happening in the correct sequence and I could throw people bigger and heavier than me.

These skills also opened up a lot of other hapkido techniques because through understanding these skills I suddenly understood what was happening with other skills and I started to realise what I'd been doing wrong and how to correct that.

Sadly, I've recently returned to these skills after not doing them for a while and suddenly I really suck at quite a few of them. And one of them in particular, which in judo is called ashi guruma or leg wheel.

I've spent a bit of time in class on this recently and I'm really struggling to collapse my opponent by dragging his right elbow across his body to collapse his hip and knee with my left lower grip, while at the same time hook punching my right arm with my higher grip to get his shoulder turning and complete the off-balancing. 

I'm starting to sort it out but it's a salutary reminder that if you don't use it (or at least practice it) then you do lose it.

Marathon Man…

The Missus has a friend running in the 2013 London Marathon so we head into town on Sunday to offer our support.

The friend expects to be at Blackfriars Bridge by about 2pm and the Missus tells me she's wearing a blue shirt and a white cap with red shorts. So we arrive at 1.30pm and jostle to get a good spot, then duly spend the next three hours waiting in the crowd as the runners go past but fail to spot the friend.

We do, however, see everyone else and really enjoy the afternoon. We then hear we missed the friend and she's finished the race is a none-too-shoddy five hours.

Running a marathon is an extraordinary achievement and I’m well impressed with the friend for doing it. It’s one of those challenges where it’s your will against your limitations and as a martial artist I can absolutely see how this form of masochism has its own peculiar pleasure.

Another friend who runs marathons took a picture of a sign at the end of the Dublin Marathon, which read: ‘On some days you’ll feel like you can never run a marathon again, but you now have a lifetime knowing that you’ve run this one…’ 

And I buy into that. I found the whole thing quite inspiring and started making the calculations of how long it would take me to train and be able to enter one.

I explained this thought process to the Missus. She sighed and rolled her eyes. She’s clearly not a convert to the idea…

PS. It turns out the friend was actually wearing a red top with a blue cap and white shorts but somebody apparently got the information wrong. But it's probably my fault...

Happy Birthday...

Today I am 44 but the Missus is ill so it's been quite a low-key affair.

I was also at a big pool tournament yesterday, playing my final high-level, competitive games for some time, but as soon as my team was knocked out of the event, I decided to make the five-hour journey back home rather than enjoy our customary Saturday night out in Great Yarmouth.

A decade ago, such nights out were usually brilliant but also very messy affairs. And waking up in a freezing cold caravan with a raging hangover was quite simply the price you paid for letting rip when you were away on a boys weekend. But the thought of repeating that particular bit of history has become less appealing every year...

I was also talking to several of my pool-playing peers at the weekend and many were discussing families and kids and setting a good example to the younger players... and I suddenly realised it wasn't just me. We've all grown up. Even the most unlikely candidates.

We had a good run as party animals, though. And we have some crazy times to look back on. Not to mention some very successful tournaments. And they are times I'll genuinely cherish.

But waking up next to the Missus, coughing and all, this morning was well worth the very steep fare and five hours on various trains and Tubes to come home from the event a night early.

And I even did some gardening when I got home, too. And house-cleaning. And cooking. I am clearly now a domestic goddess. And a fortysomething one...

On Hating Margaret Thatcher...

I grew up in a largely working-class town in East Yorkshire in the 1980s.

For pretty much all of this time, Margaret Thatcher was the Prime Minister of Great Britain and under her leadership I saw pretty much every industry in my home town, such as the shipyard, the docks and many light industries, close. Then the nearby mines started to shut and we slowly but surely became a country that no longer had much of any homegrown industry left.

Instead, we effectively became a fluffer for the financial services industries. Throw in the Poll Tax and the ever-increasing numbers of jobless among the working class, and it seemed like the poor were becoming even poorer.

Then I went to college in Winchester, an astonishingly wealthy Hampshire commuter town, and I realised the rich were also getting richer. The financial disparity and inequality between my northern home and my new southern base was stunning.

Her defenders always claimed Thatcher was a champion of free enterprise... but her legacy of free enterprise has left the UK with an underclass of families who have never worked and probably will never work. Her true legacy can be seen in impoverished housing estates up and down the country, in privately owned utility companies who continue to hike up prices to deliver profits for shareholders, in subsequent governments being too scared to move too far to the left after her rule effectively shifted the political landscape to the centre right for good.

For a long time, I despised Thatcher for everything she did to the UK and large numbers of its population but now she's finally dead I cannot celebrate the news.

And that's because her greatest legacy is that she demonstrated a stunning lack of compassion for the vulnerable and the poor and those most in need. And if I celebrated her death, I'd simply be proving the ruthless, uncaring, greed-is-good, I'm-alright-Jack, lack-of-compassion society she created is a lasting legacy and I've become part of it.

So I'm sorry a frail old lady who was clearly losing or had lost her mind is dead. And I hope her death offers her the type of merciful release and peace that she never allowed whole sections of society that she victimised while she was in power.

Because compassion is something we should practise every day, particularly as the barbaric acts of her successors Cameron and Osbourne continue to victimise the weakest and most vulnerable members of society. Short of riots or armed insurrection it's one of the few tools we have...