FBTP End of Year Awards: Part I...

Fuck the Oscars, the Brits or Sports Personality of the Year. It's time for the From to Paternity 2015 Awards!


Best Thing Always on Telly 

Emmerdale is a peak-time soap opera set in rural Yorkshire. It screens six 30-minute episodes every week and it's been the best thing on TV by an absolute mile this year. The storylines all hang together and are utterly credible, the ensemble cast is excellent, and it's delivered cracking plot after cracking plot again and again. Its executive producer, Kate Oates, takes over the helm at Coronation Street next year so it will be interesting to see if this loss affects the overall quality of the show. I hope not. It's been excellent this year. 


The runner-up prize goes to Coronation Street. It may not always be brilliant but it never drops below pretty excellent.


Best Thing Not Always on Telly 

I've written about series three of The Bridge recently and it still totally wows me. It has been the best thing on TV this year. By some considerable way.


Honourable mentions go to the last series of Peep Show, which was a real return to form; Game of Thrones, which was enjoyably violent and dirty nonsense; Netflix comic-book action adventure series, Jessica Jones and Daredevil; historical blood and bonk-fest Vikings on Amazon; and Gotham, which is a pretty splendid mix of superhero actioner and police procedural. Endeavour, ITV's Morse prequel, is also worth a look.


Worst Thing Always on Telly 

The paucity of the writing on EastEnders is a huge problem, but the key issue remains the smashing of Albert Square characters into totally unsuitable plotholes. There have been a couple of high points in Walford this year, notably the episodes dealing with Shabnam Masood's stillborn son, and the first meeting of Sharon Mitchell and the back-from-the-dead Kathy Beale. But it's largely been badly developed stories with one eye on grabbing headlines rather than building a long-term story that makes sense and is credible and stays true to the characters. 


If anything, I have massive sympathy for the writers, who are left to make sense and do their best job with the shabby and non-sensical storylines they are presented with. 


Worst Thing Not Always on Telly 

A seven-word review on the appalling sub-Love-Thy-Neighbour comedy that is Citizen Khan, which got its fourth series the year: How the fuck did this get recommissioned?

Best Gig 

The Unthanks, Newcastle's folk music wunderkids, held their own boutique festival, which they also headlined, and it was a wonderful. The venue was the Stevenson Boilerworks in Newcastle and it was a small-scale and intimate affair. The Unthanks' gig at London's Union Chapel was also ace. 


Honourable mentions go to Gaslight Anthem and Arcade Fire, who remain two of the best live acts out there, and former Supergrass singer Gaz Coombes, who produced a charming and utterly astonishing set.


Best Album 

My favourite album of the year may not have actually come out this year because I've been retro-buying as well as purchasing new releases. The two new albums that have wowed me have been: In Dreams by The Editors, which sees Birmingham's finest continue their delve into moody electronica; and Mount the Air by The Unthanks, which may be a more produced and polished album than their previous output but it still has much to treasure. 


Other things I've fallen in love with in 2015 include: One-Eyed Jacks and Outlands by Spear of Destiny; The Idiot by Iggy Pop; The Circus by Erasure; In Your Room by Yazoo; 12 Deadly Cyns by Cyndi Lauper; The Glare by Michael Nyman and David McAlmont. I've probably missed many more.

Favourite Fighter

Polish MMA fighter and UFC Women’s Straw-weight Champion Joanna Jedrzejczyk has utterly wowed me this year. Her striking is off-the-chart, in its volume, its power and its accuracy, and her grappling looks pretty solid, too. In a year dominated by the in-your-face publicity machine that is new UFC Featherweight Champion Conor McGregor, who can walk the walk and talk the talk, and the seemingly unstoppable rise then dramatic fall of the hardly shy and now dethroned UFC Bantamweight Champion, Rhonda Rousey, Jedrzejczyk has quietly gone about her business with under-stated and, at time, under-the-radar efficiency.


Twat of the Year 

I'm lucky. Apart from a couple of run-ins with largely inconsequential cloth-heads at work and a couple of other fuckwits outside of it, it's been a relatively twat-free year in both my professional and personal life.


Hero of the Year

Jeremy Corbyn's surprise elevation to Labour Leader has reminded everyone that politics should be about caring for people, not about kow-towing to multinationals or ensuring the rich stay rich and the poor get poorer. It's a timely victory and it's brought 380,000 back to the Labour Party.


Not Enough Bullets in the World Award 

Pretty much any member of the Tory Party. They are deplorable people and their lack of compassion should be a source of national shame. I genuinely have no idea how any of the fuckers sleep at night.

From Russia with Love...

I have attracted the attention of a new admirer. She has even sent me an email.

'How are you?? Im Aleksandra! I want a man. I enjoy fitness and drawing. I am 31 years old. I am from Russia. Bye bye, Aleksandra...'

It's genuinely heart-warming to know that I haven't lost it! I can only hope that it's not some sort of elaborate scam preying on my vanity and need for sexual validation.

The Bridge: Season Three...

Goodbye Saga Noren. I am a huge fan and I hope we meet again. But, if not, thanks to you and your police colleagues for keeping me entertained, enthralled and thrilled for three seasons. Even better, for a show whose central characters teeter on the brink of personal disaster and terrible tragedy virtually every week, we even had a sort of happy ending. This, of course, could just be a happy ending and that's it... or it could be the springboard for a possible fourth season. Here’s hoping!

The Bridge is Noridc Noir, a generic description for the spate of superb thrillers such as The Killing and Borgen that came out of Denmark and won deserved worldwide acclaim. The Bridge is a Swedish and Danish co-production and, like the excellent The Killing, it's essentially a superior and intelligent police thriller that operates at its own pace and doesn't feel the need to explain every single thing or pander to its audience. 

The opening two series followed the chalk-and-cheese relationship between strait-laced, OCD-suffering and high-functioning autistic Swedish detective Saga Noren, played by the astonishingly brilliant Sofia Helin, and her Danish detective counterpart, the flawed Martin Rohde (Kim Bodnia).

The third season sees Saga work alongside a new partner, haunted drug-user Henrik Sabroe, played by Thure Lindhardt, as they hunt a serial killer who's targeting victims connected to a multi-millionaire and using his art collection for inspiration when committing the murders.

We also gradually meet the supporting cast of characters. Many of these, such as Saga's boss, Hans Petterson, and IT expert John Lundqvist, we've met before, but others, such as millionaire Freddie Holst and Saga's mother, Marie-Louise Norén, are new. 

I could wax lyrical about how the complex plot perfectly hangs together, or how the intrigue is consistently and tautly maintained, or how brilliant the scriptwriting is, or how excellent the whole cast are, or how the black humour is pointed and beautiful, or how the third season is every bit as good as the first.. But I’d probably end up boring myself and anyone else who chances on this and reads this.

Instead, give it a whirl. It’s ten one-hour-long episodes and it’s probably the best thing you’ll see on TV this year. I genuinely haven’t seen better. It has no weak points. 

A word of warning, though. The only problem with watching something as good as The Bridge is that it may raise the bar too high for pretty much anything you watch again ever. 

It is that good. 

Other Woman News...

The Other Woman is slightly annoyed. Not that this is new. This is often her default position. Usually followed by sarcasm. And barely-contained-if-at-all aggression. 

We've both recently graded at Hapkido and passed and we are now the same level. Apparently, however, I am the senior belt because I've been at the school longer. 

This has prompted her ire. 
'Essentially you're a slow learner,' is her most recent comment on the matter. 'We're the same level and I've learnt faster, and dealt with a seriously broken arm. But it now looks like you're better than me because you're the martial arts equivalent of a special needs child.'

It's hard not to love her generosity of spirit.

New Nickname...

I've been sporting excellent sideburns for a while now and my BJJ teacher thinks they're either brilliant or hilarious. The plus side of this, however, is that I have a new nickname at the BJJ school... Wolverine. 

It's a cool nickname. I am a massive comics geek and I would have paid money to have that. Sadly, as a couple of bad injuries have made very clear in the past few years, I have no mutant healing factor. I may invest in some claws, though...

Sticking Point: Part V...

Hapkido grading... done! I even think it went OK. My form and my double kicks felt a bit wonky because I'm still operating on one leg, but my techniques felt good and I felt pretty strong in sparring. I basically used what limited kicks I have left and relied on my hands, which I'm pretty comfortable with. So we'll now wait and see what the result is. 

The important thing was, pass or fail, to just get through it. After a year of annoying injury that has limited several of my martial arts ambitions in both Hapkido and BJJ, it was good to actually get something solid under my belt. The journey between first and second dan will take a bit of time so it's important to stay on course and continue to refine everything.

There were many things to admire throughout the grading: seeing junior belts go through their paces, seeing the more senior belts (who will be bypassing me pretty soon) look very impressive, and seeing my teacher and her teacher interact in that tender and respectful relationship that they have. 

The highlight of the grading, though, apart from testing alongside the ever-fierce Other Woman, was seeing the Other Woman Who Loves Other Women (or Miss Other Woman Who Loves Other Women now she's a grade higher than me) get her second dan. 

She's an astonishing martial artist. She has a relaxed grace, speed, balance and power that I constantly marvel at. She's awful to spar with because I often switch off and enjoy watching her and forget there may be a roundhouse kick en route that I'm more than capable of walking into, despite her best efforts to pull it. 

It's the sort of good day that makes occasional bad ones worthwhile.

The Modern World Disgusts Me: Part VII...

Far be it from me to criticise marketing people and their ram-their-tawdry-lies-down-your-throat ways if it can make them a fast buck. But here's a thing and HMV, with your in-store Trending This Week section, please take note.

Elvis Presley is not 'trending' this week. He's been quite popular since the mid-1950s when he became something of a big deal, a status he's maintained ever since... and one that not even death has managed to diminish. It may interest you to know that some people even refer to him as 'The King of Rock 'n' Roll', such is his sustained appeal. 

So, please, fuck off with your hipster, shyster, hard-sell nonsense. 

Thank you, very much...

Quote of the Day...

'Perfection is not attainable. But if we chase perfection, we can catch excellence...'

Vince Lombardi

Physiotherapy: Part II…

I am determined to ensure that today’s physiotherapy session goes well. I’ve religiously done the exercises I was give to strengthen my quads. I’ve also set a phone reminder to pack shorts for my appointment so there will be no repeat of the ‘boys escaping from the barracks’ incident, to badly paraphrase the great Alan Partridge. 

But I am late back from training the previous night and I am tired. I am trying to negotiate a looming Hapkido grading with only one functioning leg. Most turning kicks are out and I’m struggling to base correctly for throws and launch correctly for falls, and my footwork is compromised so I’m having to adjust forms and strikes to compensate. This is difficult but I’ve had injures before and worked around them before. This is no different.

The next morning, though, I am late up, so I throw on my clothes and quickly grab my shorts and end up arriving late. My child-looking physiotherapist is lovely about my tardiness, though, so we head to a treatment room. He’s chatty, I’m chatty. This is going well. I take off my trousers, grab my shorts from my bag and put them on. He assesses my damaged leg. This could be a triumph of treatment sessions. I may win an award.

Then, about three minutes into the session, I notice the aroma of cat urine. We are currently having building work done in the house and cat has gone a bit mental, so she’s pissing in strange places as a form of protest. I now realise, far too late, that she’s decided my shorts are an acceptable target.

I know what’s happened and I think my physio has noticed the aroma. Sadly, I can’t be sure. This means I can’t casually mention the cat piss smell. If I say what has happened, he may think it’s a lie and I’m covering up for middle-aged incontinence. I say nothing. I lay there. I do as I’m told.

When the session is finished, there is a diagnosis. It’s a torn meniscus. It's surgery if it gets really bad, but he suggests yet more leg strengthening exercises and careful injury management. My physio then excuses himself for several weeks and explains he has other commitments. We book an appointment for a month’s time.

I fear the ‘other commitments’ may be a ruse. I think he may really fear I’m some sort of weirdo who exposes his bollocks then pisses himself at physiotherapy sessions for his own entertainment. In reality, I’m just a bloke who’s been humiliated by a vengeful cat. 

This is a new low.

Charlie Work...

The Missus has been very vocally admiring the house of her brother, who's just had all the carpets up and had his floorboards sanded, stained and varnished. Just recently, our cat has also been pissing on an area of carpet upstairs.

Putting the two things together meant only thing was going to happen: our hallway carpets were coming up and we were getting our floorboards done. 

Fortunately, we're both very busy at work so I thought we'd last until the new year... then, this week, I was off work and the cat pissed on the carpet yet again. 

So I spent large parts of Friday and Saturday ripping up carpet and underlay and taking pin nails and staples out of floorboards. 

The Missus always gets her own way. I suspect she's been pissing on the carpet herself to speed up the whole process...

Ai Weiwei...

Chinese artist Ai Weiwei currently has an exhibition on at the R&A in London. And it's fab. 

On entering the R&A courtyard, the sight of a small forest of large, leafless, bolted-together tree carcasses greets you. It looks slightly out-of-kilter but it's strangely beguiling, and you're drawn to the trees, made from bits of different dead trees, now Frankenstein-ed together. You can wander around this bizarre forest as you make your way to the R&A building proper. As you do so, there's an armchair made out of marble, plus a red BMW, where donors can deposit Lego bricks through the sunroof for the artist's next project.

It sounds really bloody strange. It's Lego, it's dead trees, it's a comfortable thing made out of a hard and cold material. It's playful and moving and thought-provoking and you haven't even made it through the doors of the exhibition yet. 

Al Weiwei is the Chinese artist the Chinese government wish would keep his mouth shut. They tried to imprison him, but the international outcry was so great he was freed. They tried to bankrupt him by claiming he hadn't paid taxes and presented him with a £1.5million bill. Well-wishers clubbed together and raised the money in record time. They said he couldn't talk about his imprisonment, so he created six half-size, replica cells showing the claustrophobic conditions he endured that were supposed to teach him obedience. 

Weiwei's a fascinating man and, in terms of the global arts scene, he's probably one of the most important living artists. His art comments on the role of China in the modern world and it offers a critique of how the superpower oppresses its citizens, while at the same time celebrating the spirit of those people and their astonishing craftsmanship.

Take Straight, one of the exhibitions at the R&A. It acts as a monument to the lives of the thousands of schoolchildren who died when an earthquake ravaged Sechuan Province in 2008 and many schools collapsed. On the wall is a stark and huge list of the dead, while on the floor is 150 tonnes of straightened rebar steel, the stuff used to strengthen buildings against earthquakes, stacked as a rolling landscape. 

It's claimed that one of the causes of this tragedy was local government corruption, which meant that cheap and sub-standard rebar was bought... meaning the buildings weren't built to standard and vulnerable to major tremors. It's both a strangely moving tribute to the victims and a brutal critique of those responsible. It's also a visually stunning piece.

There's so much to recommend in this exhibition. Straight was the thing that really wowed me, but other rooms have many other diverse items and installations, which vary in size but not in impact. It's a genuine joy.

Sticking Point: Part V...

I am grading in a week and a bit for parts two and three of my second dan in Hapkido. This is quite a lengthy process and there are about 12 parts in total so I am some way off a new belt. But, for the first time, I will be grading alongside the Other Woman, who has passed part two and is grading for part three. 

This means we are grading buddies and we will be testing at the same time. This should be a lovely and harmonious experience. Unfortunately, she is uber-competitive and it has trouble written all over it, particularly as there will be sparring involved and we are also grading with weapons.

How competitive is she? Well, she's entered a 'just-for-fun' Bake Off competition at work and she is genuinely considering poisoning the other contestants to ensure victory. 

I suggested this was not a normal course of action. She sneered. 

This morning, we stayed after class and did an hour of running through Hapkido techniques leading up to black belt. Even trying to be gentle, she was in an unforgiving mood and she seemed to enjoy wrist-locking me and slamming me to the mat a little too much. 

She then went onto to tell me that I should see these rapid and sometimes painful descents at high speed as 'mat cuddles'. 

An hour later, I am so sore from 'mat cuddles' that I can barely move. Fortunately, we have another review and grading preparation session booked in for next week. And I am going to 'mat cuddle' the fuck out of her tiny, violent and malevolent frame. 

If I can move by then...

Howarth: Top Withens Walk

There is some dispute about whether Top Withens, a ruined farmhouse with two imposing looking trees next to it, is the inspiration for the farmhouse, Wuthering Heights, in the novel, Wuthering Heights. But, located a few miles outside of Howarth, it’s known that Emily did walk there and, even if it was not the exact house she based the literary farmhouse on, its remote location on top of a remote hill must have offered some form of inspiration.

The walk from Howarth to Top Withens and back again is about seven miles and it goes over utterly stunning scenery. It’s sometimes a bit slippy-slidy over mud walking paths, and there’s a couple of difficult bits where it goes uphill, but it’s well worth the effort.

The walk also takes in the Bronte Falls, another haunt of the sisters when they went walking, and it’s very picturesque. The views throughout the walk are nothing short of majestic, but it’s the arrival at Top Withens that is the star attraction. The vistas from this site are breath-taking and it’s a great place to stop and rest before attempting the journey back that goes around the other side of the valley. 

Yorkshire is a beautiful place. I’ve obviously always said that anyway, but it’s good to reminded that your birthplace affiliations do actually have some basis in fact, too.

Howarth: Bronte Parsonage Museum

Howarth is a small town set in the Yorkshire Dales with one key claim to tourist fame: its links with the Bronte family. 

Although not born there, it’s the place where Charlotte, Emily and Anne Bronte, plus their vicar father, Patrick, and their dissolute artist brother, Branwell, grew up and lived the bulk of their lives. It’s also the place where the three sisters created a world-famous literary legacy by writing novels such as Jane Eyre, Wuthering Heights, The Tenant of Wildfell Hall and several others in the first half of the 19^th century. 

Bronte Parsonage Museum, the home of the Bronte family throughout that period until their deaths, is the physical focus of that fame, and it’s an amazing place. 

The parsonage was bought thanks to private donations in the 1930s, then given to the Bronte Society to restore and create a permanent home for the ever-growing collection of Bronte artefacts, as well as providing a hub of pilgrimage for Bronte fans. What they have created and built over that period of time is a stunning achievement. 

The parsonage itself has been restored so most of the original rooms are recreated as they would haven been when the family were in situ: downstairs is Patrick Bronte’s study, opposite is the living room where late at night the sisters would walk around the table and discuss their novels, then there is the study of Charlotte’s husband, and the kitchen, where Emily would spend lots of time and look out onto the moors through the window. Upstairs are the bedrooms, then a room leads to a permanent exhibition about the sisters and their work and lives. 

The combination of the restored house and the exhibition offers a comprehensive but not overwhelming or intimidating introduction to the lives and works of the three sisters, and it also tells the story of their father and their brother, plus the other two Bronte sisters, Maria and Elizabeth, who both died young, and their mother, also named Maria, who also died young. 

For what could have become a garish literary Disneyland in more corporate hands, it’s a surprisingly intimate and tender place. It doesn’t take too much imagination to see the sisters and their family living and working and writing in the restored rooms. You can tell the whole project has been nothing short of a labour of love for those involved for the past 80-plus years.

When we went, we splashed out on a VIP private tour, which was followed by a private viewing in the collections room. There was obviously an additional price attached to both these experiences, but it was worth every single penny. Our guide, Amy, was obviously passionate about her subject, but she was also knowledgeable, funny and engaging as she took us through the house. 

It was a wonderful experience. I bought it for the birthday of the Missus, who’s a bit of a Bronte nut, but I also found it thoroughly engaging and surprisingly moving. 

Physiotherapy: Part I...

I am a bit knackered. An old martial arts injury has reoccurred so I am undergoing a course of physiotherapy. And it's got me a bit perplexed...

The first unsettling thing is my physiotherapist. He's utterly lovely and he clearly knows his stuff. But he's young. The sort of young that makes me realise I am not. He looks younger than my son.

The second problem is I forgot to pack any gym shorts for my first consultation session. I did obviously have clean boxer shorts on, but there was a moment I was laid flat out on a bench, raising one leg at a time, and I realised my boxer shorts were a bit loose... and I may have exposed a low-hanging bollock to a young, fresh-faced boy on a Monday morning.

This badly conflicts with my preferred self-image.

In my head, I am not a 46-year-old man: I am a modern-day member of the Hwo Rang Do, a breed of historical warrior poets from Korea, who valued intelligence, courage and compassion and were trained to fight. I am articulate and witty.

But, in reality, I am an injured old man who has exposed a testicle to a twentysomething boy.

Grappling Talk...

I’m currently injured so I’m out of regular BJJ training for a while, apart from a few open mat sessions, where I’m essentially turning up to do light rolling or drilling.

It’s not my first injury lay-off and it won’t be my last, so I try to remain philosophical. But injuries remain annoying, especially when it’s put the kibosh on all my BJJ competition plans for this year. 

I was reading an article online a few days ago, though, about an American black belt called Chris Haueter. He’s one of the so-called ‘Dirty Dozen’, a group of BJJ practitioners who were the first 12 Americans to be awarded their black belts in the US. And he said the following thing:

‘It’s not about who’s good, it’s about who’s left.’ 

I love that and it chimed with me a lot as it reminded me about my other ongoing martial arts journey. 

In Hapkido, a Korean martial art I've now studied for 13 years, I was a terrible white belt and not much better in my other early belts. I also saw younger, more skilled and more graceful students join and leave me in their slipstream as they progressed up the ranks while I struggled. Their kicking, punching, knees, elbows, takedowns, joint locks, throws and sparring were all superior to mine. 

But they didn’t stick around and I did, so I was left. And because I was left, I slowly got better. Even at the giddy heights of my current black belt, I still wouldn’t claim to be a good black belt, especially when I look around the do-jang and see other students who are faster, more technically proficient, more graceful, more balanced, etc. 

But I'll be left and that means I'll continue to improve. And that's the same approach I take into BJJ and pretty much anything else. It’s a good lesson and one that keeps me sane when injury prevents me from seriously training in either Hapkido or BJJ.

Fame at Last…

I am in Metro. It’s an idea I came up with in the pub with the Other Woman and now it appears it will be an occasional column (see above). 

The gist of the column is that I am a Tech Virgin, an idiot who doesn’t understand technology but who would like to. 

In truth, I have some competency with technology that I use regularly. But the rest of it is a muddled blur, so the gimmick is not too far from the truth. I still have no real idea what a Twitter is or how it works, even though I had an account for a few months. 

But I’ve also had a wife for a while now and I have no real understanding of how that works either. As she continually tells me… 

The thing that seems to have amused most people about the page, though, is not my laser-sharp wit or cunning turn of phrase, but the fact I am pictured next to Sean Connery as James Bond. 

In my head, I could easily be James Bond. But it seems many other people disagree. The cunts.

Dave Marson...

I got the news today that an old friend had died. 

His name was Dave Marson and, unless you were involved in the Hull arts scene when Spring Street community theatre was getting under way before it became Hull Truck in the mid 1970s, or unless you saw any of his plays at London Fringe theatre venues in the late 1970s or early 1980s, or unless you were involved in the Goole Docktown Project in the early to mid-1990s, the name probably doesn't mean much. 

But he was a comrade-in-arms when I was cutting my teeth and working on community arts projects and fringe theatre in the early 1990s in Yorkshire, and we became good friends. I viewed him as something of a mentor figure back then, although he always rather generously treated me as an equal, which I clearly wasn't at the time.

Dave came from a working-class family in Hull and, like the rest of his family, he'd worked on the docks. He got involved in the union while on the docks and that prompted him to get an education that eventually saw him study history under famed Marxist professor Raphael Samuel.

Theatre work alongside peers like Alan Plater and Mike Bradwell followed in the 1970s, before he left the UK to work abroad. Then he returned to Goole, of all places, and he opened a book shop. In Goole. Dave was always an optimist. 

We met in 1991. I was fresh from college and determined to stage theatre that meant something in my home town. I'd ordered a book by John McGrath and my mum went to pick it up for me. Dave mentioned he'd worked with the actress on the cover. I went into his shop the following day and we talked. I had ambition, drive, ideas; Dave had experience, craft, knowledge. A friendship was born in an instant, with any shortfalls in our skill set being covered by other key movers within the Docktown group we quickly formed. 

Docktown involved and was created by an astonishing bunch of people. We all shared stories, ideas, dreams and we all worked relentlessly for three years to ensure Docktown, the large-scale community play and arts project for Goole, was a success. I may have provided the initial drive and the engine, but Dave was one of several strong hearts and wise heads guiding that, offering counsel and jokes when things were going badly. 

Memorably, in one meeting with the largely Conservative borough council, he told several officers that Goole deserved better than the 'Tory shower of shit' who were stopping something artistically vital for the town from happening. Dave could play the diplomat, but it was never a role that sat easily with him if he felt a wrong needed to be righted.

Dave was many things. He was a playwright of skill and heart who wrote the script for the Docktown play, he was a comrade-in-arms and, for a man originally from Hull, he was an unlikely champion of Goole at a time when the town needed it. More than anything, Dave was one of those rare people who believed anything was possible. He was also my mate and I consider myself blessed that our friendship extended long after Docktown was finished.

In his later years, ill health took its toll. Dementia affected him badly towards the end, too. 

The last time I saw him, though, he was in good spirits and he was even talking about working on a new play. I'm sad that I never saw that happen. But I'm sadder still that I'll never see Dave again. That magical three years working on Docktown and the friendship it created afterwards remain boons I cherish. 

Goodbye mate. You won't thank me for saying it, but you were always on the side of the angels. Even if those angels were occasionally foul-mouthed and brutally funny.

The Great British Bake Off...

The news desk at The Daily Mail, that so-called protector of middle-class England, must have been foaming at the mouth with the sort of right-wing indignation that wouldn't have looked out of place an English Defence League march when the final three contestants competing in the final of the Great British Bake Off on BBC1 was announced. 

A gay fella, a Muslim and a hippy competed for the first prize and some 13.4 million viewers watched them in the final, which ended with Muslim mother and wife Nadiya crowned the winner. 

And, after splashing the GBBO victor on the front page of The Daily Mail for the past several years, where did Nadiya appear in the paper? The front page? No. Page two or page three? No. She made it on page seven. 

The racism of the paper isn't even subtle any more. And, what's worse, the decision to not feature her as prominently as previous winners means that the paper obviously thinks its readers are as racist as it is. 

And, you know what, they're probably fucking right. 

Shame on that paper and shame on the bigots who buy it. They'd probably start defending these accusations by saying something along the lines of, 'I'm not a racist, but..'

The Best Joke in the World: Parts III & IV...

Q. Why should ambitious people with a love of travel collect stamps?
A. Because 'philately' will get you everywhere!

I'm having the faces of gay men and women, plus paintings of Regency-era architecture, all over my living room. That should 'Brighton' the place up!

Stewart Lee: A Room with a Stew...

Stewart Lee is the best stand-up in the UK. He's been gigging up and down the country for 20-plus years and his recent resurgence, on the back of several successful stand-up tours, has secured him three series of The Stewart Lee Comedy Vehicle, a BBC TV series, which has won acclaim and awards and ensured him a new fanbase. 

His current run at London's Leicester Square Theatre sees Lee testing out material for six 28-minute episodes of the fourth series of his TV show. The gig we saw featured four of these 28-minute slots and each one was fabulous. 

Lee fans will recognise many of the delivery techniques and stylistic tropes employed, but Lee's such a brilliant performer and the construction of the narratives is so multi-layered and skilfully crafted that it's like catching up with an old friend whose quirks are endearing. And it's true that the old friend of Lee's comedy persona may also be a sarcastic, pseudo-intellectual and infuriated curmudgeon, but that's the deal.

It's about the sixth or seventh time we've seen Stewart Lee live and he never disappoints. He's fabulous.

Tattoo News...

I've wanted a new tattoo for a few years now. Then the Boy got a very cool bespoke design a few months ago and I got major tattoo envy. Of my son. 

So, this week, I finally went under the needle.

I've always liked the idea of tattoos as life milestone markers on your body. I love the 'Goole' barcode on my left shoulder that the Missus bought me for my 30th birthday. It was the equivalent of human branding about the town where I'm from in East Yorkshire.

My new tattoo is similarly personal: it's an armband of my hapkido black belt. 

I was awarded my black belt more than four years ago and it's an achievement I'm proud of. It was a nine-year journey from white to black and there were many challenges to overcome, not least being really bad at it for the first three years. For the first year and a bit of being a black belt, I also didn't really feel like one. Even though the belt was won by sweat, graft and constant application over limited ability, there was lengthy 'settling in' time. 

I'm through that now and I feel as though I wear the belt and it doesn't wear me, so it finally felt appropriate to mark that particular milestone.

Inside the loops of the belt is a ying-yang symbol of two fighting wolves. This is a reference to a Native American Indian story. 

The story involves a grandfather explaining to his grandson that his tribe believes a white wolf and a black wolf are locked in a constant battle for supremacy at the heart of every man and woman. The white wolf represents virtues such as compassion, love and sympathy, and the black wolf represents negative factors such as agressions, lust and anger. The grandson asks which wolf wins the fight. The grandfather replies: 'The one you feed...' 

The story chimes with not only my hapkido journey but journeys in other areas such as my writing and my BJJ. To keep going, the white wolf generally has to win. But you do sometimes also need the black wolf. Starving him achieves nothing and you sometimes need the so-called 'negative' qualities that the black wolf is supposed to represent. 

In fact, the longer version of this story isn't about starving the black wolf at all. That's the version adopted by the religious right in the US. The Native American Indian version of this story is about keeping the two wolves existing in harmony with each other and not starving or over-feeding either. 

I love my new tattoo. It's not about announcing to the world that I am a black belt and I'm a very hard or an amazingly skilled martial artist. It's about marking a journey, celebrating overcoming difficulties and not giving in. It's also about being in a place where I feel balanced with my life.

The Sights of London: Part II...

I was cycling to visit a tattoo parlour in Kings Cross last week when I chanced upon an optician's shop. Bearing in mind its location, it has a name of genius proportions... Kings Cross Eyes.

This is a real thing. I am not making it up for comedy purposes. I have even found a picture (above).

BBQ News...

Me and the Missus hosted our annual BBQ last weekend and we managed to feed about 50 guests without poisoning anyone. The predicted rain storm also held off and the Boy visited for the weekend, too,  so he ended up helping out with the cooking duties.
I had one slight moment of fear when I realised I was only going to get one shot at lighting the BBQ, but that soon passed when the fire caught and it roared into life. The two standout moments of the weekend, though, were both child-related.

The first involved the son of friends, who is our guideson/godson. They were short on options at the time. He's at the age where he's not old enough to be a teenager, but too old to hang with the rest of the kids. so he spent most of the day helping me and the Boy out with the cooking. It wasn't until about three hours into this arrangement that I realised I was essentially outsourcing my cooking duties by using child labour. I'm obviously more in touch with the corrupt Tory Government than I thought.

The other moment involved the Boy. For years, I tried to encourage him to do martial arts but he never really bothered. He was even less bothered when I needed a body to drill techniques on.

Recently, however, he's started doing kung-fu and he's really loving it. So I was delighted when he uttered the words: 'Come out into the garden. We'll spar!' 

I was beyond happy. It was a moment of male bonding between stepfather and stepson. I think he recognised it because he smiled. I smiled, too. There was a moment of recognition. A moment of genuine affection. Then I knocked the shit out of him. 

I obviously didn't do that last thing.

Tramp News: Part I...

My route to work has a new feature. This is a middle-aged, homeless man, who sits near a carpark that I cut through most days. 

He looks quite well dressed and he's also very clean shaven. I fear, however, he is lacking in work ethic. He simply sits there and never engages anyone in conversation. I walked by yesterday and he was reading Metro and sipping a latte. Today, I walked by and he was on his mobile phone. 

I worry that such behaviour means he is not eliciting much sympathy from me and many other passers-by. I don't think he's got the hang of his new career at all...

Provincial Punk...

The Missus started doing ceramics about three and a half years ago and her technique and her work are improving at an impressive speed. It's wonderful to see she's found her 'thing'. What I get from martial arts, she gets from pottery. 

Part of her new-found love means we visit various exhibitions by ceramic artists and, last weekend, we headed to the Turner Gallery in Margate to visit the Grayson Perry exhibition, Provincial Punk. 

There was so much brilliant stuff at this exhibition, but one of my favourite things was a speeded-up film showing Perry creating a couple of hand-built coil pots from start to finish, then being able to see the same pots in the exhibition. 

Perry is a fascinating, articulate and inspiring artist. I love the idea that he started doing pottery because it was seen as a bit 'naff' and he thought he could use hand-built pots or craft stuff like tapestries as quiet smart bombs, whose challenging content is smuggled in via a seemingly uncontroversial form. 

I thought Perry's Reith Lectures were wonderful when they went out a few years ago. I've now seen a lot of his work and I genuinely think he's equally wonderful, too.

Other Woman News...

The Other Woman is annoyed. She has had a few days off work and, while she's been off, one of her colleagues has had a stress-related incident... and virtually left.
 'It's strange, isn't it?' she ponders over a post-training drink in the pub. 'You've met two of my work colleagues and, within a few weeks of meeting you, they've both had breakdowns of some variety.' 
'What are you saying?' I inquire. 
'That meeting you is enough to drive most normal people over the edge...' 

I think this a little harsh and I point out that they have also been working with her for quite some time by now, and that could be a factor, too. 

Apparently, this is not helpful...

EastEnders News...

EastEnders is a source of continual frustration at From Beer to Paternity Towers. Too often, it's Albert Square characters bashed into round plot holes, creating a mish-mash of stories and scripts where constant exposition is used to explain poor plotting and unlikely character development. 

But tonight's episode is excellent. I say excellent. It's actually pretty heartbreaking. It deals with Shabnam Masood's stillborn baby storyline and the whole episode focuses on this one story. 

The Pete Lawson script is simple and strong, Rakhee Thakrar and Davood Ghadami give excellent performances as the heartbroken parents, the always solid Nitin Ganatra is superb as Masood, and Bonnie Langford, yes, Bonnie Langford, is a revelation as Kush's grieving mum, Carmel. 

When Enders can do stuff that is genuinely this good, it only adds to the frustration that it can stuff that's so poor. You get the impression that there is still the kernel of excellence in EastEnders. But it takes a precision where the storyliners and the writers have to pay attention and respect to a particular storyline to create it, rather than indulge the creative whims of people who seem to have little respect for the characters and their histories.

If the same amount of attention had been paid to the ongoing bore-fest and plotting nightmare of the Lucy Beale murder storyline, then you get the impression it would have been much better... and not need to have every unlikely twist and turn explained to death and over-justified.

But Monday's Enders is excellent. It's EastEnders at its best. And, as a long-term fan, that's a huge relief.