Pussy News...

The Missus thinks I am a lunatic because I talk to our remaining cat Buffy, whose mother passed away last year.

The Boy also thinks this a tad odd and he will often come downstairs when the Missus is out and ask me who I was talking to. When I reply 'I was just talking to Buffy...' he looks at me as though I'm not not quite right in the head and wanders off muttering insults under his breath...

But the Missus has now decided she wants a new kitten in the house and has herself started having full-blown conversations with Buffy about how she'll feel about us getting a new kitten (which she has already christened Spike). The Boy is also making casual inquiries about the views of the cat on our impending kitten arrival.

But even worse the Missus is behaving in quite an affectionate way as she tries to convince me that this new addition to From Beer To Paternity Towers will be a good idea. Now I'm not used to marital affection as I've never had it and, to be quite honest, I find it slightly disturbing.

But I am also secretly enjoying the power that being the kitten deal-breaker gives me. I think I could get a new cue out of this if I play my cards right...

Fight Quest V...

A common complaint among most men is: 'My wife doesn't understand me...' But there is a much worse condition than that and it is the following: 'My wife understands me perfectly. In fact she understands me so perfectly that her understanding is almost telepathic.'

For example, when I was trying to find late Victorian pornography last year as part of research for a play I could happily explain this to my wife and she didn't bat an eyelid because she understood. Similarly when I found the grave of a famous Victorian prostitute last year I went visiting and my wife understood.

I fear, however, I now may have crossed a line and that line is watching Nuts TV.

For those who have yet to sample the delights of Nuts TV it's essentially pub sports, fighting and really badly produced soft porn masquerading as 'adult' entertainment shows. Like the magazine it is based on it's tawdry rubbish aimed at knuckleheads but last night I became one of those knuckleheads as flicking through the TV channels I spotted it had a show on cage fighting.

So I decided to watch this as, despite injury, I am still a wannabe UFC fighter and I thought it would be good research.

The show featured two cage fights from what looked like a leisure centre in Barking or Grimsby and it reminded me how little toe-to-toe battling is involved in cage fighting as the first fight ended up on the ground and stayed there for most of its two rounds, while the second ended in a knockout in about 10 seconds.

It was also hardly glamorous stuff and this is the sort of arena wannabe fighter have to start off in if they want to get anywhere. Frankly it's along way from the UFC...

So I may have to learn Brazilian ju-jitsu or some other ground-fighting art if my bid to be a proper fighter is ever to be realised. Or I could just be like the guy who got knocked out and be a journeyman punchbag.

Or I could just ensure I'm back in working order and stick to the hapkido and boxing training I do without the risk of serious injury by knocking this perhaps foolhardy idea on the head...

Injury News...

My shoulder is still not better so I bought a book on martial arts injuries so I can help heal the damaged area more quickly.

When it arrived I read it in about two days and it was pretty comprehensive, featuring advice on strapping, icing and physiotherapy. Unfortunately I put it on the floor of my office to take downstairs while I was on the internet and forgot it was there...

The Missus then shouted me downstairs so I came out of my office, tripped up over the book and fell and hurt my arm some more.

The book is obviously not that good at injury prevention and care...

Album...

I suddenly have a desire to load pictures on my Facebook page,
some panicked and pathetic bid
to leave
a footprint of something,
somewhere.

So I go home and uproot my office to see what’s where
and I find a photo of my father,
sat in his chair,
reaching for the telly
remote.

It was taken in 1989 and the simmering civil war
between him and my mother
had not yet broken out,
even though signs of hostilities were ever
present.

I find another shot of him lining up for Goole Town FC in 1964,
fresh-faced and smiling,
possessing the kind of surety that only
small-town celebrity can
bestow.

Dead now some 14 years he had many sayings,
some were utter rubbish but some
conferred a wisdom. Of sorts.
‘You can’t educate pork’ was my particular
favourite

but ‘Life’s no rehearsal’ was the one he favoured most.
Dead now some 14 years and me not there yet,
I’m slowly getting
where he was coming from
with that.

Meat...

Here's the opening scene of a play I'm just finishing rewrites on. It's called Meat and it's about sexual commodification and disease in 1880s London.

SCENE 1: INTERIOR. HOUSE OF ASSIGNATION. KENSINGTON.
Grams: Jerusalem.
Lights up. A spartan but clean bedroom in a Victorian house of assignation. Simms, a dwarf in his mid-thirties, stands up. Mrs Fenton, a fortysomething woman of polite breeding and refinement, stands too. She removes a veil. She is nervous.

SIMMS
I trust my carriage was to your satisfaction?

MRS FENTON
Your man was both punctual and courteous, Mr Simms. Is this to be the place for our ‘lesson’?

SIMMS
It is. It may lack in grandeur but the woman who owns the house is a long-time acquaintance and keeps it clean. More importantly the house is quiet and unassuming.

MRS FENTON
Five pounds is the agreed fee?

SIMMS
That is correct.

MRS FENTON
And I assume complete discretion is promised?

SIMMS
It is guaranteed. I also offer a refund to all ‘pupils’ if the ‘lesson’ is not carried out to their full satisfaction.

MRS FENTON
Good… May I inquire as to your ‘health’?

SIMMS
My ‘health’?

MRS FENTON
Yes. Your… (She gestures to Simms’ groin area) ‘health’.

SIMMS
(Understanding) My apologies. My ‘health’ is excellent. I only provide ‘lessons’ to ladies of status and virtue so I have never had ‘health’ issues of any description, be it ‘burning’, ‘French disease’ or any other similar malady. I have documentation confirming this from a reputable surgeon who specialises in such matters should you wish to see it.

MRS FENTON
No, no. That will not be necessary… But if you don’t mind me saying, Mr Simms… I mean, your advertisement in the newspaper did not mention… The description was… You do not strike me as…

SIMMS
Particularly tall?

MRS FENTON
Yes…

SIMMS
And you are concerned that my lack of vertical inches may equate with a lack of ‘manliness’ elsewhere?

MRS FENTON
I would never…

SIMMS
If I were at liberty to divulge my current client list, and if they were disposed to reveal what ‘entertainments’ they enjoyed while their husbands were away, you would have references from several leading lights of London society. And those ladies would affirm I have the inches of a man many times my height and the ‘manliness’ of 20 men of a Herculean build.

MRS FENTON
I see…

SIMMS
In fact if you will allow me to briefly lock the door I will allow a full examination of the aforementioned inches of Toby…

MRS FENTON
‘Toby?’

SIMMS
I find it helpful to give my attribute a name then should clients tire of over-vigorous exertions they can ask me to ‘Quell Toby’ while they rest, rather than employ the type of language used by dollymops or women of less gentle refinement.

MRS FENTON
A considerate approach, Mr Simms.

SIMMS
I was always schooled that good manners cost nothing.

MRS FENTON
I suppose it is only right and proper that I inspect the ‘chattels’ before committing to buy.

SIMMS
I am sure my lady would not send her maidservants to purchase the latest fashions without first checking their fit and this transaction is no different. Goods and services for money.

MRS FENTON
Yes. Quite right… Please proceed.

Simms goes to the door and locks it. He draws the curtains, turns down the lamp light and stands with his back to the audience. Simms unbuttons his trousers and pulls them down. His shirt flaps down. His back is still to the audience.

SIMMS
If I may take your hand?

She nervously offers her hand. He takes her hand and places it between his legs. We see her face.

MRS FENTON
(An intake of breath) My…

SIMMS
If I may take your other hand?

He takes her other hand and places it further between his legs.

MRS FENTON
(An intake of breath) Oh my…

SIMMS
My current girth in its flaccid state is three inches and its length six. Once aroused it is four and one half inches in girth and 10 inches in length. It can supply a vigorous pumping motion for one hour before any decline and it has performed for twice that time on occasions. The lady concerned, however, was French nobility and in my experience women of that nation and class are insatiable. With such females sapping their energies it is little wonder their menfolk are rarely victorious in warfare.

Silence.

SIMMS
You may remove your hands at any point.

MRS FENTON
(Remembering herself) Yes. Of course…

She collects herself. Simms pulls up and buttons his trousers, turns up the light on the lamp, undraws the curtains and unlocks the door. He returns to stand in front of her.

SIMMS
I trust everything is to your satisfaction?

MRS FENTON
I am sure it will be.

SIMMS
Good. I shall expect you next Tuesday at 2pm for three hours. My coachman will meet you at 1pm at the same place as today. After that he will arrange new points of collection and embarkation on a weekly basis. I look forward to our ‘lesson’.

Simms bows. Blackout. Cut to…

Utah Phillips: An Obituary...

Utah Phillips, a seminal figure in the US folk music scene, died on 23 May 2008.

I was a late convert to Utah Phillips and only got on the Phillips bandwagon when he recorded The Past Didn't Go Anywhere, the first of two albums with Ani Di Franco where she took his words and stories and mixed in her own background music. This album, along their second collaboration, Fellow Workers, were fantastic pieces of work in which Utah told stories about the various influential folk musicians and political activists he'd met while travelling the length and breath of the US.

These America-wide journeys of discovery mined a rich historical seam of neglected and sometimes repressed history featuring union organisers and workers battling for decent conditions and wages against much more powerful and often brutally armed opposition.

He was in part a folk historian whose key concern was that the rich history of union activism and working-class struggle should be kept alive in the present. His favourite idea was that of the 'long memory', an idea that insisted modern working people were part of a long, proud and still active history where rights and privileges had been fought for and should still be fought for.

Struggle for better working conditions and human rights, as Phillips often reminded anyone at his gigs, is not just historical memory but a living heritage we should all be involved in, whether it's signing petitions or taking a more active role.

As Phillips said: 'The path of least resistance is what makes the river run crooked.'

A wonderful man. Rest in peace.

Fight Quest IV...

I am currently sporting an ice pack on my shoulder. I have been sporting this for a few days in a bid to stem pain and speed healing. And I think it's working so I'll be back in full training mode sooner than expected. Hurray!

Bizarrely sporting this ice pack has given me a new appreciation of what it's like to be a hunchback, walking around with an odd lump sticking out of my shoulder.

I am also informed that Gillian McKeith suffers with a hunchback affliction so for once I am in sympathy with the whippet-thin, whining, shrew-faced, modern snakeoil saleswoman and fraudulent doctor.

Sadly, apart from McKeith, hunchbacks are not something you see any more and advances in medical science and paedeatric surgery are perhaps reasons for this. Like village idiots they seem to be a dying breed but I reckon the good old-fashioned village idiot is still alive and well somewhere in the UK.

Goole had its own village idiot, of course. He was nicknamed 'Nutty' Graham because his name was Graham and he behaved like a nutter.

These days he'd probably be categorised under the catch-all term 'learning difficulties' but any man who stood at the level crossing on Boothferry Road day-in day-out just in time to see any passing train then proceed to shout abuse at those trains for years on end must have had some method to his madness.

And watching him go to work on unsuspecting train passengers is what used to pass for entertainment in Goole. It was certainly better than watching the football team. Or going to Hull for a shopping trip.

Happy days...

Fight Quest III…

I've been over-training and I’ve picked up a shoulder injury.

Sadly injuries are part and parcel of any martial arts training and I just have to deal with it. But from what I can gather it’s a rotator cuff injury and the way to heal it is with rest and ice.

So instead of cycling in this morning I grabbed the Tube with the Missus and about halfway through my journey she gleefully turned to me and pointed a story out in today’s Metro. It read:

‘A 30-year-old mother of one from Manchester has secured a big-money US television deal as a cage fighter.’

Bollocks! I’ve been unable to train for one day and someone’s sort of nicked my idea already and, even worse, she’s a bloody woman and that makes it a much better story.

Still. She might get seriously injured and have to call it all off…

Fight Quest II...

My quest to become a UFC fighter has begun and I've gone onto their website to find out how I sign up. And, lo and behold, here it is...

Q: How do I get into the UFC?
A: Fighting in the UFC requires years of training and fighting experience. If you think you've got what it takes, send a VIDEO TAPE of your fights and a short bio to:
UFC Fighter Info
Attn:
Sean Shelby
PO Box 26959
Las Vegas, NV
89126

So by my reckoning I need to train for a year, then have a fight and videotape it.

I also need a name as all UFC fighters have a nickname. I sought the Boy's opinion and his answer was 'The Idiot'. I then sought advice from the Missus.
'If you go ahead with this I will divorce you...'

That's quite a rubbish nickname in my estimation...

Fight Quest I...

'It's potentially the most stupid idea you've ever had. And given that you are an absolute idiot who previously thought it was a good idea to insert lit sparklers into the top of his penis that is quite a feat...'

I have just explained my latest wheeze to the Missus. I've told her I want to train and become a UFC fighter for one fight only as it will give me a definite goal and, more importantly, I also think it would make quite a good book idea. My idea is not getting the reaction I anticipated, though, so I try to defend myself.

'I'm already a decent martial artist and if I know I'm fighting I'll train much harder. I'm also boxing and that will help and I reckon if I train seriously I'll be ready within two years, maybe three...'
'You're NOT doing it.'
'The worst that can happen is that I'll get knocked out...'
'...or you could have your neck broken and I'll end up tending to a paraplegic for the rest of my life...'
'It would make a great book. Think about... speccy journalist becomes fighting machine...'
'But you don't even like fighting. You even apologise to your boxing coach when you hit him...'
'But I don't see it as fighting... it's about competition and I may not be overtly aggressive but I am hugely competitive...'
'It's a stupid idea thought up by an idiot. It's the sort of thing young men do not people who are nearly 40 years old with families.'
'Would you do me a favour?'
'You're having a mid-life crisis. That's what this is...'
'Just think about it...'

The Missus pauses. She stares at me like I'm an idiot. But it means she hasn't said a definite no...

Hard News...

Read about this in The Week so I thought I'd share it. The report is taken from website The Register:

'A group of Hungarian tax inspectors is apparently "protesting" at being forced to watch hard-core pornography movies in an attempt to decide if the filmmaker has legitimately claimed £10,000 in allowances for set-dressing his DVD romps.

Northern Hungary tax supremo Maria Nagy bemoaned the probe into Ferenc Hopka, whining: "It's a hard job. Porn movies are known for showing the action, not the bed or the carpet it is happening on.

"Often we just see a lot of flesh and a little bit of silk, and just from that we have to determine whether that piece of silk is really the bedding the producer claimed his money back for."

To give you a taste of what Hungary's finest might be enduring, we suggest a quick shufti at Hopka's 2002 smut masterwork Fallen Angels, which stars the splendidly named Norman Hard and is described thus: "A priest stands accused of 'orgiastic misconduct' in a monastery. Enter a female judge who wants to hear every juicy detail of his blasphemous deeds..."'

Now that's proper news...

Friends Reunited...

One of my old college friends has recently got in touch again after a lengthy absence and I'm very excited. Of all the people I was friends with at college she was one of the few people I genuinely missed when we lost contact.

She was also quite sexy and I confess I had a bit of a crush on her. But she's back in touch and I'm hoping we'll get to catch up in real life rather just in cyberspace before too long. So I am discussing this turn of events with the Missus...

'You remember I told you about Harry?'
'The girl you were friends with at college?'
'Yes... Well she's got in touch with me and invited us down for the weekend to visit her and meet her kids and her fella.'
'I'd be up for that.'
'I always really liked Harry. She liked me too. We were both serious students at college among a sea of people who weren't. We bonded over books.'
'Did you fancy her at all?'
'Yes. I always thought she was quite sexy...'
'You were friends with a lot of girls at college, weren't you?'
'Yes. Which is surprising as I wasn't the catch then that I am now.'
'Well you were their non-threatening straight friend...'
'What do you mean "non-threatening"?'
'Well you weren't a sexual threat. It's like girls having a gay friend. There's no worry you're going to sleep together. So you were their non-threatening straight friend.'
'I wasn't a leper. I had girlfriends at college! They might have done!'
'How many of your friends who were girls that you found 'a bit sexy' did you sleep with at college?'
'Not many...'
'How many exactly?'
'I'm going to watch the football...'

Meat...

I have just had a week off work to finish rewrites on my play Meat. I now have two more days to finish knocking it into shape before it goes off for a big competition. I'll also be sending it out to a few other theatres with a view to getting it read and getting some feedback or, hope beyond hope, getting it staged.

It's going well but who would have thought that a play about selling sex, child prostitution and venereal disease that features rape, mutilation, a dwarf and a few murders could demand so much work.

I'm glad the new play I'm working on only has casual violence and incest. There was a time I used to write comedy. Maybe I am just ill in the head these days...

Home Truths IV...

The Missus is away and I am at home cooking tea for me and the Boy.

I shout him to come downstairs as the food is ready but there is no response. So I venture upstairs and knock on his bedroom door.
'What?' comes the half-grunt, half-annoyed response. So I open the door and decide to play the doting step-father.
'Your ever-loving step-daddy has put tea on the table. So come downstairs and keep me company and we can eat together. Please...'

The Boy looks at me in horror.
'You look and sound like a kiddy-fiddler when you do that...'
'Well if I was a kiddy-fiddler I'd go for better-looking teenagers than you. Downstairs. Food on the table...'

The Boy heads downstairs.
'Well if you did go for the good-looking kids they'd never have you anyway. You're just too ugly...'

Little shit. It's about time he went to university. Far away...

Home Truths III...

The Missus and the Boy are concerned with my current obsession with martial arts. I try to explain this as best I can but after all their bating and sarcasm I eventually run out of patience and declare:
‘Look I’m a fucking Ninja so shut up and leave me alone – or else…’

There is laughter. The Missus and the Boy head downstairs to the living room.

Silence. Then from downstairs the Missus asks:
‘Where’s the lamp?’

Bugger.
‘What lamp?’
‘The white glass lamp that was on the mantlepiece.’
‘I was hoovering and the wires got caught up and I accidentally knocked it over…’

There is a silence. Then comes the put-down…
‘Teach you that in Ninja school, did they?’

Home Truths II...

Me and the Missus are discussing our marriage after I look at one of our wedding pictures and smile affectionately at her.
‘When exactly did we get married?’ she asks breaking my moment of nostalgia.
‘It was September 2001.'
'Yes. I remember it now. The same month and year as the World Trade Centre disaster.'

Many lesser husbands would be offended by this aide memoire but I realise she does not say this with any degree of sarcasm. Her brother was in New York at the time and we married two weeks after this happened and, at a time when flying in the US was considered very dangerous, he took the flight and came to see us marry.

Sadly she decides to extend the analogy and score into the sarcasm open net that is gaping before her. In fairness I would do the same to her...

‘Yeah. I married an idiot the same year as a major disaster…’ she smiles. 'Makes sense...'
'You know, if I'm such an idiot why exactly did you marry me?’ I ask. She gives it some thought then answers.
‘Well it meant I no longer needed a lodger.’

Who says romance is dead? I'm glad I broke her lamp. I may yet break another one out of spite...

Home Truths I...

It is Saturday morning. The Missus has been to her exercise class while I have hoovered and cleaned the house and we have just returned from doing the weekly food shop.

Sadly, during the hoovering process a lamp got caught up in the hoover’s lead and fell to the floor and broke. As I am a martial arts warrior who fears nobody I did what any self-respecting martial arts warrior would do and threw the lamp away in the dustbin and hoped nobody would notice.

So the Missus sits and reads the paper while I read a book on an Israeli fighting system called Krav Maga. The Missus has been into the living room where the lamp used to reside and I realise I am on the verge of getting caught but decide to ride out the storm.

‘Have you noticed this?’ asks the Missus.
I fear it will be some feature on lamps as she hands me a section of the newspaper. Instead it is a column whose headline reads ‘It is my wife’s life purpose to drain my self-esteem at any opportunity’.

I fear it is a trap so I deny any knowledge of having read the article but instead she simply admits the following:
‘See. It’s not just me. Other women do it too!’

I go back to my book. So far so good. The lamp 'restructuring' incident has so far gone unnoticed…

Boxing Clever: Part Two...

I had my third one-on-one coaching session today and it was lots of fun and lots of hard work.

Rather stupidly I'd headed into the gym the day before to work on my jabs on a heavy bag and I'd got carried away and done skipping and weights and sit-ups and stuff so my body was still jaded when I arrived today.

I'm currently trying to pop into the gym at least once a week on my own so I can drill my basic punches and punch combinations and sharpen them up. I've also been doing this so I can get my wrists used to hitting heavy targets and get them used to the wear and tear this obviously entails.

But it's quite hard work as I am not technically the most gifted of pugilists and, to quote the Missus, I have wrists like a girl.

Today I also got the chance to have a light spar with my trainer and even with him going at a slow speed he still looked ridiculously fast. His hand motions and his rolling and slipping were so fluid there were times I was watching him and his technique when I should have been watching where his hands were heading. Oops...

Thankfully he's more interested in encouraging and teaching me than hitting me. Which is probably just as well considering he's very good and very fast...

We Are Leeds...

I had tickets for a posh box at Wembley on Sunday to watch Leeds in the Division One play-offs final.

It was the first time I'd been to the new Wembley and it was truly fantastic and the box was fab. Sadly Leeds were rubbish and Doncaster Rovers were the worthy winners and, had it not been for the Leeds United keeper Casper Ankergren, they would have lost at least 3-0.

The even more depressing thing from a Leeds United perspective was that every time a Leeds player got the ball nobody else seemed to want it passed to them, whereas every time a Rovers player got the ball he had at least half a dozen passing options.

On the plus side, however, I have now seen my team at Wembley and at least I still have a team to support, which five years ago was looking decidedly dodgy. We also had the best chant of the day after selling out our ticket allocation, a point made to the sparse gathering of Rovers fans when the Leeds end started singing 'You're shit and you've no support...'

And, of course, next season we start on a level footing with every other side and with Gary McAllister at the helm so we could go up automatically.

Hopefully...

Eurovision…

It’s Saturday and it’s been a bizarre day so far…

Working on a Saturday is always a pain in the rear as it’s something that I now rarely have to do, but it put me out of kilter so I eased the pain by listening to the radio commentary of the Championship play-offs that ended with Hull in the Premiership.

Now that’s pretty odd.

Even if you don’t like football just say the following to yourself: 'Hull in the Premiership…' It’s so preposterous that it beggars belief. As a Goolie I obviously have major antipathy towards all things codhead but ‘Hull in the Premiership’ really does sound ridiculous.

Try saying ‘turd in a swimming pool’. It’s not dis-similar…

I spent the evening with Eurovision on in the background. Eurovision is ridiculous and it’s patently obvious to me that you always need a gimmick to win it: Bucks Fizz had skirt-ripping halfway through their routine; Jordi were Lord Of The Rings goth metal rejects from Finland; Brotherhood of Man sang about kiddy fiddling (‘Save your kisses for me, even though you’re only three…’).

In fact it’s all rubbish but I do like the fact the UK has entered with singing dustman Anthony Abrahams. I was hoping he would be like singing dustman Tony Angelino from Only Fools And Horses and sing ‘Cwying’ but it was some jazz-funk entry instead.

I lost all interest at this point. Tomorrow I go to Wembley to see Leeds play Doncaster in the play-offs to get back into the Championsip.

Leeds struggling to get back into the Championship. Like saying 'Hull in the Premiership' it's just wrong...

Human Weapon...

I've recently discovered the joys of YouTube and come across a show called Human Weapon.

Screened on the History Channel the series sees MMA fighter Jason Chambers and American footballer and wrestler Bill Duff travelling the world training in various martial arts for a week before fighting a skilled warrior in that particular art.

Episodes I've seen so far have included Krav Maga, Ninjitsu, Tae Kwan Do, Karate, Silat, Muay Thai, Escrima, Savate and several others.

It's good stuff and I hope they take a look at hapkido somewhere down the line.

Stock: Scene 2...

SCENE 2: INTERIOR. FRONT ROOM SIMMS HOME.
Grams: Sound of a porn film on the TV.
Lights off in the room with the glow of the TV providing the only light. The TV faces the stage with its back to the audience. It is 3am. Gary is asleep on the sofa with his trousers undone near his thighs and a box of tissues nearby. One is stuck to his trousers. A few seconds for the audience to take in the scene. Then the sound of a key in an exterior door, which opens and shuts. A beat then Gemma enters and turns the lights on. She is dressed in her funeral clothes with a coat and a hat. One of her arms is in a sling. She pulls a suitcase behind her. It has a black golfing brolly attached. She stands and takes in the scene.

GEMMA
(Under her breath) Jesus Christ…

She walks over to the TV, has a quick look at the on-screen action then tilts her head to get a better look at a different angle. A beat. She has a sharp intake of breath then shakes her head and switches it off. She returns to her suitcase and takes the brolly. She pokes Gary with it.

GEMMA
Gary… Gary…

There is no movement so she gives the brolly a real shove as she shouts his name.

GEMMA
Gary!

He wakes but he is still half-asleep at first.

GARY
Fuck off!!

GEMMA
Gary. It’s me…

GARY
Gems?

GEMMA
Yes.

GARY
What time is it?

GEMMA
It’s 2am.

GARY
You missed the funeral.

GEMMA
I know.

GARY
The vicar waited for you…

GEMMA
My train collided with a car near Doncaster.

GARY
You could have got a cab.

GEMMA
It was a major incident Gary. Police, army… People died… I was injured. See… (She raises her arm) I needed to get it seen to…

GARY
It alright now?

GEMMA
Fractured.

GARY
You could have phoned Gems… Even with one hand you still could have phoned…

GEMMA
All your numbers are in my mobile.

GARY
You could try using the cunt then.

GEMMA
I did try ‘using the cunt’ but my battery was de… my phone was dead.

She sobs as a day of trauma catches up with her. Gary pauses and feels impotent. He then stands to go over and comfort her but his trousers fall down.

GEMMA
(She sobs and laughs then points to him) Your trousers… They…

GARY
(He looks down and realises what she is referring to) I’ve had problems with these… Wrong size… Keep falling down… Lots…

GEMMA
(She dries her eyes) You should probably buy a belt…

GARY
I should. I said that to myself only yesterday. Just got a bit sidetracked with one thing and another…

GEMMA
You can pull them up now if you want…

He pulls his trousers up.

GEMMA
(She gestures to his trousers) There’s a tissue stuck to…

Gary looks and removes it and puts it in his pocket.

GARY
(Thinking of an excuse) I’ve had a cold…

GEMMA
How did the funeral go?

GARY
It was a good send-off… Dad would’ve been proud. Lots of people there. Hundreds in fact. Never seen the church so packed. Buried with mum too. Just like he wanted…

GEMMA
Great… I thought you’d all still be out…

GARY
I was tired. Decided to come home and have an early night but I couldn’t sleep so I thought I’d…

GEMMMA
Watch some TV?

GARY
Yes. Watch some TV.

GEMMA
Anything good?

GARY
Found a nature documentary…

GEMMA
A nature documentary?

GARY
Yeah. Thought it might…

GEMMA
Help you get to sleep?

GARY
Yeah. Help me drop off…

GEMMA
Where’s Michael?

GARY
Still out with Size. I think the lads from the casino invited them back when the pub chucked out.

GEMMA
How is he?

GARY
Hard to tell.

GEMMA
How do you mean?

GARY
You know. Not giving anything away. You know what he’s like…

GEMMA
Doing his silent hard man act?

GARY
He should be back soon…

GEMMA
I take it my room hasn’t been claimed by anyone else since I was last here?

GARY
No. Still where it was with all you old…

GEMMA
Shit?

GARY
I was going to say ‘stuff’.

Silence.

GEMMA
I want to stay up and talk but I’ve had a long day and I’m exhausted.

GARY
Yeah. You look tired.

GEMMA
Are you OK with that?

GARY
Course…

GEMMA
We’ll talk properly tomorrow, yeah? I promise…

GARY
Yeah.

GEMMA
I’ll let you get back to your documentary…

GARY
Great…

GEMMA
I’ll see you in the morning.

Gemma kisses him then grabs her case and leaves. Blackout. Cut to…

Old Bag...

I am tidying the house. This is my job as the Missus and the Boy are, to be quite frank, utter slatterns.

As usual the Missus has left several of her ever-growing hangbag collection lying around the place so I am gathering these up as I go along before I head into the kitchen to see if the Boy has emptied the dishwasher.

I enter the kitchen and the Boy is lounging on the sofa while the Missus is ironing in the corner.
'Have you done the dishwasher?'
'No yet...'
'Well can you do it please?'
'In a minute.'
'How about about now?'
'In a minute!'
'I asked you to do it 20 minutes ago. Why do you always have to make such a song and dance about anything I ask you to do?'
'I don't...'
'You do actually. You're such a big bloody girl about stuff like that.'
'Says the man wearing four handbags...'

The Missus looks up and laughs. The Boy sniggers. I am probably the most emasculated man in the world...

Loving The Cave Man…

I was a relatively late convert to Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds as I only really got into him and them about eight years ago, which in music fan-boy terms doesn’t even make me recent enough to be a Johnny-come-lately…

But I’ve been an admirer ever since and last night I finally made it to a gig to see him. The tickets came courtesy of the Missus as a birthday present and we both went to Hammersmith and it was a fab night.

Cave was an electric and idiosyncratic frontman and his fellow Bad Seed Warren Ellis was a wacky and wild accomplice. Cave performed tracks from his new Did Lazarus Dig CD and he also threw in a few oldies such as Let Love In, Deanna, Into My Arms, Red Right Hand and Tupelo.

The highlight of the night for me, however, apart from Ellis performing like a My Hyde on barbiturates, was a great version of We Call Upon The Author To Explain from the new CD.

A very good gig indeed…

Stock: Scene 1...

SCENE 1: INTERIOR. CEMETERY.
Grams: Symphony No.3 by Gorecki.
A winter afternoon. A cross stands on stage. Size, a black man of dual heritage, stands near it. He is rubbing the knuckles of his right hand. Michael, a man in his late twenties, stands next to him. He is listening on a mobile phone and he occasionally mutters ‘Yes’ while Size talks to Michael and to himself. Both are dressed in suits with black ties.

SIZE
Shouldn’t be allowed… Taking liberties like that – and at your dad’s fucking funeral… (Silence) Everyone could hear their racket all the way across the cemetery… Sobbing and weeping like big fucking babies… (Silence) And they weren’t even sobbing and weeping in fucking English…

Michael raises a finger to request silence. Silence for a beat or two then Size continues.

SIZE
Look, Mikey. I know you’re pissed with me but I had to go over. All I did was ask him and his friends to quieten it down a bit… That’s all. I didn’t swear or lamp anyone or nothing. Well… not immediately. And it was him who kicked it off. ‘We also are trying to have funeral here too!’ he says. Then he turns his back on me. Like I’m nothing. Little cunt. Snide little cunt. In fact the sort of snide little cunt who should just have ‘I am a snide little cunt’ branded across his forehead. But even then, even under that sort of extreme… (He thinks for the word) pro-vo-cation, I kept my temper. I simply tapped him on the shoulder and pointed out that we were having a funeral as well – but the difference was we were trying to be dignified about the fucking thing and maybe they could try the same as they’re now living in our fucking country! Well he didn’t like that. Said something angry. In foreign! So I hit him, punched him plum in the face and he fell into the grave with his nose twatted all over his boat. Splosh… (Pause) You know what? Next time I’m not going bother being polite. And I don’t care if the cunt was a priest!

Michael comes off the phone. He closes it and puts it in his pocket. He brings his hands to his face and lets out a sigh.

MICHAEL
Noggsy’s had a word and the copper says they won’t press charges.

SIZE
Fucking right they won’t press charges. Half the cunts are here on the sly any way. Should fuck off back to the Ukraine.

MICHAEL
They were Poles.

SIZE
Should bring back that fucking Poll Tax then. Make the cunts pay their way properly… (Mike just stares at him) I’m sorry Mikey.

MICHAEL
(A beat) Forget it. Dad would have thought it was funny…

SIZE
He’d ’ave been over there knocking the Polish cunts out with me. (Size taps the cross) Sorry Ellis…

Silence.

SIZE
73 eh…

MICHAEL
Yeah.

SIZE
Good age…

MICHAEL
Wasn’t for him…

Silence. Size pulls a bottle of whisky out. He takes a slug and hands it to Michael. Michael passes.

MICHAEL
You know the last thing he told me? Before he… went…

SIZE
No.

MICHAEL
Said one of the doctors told him he had to have a pacemaker fitted. So he told ‘em ‘I don’t want no fucking Kenyan in shorts running round in front of me!’ The doctors thought he was serious. Made me laugh before I went home. Made Gary laugh too.

SIZE
Did Gary get it?

MICHAEL
No. He just laughed out of politeness, the way he does when he doesn’t understand something but thinks he should. I explained it to him on the way home though…

SIZE
Well you boys done him proud today. In fact everyone did. Big turnout. You see all the fellas from the bookies came?

MICHAEL
Yeah…

SIZE
…and the dog track… and the casino…

MICHAEL
I saw ‘em.

SIZE
…and the card school at the Drunken Rat. Lots of people…

MICHAEL
Well dad had friends from all walks of life…

SIZE
No news on Gemma yet?

MICHAEL
No. No news…

SIZE
Shame… Her missing the funeral and’ all… And the vicar did wait for half an hour as well…

MICHAEL
I told her Gary’d drive up North and pick her up but she insisted on making her own way here.

SIZE
To be fair he can’t actually drive…

MICHAEL
He can drive – just not legally at the moment…

SIZE
Even so…

MICHAEL
You never complained about his driving when he used to pick you up from Bullet’s casino and drop you home, did you?

SIZE
No…

MICHAEL
And he was only 13 then…

SIZE
Try to see it from your sister’s point of view…

MICHAEL
Which is?

SIZE
Well she’s educated now. Been to university, read books, seen films with subtitles and everything.

MICHAEL
And?

SIZE
Well nobody with that many brains is gonna get into a car with Gary at the wheel, are they?

MICHAEL
Should still be here.

SIZE
But she’s not and you and Gary are. So let’s get down the pub and join the boys for the real send-off. Yeah?

MICHAEL
Suppose so…

SIZE
Come on…

Size walks to the side of the stage. Michael pauses, places his hand on the cross for a beat or two then follows. End. Cut to…

Taking Stock...

I am now writing a new play and I'm going to publish a couple of scenes a week on here.

So scene 1, which I published part of a few weeks ago, will go up tomorrow. The battleplan is to finish draft one by the end of the month.

I love a good deadline...

PS. The play is called Stock which is why there's a picture of some London stock bricks.

The Minotaur...

In my previous life as a community and fringe theatre director and writer I was very much an angry young man. And that angry young man fervently believed it was the job of the arts to reflect and appeal to the majority of taxpayers whose taxes funded it rather than solely appeal the middle-class minorities who regularly patronised places like regional repetory theatres, the RSC and the National.

And much of that thinking still pervades my views on the arts and arts subsidy to this day so consequently I am not and never will be a cheerleader for opera. Huge ticket prices, hugely subsidised and hugely expensive to produce, it would never get my vote. Also my only live opera experience was watching Verdi's Il Trovatore at the Bregenz Opera Festival in Austria and, great spectacle though it was, it didn't really float my boat. And I found it quite difficult to follow.

To my thinking opera is the arts version of polo. A fun time for poshos who like that type of thing...

But on Saturday I saw the last night of the Harrison Birtwhistle opera The Minotaur and it really knocked me on my arse. It's true that the only reason I went and had begrudgingly shelled out £65 for a ticket was because the Missus's poet dad had written the libretto, and it's also true that the Royal Opera House with its ridiculously flash champagne bar and poshos in attendance did little to dampen my anti-opera prejudices.

But the opera itself was utterly stunning and, even better from my more-or-less opera virgin point of view, was high art in massively accessible form without sacrificing any of its artistic integrity.

Based on the Greek myth the story if simple enough. Theseus heads to Crete to defeat the monstrous Minotaur and free his people from an obligation which means his father's kingdom has to send a boatload of virgins to sacrifice in the Minotaur's labyrinth every year. Meeting him in Crete is Ariadne who helps Theseus enter the Labyrinth and defeat the Minotaur.

But composer Birthwhistle and librettist Harsent's version shows Theseus as a calculating hero who strikes a treacherous agreement with Ariadne to kill her half-brother the Minotaur, while the Minotaur himself is shown as a beast in a constant state of war with his human side over his lusts and bloodlust. Bizarrely the latter is the most sympathetic character in the entire piece.

It's a clever reworking of the myth and the discordant music and the quite spartan libretto mean the piece rocks along without ever feeling rushed. John Tomlinson was suitably torn and sympathetic as the Minotaur, Johan Reuter was a cold and believable killer as Theseus and Christine Rice was calculating and believably ruthless as Ariadne.

She and Tomlinson were also incredible singers and his last lament as he dies in the labyrinth and her opening piece and another where she describes the birth of the Minotaur were knock-you-on-your-arse stunning.

So there we go. Modern opera. I'm possibly a convert. I've certainly spunked £65 on many worse evenings out.

The London Mayoral Elections: A Critique...

Boris 'Fucking' Johnson: Mayor of London. Boris 'Fucking' Johnson: Mayor of London now representing London and Londoners on the international stage. Boris 'Fucking' Johnson: Mayor of London in charge of an £11billion budget and with no experience of running any office of this scale.

Now it's too late just think about it... Conclusion? You're all fucking idiots who voted for a fucking idiot. Well done!

And as for the BNP getting a seat on the London Assembly after winning more than 5% of the vote? Words fail me...

The Apprentice…

I am a huge fan of The Apprentice, the BBC series where would-be tycoons of tomorrow enter into a boardroom version of Lord Of The Flies while Alan Sugar pretends to be a poor man’s Donald Trump (which is very poor indeed) and presides over proceedings…

Previous series of the show have seen a fair amount of utter tossers who’ll quite happily stab everyone else and their families and any nearby disabled children in the back in order to secure the prize of working for Sugar for a year. But this year’s remaining candidates are a more loathsome bunch than usual with several stroppy women who do nothing but talk over each other and bitch about each other, a couple of badly suited geezers who speak exclusively in chav business speak (‘Put your neck on the chopper! Go on…’) and the token poshos who’ll probably end up winning it.

Last night the candidates had to create and design a greeting card for a new market and the utter ineptitude they demonstrated doing this was a wonder to behold. One team went for an environmental card without realising that printing, posting and extra paper waste is only adding to the problem, while the others opted for a national singles day idea without figuring out who would actually send the targeted singleton their card.

Some dimwit West Country midget who looks like a hobbit and was slightly more clueless than the rest was fired, but based on last night Sugar should have booted them all and got infant school children to compete for the rest of the series as he’d probably have got more sense, ingenuity and professionalism out of them.

To be fair the format is a bit tired and you fear that, like Big Brother, the show’s makers have intentionally got more fractious housemates together in an attempt to create conflict and boost interest.

But that’s rubbish and not going the whole hog so my suggestion to spice it up would be as follows:
* Get everybody who applies to be on the show and lock them in a large warehouse until they turn cannibal and eat the weaker contestants. It obviously has a comedy running commentary courtesy of Adrian Chiles.
* Get the bedraggled and bloody survivors and make them fight with their palm pilots, mobile phones and briefcases until only 100 remain. A bit like Mad Max: Beyond The Thunderdome with Margaret in the Tina Turner role.
* Take these 100 and lock them in a cellar (topical, you see) and let Nick’s evil twin torture the fuck out of each and every one of them until only one remains.
* Declare the survivor the winner but let Sugar kill them anyway by dousing them in petrol, nailing them to a cross and torching them as he utter the words ‘You’re fired!’
* Supply a live webfeed of all the rounds and ensure it’s as brutal as possible. Not only will it prevent others applying for future series but it will also do the gene pool an enormous favour.

It’s a sure-fired winner! Geddit?

Boxing Clever: Part I…

I have now joined the white collar boxing gym I sampled some weeks ago with a try-out session and I decide to head on in there when it’s quiet to suss out the run of the place and get to grips with the equipment. This way I won’t look like a total tool when there are other people about.

Fortunately most of the equipment is stuff I’m familiar with so the heavy bags, speed balls, uppercut bags, free weights and weight machines hold no major surprises for me. I also take a little notebook so I can chart my progress and keep a track of what I’m doing and not miss anything out before I establish a training routine I know by heart.

The notebook has a picture of a pig on it. This was a present from the Missus and is based on one of my terms of affection for her, namely 'I love you more than any pig' which is a line from Blackadder. This may not be a particularly macho possession to display in a boxing gym but I like it nonetheless and it makes me smile.

The initial boxing battleplan is for me to get my basic skills in shape over a few weeks then I can hit the ground (not literally) running when I start using my personal training sessions. I soon learn, however, that delivering rapid-fire roundhouse kicks to punchbags is frowned upon.

I can sort of understand this as I wouldn’t walk into a hapkido dojang and start karate training. It’s also quite a good discipline as when I’m at the boxing gym I’m boxing and not working on anything else.

After a 45-minute workout of stretching, weights and working various punchbags I learn another two important lessons, though.

Lesson one is not to get carried away on the heavy bags. Just because they can take a lot of punishment it doesn’t mean my wrists, arms and fists can. My left arm was ready to drop off an hour after training. Slowly, slowly seems to be the key here…

Lesson number two is on tying my hand wraps. I sort of rushed doing these because I was very self-conscious of not looking like an idiot but they form a vital layer of protection for the knuckles and they also provide additional support for the wrists. A well-tied wrap could be the difference between a broken knuckle and a sprained wrist and keeping everything in working order.

Apart from that, though, all is good in the land of pugilism. If a bit tiring to start off with…

Snooker Loopy...

I am sat down watching the snooker and I point out that Peter Ebdon is now winning what was a tight match. My TV-watching colleague, however, is not a fan of Ebdon...

'I hate Ebdon.'
'Why?'
'He's a cock-sucker...'
'Metaphorically or literally?'
'Both.'
'Why metaphorically?'
'Tax exile scum. Brought up and nurtured in the UK then sods off abroad when he makes his dough.'
'And literally?'
'I suspect it...'
'So you really think Peter Ebdon takes men's penises in his mouth?'
'I can't prove it...'
'But you suspect it?'
'Yes.'
'But he's married... He has children.'
'I know.'
'And he's moved to Dubai. You really wouldn't go to an Arab state if men was your thing.'
'You would if it was aversion therapy...'
'Credit where it's due... The phrase Peter Ebdon sucks cock does have a very funny ring to it but I fear your main thesis is flawed as he is married and he has kids and he seems a bona-fide hetero-sexual to me.'
'He plays the cello.'
'I take it all back. Case closed...'
'You're being sarcastic aren't you?'
'Yes.'

The Zen Of Pool: Part VII...

I was out with the Other Woman this week and we went off to play some US pool at Rileys in Victoria.

I'm slowly beginning to quite like this club as it has some decent nineball and US eightball players and they're quite a useful barometer to gauge my own progress at the game. I'm also not boozing at the moment so my pool game is having less beer-inspired moments but my overall form is plateauing out and remaining steady. And this is good.

I also haven't played much recently so I was quite looking forward to our night of potting balls and I played very well. The Other Woman is not a bad player herself and if she took it seriously she could easily make a county-standard player in a few months, but I was flying and even using a racker there was very little she could do but watch me clear frame after frame.

I think I'm going to keep playing US pool as it's something I can do to unwind and practice at the same time. But it doesn't seem like practice and that's probably the key...

It also makes practice feel less jaded. It's partly the reason I'm doing boxing from next week as it will be new and fun so it won't seem like training for martial arts (even though it is).

Routines are obviously good things but a bit of variety is nice as well. Though obviously not within a marriage unless both partners are consenting...

Food For Thought...

I am cooking tea. The Boy is waiting to be fed and he is hungry so he is also grouchy.

The Missus arrives back from her fitness class and overhears me asking the boy to do something, a request which gets a non-commital response. I then ask him to do something else and he complains about having to 'do stuff...' so the Missus offers her views on his behaviour.

'If somebody asks you to do something why don't you just do it rather than complaining and whining about it?'
'I'm doing it.'
'And stop being grouchy.'
'Says you...'
'And stop being sarcastic. It's not clever.'

There is silence. I try to stop my mouth from opening but I fail miserably.
'Complaining, grouchy and sarcastic. I don't know where he gets that from...'

The Boy smiles. The Missus gives me a slanted look. It is a look that threatens the withdrawal of certain privileges if I offer any more opinions.

I carry on cooking. Very quietly...

Arms News...

My local MP Dawn Butler eventually replied to my several letters about the BAE arms scandal and the government's decision to cancel a Serious Fraud Office investigation into it on the grounds that it would potentially damage relations with the Saudis and intelligence on terrorists and that it would cost British jobs and trade.

She replied with a copy of a letter from the Defence Secretary which stated that the cancelation of this inquiry was perfectly legal and the government had nothing to answer for.

So imagine my surprise when the Campaign Against the Arms Trade (CAAT) and Corner House took the government to court and the judge sided with them rather than the politicians and stated that the decision to cancel the inquiry was illegal.

The CAAT website reports it more fully:

'The High Court this morning ruled that the Director of the Serious Fraud Office (SFO) acted unlawfully when he stopped a corruption investigation into BAE Systems' arms deals with Saudi Arabia.

The judgment was handed down by Lord Justice Moses and Mr Justice Sullivan in response to a judicial review brought by Campaign Against Arms Trade (CAAT) and The Corner House.

In the light of this judgment, the Serious Fraud Office must reopen the BAE-Saudi corruption investigation immediately. Both groups are calling upon the SFO to work jointly with US and Swiss investigators in doing so.

The judges detailed how BAE lobbied the Government by suggesting that the company would lose a large Saudi arms sale if the investigation was not dropped.

When the SFO was about to obtain access to Swiss bank accounts, Saudi Arabia threatened not only to cancel the arms deal but also to withdraw diplomatic and intelligence co-operation. This threat was made by Prince Bandar, who was allegedly complicit in the corruption under investigation.

The judges described the SFO Director's subsequent termination of the investigation on 14th December 2006 as a "successful attempt by a foreign government to pervert the course of justice in the United Kingdom".

They ruled that:
"No-one, whether within this country or outside, is entitled to interfere with the course of our justice. It is the failure of Government and the defendant [the Director of the Serious Fraud Office] to bear that essential principle in mind that justifies the intervention of this court."'

Bloody excellent work by CAAT and Corner House in my book. Restores your faith in British justice a bit.

Now Brown and his chums just have to realise that placing an extra tax burden on the very poorest by scrapping the 10p rate while letting non-doms pay a ridiculously small amount of tax (and propping up banks which have paid millions to shareholders in the past too) is also wrong. What are the chances, eh?

Rickaaay!

EastEnders is the BBC’s flagship drama. No matter how many Jane Austen or Charles Dickens novels they continue to adapt the bread and butter of the BBC’s drama output is EastEnders.

There it stands like a behemoth in the TV schedules with four pristine 30-minute prime-time slots on weekday evenings, plus an omnibus on Sundays and all manner of repeats and offshoot shows on BBC3. Just on BBC1 it accounts for four hours of TV every week, that’s 208 hours every year…

But, sadly, unlike the expensively produced bodice-rippers that the Beeb’s commissioning editors produce with one eye on promotion and the other on industry acclaim, the old Walford warhorse doesn’t seem to get anywhere near the same amount of time or care spent on it – and consequently the scripts have got shabbier and the plotlines more ridiculous. Bi-sexual nutcase prodigal sons, wives burying adulterous husbands while they're still alive, roadsweepers eating dogs, etc, etc...

So desperate now is the once great show that was EastEnders that it’s even brought back Bianca Jackson (Patsy Palmer) and Ricky Butcher (Sid Owen) in the hope that they can inject some much-needed interest in the show. And, in a sign of how rubbish the rest of the characters and their storylines currently are, it’s actually sort of working.

In a repeat storyline from when Bianca’s mum Carol Jackson first came into the show, Bianca has returned with a gaggle of kids by different fathers in tow. Unlike her mum, however, she’s a bit rubbish at looking after them and they were briefly taken into care while she got her act together and now has them back. Palmer was never the greatest actress in the world but she could do the screeching, gob-on-legs-with-a-heart that was Bianca quite well.

And in this latest incarnation she’s almost becoming the unofficial spokesperson for the Slag Chav Mum’s Society. ‘You try bringin’ four kids up on benefit with yer husband banged up inside!’ she thunderously muses at one point. Quite…

Her nice-but-dim ex-hubby Ricky, of course, was only ever a great character in relation to the amount of great one-liners or put-downs his much-missed dad, Frank Butcher (played by the late Mike Reid), could deliver to him. Sadly the character Frank Butcher’s death is the initial reason for his and Bianca’s return to the show so it seems his key raison d’etre is already a non-starter.

No more will the cockney tones of his dad call him a ‘Pilchard’ or ask him ‘Do you think I’m a double-yolker?’ or ‘What am I? The speaking clock?’ So Ricky is back too but his role seems much less well-defined and as Sid Owen’s not exactly hunk material or a truly gifted actor you have to wonder what it’s all about as the Square's not exactly short of thick bokes…

But it doesn’t matter how many characters they bring back or invent, the major trouble at the Walford mill is the quality of the scripts. There are occasional good episodes but too many times characters are asked to behave in a totally unbelievable manner or they spend long periods of time explaining or examining their actions, which from a dramatic point of view means the writers are trying fit square pegs in round holes then justifying using the hammer to get them in place. It's very poor indeed.

EastEnders is pretty rubbish at present but, to paraphrase Bianca, ‘You try creatin’ two hours of prime-time telly when the people in charge clearly have no idea about character integrity or dramatic logic. It’d never ‘appen with that Jane Austen, posh bitch!’ How true...

Boxing Fitness: A Guide To Get Fighting Fit...

Ian Oliver’s book is a must-have for any martial artist wanting to embark on or refine training in the art of boxing.

It’s divided into 19 short chapters beginning with one on basic technique before it examines specific training areas such as bag work, focus pad training, weight training and callisthenics.

It also offers some useful advice on skipping before it goes into more advanced areas such as solo training drills, training with a partner and alternative training.

With closing chapters on flexibility and stretching, nutrition and equipment it certainly covers all the bases, including a novice’s guide to tying hand wraps.

It’s a well-written and easy-to-read guide and Oliver has a friendly and accessible writing style, which is enthusiastic without ever being patronising. It’s also well designed and nicely laid-out and contains a surprisingly large amount of information for a small but perfectly formed book.

It’s well worth a look and great value for money at only £9.99.

New York Stories: Part IV...

Just found the online version of the Cai Guo-Qiang exhibition. It's at www.guggenheim.org/exhibitions/exhibition_pages/cai.html.

The artist's website is at www.caiguoqiang.com.

New York Stories: Part III...

The Mel Brooks film Young Frankenstein is something of a family favourite at From Beer To Paternity Towers so the chance to see the musical version on Broadway was too good an opportunity to miss.

The stage version is pretty faithful to the movie one (but it obviously has much more singing and dancing) and follows the same story of a Frankenstein relative returning to the castle of his grandfather and reluctantly carrying on the family business, aided and abetted by the hunchback Igor and the sexy lab assistant Inga.

It's slapstick aplenty and music hall gags by the shedload and it's good fun. The dance routines could be a bit tighter and the script could do with a trim but it's pretty decent stuff and deserved better than the utter panning it got in Time Out New York.

Sadly, because of that panning, it may well not make it over here...

New York Stories: Part II...

I'm an adopted Londoner and I love the place so whenever I go to any other city I always compare it to London to see how it measures up – and, to be quite honest, London looks a bit shabby in comparison to New York.

For a start pretty much everyone in any service industry who we came across on our six-day stay was polite and pleasant, whether it was shops, museums, restaurants or delis. Compare that to the often surly, snarling and slightly superior service you get at many places in London and you wonder how the grumpy fuckers actually keep their jobs. But the reality is that good service is the exception in London while in New York it seems to be considered the norm.

Secondly the value of money is another factor. The pound may be strong thanks to our falsely inflated and booming economy but, even bearing that in mind, what you can get for your money in the USA is ridiculous compared to what the same money will buy you in the UK. Everything from a Starbucks coffee to a pair of jeans to a pair of trainers is relatively cheaper. So either New York is very cheap or London is stupidly expensive. I'm opting for the latter – especially after getting several yellow cabs in NY for very little then getting a black cab when we landed back in London for a very lot.

The streets were also really clean and everyone on the street was also unerringly polite and generally pretty chilled and good-natured. For example we went to a basketball game at Madison Square Garden to see the Nicks and it was great fun and pretty packed and I just couldn't imagine such a good-natured gathering at a football game in London. If basketball is representative of sport in New York it's very much a family thing while in London I still know people who won't take their kids to football games because of the aggressive atmosphere.

Finally I felt massively safe in New York. I wandered pretty everywhere in Manhattan and never once felt in danger – and that's not something I can in Central London. A lot of that is obviously the legacy of former Mayor Rudolph Giuliani who cleaned up the place and got tough on crime and you wonder how many teenage deaths it will take before the London Mayor takes similar decisive action.

New York was a really pleasant surprise. The Metroplitan Museum was fabulous, the Museum of Modern Art was stunning and the people we met were great. I expected it to be much more aggressive and its people rude but that's because I expected it to be a bigger version of London. But it wasn't and I've now seen what a major world city and its people can be like and, sadly with its crime and violence and rip-off prices for everything, London is not it. At the moment anyway.

But it could be...

New York Stories: Part I…

Cai Guo-Qiang is an artist from the Chinese province of Qaunzhou whose exhibition I Want To Believe is currently filling pretty much most of the Guggenheim in New York.

The Guggenheim, although nowhere near the size of New York’s vast Metropolitan Museum of Art or Museum of Modern Art, is still a pretty big place and for an artist who’s still alive to more or less have the run of the place is an impressive feat.

Cai is most famous for his gunpowder paintings, where he essentially lays down images of trees or other natural phenomena in gunpowder or with fuses, then places boards and rocks on top of then and lights the fuse. The gunpowder burns and explodes and any fires are put out leaving the burnt imprint scorched into the canvas.

It sounds mental but the images he creates are stunning and the exhibition features film of him at work with this team of assistants and the massive tree he created then lifted into place so it filled the whole wall of one gallery’s entrance hall was utterly stunning. You also imagine the act of creation and the event surrounding it is probably as important as the finished work of art itself.

It’s also quite clever. The Chinese created gunpowder, which is one of its greatest gifts to Western and other civilisations, but instead of using it for warfare Cai turns it from a destructive into a creative force. One gunpowder painting featuring the silhouette of a wolf in a bamboo forest was one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen.

Cai creates large-scale sculpture installations too and one featuring a pack of 99 running wolves charging into a perspex wall (a metaphor for will and energy and creative power crashing against a wall of ideological dogma) was incredible too.

Borrowing Your Enemy’s Arrows, based on the cunning ruse off a Chinese general to rearm his archers and thus win the battle, is also an incredibly striking piece of work.

There were so many other stunning pieces in this exhibition that I could easily write for another two or three hours about his imagery and his use of Chinese religious and mythical imagery. In short it’s a truly stunning exhibition and I hope it comes to the UK.

The Corporate Ladder...

When I first started out as a word-butcher-cum-sub-cum-writer in London I used to drink with a lot of old boys who'd been in the magazine and newspaper industry for years.

One of these was something of a legend and I was once berating a management decision to sack a raft of people as a cost-cutting measure and he very sagely leant over, put his hand on my shoulder and offered the following calm words of advice.

'The thing about management is... what you always have to remember is... the thing is... pretty much all of 'em... they're all cunts...'

His words have stayed with me to this day.

Carlos Acosta And Friends…

What I know about dance could be written in its entirety on a stamp. Granted, because I have seen a bit courtesy of Phoenix, Matthew Bourne, DV8 and a few other groups, it would have to be a bigger than normal stamp but even still my dance knowledge isn’t so much peppered with holes as landscaped with gaping great chasms.

So it was very much with an open mind and the chance to learn that I joined the Missus to see Carlos Acosta And Friends at the Coliseum last night. For those in the know Acosta is the hottest and most innovative thing to hit dance since Rudolph Nureyev (it said that in the programme) and this show featured the Cuban dance wunderkind and several ‘friends’ from the Royal Ballet performing ballet from their favourite shows or to their fave music.

Sadly this made the first half in particular seem like the ballet equivalent of a Stars On 45 single. The dancing looked very impressive but because it was a grab-bag taken from all over the shop there was no narrative or thematic structure to follow and there was no chance to build the sort of emotional understanding that makes a dying swan seem like a thing of tragedy and beauty rather than a dancer’s party piece. And it felt like that for most of the pieces.

Even worse Acosta came on stage at one point in the first half wearing little more than a loincloth and the swooning and sharp intakes of breath from many of the women in my vicinity suggested we were now present at the posh version of an evening with the Chippendales. But fair play to the game old girls who reacted thus – at their time of life you wouldn’t have thought most of them had it in them…

The second half improved a little and the opening dance about two survivors from a holocaust done to a piece by Rachmaninov was quite moving, while two solo pieces, one to a Latin vesper and the other to Edith Piaf’s lament Non Je Ne Regrette Rien, were quite entertaining. And the final ensemble piece was pretty lively but you got the impression that this was little more than an evening for Acosta and his mates to do their star turns and show off.

Acosta may be a dance genius for all I know but I suspect his elevation to near-deity is certainly helped by the fact that he’s clearly a good-looking fella with a well-honed physique. And even though his jumping and twirling were certainly impressive and muscular, I’ve seen martial artists do similar feats of gymnastic brilliance so he wasn’t really all that.

And, to be brutally honest, for £65 a ticket I would have liked a little more than 90 minutes of the dance equivalent of performing seals doing tricks for fish.

But doubtless Brand Acosta will continue to roll on and he probably won’t be renamed Carlos Acosta-but-earna-fortune as seemed likely on last night's evidence…