Other Woman Who Loves Other Women News...

The Other Woman Who Loves Other Woman is grading for her red belt with black stripe this weekend. That's quite a biggie as it means black is her next test.

So we're in class going through her choking techniques and we arrive at one of the back choking techniques. This involves an attacker grabbing the victim from behind with one hand wrapped around their throat and the other grabbing the loose hand down by their side.

The victim then essentially brings one hand around the back of the attacker's neck as though it's one hand clapping before it joins with the other and unbalances the opponent and spins them onto the floor.

It's No.5 of ten back choking techniques but we generally refer to it as the one hand clapping technique as an aide memoir.

So I am attacking the OWWLOW and she performs the technique with such speed and aplomb that I am whipped onto the floor and before I know it she has me in an arm lock and it hurts. Quite a lot. In fact a very lot so I yelp 'Ow! and submit'

I get to my feet and the OWWLOW answers an age-old philosophical question:
'The sound of one hand clapping is "Ow!"'

We smile. It's a martial arts and Taoist gag and she's cracked it at 8am on a Tuesday morning. If her brain works this well at ridiculous hour then she's going to ace her grading.

Short Shrift...

Tea is on the go and I am sat at the kitchen table reading a magazine. The boy enters.

'God it's hot in here. What time's tea?'
'Tea's about 20 minutes and it's hot in here because I was cold when I got in from cycling home so I turned the heating up.'
'But it's not really that cold out...'
'It is if you're only wearing shorts down below.'
'But it's still practically winter. What sort of idiot would only wear shorts down below in winter?'

I stand up to attend to the cooker and display my short-clad legs. The Boy smiles.
'Ahh... That sort of idiot!'

The Zen Of Pool: Part IV...

There are times when playing pool is like learning to fall at hapkido...

You can spend month after month worrying about it and stressing over what can go wrong but then there comes a moment where you just have to stop worrying about it and just go for it. Falling at hapkido took me three years to learn properly and it wasn't until I got over the fear of flipping my legs over my head and crashing down on my back and just got on with it that it all suddenly clicked.

And I could have done with remembering this last night at pool as I got caught up in the worry rather than getting on with it.

Because last night I played a match that should have been pretty winnable. And even though my opponent is a good player he's a player I feel I can beat and when I went into a 2-0 lead and was playing well I felt everything was on track.

Then I missed a shot and like an idiot I let it prey on my mind. And I know better than this because that way madness lies...

Then I missed another shot and another chance and mentally I hit the self-destruct button as I got more frustrated and my game collapsed and I lost 5-6.

I was annoyed because I'm close to playing really well at the moment and it just didn't go for me last night and I allowed it to gnaw away and it's hard enough trying to beat an opponent without beating yourself and I forgot this...

Then to add insult to injury when the match was over and I playing afterwards I was potting out of my skin. Bugger...

But lesson learnt. From now on I'm going to stop worrying about bad form and just get on with it. And I'm not going to worry about missing shots. Like falling at hapkido I am past the point where I should be worrying about what could go wrong and I should simply focus on getting on with it.

Excellence is a habit. And excellence is a mental approach as well as a practical one.

Boxing Cleverer...

So I arrive at hapkido early this morning and I've finally worked up the courage to ask my instructor for permission to venture into the world of boxing on the basis that it will expand my hapkido skill set in an area I feel still needs much work...

So I approach her with my little pre-formed speech about why I want to do it buzzing around in my head and before I open my mouth she smiles and says:

'Paul...'
'Saboumnim...'
'I've just been reading this book and I think it's something you'd really like. I don't know why but I thought of you when I finished reading it...'

She hands me a book. It's title is Looking For A Fight: How A Writer Took On The Boxing World From The Inside. I smile and marvel at the moment of serendipity.

I explain how I wanted to talk to her about boxing too so I tell her what my current plan is and how her choice of book lend was very prescient. After some thought she agrees it would be good for me to box if I think it will aid my hapkido studies. She also smiles at this unlikely meeting of topics and minds.

Coincidence or empathy? It's beautiful either way...

Boxing Clever...

I am toying with the idea of doing a six-month stint at a white-collar boxing club called Cityboxer which is located near work.

I promised myself I would work on my hand techniques for hapkido this year and my punching in particular needs some work, so this could be ideal as I could go a couple of dinnertimes a week and brush up using their equipment.

The only thing that slightly puts me off is the American-style hard sell of the website which has the tagline 'You can play football, you can play rugby... but you can't play boxing!'

It's also quite pricey at £50 per month with a £100 signing-up fee and a £30 initial consultation fee too. But it may be worth it as with my cycling, my hapkido and this as well I'll be too tired to do anything else – including defend myself should I ever be attacked. Oh, the irony...

The Zen Of Pool: Part III...

Back to the Knockout Cup in the eightball pool singles league I play in last night and a semi-final match with an old friend.

He's a good match player with several England trials under his belt and a raft of local and regional trophies and titles. He also rarely gives frames away so it always going to be a decent test. At the start of the match I took my chances and raced into a 4-1 lead then missed a few 'gettable' chances and ended up losing 5-6.

It was an odd game as I always felt totally in control until the last frame when I had a bit of chasing to do and couldn't quite win it back. It was a bit annoying to lose a match I felt I could have won but I've recently played four matches against two very good players and I've won two and lost two so it's not a bad return.

Also on the plus side I feel I'm slowly getting back into a frame of mind where I know what I'm doing and my thinking is becoming much clearer. Even better I'm timing the ball well again and feel as though I can pot pretty much anything. I'm also starting to 'see' shots again, the sort of shots that can change games or make a non-clearance a 'gettable' clerarance. I am aware my risk-taking has to be tempered though.

It's an odd thing as I don't like losing and I was annoyed to lose last night but I can take it at the moment because I'm starting to feel confident around a table again so it's just a matter of keeping going and keeping the faith.

It's like spin kicks at hapkido. These are a tough kick and the first time I tried them I was rubbish at them but by keeping going I learnt how to do them and now they are my strongest kick as they are just auto-programmed in through constant repetition.

'Excellence is a habit' says Master Chang and at the moment I'm retraining myself in good habits on a pool table. My pool school report so far would be 6.5/10 with the potential for a 7.5/10 in the next few weeks.

Brighton Rocks... Nearly...

Me and the Missus went to Brighton for the weekend leaving the Boy in charge at home so he and some friends could neck beer, watch movies and play poker.

Brighton is something of a regular haunt for me and the girl and we've had a few weekends away there and it's even somewhere we're looking at relocating when we eventually move out of London (St Albans and Guildford are also on the list).

I saw two things I'd never seen before this weekend, though. The first was a canine fashion shop called Doggy Fashion. This instantly brought a schoolboy smirk from me. The second, however, was a gay porn and sex toys shop called Brighton Prowler.

I thought this was a bit odd as sex is usually marketed as a passionate or fun thing these days and naming a shop Prowler is hardly a fun or naughty name. In fact it's quite disturbing and is really only one step away from potential rape and a bit like calling a dating agency Rohypnal.

Needless to say, I didn't go into either place...

Mint Lamb...

A friend put me onto a free music streaming site called www.songza.com the other day so I could listen to streamed music all day at work.

So I had a play with it and found it was pretty fab and pretty comprehensive. Then I thought I'd listen to Gorecki's Sorrowful Symphony, which is a piece I read about in my current journey into classical music.

So I stuck the word 'Gorecki' into the search engine and I came up with a song called Gorecki by a trip-hop band called Lamb.

And I have to say it's pretty bloody splendid so I'm now on my way to purchase the Lamb back catalogue. It's great finding new music – especially when you're looking for something else...

The Zen of Eightball Pool: Part II...

I played two pool matches last night against a very good player who's a former pro and by some way the best player in the singles league I play in at Sutton.

As I hadn't played all week I decided to get there early and put some table time in and I was playing frighteningly well beforehand. My potting was clean and I was being creative in clearing the balls so I started our league game relaxed and full of confidence, but in the match I suddenly couldn't find my start button and I got frustrated that I couldn't take advantage of some decent chances and I ended up getting a deserved booting.

There's no disgrace in this as he's a very good player but it was so frustrating as I was playing so well earlier in the evening and, even if I lost our game, I was confident I could still put in a decent performance and keep it close. Sadly I didn't.

With the league match over we then had a cup match and I had about a 20-minute break before we started playing again. But this time it was a totally different story.

I stopped getting annoyed if I missed chances and stopped trying to force my game and force clearances that simply weren't there. I got my head on, dug in and played some really good match-play pool and narrowly won.

So what was the difference. What happened in that 20 minutes?

For a start I was certainly more determined in the second game because I'd lost so badly in the first. I also tightened up my game and started playing the correct shots instead of attacking at any given opportunity and trying to get creative.

And this is not particularly like me. For so long my pool game relied on potting and creative table brinksmanship to produce results that it's still something of a habit – even though I now no longer have that creativity or vision so readily to hand.

My head was also much stronger in the second game and I gave very little away and more or less played the correct shots at the correct time. To be totally honest I don't enjoy playing like this as I prefer to attack when I can but maybe this is now the sort of player I have to become.

It's a compromise of results versus enjoyment but as I don't enjoy losing it's not really that much of a compromise. So the lesson learnt is maybe I need to toughen up mentally and get back to how I used to be many years ago when winning every game used to matter so much.

When I grade at martial arts my focus is usually what gets me through because I'm so totally in tune with what I'm doing that I have no fear of anything that I may be asked to do. And it was a bit like that at pool last night. I suddenly had no fear because my focus was suddenly there.

At hapkido I'm now trying to not have dodgy classes where I'm there but not really there as my mind is elsewhere. And I now obviously need to introduce this discipline into my pool game and tap into this focus when I need it.

As the head of my martial arts academy says 'Excellence is a habit' and I need to make my hapkido at grading standard at every class and I need to make my pool matchplay excellent again and not just in matches where I suddenly need to win. I obviously just need to reteach myself an old habit.

And last night was a good start to that on the pool front and as well as I've played in 18 months...

Has Bean...

It was comfort food for tea tonight with chicken, chips and beans.

So I was quietly sat at the table arranging my chips into a dam-like construction on my plate to prevent the tomato sauce spilling out everywhere. The dam was a thing of beauty and it corralled the beans perfectly and, if the truth be told, I imagined myself attached to a mini-helicopter swooping down and taking in the view like it was some bizarre geological structure in miniature.

Then I noticed an unusual thing. The Missus and the Boy were silent so I looked up to find their two bemused faces faces looking down at me. Then the Boy adopted a caring tone of voice and asked the following question:

'I don't with to be rude...'
'Right...'
'...but do you think you could be autistic?'

The Missus bursts out laughing and I try to defend myself by explaining it's just good plate logistics but there is apparently no defence. I am now branded subnormal in my own home by my Boy for combining the twin assets of practicality and imagination.

Family life is over-rated in my opinion...

Other Woman News...

The Other Woman confessed to me that she once dressed up as a tarty cocktail waitress and, with her friend Fat Tom who was dressed as a clown, shook buckets outside Westminster Tube for Rag Week when she was a student.

She made a stack-load of money, which apparently made her consider an alternative career as a prostitute. But she decided on a career in journalism instead. The morality is the same but the pay slightly more stable.

I love my Other Woman. She makes me laugh...

The Zen Of Eightball Pool: Part I...

I’ve recently been discussing theories on how to get 'in the Zone' when playing pool with a friend so I decided to apply some martial arts logic to it and here's what I've come up with...

Whenever the head of our academy visits the UK he lectures on ki meditation and he always has a jar of water with some dirt at the bottom.

At the start of the lecture he shakes the jar so the dirt mixes with the water and it becomes cloudy. He then likens the jar to the human mind, which has so many different things whizzing around it that it’s sometimes hard to find mental clarity. Like the jar, if the mind can become still and relaxed and park itself it can settle and like the jar of dirty water it can become clear again.

He always says there are many reasons to meditate – abdominal breathing promotes health, learning to promote ki can increase physical power, calmness can promote love and understanding, and so much more – but one of the key reasons is to clear what he calls ‘impurities’ from the mind and to allow us to see with clarity.

Now I totally buy into this because I know what I was like before I started doing ki meditation. I also know that the Tuesday morning class that I do, where it’s a 45-minute ki class followed by an hour’s hapkido class, is always where I learn the most because I arrive at the hapkido class relaxed and removed from any of the hassles that may have been plaguing me because of the meditation before it.

I can reach this state pretty much whenever I want now as I’ve been doing ki meditation for a while and if I’m ever stressed I just pop into the garden, meditate for a bit, play with my speedball or my nunchucks and I’m sorted again. It is a brilliant little life tool to have at your disposal.

Now… how can this apply to pool?

Well one of the cornerstones of most martial arts is a theory called ‘mushin’ which translates as ‘no mind’. But this doesn’t mean no thought – it means react without thinking, which again comes from having clarity of thought without other stuff to get in the way. Master Chang always says ‘excellence is a habit’ by which he means constant repetition and correct execution of techniques lead to excellence. So eventually students react out of habit because it’s all auto-programmed.

Now I reckon this also applies to pool and it’s something I’ll be testing out this year. A long pot is just a long pot. If you’ve knocked it in ten times out of ten then the circumstances of that pot don’t change it. It’s still just a pot but it needs clarity to see that.

So in class when I feel my attention slipping I always remember to put my hands on my belt in a ‘ready’ position. So I’m trying a similar technique at pool. If I feel I’m rushing or losing focus I’ve given myself a similar little trigger technique just to kick me back in.

Now these ideas may not grant immediate access to the fabled 'Zone' but I reckon they are pointers to it. I’ll see how things go and report back some time soon…

Charity Cases...

I was walking to work today and two girls were trying to collect money in buckets for 'rag week'.

I didn't realise even that had charitable status now. Women's lib, eh?

Masterchef...

In the old days Masterchef was perfect Sunday afternoon telly.

There was speccy Loyd Grossman and his glottoral rape of every vowel in the English language as the host, plus a guest chef who’d come in and judge the three contestants all keen to show off their culinary skills. Each show would have a winner and the series would end with a final where somebody would win a glass bowl or some nice crystal decanter.

They even used the same format to have specials where horribly precocious kids called Tarquin or Jemimah would demonstrate their skills with a soufflé and explain how ‘Mummy and daddy simply adored their strawberry jous’. It’s true that you probably wanted to throat punch the kids involved to death while their restrained parents watched on helplessly but it was a more innocent time and it was nice telly.

But those days are long gone. Oh yes-sir-eee…

The current run of Masterchef has been going on for what seems like an eternity and instead of one little show on a Sunday afternoon just before you turn over for Bullseye the BBC have realised they have a ‘brand work horse’ and are subsequently flogging that horse to within an inch of its life.

Now it’s on for 30 minutes Monday to Wednesday with an hour show on Thursday and instead of Lloyd Grossman we now have acclaimed chef John Torode (a sort of Richard Parks with better hair) and Gregg Wallace (who resembles what Phil Mitchell’s gay academic brother should look like).

To create added spice they’ve also changed the format. It used to just about three people cooking but now each heat starts with six contestants who all whip up an opening dish from previously unseen ingredients. Three wannabes are dumped out at this stage while the three who made it through are sent off to work in a professional kitchen before coming back to create a two-course meal with the winner making the final show on Thursday.

The final 30 minutes of the Thursday show sees that week’s four heat winners battle it out for a place in the semi-finals. But it’s not just based on cooking. Oh, no. Torode and Wallace grill the remaining quartet in what’s called a Passion Test where they have to identify several ingredients then tell the hosting duo why they love cooking so much. It’s supposed to be a chance for them to show how they feel about food but it really amounts to begging on TV in the hope they’ll get through to the next round. It’s an irksome bit of the show.

I can’t decide whether the new Masterchef is really good or really awful. Torode can be a right grumpy old bugger and Wallace, a grocer by trade, plays the cockney barrow boy so much that you often want to take a meat skewer and drive it through one ear and out of the other just to see if he’ start talking like a normal person.

What I do know, however, is that in its new format the BBC have made it into a long and drawn-out affair and by my calculations the current series will end some time in 2023. By which time Wallace will be presenting the show round the old Joanna dressed in a pearly king costume while Torode is dressed in a toga and feeds him jellied eels.

It’s how it ends in my head…

Other Woman News...

I’ve been Other-Woman-less for a few weeks so I was a tad concerned when she emailed me in a panic.

Apparently she’d been training then went back to her parents’ house so that she and her sister could watch a movie and mourn the passing of tragic movie heartthrob Heath Ledger by watching one of his films.

Sadly she didn’t have one of his films so they decided to watch the musical comedy Hairspray instead. She felt very guilty about this but I told her I’m sure it’s what he would have wanted.

I paid my own respects by dressing Jake Gyllenhaal as a cowboy, dragging him into a tent in the American wilds then raping him.

I’m sure it’s what he would have wanted too…

Thoughts For The Day...

I've finished two books over the weekend.

One was The Damned United by David Peace, which is a fact-based fictional account of Brian Clough's 44-day stint in charge of Leeds United. As a fan of both Leeds and Mr Clough it was a superb read and it just got better. Poetic and moving, it was one of the best sports books I've ever read and is easily up there with All Played Out by Peter Davies, a wonderful book about Italia 90 and England's greatest footballing journey since 1966, and Playing Off The Rail by David McCumber, a book about a journalist and a pool player taking a hustling road trip across the US.

The Other was Classic FM's Friendly Guide To Classical Music. It's a book for classical music virgins but after reading it I won't feel quite so intimidated the next time I venture into the classical music bit of HMV. It's also given me some leads on composers I like the sound of who may well sound like other composers I've so far discovered on my fledgling journey in posho music land.

I also love one of the quotes in it by Finnish composer Sibelius: 'Pay no attention to what critics say. No statue has ever been put up to a critic.'

I'll remember these words the next time somebody lambasts one of my plays. It also reminds me of one of my favourite Clough quotes when a journalist was questioning one of his team selections. Clough simply turned round and said: 'And how many European Cups have you won, son?'

Sibelius and Clough. Kindred spirits I reckon...

New Words...

NINJURY (Nin-jure-ee): Noun. An injury obtained from martials art training.

ie. 'I was sparring with the Other Woman and the Other Woman Who Loves Other Women and both roundhouse kicked me at the same time and connected and it bloody hurt. Consequently my legs are bruised and swollen and I won't be able to train for a few days. It's quite an annoying ninjary.'

More Reasons To Be Cheerful…

i) I went training on Friday afternoon and I was the only student present so I had a one-on-one class with my hapkido instructor. Most people pay quite a lot of money for this privilege but by a fluke of timing I got it for free. I then went to a senior belts class on Sunday, which was fabulous too. Both were hard work but it also proved to me that I’m sometimes actually half-decent at hapkido. I just have to remember that when I attend a senior belts class in future I should remember to actually bring my belt or I can’t tie my do-bok (uniform) up.

ii) I saw Christian Slater in Swimming With Sharks at the Vaudeville Theatre and it was OK. It’s a play about a ruthless Hollywood film-maker who slowly corrupts his assistant by forcing him to choose his career over the woman he loves. It wasn’t a major piece of work but it was thoughtful and entertaining enough. A bit like the Robert Altman film The Player but without the subtlety or skillful plotting.

iii) I saw Sweeney Todd and it’s truly wonderful, in a grotesque and grisly king of way. Johnny Deep is very strong in the title role and Helena Bonham-Carter, who I’ve only ever really liked in Planet Of The Apes (and quite fancied as a chimpanzee if I’m totally honest) was amazingly good. I may even be tempted to see it again.

iv) I started reading That Damned United, a fact-based fiction book by David Peace about Brian Clough’s 44 days in charge of Leeds United. I devoured the first 100 pages in a day. It’s a fantastic book. In fact it’s quite possibly one of the best sports books I’ve ever read.

So. Lots of reasons to be cheerful this weekend. Let’s see how long it lasts...

Reasons To Be Cheerful...

I'm returning to play for Surrey, my county pool team, in a few weeks so I've been putting in some table time and I'm starting to play quite well again.

This is quite exciting as I used to be quite a good player with a couple of England trials behind me when I lived in Surrey and I was out playing with my mates two or three nights a week. But since moving to London a gradual lack of practice, motivation and a decent place nearby to play meant my form suffered a slow but inevitable decline.

But I'm now putting the table time in and I starting to play quite well again. I don't think I'll ever be the player I was at my peak but I also wouldn't sacrifice the family, the hapkido, the writing and everything else to have that sort of form back either.

In many ways it's about accepting a compromise and I think it's something a lot of pool players have to go through at some point. You just become a different type of player who uses guile and experience as much as skill to get your wins.

But then again I also knocked in a very respectable 82 at snooker last night and I'm taking decent clearances out on a pool table again so maybe it won't be too much of a compromise after all. And if I'm back in a very strong county squad that must make me half-decent.

And it does give me the excuse to spend oodles of cash on a new cue as I'm starting to have doubts about my current one.

Maybe the Missus is right and I just needs things to obsess over...

Odds And Sods...

Some of my friends think I'm a bit odd. In fact my wife and my boy think I'm a bit odd too. But I've since realised there are many odder folk than me and I now know there always have been.

And that's because I'm currently reading an excellent book called Victorian Sensation by Michael Diamond which covers all manner of grisly spectacle and sex scandal, including the infamous Oscar Wilde trial and several murders, in 19th-century England.

It's a fabulous book and it's providing me with some good background ideas for when I start rewrites on my play about Victorian prostitution. It's also given me several interesting facts: for example, did you know that the novelists William Makepeace Thackeray and Charles Dickens both campaigned against the death penalty after seeing public hangings in London? Me neither but I do now.

My favourite bit so far, though, concerns several newspaper reporters who wrote about hanged women and commented on their sexual attraction as they swung from the gallows. One even suggested that one murderess named Maria Manning looked so alluring in her black satin death dress that it triggered a fashion trend and a demand for the material.

Now that's quite odd. And I know because I'm an expert...

On Cue...

The Missus has put up with my obsessive compulsive behaviour for many years and even the Boy now refuses to get irked by my anal retentive ways.

In fact these days he rather lovingly refers to me as 'OCD freak boy'. This may seem cruel but it is a distinct improvement on him running off to his room screaming 'Don't let the strange man near me, mummy!' which hasn't happened for several months now.

But I fear I am in the foothills of a new mania because I've started to get interested in old snooker cues, particularly Riley Tombstone cues. I first saw one of these when I started playing at about 14 and ever since I have thought they were one of the most beautifully and simply designed things I've ever seen.

So I've decided I'm going to buy one and I'm regularly scouring eBay to secure a purchase. I've even contact a few cue dealers and, even worse, I've learnt one of my mates used to buy and restore old cues – until his missus suggested he could sell most of them and find a better use for the money.

But I fear I'm now unwittingly drawing him back in and we'll eventually be like two dirty old men but instead of secretly swapping pornography we'll be swapping cue information and eBay sightings without the knowledge of our wives. And we'll each probably have a special cupboard for our buys...

Marital subterfuge. I don't think we'll be very good at it...

Happy New Year!

I hate going out on New Year’s Eve. It’s amateur drinkers hour where twats who don’t use pubs throughout the year decide to ruin it for those of us who do use them.

As our Xmas was also somewhat spoilt by the inconsiderate fucks next door it’s not been the best of Yuletide breaks but me, the Missus and the Boy ignored our two days of sonic hell and made the best of it by generally chilling out.

Myself and the Missus also made a list of goals for 2008 and, besides the things we need to do to the house and things we want to do together, there were things we want to do for ourselves.

Besides a few writing projects and returning to county pool, my list was going to include lots of hapkido goals but this particular list was cut short after I reread Bob Breen’s book Fighting.

Breen runs a successful martial arts academy in London and he’s a Jeet Kune Do specialist who’s also trained in several other styles. But Fighting emphasises the fundamental tools used by most martial artists in a systematic and thorough manner. It’s a wonderful book and consequently my hapkido list simply became one sentence: Don’t worry about learning anything new and revisit all the basics.

So that’s what I’ve been doing over the past few days in the garden and plan to do throughout the rest of the year.

Blade Too!

As a martial arts student I have a fascination with martial arts weaponry and in the past I've bought a couple of things to play with.

The first of these is a kubotan. This is essentially a short steel rod with one blunted end and a keyring at the other end. It is essentially grasped tight in a fist and the end which protrudes from the bottom of the fist is used to strike vulnerable parts of a potential attacker via a hammer fist strike (striking downwards or across and hitting with the bottom of the clenched fist). It has other nifty blocking and trapping applications, too, but it's at its most lethal with this one strike.

I also treated myself to a pair of nunchucks last year and these are much more difficult to master as to generate power you need to really whip them round, but if you don't know how to avoid them on the return or how to catch them on the return they can clatter you on the head. And it hurts. Quite a lot. Honest...

Over time I'm got a few basic strikes down with the chucks and I've got a basic understanding of the stabbing and blocking tricks but I'm still working on combination strikes as these are a bit tricky.

My newest weapon, however, is a sword. Even better it was bought for me by the Missus for Xmas. Sadly (pictured below) it's made out of foam and is only 2ft long. I don't think she takes my hobby seriously.

Or it may even be a comment on something else...

Izzit Cos I Is Racialist?

We had problems with the neighbours earlier this year when they were getting pissed and shouting and playing loud music into the early hours of the morning.

So I asked a couple of times for some consideration and when that met with no response I reported them to the council. Bizarrely this did the trick as I also told them it was me who'd reported them so they came round to ours and apologised and we assumed that was that. I said if there was a problem in future I'd text them or knock on their door and also said it was obviously visa-versa. Job done...

But come 4pm Christmas Day the upstairs flat are playing their stereo so loud that the bass is actually making it impossible for us to listen to the TV downstairs. Or anywhere else in the house. Now considering we were downstairs in our home and they were upstairs next door and there was a wall and a floor between us that's quite a feat!

So, as previously agreed, I politely pootled round and rang their doorbell to be confronted by the woman from the downstairs flat and the woman from the upstairs flat and her daughter. So I politely asked if they wouldn't mind turning their music down a bit. I thought this was a simple and polite request.

But instead I got an earful...

It turns out I am a nosey neighbour who is always making complaints, who has nothing better to do with his time and should move to the country if I want silence. And to top it all off it turns out that 'they' (my neighbours) listen to music differently to 'us' (me and my wife).

Although it wasn't clearly stated it was implied that because my wife and I are white and the neighbours are West Indian that there is a huge cultural divide which means they need and have a right to listen to music whenever they want and at whatever volume they want. And because I am white I don't understand this. In fact by me asking them to turn their music down I am probably infringing on their cultural rights to express themselves.

So I'd like to take this opportunity to apologise to all my West Indian friends for my ignorance of your ways. But it's your fault because you've never behaved like this or been inconsiderate like this and, according to my neighbours, you're supposed to.

And I'd also like to apologise to all my West Indian friends because apparently I am an unwitting racist – or maybe I just find it hard to consistently tolerate inconsiderate cunts.

You figure it out and please let me know...

Make Your Own… 'Johnny' Depp!

I always make the Missus a present for her birthday or for Xmas.

Previous gifts have included a DIY liposuction kit, a self-powered hairdryer and a puppet theatre version of Guys And Dolls when I initially thought I couldn’t get tickets for her.

But this year is my opus magnus of self-built presents. And even better it’s what practically every woman in the world wants – their very own 'Johnny' Depp. So here’s how you do it…

INGREDIENTS
A five-pack of Durex
Two bendy plastic spines for binding documents
Sellotape
A picture of Johnny Depp

METHOD
Carefully open the Durex packet and remove the contents. Attach the plastic spines inside the top and bottom of the empty packet and bend so they make the shape of legs and arms. Take two Durex and attach as feet and take two Durex and attach as hands. Then attach the remaining Durex as a neck. Take the picture of Johnny Depp and cut out the head. Attach the picture to the neck Durex and voila. 'Johnny' Depp!

ALTERNATIVES
If the woman in your life is a rugby fan it could be 'Johnny' Wilkinson, if she’s a former punk it could be 'Johnny' Rotten and if she’s a Corrie fan it could be 'Johnny' Briggs. The main gag, though, is obviously that the UK slang for Durex is 'Johnnies' so it really only works with Johnnies.

Consider this idea my gift to you. Merry Xmas.

Religion News...

At the moment it's Islamic fundamentalist this and Al Qaeda terrorist that. So I just thought I'd give a quick thumbs-up for the sterling work currently being carried out by the Scientology movement.

It's easy to knock a religion based on a totally fictitious series of sci-fi novels written by L Ron Hubbard, a pulp writer who was famously quoted as saying: 'I'm going to invent a religion that's going to make me a fortune. I'm tired of writing for a penny a word'.

It's also easy to laugh at a religion that boasts those heavyweight intellectuals Tom Cruise and John Travolta among its most-famous followers.

And it's hard not to grin a smirk of admiration at the German government who are out to ban Scientology because they view it as a cult that suppresses people and their personal freedoms.

But I think good on the Scientology movement because in these days where nutcase Muslim fanatics from the Arab world are getting all the fundamentalist religious press, it's good to see the Western world producing a few fanatical zealots of its own and at least trying to even up the score.

So well done you crazy Scientologist mothers. Fine work...

How To Get More Sex…

It’s easy to mock ITV. With the exceptions of Corrie and Emmerdale it screens little drama of any real quality, it hasn’t produced a decent comedy in two decades, its glut of real-life schlock and tawdry quiz shows are barrel-scrapingly awful, and at times its news coverage is so desperately tabloid it make the News Of The World look respectable.

So I promised myself I wasn’t going to ridicule this once-great institution any more. It’s not just shooting fish in a barrel… it’s like having a prize fight with Stephen Hawking where I’m allowed to use guns against him using catapults and me pushing him and his chair from the top of a very high flight of stairs the day before the scrap begins to make sure he has no chance at all. It’s that easy…

But then I chanced on a series on Thursday night entitled How To Get More Sex and my resolution crumbled.

The basic thrust (f’nar, f’nar) of the show is that the programme-makers go out on the streets to conduct various cod experiments to test out certain theories about sex and sexual attraction.

So one section features two men stood outside an expensive car with one dressed as the City gent and the other dressed as his chauffeur. Then passers-by are asked who is the most sexually attractive and various talking heads grace the screen to talk about the results.

Intercut throughout the show are cheeky snippets from various Carry On films and Brit sex comedies of the 1970s, plus other voxpop reports from similar types of experiments at speed dating groups.

It’s pretty tawdry stuff and its attempts at being informative and naughty all at the same time are depressingly tawdry. And any show that features Janet Street Porter and Edwina Currie discussing their sexual preferences is just plain wrong. Even if you happen to be Mr Street Porter or Mr Currie. Yuk!

Bizarrely it’s the sort of show that Five actually do quite well as Five would just straight ahead and feature the sex bits but ITV just make an utter arse of because it still thinks it’s a ‘serious’ channel. Instead the show should probably be called How To Get More Sex (We’ll Show Rude Bits. Honest! Please Watch Us. Help Our Ratings. Go On…)

Avoid at all costs.

The Best Joke. In The World. Ever...

Saw a friend of mine last night.
'Alright Tel. How are you?'
'Not too good.'
'Why?'
'I've had some problems so I've had to have a pacemaker fitted.'
'You're joking?'
'No straight up. Got a little Kenyan fella who runs in front of my car...'

Simply Red...

The grading results are in and I am now the proud possessor of a brand spanking new red belt.

And much as I was excited to get my new belt it was quite a sad moment when I hung my old belt (brown with red stripe) on my office door with its predecessors. I’ve enjoyed life as a brown belt and I felt comfortable at that level. Now I have to adapt to life as a senior belt and that’s going to mean I have be more focused.

On the plus side it’s going to be at least six months to a year before I grade again so I have plenty of time to consolidate and improve my boxing punches... and my stances... and my forms... and my previous skill sets... and my special hand techniques... and the new form I have to learn... and the skills for the next belt... and my etiquette…

It could be a long year…

Art News…

We have eaten tea and the Missus and the Boy have left me alone and I am bored so I decide to get creative with Quality Street wrappers again.

I am being-creative when the Boy comes into the kitchen and looks at me in a puzzled way.
‘What are you doing?’
‘I’m being creative…’
‘Are they sweet wrappers?’
‘Yes…’

He pauses and looks at my first effort (pictured above) before passing comment.
‘I think you’re retarded…’

The Missus then enters the kitchen and looks at the table.
‘What on God’s earth are you doing?’
‘I’m being creative…’

The Missus looks at the Boy who looks back at her as if to say ‘He’s nothing to do with me. You fucking well married the idiot!’ The Boy sighs and leaves and the Missus ponders my creation then offers kind words of wisdom.
‘You’ve lost the plot!’

I don’t think I’ll bother being creative any more…

Fashion News…

It is Saturday morning and the Missus is telling me off.

Apparently I am too generous with the Boy and my attempts to buy him clothes of his choosing last weekend then trying not to accept the money he offered to repay me for purchasing them has not gone un-noticed.

Consequently I am getting ‘parenting’ advice and a truncated version of the Missus’ advice goes something like this:
‘The problem is we give him an allowance and if he is to ever appreciate the true value of money he has to realise that if he wants expensive clothes then he has to save up for them…’

But this versions lasts for at least 10 minutes less.

Later that afternoon the Boy is eyeing up an expensive jacket in Zara. The Boy has developed a very good eye for clothes and fashion and the jacket does look very good on him. It does, however, also cost more than £100.

So hence my surprise when the Missus offers to pay for it as a treat. The Boy looks suspicious when the offer is first made, but once he’s ascertained there are no strings attached and realises he’s had an absolute touch he agrees to let her purchase the said item.

I immediately raise an eyebrow but before I can even form a line about ‘the importance of teaching the Boy the real value of money’ in my head, the Missus jumps in and offers a new caveat to the Buying Boy Presents Rule.
‘I’m his mother. I’m allowed to…’

I’ll never understand women…

PS. I had my first shave of the week on Saturday night and ended up leaving a tache in the middle of my lip. To be fair the likes of Hitler and Mugabe may have ensured it now has unfortunate associations but it actually looks pretty good. I may start a new trend.

PPS. I won’t be starting a new trend as the Missus pointed out that looking like a facist dictator may not be a good thing. Not even in the name of fashion.

Other Woman Who Loves Other Women News…

I am in class and I am paired with the OWWLOW (Other Woman Who Loves Other Women) and we are working on choking techniques.

The basic thrust of these is that they give you an escape route if somebody grabs you from behind, the side or from the front and allow you to turn a potentially not-very-good situation into one where you suddenly have control of your opponent and can do all sorts of ‘Bad shit’ as the Boy and his peer group would no doubt say.

Consequently we have to get quite physical with each other and, as she is in quite a cheeky mood, she dumps me on my arse then offers me the following compliment with a large smirk on her face.

‘You’re very good at going down. In fact there’s something very satisfying about the way you go down. In fact you go down really well…’

For once I am speechless in class. The OWWLOW is not only bloody lovely but she’s also superb at hapkido and has knocked me around the Dojang on many occasions – but this is the first time she’s defeated me with sauciness.

I think it should be a new set of techniques…

Fashion News…

I went out shopping with the Missus and the Boy on Sunday and I made two superb purchases.

The first was a pair of black long-johns for cycling and I tried them out this morning and I have to say I am massively impressed with the whole concept of long-john-ery. To be fair they are essentially tights for blokes and they are not the most aesthetically appealing garment (and as a proud possessor of well-defined legs I was a tad upset to discover they may not be suitable for evening wear). But overall they’re a winner. No mistake.

The second and more joyful purchase, however, was a new hat.

Many years ago when I was a thrusting young community theatre writer and director I had a hat that was like a beanie hat with a small brim. Sadly it got lost one drunken night out in the People’s Republic of Goole and I was never been able to replace it, despite trawling through several Army & Navy Stores.

But yesterday my search ended and I found it. I genuinely didn’t realise a cheap hat could make me so happy. The Boy, however, was very embarrassed as I stopped before every mirror in every shop to admire my new purchase. He was even more embarrassed when I enacted my new hat joke in the middle of a crowded Kensington High Street.

I said ‘Who am I?’ took off my hat, pretended to poo in it then put it back on my had and said ‘Beam me up, Scotty!’ The Boy looked blank and walked away and the Missus looked perplexed then walked away too.

Left alone I said the punchline:
‘William Shat-hat-ner…’

Hypocrisy News...

The Vatican has condemned Amnesty International because they have stated that women have the right to choose whether or not to have an abortion.

Amnesty are arguing this is a basic human right that women, especially victims of rape, should have. Amnesty are not saying it is morally right or wrong but that it should be an option available to all women, especially in poor countries where some 70,000 women annually die because of illegal or backstreet abortions.

The Catholic Church discussing the sanctity of human life seems a bit rich, especially when it quite happily watches millions die from Aids-related illnesses in Africa because of its policy on contraception.

And any institution which has a history of systematically covering up widespread cases of child abuse (step forward the Catholic Church) should perhaps get its own house in order before it starts discussing morality with anyone else.

Just a thought…

Belt Up!

‘You’re having a f***ing laugh, right? I can’t f***ing believe what I’m seeing! Jesus H f***ing Christ! I’m really f***ing unhappy about this!’

This was one potential reaction when I glanced at the new hapkido syllabus during a busy day at work on Monday and discovered things had changed and I maybe wouldn’t be getting my much longed-for red belt after my grading on Sunday.

Instead I quietly seethed most of the day then went home and was very grumpy. Sulky even… So I explained my predicament to the Missus who was quite puzzled and suggested I speak to my instructor about my concerns.

So yesterday I dropped my instructor an email asking what belt I graded for. The reply came back that it was red. So I was going to reply and ask how this could be because on the new syllabus there was new stuff for this level that I had yet to learn.

Fortunately I was no longer manic at work so I double-checked the new syllabus before I sent this email – and this time I realised I’d actually read it wrong. The new stuff was for the next belt, which I now discover I already know the skills for as they were included in my previous belt before everything changed. So in theory I’m actually closer to the next grading rather than further away.

There’s a moral in there somewhere about not trying to make rational decisions based on wrong or misunderstood information. Or maybe it’s the sort of story my instructor and her teacher would tell about seeing things for what they are and not through the eyes of personal insecurities or a hassled mind.

Or there’s always the Missus’ point of view when I explained my error to her:
‘You really are a f***ing idiot at times…’

Either one works…

Something For The Weekend…

Myself and the Missus saw Arcade Fire on Sunday night at Ally Pally and they were bloody fantastic.

The Missus suggested I listen to their first album Funeral when she bought it a few years ago, but I ignored her as she sold it to me by saying ‘It’s gothy folk music and it’s so you it’s unbelievable!’

Then she reminded me of this view when she bought their new album Neon Bible last year. And I thought I'm not that predictable in my musical tastes, surely?

But now I've seen them live I have to admit that she was absolutely bang on the money and it’s only a matter of time before I become a fully fledged fan.

If you’re not convinced listen to the video for No Cars Go on You Tube. It’s very good…

Grade Expectations…

On Sunday I grade for my red belt at hapkido and I’m feeling remarkably chipper and upbeat about the whole affair.

I’ve been quite nervous on previous gradings so to go into a test for a higher belt so full of optimism is a very welcome change.

This latest belt test features spin kicks, Korean judo, choke escapes and another form. I’ve absolutely nailed two of those areas and am OK on the others and, even better, I’m no longer carrying a knee injury I thought would stop me from grading.

Confidence, positive thoughts, it’s gonna be great…

But there’s a little nagging doubt. I mean, this year I was equally confident I was going to win a playwrighting award and I was also going to win a Surrey pool event – and look what happened there…

So better not dwell on that. As the Boy says when discussing stress: 'You just don't let that shit mess with your head...'

Honey Monster...

I developed an allergy a couple of years ago and I was tested and it turns out I have hay fever triggered by grass pollen.

Consequently I have been dropping allergy tablets by the truckload for the past two years in an effort to stem the constant sneezing, runny nose and itchy eyes.

A few months ago I was discussing this problem with a friend and one of his friends joined (ramraided her way into) the conversation and suggested a good homeopathic remedy was to take honey with tea. So I tried this and, even though I can't tell whether it's working or not, I thought I'd persevere...

Then yesterday I saw the previously mentioned conversation interloper and I realised that she is an idiot which means I have followed the advice of an idiot. In fact if she had told me to rub excrement all over my face and put the word 'homeopathic' in front of her suggestion I would have probably given it a go.

The Missus and the Boy are right. I am an idiot but even worse I am now an idiot who follows the advice of other idiots. There is no hope...

Spider-Man...

I like Louise Bourgeois, the sculptor and artist whose work is currently on show at the Tate Modern.

The Missus went to see Bourgeois's exhibition with her mum and I have yet to visit but I really adored the huge spiders she did when the Tate Modern first opened in 2000 and which took pride of place in the massive Turbine Hall for several months.

This is what they looked like:

So as myself and the Missus have spent the weekend chilling out by playing Scrabble and eating Quality Streets I decided to make my own Bourgeois spider out of the foil sweet wrappings. This is what it looks like and I think it's quite good:

I am now working on a bigger version but it means we have to eat at least three family size tins of said sweets. But it is in the name of art.

I may have found a new career...

Kickass Goes Jackass…

One of my favourite series of recent times has been the excellent Mind, Body And Kickass Moves.

In this initial BBC3 series of 12 documentaries, martial arts expert Chris Crudelli travels all over the globe examining different martial arts from different cultures.

He then followed it up with a six-part series called Kickass Miracles, which focused on the more esoteric side of martials arts training. This again was utterly fascinating but it also featured one of the nastiest but funniest moments I’ve ever seen on TV.

In it an escrima master goes through a ritual to demonstrate how he can switch himself into fighting mode and he attempts to show how this ritual empowers him and even makes his arm invulnerable to the hacks of his own razor-sharp machete.

And I’ve now found it on Youtube. Just type in kick ass miracles-escrima jackass.

Enjoy…

Pornucopia…

This is a true story that happened to a friend of mine…

My friend of mine was feeling a little jaded. He’d been very busy at work, his wife had been away and several other things had gone pretty badly wrong.

So to cheer himself up he decided he’d buy some 1970s pornography. Modern porn didn’t really float his boat but 1970s stuff with real women, men with tashes and body hair, corny plots and fantastically cheesy soundtracks always kept him entertained.

So he went to a shop in Soho to treat himself – but when he got there he was too embarrassed to go into the shop let alone buy anything so he wended his way home.

Pondering his embarrassment he decided to go in semi-disguise and he opted for the look of a French tourist as anyone with any knowledge of world affairs knows French men have no shame when it comes to matters of sex and any one of them would rut a polo while smoking a Gitanne if the urge came upon them.

So wearing a hat, some stout hiking shoes and carrying a backpack, and using all his acting skills to get into the character, he finally entered the land of smut in Soho. The store was busy and as he was still feeling slightly embarrassed he decided to find a place away from the busy spot to work out where his intended target DVD would be located. The TV section was empty so he backed into there so he could get the lie of the land.

Unfortunately TV did not mean television section as he previously thought. It meant transvestite section.

On realising this he backed out of there at a rate of knots and looked for the door. But he got the wrong door and ended up in another section of the store standing next to two women, one of whom turned to my friend and exclaimed ‘It’s all men in here. Have you noticed?’

Not knowing what to say he adopted his French tourist character and simply replied ‘Oui madam…’ and left.

Fortunately next door was another store and my colleague entered to find it was empty apart from the man serving behind the counter.

Even better a quick peruse through the titles on the shelf and it was pay dirt as there was a classic 1970s film called The Opening Of Misty Beethoven that ticked all the boxes. So he picked it up and headed to the counter and, even though a hen party then entered the store, it was surely a matter of buy the film and off.

But no…

The man at the counter struggled to find the disc and searched through his files but to no avail. Then he shouted downstairs and asked for the film by title. Seconds later a little man runs up the stairs and shouts ‘Don’t have that. But we do have one where Mozart fucks a group of nuns.’

At this point the hen party are intrigued by what my friend is trying to buy and head on over to the counter to investigate. Having had his recommendation rejected the man returns downstairs but as my friend is heading out of the door he runs back up clutching the missing DVD in his hand.

My friend pays for it and is about to head out of the shop when the man behind the counter then tries to sell him a loyalty card but after five minutes of explaining he is not interested he finally gets out of the shop.

He’s stood in the transvestite section of a store, he’s pretended to be a Frenchman, he’s been pegged as a man who wants to watch nuns having sex and he’s even been offered a loyalty card scheme for pornography fans. But he’s got it and it’ll be great as he saw the film when he was 15 and it was very funny.

So later at home he finally goes to play the DVD and puts it in his DVD player – and it's the wrong region…

Halloween…

I went out to play a pool match last night and I saw a friend I hadn’t seen in a while.

We got chatting and I asked him how his missus and his daughter were. So we discuss playing pool and other bits and bats and we’re having a laugh. Then I asked him something along the lines of what his girl was up to tonight and he replied she’d gone to a Halloween party dressed as a pumpkin and she looked really cute.

So I said that was brilliant because when she gets back from the party and he was back from the match he could end up getting jiggy with a pumpkin.

The conversation died and he just stared at me. Then the penny dropped.
‘You do realise it’s my daughter who’s gone to the party dressed as a pumpkin, don’t you?’
‘No. I thought you were talking about your wife…’
‘No. It’s my daughter…’
‘And your wife didn’t dress as a pumpkin as well?’
‘No…’
‘Oops…’

Welcome Home…

Teenagers, like most other pack animals, sense weakness so five hours before the Missus landed at Heathrow the Boy switched from caring, considerate teenager who thinks his stepfather is pretty cool to sarcastic little shit who think it’s funny to wind him up…

The scene is a late breakfast with me and the Boy sat at the kitchen table. He starts to chomp his food in a very audible manner. I choose to ignore it but it then goes on for five minutes during which time he has broken the world carrot-noise-eating records and, somehow, he has even managed to eat hummus loudly.

So I interject.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Nothing…’
‘Are you taking the piss out of me eating?’
‘Yes.’
‘But I don’t eat that loudly and even if I did it never bothers you…’
‘But it bothers Mum and she’s not here so I’m sticking up for her feelings…’

The Missus eventually returns and we head off out for a welcome back family curry. During which the following truths become all too apparent.
i) The Missus would not think twice about leaving me if Cillian Murphy from 28 Days Later and Sunshine were to avail his services.
ii) Seoul is pretty ‘soul-less’.
iii) The Boy has clearly decided his place in the grand scheme of things is of dominant male in the household. This obviously means I am the comic relief.
iv) I cannot eat onion bhajis correctly. In fact I am actually criticised by the Missus for eating Indian finger food with my fingers.

It’s good to know that things are obviously back to normal…

Holiday!

I’ve had a week off work and it’s been fun.

It was originally going to be me, the Missus and the Boy spending a week doing family bonding stuff in London, but it didn’t work out that way as the Missus was invited on a swanky week-long press trip to South Korea (prompting my joke that her tour guide must be a Koreas advisor).

So it’s been me and the Boy and we’ve had a pretty chilled out time of it. As he’s nearly 17 the last thing he wants is to spend large amounts of time with one of the ‘olds’ so he’s been out with his mates, strummed his new guitar, surfed the net and played one of his many game consoles. He's maybe done some homework too...

With the example of the Boy to follow and no Missus for moral guidance I’ve also reverted to teenage archetype and, apart from cleaning and cooking duties and a few bits of freelance writing, I’ve slummed it big style.

So here are the highlights of my slumming week so far:

i) Watched martial arts movies Azumi and Azumi 2. These are based on a Manga comic about a female assassin and are OK.
ii) Played lots of pool. I could have done something of use but I’m on holiday and I’ve neglected my pool for too long now.
iii) Enjoyed the best kebab in the world travelling back from a pool match in Sutton after sinking several pints of Guinness.
iv) Went to the pictures and watched the excellent and intelligent drama Rendition with the Boy. It was his choice of movie too. He’s very cool.
v) Watched half an hour of Deal Or No Deal and fantasised about punching that smug, bearded twat Noel Edmonds in the face… with a jackhammer… until his head disintegrates into a bloody red pulp. He really is totally loathsome and the show is one of the most bizarre things I’ve ever seen on screen with contestants bringing in crystal balls and pictures of loved ones to 'guide' their choices.
vi) I would watch Deal Or No Deal: The Snuff Movie, though, where Edmonds is chopped up and a separate part of him is put in the 15 boxes. There would be no prize but it would entertain me more than watch desperate people scrummage around for money…

So left to my own devices my life is not quite rock and roll but maybe simple pleasures like a kebab, a few films and a few pints of Guinness is where I’m at now.

Pipe and slippers here we come…

MP Watch…

At last! After two letters and one email and nine months of waiting I finally have a response from Brent South MP Dawn Butler about her position on the cancellation of the SFO (Serious Fraud Office) investigation into the Al Yamamah military contract.

And her position is… she’s repeating the Government line by stating in her letter that it was ‘made in the countries best interests nationally’.

Bloody cop out. The letter is also so sneakily written that she just repeats this line and doesn’t even mention whether she agrees with it or not. Oh, and she can’t use apostrophes and doesn’t know the difference between ‘country’s’ and ‘countries’.

On the plus side she has forwarded my letter to Defence Minister Kim Howells MP and asked him to write to me expressing his thoughts on the matter.

I thought that was quite a nice touch as it passes the buck but also shows that she is trying to get me an answer.

So on the plus side she has written back to me and tried to get me an answer, which is good. But on the minus side it did take ages and she still hasn’t expressed her views on corrupt arms deals, which is less good but very politician-like.

She’ll go far will this one…

Emperor Jones...

Me, the Missus and the Boy went to see Eugene O'Neill's play about an imaginary black dictator in the Caribbean at the weekend.

Paterson Joseph of Peep Show fame played the title character who is ousted when his corrupt regime becomes too much for his fellow countrymen and he has to flee for his life from rebels out for his blood. While on the run he faces up to the ghosts of all those he has maligned before finally facing justice.

It's the third time I've seen Joseph on stage after his roles in An Oak Tree and Saint Joan and each time he's thoroughly impressed me. The play may be a little thin on story but it only runs for 70 minutes and Joseph is thoroughly engaging as the swaggering emperor brought down to his knees by his own guilt and people.

Sadly one of the ushers at the National, a rude old thing with a face like a slapped arse who obviously got her kicks from playing the jobsworth card, pissed me off on the way in. I was going to write a letter of complaint but then I realised I should rise above it and instead wish her and all her progeny slow and lingering deaths.

Actually that's probably not right either so instead I will write a letter of complaint as my taxes fund that bloody institution so effectively I'm paying for somebody to be unpleasant to me.

Fucking arts funding. Cut the lot of it...

Rich Hall: A 10-word Review...

Funny US comedian but better when he rants and swears.

Crackers...

The Tate Modern is one of my favourite places in London.

But sometimes this wonderful institution gets things wrong and, even though I’ve seen fantastic stuff such as the Louise Bourgeois bronze spiders in its massive Turbine Hall, I’ve also seen some cock.

And the latest piece of installation art to grace this space really does take the piss-flavoured biscuit. Because, and I shit you not, it’s a crack in the floor.

It’s called Shibboleth and it’s by Colombian artist Doris Salcedo. The crack begins at the entrance to the hall and branches off in certain places and starts to widen until it reaches the end of the hall. In some places it’s deep and others it’s skinny and that’s about it. Oh, and it’s supposed to represent the fact that society is divided along racial lines.

Remarkably the panel on Newsnight Review who discussed this nonsense were utterly wowed by it. ‘Salcedo is a genius!’ opined one. I remember people saying the same about Tracey Emin...

In my book Emin is a genius as she managed to convince some cocaine-hoovering moneyed twot (it's a combination word joining twat and tool) to part with several thousand pounds for a representation of a bed where she’d had a few fucks. Now I thought that was clever, particularly for Emin’s bank balance, and I think Salcedo is a similar creature, a latter-day snakeoil saleswoman of the modern art world.

So here’s the plan…

I reckon the Tate should close this Salcedo nonsense down immediately and instead celebrate home-grown talent. Luckily my grandfather used to dig holes for a living. The difference between him and Salcedo was that his holes served a useful purpose to get access to water drains and the like. So I reckon we go into the Tate when it’s shut, Polyfill Salcedo’s work in and recreate a few of my grandfather’s best holes.

I know for a fact he did loads of them so I bet there were some real beauties in his back catalogue. And if Salcedo can dominate the Tate Modern with her skinny hole I reckon my grandfather’s massive holes must be odds-on for the Turner prize at least.

Training Day…

I have just finished a martial arts class and I am in the changing rooms at the gym.

In this class I was helping a lower-belt learn an escape from a front hold that basically sees you grab the opponent’s head with both hands and twist his head so he either falls away or his neck eventually breaks. It’s a beautiful technique and so effortlessly violent that you have to be careful when learning it or teaching it otherwise it can hurt.

I spent about five minutes going through this technique and at some point my neck got a little jarred so I finish class and head for the shower and stand under a hot stream of water directing the shower head onto the sore part of my neck.

No good. It still hurts… so I stand in the changing rooms moving my neck around and pushing my chest forward and trying to get rid of this crick in my neck. Still no good so instead of pushing my chest forward and moving my neck around I throw my whole body forward and my head back and I’ve now nearly got it. If I can just push everything forward a bit more…

It is then I realise I am being stared at by the only other man in the changing rooms, who wears a hat and looks like John Inman. It is then I also realise I am standing naked and it actually looks like I am thrusting my genitalia in the direction of the John Inman lookalike who is 3ft away from me.

What to do? I smile and motion as if to say ‘I’m just stretching out’ but instead my hands face him palm up at waist height. With my chest and head back and my lower area prominent it looks like I’m presenting myself to him. Idiot, idiot, idiot... He simply straighten his tie, rolls his eyes and smiles. He walks past me and waves on his way out.

I may have just instigated some complex form of mating ritual with an elderly gay gentleman. Oh dear…