Storm Warning...

Me and the Missus are travelling into work and she's telling me about her recent trip to some flash eaterie the day before – then mentions she also bumped into a work associate on the trip.

During this explanation I switch off for a bit and when I tune back in she’s still talking.
'...but sadly she's having a rough time of it at the moment because she’s splitting up with her husband.'
'The friend?'
'Yes.'
'Is he a dirty, no-good love rat?'
'No... but they've been together for ages and she's gradually decided he's a bit of an arse who's not amounted to anything so she left him.'
'So she left him beause she's an arse and a low achiever?'
'Yes...'

There is a pause and she looks at me before she continues.
'I'm sure it's probably quite common...'

The Perfect Cue...

I recently spent just under £400 on a new pool cue made by John Parris, the country's best cuemaker who also makes cues for Ronnie O'Sullivan.

So it was with some trepidation that I joined the Other Woman and the Other Woman's Real Fella for an afternoon on the snooker table on Saturday to give the cue its first proper road test.

For a player of any decent standard getting a new cue is a big deal as it feels very odd and it takes a while to get used to because it's not what you've been using or are used to feeling in your hand. Even subtle differences can take time to adjust to.

Consequently I was pretty rubbish for large patches of the afternoon.

Fortunately I know this cue migration from my current cue, which is a bit short, to my new cue, which feels a bit long, will take some time and I am prepared for a long haul of mediocrity before I make the switch on a permanent basis.

In the meantime, though, I am still searching for one of two models of an antique cue I have had my eyes on. This is because I am convinced that if I get my hands on one of these cues it will be like the comic strip Billy's Boots and I'll magically become the half-decent player I once was after being inspired by the spirits of all those old players who have used the cue before.

Or I just may spunk another large amount of money on an old cue and sit in my office looking at it. Like I currently am with the last one I bought. And the one before that...

Beautiful People...

A close family friend is a fashion photographer and he publishes a periodical to showcase his and several other people's work. The shoots and the models are quite high end but it somehow manages to be self-financing. How? I have no idea...

But last night was the launch party for the latest edition of his publication so myself and the Missus attended the bash at a Soho gallery. The Missus, of course, is used to such hob-nobbing with the rich and famous and faintly annoying but I was at a bit of a loss because it soon dawned on me that I was in a room surrounded by fashion photographers, fashion buyers, fashion journalists, fashion models and fashion hangers-on all keen to give the free bar a hammering.

And to make matters worse they were all utterly beautiful and immaculately turned out and, judging from the utter hilarity ensuing every time one of them opened their cake holes, they were also incredibly charming and erudite and witty.

The cunts.

I wanted to tell them how their whole industry was a sham built on a lie bought and swallowed by preposterous idiots like themselves. But it my friend's party so I behaved and played my role as the token ugly bloke in the corner. It was like Hollyoaks and I was the token fat bird...

But I'm not bitter. Or jealous. Or insecure of the beautiful people whose club I'll never be asked to join. Oh no... Not me...

Kuniyoshi: A Review...

Utagawa Kuniyoshi (1797-1861) was one of the last great masters of the Japanese ukiyo-e style of woodblock prints and painting.

Add to this little biog that he was also a contemporary and rival of Katsushika Hokusai of the Great Wave Off Kanagawa fame then the exhibition featuring Kuniyoshi's work at the Royal Academy was something of a must-see for me.

The exhibition itself divides his work into five main categories, namely warriors, beautiful women, landscape, Kabuki theatre and humour, and it's incredibly well presented and annotated with clear and concise descriptions attached to all the prints.

The work is truly beautiful and it also makes you appreciate the astounding level of skill the block carvers-cum-printers possessed to mass produce this type of work with such precision and vibrant colours.

In short the exhibition is impressive and the featured work is quite simply beautiful. It's one of those experiences that is, quite simply, incredibly life-affirming and energising.

Neil Sedaka...

I love Neil Sedaka. Not in a sexual way. Obviously... he probably wouldn't look at me twice... but I've always thought that he and Howard Greenfield were one of the finest songwriting duos the US has produced and Sedaka's solo work was also a genuine cut above many other singer-songwriters around in the 1970s and early 1980s.

His music is also beautifully orchestrated and I could quite happily while away an afternoon listening to his Greatest Hits with Solitaire, The Other Side Of Me, Bad Blood and Breaking Up Is Hard To Do (Slow Version) getting several replays.

I could actually talk about my love of all things Sedaka for some considerable time if I was allowed... so imagine my delight when I cycled past the Albert Hall and saw posters of him appearing in concert there at the end of June.

So I rushed home to inform the Missus.
'Do you want to come and see Neil Sedaka with me?'
'You want me to go see Neil Sedaka with you?'
'Well I'm going to see Gaslight Anthem with you...'
'But you like Gaslight Anthem...'
'But you must like some Sedaka. Everybody has a favourite Sedaka song. It's almost like a rule... like not inappropriately touching pensioners in care homes.'

The Missus pauses to consider my thesis.
'I actually think I'd rather die than sit through three hours of Neil Sedaka surrounded by his octogenarian fanclub and you enthusing...'
'So you'll think about it...'
'I refer you to my previous comment...'

Guess I'll have to go on my own then if I can get a ticket.

Addicted...

I am having my annual One Month Off The Beer and it's going quite well and, despite several trips to play pool and several visits to the pub, I have yet to succumb to alcohol.

Unfortunately the key side effect of not having a drink to unwind seems to be a craving for comfort food and this has taken the form of custard creams, which without doubt are the king of economy biscuits.

I opened a double pack on Friday and by Sunday evening they were all gone. More have been delivered in the shopping today and I'm already making inroads, which has prompted the Boy to point out that he would also like to try some if I would be so good as to not guzzle them all down as quickly as possible.

I think he was being sarcastic...

So the good news is my liver is having a rest. The bad news is I may weigh another three stone thanks to the amount of processed fat and sugar I am now ingesting at a rate of Knots. I'm also starting to understand how people can get really fat...

All Change...

The threatened move from cosmopolitan London to the leafy backwaters of Surrey is now becoming something of a reality.

We've had the house valued and we're signed up with estate agents and we're getting property details through at a steady rate and, with the Boy heading to uni in September, there's nothing to hold us back... except the fact we both love our house and we've been really happy there.

But then I realise it's purely nostalgia and I realise the thing that's made our house a home is the Missus and the Boy and the cats and not bricks and mortar. Then I also realise we'll be heading somewhere where the pace is less hectic and there's less noise and I'm warmed and fully back onboard with the idea...

Hell, I may even get a pool room and a garden with enough space for a mini do-jang. The future's bright, the future's Guildford...

Maps...

I've had an idea for a new play and, while I'm in the middle of rewrites for my current one, it's slowly starting to take shape in my head.

It's about maps and as I know very little about maps I decided I'd start reading up on cartography so I bought Remarkable Maps: 100 Examples of How Cartography Defined, Changed And Stole The World by John Clark and Professor Jeremy Black.

I've also started reading up on the various impending battles for mineral rights off the North and South Poles that will be fought out over the next few decades.

My play idea is not fully fleshed out yet but I think it will be about how an academic study of cartography can be corrupted for political means.

I'm hoping to get round to this when my current set of rewrites are done, which will hopefully be in about a month.

Fortysomething...

It's official. I am now old. This is because I have now turned 40. I have grey hair, hair now grows from my ears and nostrils with gay abandon and I sometimes feel very stiff (and not in a good way).

On the plus side, though, I feel pretty damn good about it. And even though my pool game may be going down the shitter, I'm leaner, meaner and fitter than ever before because of the cycling, boxing and hapkido. And I'm geting lots of writing done, too, and I'm more settled and more domestically happy than I've ever been.

So it's still all to play for and I'm still in charge of when, how and where I wee. Excellent!

Neighbours...

The neighbours have kicked off again. We had major problems with them a few years ago and the noise has been steadily building again for a few weeks until they had music blaring out at 1.30am last Wednesday morning.

As cordial relations broke down some time ago – and the last time we asked them to turn the volume down we got a load of abuse – we called the council and they arrived on the scene and paid them a visit and issued a warning. You'd think that would be the end of the matter...

But you haven't counted on the pettiness of our neighbours. They spent the rest of the night tapping on the wall separating our bedroom from their living room, then had another party on Saturday night which culminated in more wall-tapping with the addition of foot-stomping and banging metal pots with a sticks. At 2.30am.

Sadly the council were busy and didn't make it over but I took a sound recording of what was going on as I thought nobody would believe me if I tried to explain it. So in a final bid to sort the situation out I've now written to their housing association to lodge an official complaint.

You'd hope that will be the end of the matter and they'll shut up... but I suspect it won't be.

On the plus side another of our neighbours did say 'Hello' this morning. We met him some time ago and he explained that he'd been away 'shooting animals' so I asked him if he killed anything good.

He looked perplexed and smiled and edged away. The Missus then pointed out to me that he was a photographer. Ho-hum...

Bloc Party...

I am in the kitchen with the Missus discussing the previous night's trip to see the quite brilliant Bloc Party at Olympia when the Boy walks in and goes up to the new cat Willow.

'Be careful,' advises the Missus. 'I stroked her and she tried to nip me.'
'She already bit me earlier,' replies the Boy.
'Well I picked her up and nuzzled her just a few minutes ago and she didn't try to bite me at all,' I say, before ading: 'But then again she probably recognises me as the Alpha Male in the household.'
The Missus smiles...
'We don't recognise you as that, my love, and we're the same species...'
'Well... me and you are, Mum,' adds the Boy.

It's my 40th birthday tomorow and they both have to be nice to me all day. I don't reckon they'll last longer than an hour before they revert to type.

Thinking about it, maybe an hour is being optimistic...

Let The Right One In...

We're all fans of horror films at From Beer To Paternity Towers and vampire movies in particular have been a source of fear then fascination for me for a number of years...

So I could wax lyrical about Let The Right One In as it takes an established genre and turns it into an arthouse rites-of-passage love story between a bullied boy and a 12-year-old vampire.

A wonderful film, beautifully shot, sparsely written and superbly acted, which features under-stated and brilliant performances by its two young leads.

I was going to see it on my birthday but I'm glad I didn't wait.

Hell, it's so good I may even go and see it again...

The Kids...

I went to Yorkshire for a few days to see my older brother play in a pool championship and to catch up with my family and, even though it was only a flying visit, I saw my nieces and nephews and they remain truly fantastic.

It gives me genuine hope for the future because they're such lovely, bright, fun kids and they have such great potential. They really could achieve anything they want to.

They also taught me a rugby league chant, which is sung to the tune of She'll Be Going Round The Mountain When She Comes and it goes along the lines of:
'I'd rather live in Baghdad than East Hull...'

Bless 'em...

Le Corsaire...

I am with the Missus at the London Coliseum to see American Ballet Theatre perform Le Corsaire, a tale of derring-do and piracy which they're performing alongside Swan Lake on a tour of the UK.

As a dance novice I grab the programme and read the plot outline while the Missus grabs us drinks at the bar.
'What's the story?' she asks as she returns.
'It's not very cheery. It's about a princess who gets a spell cast on her and turns into a swan. The some bloke falls in love with her and they both end up dead but reunited in death...'
'Are you joking?'
'No. It's what it says here...'
'You really are a fucking idiot...'
'Why?'
'That's the plot to Swan Lake. You're reading the wrong page!'
'I wondered why it didn't have any pirates in it...'

I get the look. I start to drink and decide to keep my mouth shut...

I Predict A Riot!

To read several internet news sources yesterday and most of the press this morning you could be forgiven for thinking that the British Government were about to toppled by marauding armies of crusties with dogs on bits of string.

Instead, of course, a small percentage of the assembled 4000 protesters kicked off a bit and got kicked back a bit by the assembled riot police. Then some others barged their way into a branch of RBS and smashed a few windows. And that was about it…

From what I could see there were as many would-be journalists and onlookers wielding mobile phones hoping to get a picture of the action as there were protestors. It was all a bit low-key really and most of the assembled throng were law-abiding and peaceful and it all went off pretty quietly.

The media coverage, however, was way over-the-top and suggested London was on the brink of civil war. There are times I hate large sections of the British press but, as ever, thank god for the BBC website for its balanced and factual instead of emotive and sensationalist reporting.

On a related note I chanced upon some very posh, crusty, anti-capitalism protestors on my cycle home who were blocking my route and refused to move. So I threw a £5 note on the floor and they all scrambled after it and my route was magically unblocked.

Down with capitalism and a corrupt financial system? Yeah… right… You should have the speed they went after that £5…

Pussy News...

The Missus thinks I have lost the plot because she walked into our spare bedroom the other night and I was explaining to our injured cat, Buffy, that she only has to stay in the room for another three weeks then she'll be allowed out as the vet has said she'll be pretty much repaired by then.

But I took the wife's comments onboard and created the above planner which I will stick up in her room to give Buffy a visual representation of her ever-nearing release date.

Hell, I may even sellotape a marker pen to her good paw so she can tick the days off herself. I love my cat. And not in a wrong way...

The Apprentice...

It's no secret that I love The Apprentice. Whenever it's opening music comes on I sit there in anticaption like some Pavlovian dog salivating in preparation for the feast ahead.

Sadly, I know that what I should really do when the opening music comes on is press the off switch on the TV set and put on some Beethoven and try to work out why everyone else gets it and I don't... or read that book on cartography that I ordered to research a new play idea that I haven't got round to picking up yet... or find some 1970s pornography and masturbate furiously until there's nothing left of my manhood but a bloody, exhausted stump that will never function again without the aid of major surgery...

And that's because I know that pretty much anything else I could do to pass an hour would be morally and educationally better than watching this bilge. But it's my guilty pleasure...

So here's what I've learnt so far after episode one:

i) The candidates this year are really odd-looking. There's Anita, who got booted last night, and has the smallest mouth in the history of the world, which with the red lipstick she wore last night makes it look like a bottom hole after a hot curry. There's also a chap called Rocky who seems to have a shrinking head and a woman called Debra who seems to have an ever-expanding face. It's like a lunar landscape that just goes on and on and on...

ii) Alan Sugar has new scriptwriters. The Amstrad mogul opened the show last night by telling his wannabe business lackeys that 'You can't play me... I'm harder to play than a Stradivarius and you're easier to play than... bongo drums!'

iii) Sugar is becoming more and more like John Culshaw's impression of him with each passing series. I can now genuinely no longer tell the difference between the two.

iv) The business soundbite, utter cock-jockey detector nearly went off the scale last night with gems such as 'Business is the new rock 'n' roll and I'm Elvis Presley' and 'To me making money is better than sex!'

v) They've changed the voiceover on the opening titles boasting about the net value of Sugar's operation because it's obviously no longer worth anywhere near what it used to be.

vi) And the winner is... don't really care as they all seem equally hateful at the moment. Based on last night's evidence I wouldn't hire any of them to run an idiot-proof bath that only operated via an on-off button let alone a business.

Stewart Lee's Comedy Vehicle...

Most television is shit. And as a professional journalist working on the TV sections of several national newspapers and on several national TV magazines for the past 20 years this is my honest-to-goodness professional opinion.

It's mostly mind-numbingly awful shit masquerading as human interest in the case of the never-ending stream of reality TV and in the case of pretty much anything ITV chooses to screen it's just irredeemable shit. Mostly...

Stewart Lee's Comedy Vehicle on BBC2, however, is the sort of show that provides hope that TV can be funny and articulate and entertaining and make people think. That's right... think. Think... while watching... telly.

The format's pretty simple. Stand-up comedian Lee delivers a 30-minute routine on a chosen theme and this is interspersed with a few sketches to underline the points he's making. And that's pretty much it. No fancy gimmicks, no celebrity guests, no quirky format surprises... just a man talking to a studio audience and saying intelligent things that are funny and thought-provoking.

The opening show was on books and Lee ripped into the rise of the celebrity biography while the second show was on the medium of TV itself and Lee waded into all manner of celebrity shows and reality TV.

Some of the material is culled from his stand-up shows over the past few years but as they were fantastically good it's hardly a trauma to see it repackaged annd presented again for TV, especially as there is plenty of new stuff too.

Basically it's the most intelligent and entertaining thing on TV at the moment, an oasis of brilliance in a sea of mediocrity. Watch and enjoy...

Sparring...

Sparring: Strategy, Tactics, Technique is the new book by UK martial arts legend Bob Breen.

His first book, Fighting, was a guide to basic martial arts strikes and techniques and it was well written and well illustrated with lots of good pictures and it emphasised drilling technique on basic strikes rather than learning fancy new techniques.

His new book is very much a companion to this book but it takes the reader a stage further and discusses ideas and strategies for sparring using the basic kicks and strikes discussed in the first book.

Like its predecessor it's also well laid out, well written and draws on Breen's extensive experience as a fighter, a martial artist and a teacher to give the reader a comprehensive but never alienating account of the ideology and practice of sparring.

A must-read for any aspiring martial artist.

Pussy News...

We are in the kitchen at From Beer To Paternity Towers. I am cooking, the Missus is reading a magazine and the boy is playing with the new cat Willow.

The Missus looks on affectionately.
'You love that cat more than anything in the world, don't you?'
'Yes. She's my cat...'

I interrupt.
'What happened to Buffy?'
'How do you mean?'
'I thought Buffy was your cat?'
'She was... but she broke...'

The Double Life Of Laurel And Hardy...

Simon Louvish's book The Roots Of Comedy: The Double Life Of Laurel And Hardy is an absolutely wonderful read.

It not only chronicles the life and times of Stan Laurel and Oliver Hardy and charts their rise from humble beginnings to worldwide stardom, but it also produces an evocative and entertaining history of the early days of the silent movie industry and its move into the world of the 'talkies'.

Included in its cast of guest characters are Charlie Chaplin, Harold Lloyd, Hal Roach and Jimmy Finlayson and a host of other early movie stars, but it's Louvish's ability to interweave the stories of these people without losing focus on the main stories of Laurel and Hardy (then the story of Laurel and Hardy as a comedy duo once they come together) that makes it truly superb.

Although Louvish clearly adores his subjects he isn't shy when it comes to discussing the scandals and various marital problems that plagued the duo throughout their lives. But he handles this material with sensitivity and the book is all the better for sticking to the facts rather than indulging in sensationalist speculation.

It's a truly wonderful and enlightening book and its final chapters that chart the end of Hardy then Laurel's lives are both moving and uplifting.

Pool News: Part II...

I’m nearly 40 and I’ve been playing eightball pool at county level on and off since I was 17.

In fact playing pool has always being a large part of my life and, since I no longer direct plays, much of what I now do for hobbies, such as writing, cycling, hapkido and boxing, can be quite solitary things where I often work or train on my own a lot because I’m largely doing them for myself.

But every so often it’s good to be reminded why it’s important to belong and be part of a wider group that you contribute to and get something back from. And that’s pretty much why I still play county pool because it’s a team event and you’re playing with your mates and you support and cajole one another through both good times and bad.

In fact playing pool for me has always been about the people rather than the game and this weekend, when three of my county's five pool teams attended the National Inter-county Championships at Great Yarmouth, only served to reinforce that idea.

At stake were national titles and we'd all played well and really supported each other as teams to qualify for this event throughout the previous season. And there were a few times over the weekend that my lot, the Surrey B Team, looked in trouble.

Instead of giving up, however, we all got behind each other and spurred each other on and it was fabulous. At times the noise and enthusiasm was like a wave surging forward to move everything out of its path.

It provided a real lesson about positive thinking and self-belief.

It also made me really proud to call this diverse group of people my friends and winning not one but two national titles, as the Surrey A Team where I played for years also won, made it extra special. And just to make it that little bit better the Kent Ladies, who play in our region, won too.

The winning and the subsequent celebrations will be a memory that will help me smile in old age when less happy things make me sad.

And I wouldn't ever have been able to have that memory without my friends. So if any of you ever read this at any point... thank-you.

Pool News: Part 1...

For all my inner spirituality and love all the people all the time attitude I am also a bit of a child who laughs at smutty and stupid things. Quite a lot. A very lot actually...

And when I head off to play pool it's almost like a holiday from myself where I can let rip and gob off a bit and play the goat for a day and this character trait is amplified when I have weekends away with my pool-playing fraternity of friends.

And one of my little habits on these weekends away is to invent a new game that will keep my team-mates amused and give us something to do when we're not playing pool besides drink. So it was bearing this in mind that I came up with Call My Muff!

The rules are quite simple. A player pops his hand into a big bag called the Clown's Pocket and pulls out a bit of paper. On this bit of paper is written the random title of a porn pastiche of a mainstream film. The player then has to give cryptic clues until the other players correctly guess the film then they have to work out the porn pastiche title.

RANDOM CLUE: Life is like a box of chocolates.
FILM ANSWER: Forrest Gump.
REAL ANSWER: Forrest Hump.

Whoever correctly guesses the porn pastiche film title on the card then pops their hand into the Clown’s Pocket and the game continues until a set number of points is reached or, more likely, everyone gets bored and goes to the pub.

It was a hit at the weekend and I may yet patent it. And my favourite film title? Glad-he-ate-her! It's genius.

Grumpy...

It's been a trying few weeks at From Beer To Paternity Towers and I was going to rename this blog Is It Just Me Or Are Some People Just Becoming Total Cunts These Days? Sadly it was a bit long for a title...

But cheery news is on the horizon with our eldest cat Buffy (pictured above) finally starting to move around a bit after her operation and trying to get her leg back in working order.

I am cheered by a cat. There is hope for my faith in humanity yet...

Getting To Grips...

My current fascination with the Ultimate Fighting Championship is showing no signs of abating and there is now the very real temptation that I may actually want to fight in something at some point.

I am putting this down to my impending 40th birthday in April and me undergoing some type of belated or early midlife crisis, but it's been an itch that I so far have not been able to scratch away despite my ongoing hapkido and boxing training.

Bearing this in mind I've decided it is a good idea to brush up on and extend my limited grappling skills so I've been reading the excellent No Holds Barred Fighting: The Ultimate Guide To Submission Wrestling by Mark Hatmaker and Doug Werner.

And on top of this I've also discovered a great website called Train, Fight, Win which has an idiot's guide to basic submission techniques which is so fool-proof that even I can learn from it.

This could be a great new adventure...

Pussy News...

Our eldest cat, Buffy, has snapped her cruciate ligament and one of her side ligaments too.

We have so far seen three vets and spent just under £400 but have yet to be advised on a suitable course of action to ensure she is soon well again.

Tomorrow we see a specialist in cat leg injuries (I don't think that is actually his proper title) and an operation to make her right again will probably cost about £1000.

It's a good job I love that cat more than I love most people...

Anger Management..

Me and the Missus are at the National Theatre waiting to go in and see the Pitmen Painters, a play about a group of miners in the 1930s who took up painting, and she is discussing a debate on Radio 5 Live.

'The topic was wives who abuse and bully their husbands and many of the men who were phoning in were explaining how the mental cruelty and constant hectoring and belittling was often much harder to bear than the physical stuff. Many even said that the scars from the mental abuse took much longer to heal than any physical marks. Anyway it got me thinking that maybe I am mentally damaging you in the long-term.'
'It's quite possible...'
'I mean it's obviously not going to change a damn thing but I thought I should let you know that at least now I'm aware of it... There... I feel better for getting that off my chest.'

Business as usual then...

Gaslight Anthem...

The Missus has a new fave band and she took me to see them on Sunday at Shepherd's Bush Empire.

They're called Gaslight Anthem and they hail from New Jersey in the US and they're a sort of indie guitar band who sound a bit like Green Day playing a rocky Bruce Springsteen.

They're well worth a listen and their curent single, Old White Lincoln, is a pretty good example of what lots of their stuff sounds like.

I think they're jolly good and they sound even better live as their music has a much rawer edge and energy.

Settling Down...

Me and the Missus are walking back from the pub. It is cold and snowy and quiet and she's holding onto my arm.

Normally this would appear to be a romantic gesture but I know full well she's doing it so she doesn't fall over and end up sitting on the pavement with a freezing arse swearing at me in the snow like some mad old women who smells of wee and has 50 cats.

I do, however, take the chance to be romantic and hope that she will respond in kind.
'We're still happy after 12 years together, aren't we? We even still quite like each other...'

The Missus ponders before replying.
'Yes we are... but that's because we've settled for each other.'

We walk on. I try not to delve too deeply into her comment but I can't help myself.

I'm a 'settled for' husband. That's probably like being a safe pair of hands. I am the marital equivalent of a safe pair of hands. The BHS of husbands. Not particularly classy or fantastic to look at but dependable and reasonably well-made.

I conclude I'm not trying to be romantic ever again.

Adventures In Pool Land...

The county pool season kicked off on Sunday with an away trip to Southampton and my good self moved back up to the A Team after helping the B Team win the regional title last year.

The pool match was engrossing although I struggled to win frames but I know decent form is not far away as I'm playing properly again so it's just a matter of keeping the faith.

The journey down and back again, though, was an absolute joy.

On the journey down I'd nicely settled in with my iPod and a decent book when several of my colleagues boarded the train and within five minutes I'd had the details of one friend's latest sexual encounter and a new friend's spell behind bars for ABH, as well as a very insistent offer of starting on a litre bottle of vodka. And it wasn't even 10am...

I'm used to such shenanigans but the Observer-reading thirtysomething couple sitting in the seats next door didn't quite know what to make of it.

Needless to say the journey back involved more lively debate and a stop off at a local watering hole. I did avoid the vodka, though, and it was mostly good, cleanish fun. Sort of...

Crash Card...

It's been a busy old time at work of late and I've had my head down beavering away and not really taking too much else in.

So when a colleague asked me to sign a card for somebody who was leaving my mind adopted its usual default position while I was concentrating on something else and wrote what I usually write in leaving cards which happens to be ‘Good riddance’.

Most of my previous work colleagues who've left have realised this was a joke and took it in the spirit it is meant, but 20 minutes after signing this card I suddenly realise I have just signed a card for some poor sod who has been made redundant rather than leave of their own volition. Bugger...

So I run round to the card bearer's desk, ask to have the card back but am informed it has already been sealed and is due for presentation.

I therefore explain my faux pas and he laughs and five minutes later I am carefully slicing into a sealed card to add a phrase so it reads 'Good riddance... not!'

I reseal the card and an hour later my departing colleague approaches my desk to say good bye. She is very sweet and laughs at my comment. I've narrowly escaped looking like a total twat...

Note to self: in future stick to signing something simple like 'Good luck!'

Number Of The Week...

This week's number is 231,000,000 because this is the rate of inflation in Zimbabwe.

The Zimbabwean treasury has just issued its first ever 100trillion Zimbabwean dollar note, which is worth about 30 American dollars.

And we think the UK economy is in trouble...

If The Cap Fits...

My gorgeous guide son and his family visited From Beer To Paternity Towers at the weekend.

A guide son or a guide daughter is essentially the same thing as a god son or a god daughter but from an atheist point of view. And – minus the religious bits – the general gist is the same, that the guide parent is on hand to watch over the offspring in question and provide additional love, support and help as they grow up.

And my guide son's parents have entrusted me with this responsibility.

The Boy and the Missus, of course, immediately commented that the other potential candidates for this honour must have been pretty bad for me to get the job, but I did point out that I am a god parent to two children already and I have yet to have any sort of malign influence over them. In fact they're both lovely and smart (although I will confess this is obviously down to their parents rather than me).

Anyway it was an absolute pleasure to see both him and his parents and I gave him my first guide parent present, an Ultimate Fighting Championship beanie hat. He looked very cute and it also means nobody at his nursery will mess with him. Ever...

Doggy Style....

It is Saturday and I have agreed to go with the Boy to the reopening of a comic shop which has moved to new premises.

It has, however, been an early start and I am tired so as we are travelling up the escalator I lean my head on his shoulder in an affectionate-cum-tired manner. But the shoulder moves rapidly away and I am greeted by a look of total horror as the Boy steps off the escalator and we go on our way.

I make a mental note to remember my family, particularly the 18-year-old Boy part of it, is not as affectionate as I am and we continue our little trip.

Back home I walk into the living room and the Boy is explaining my latest transgression against all that is natural and right to the Missus.
'It was horrible. He was behaving like a dog... he was nuzzling up to me then when I shifted my shoulder he just looked at me like a dog that's been told off.'

I enter the fray and defend myself.
'I was being affectionate...'

The Boy, however, is having none of it.
'You were behaving like a dog. I suppose I should be grateful you didn't sniff my arse or anything...'
'Well I'm hardly going to do that, am I?'
'I don't know...'
'Well... not while you're awake any way...'

The Boy looks in disgust.
'You're just wrong...'

Gone To Pot...

It was the first pool competition of the year on Sunday and I was intending to stay sober and try to win some prize money.

Even better I was cueing well and I won my opening two games against two good players. Then Shaggy, my one-time drinking partner at pool events, thrusts a pint of lager into my hand and that was all it took to see any resolve at sobriety crumble.

I then lost my next match against an 18-year-old Surrey potting prodigy who’s already a professional player and has future world champion written all over him. In fact in 25 years of playing pool I have never been so comprehensively beaten by anyone. Ever...

This was about 3pm but I decide to stick around and have a few pints and get some practice in.

I arrive home at 1am. Quite pissed. I've also left my keys at home meaning I can't get in. I ring the doorbell. The Missus is not happy to be woken up at this time and I am not very popular. But she has her revenge...

The next morning we have builders in doing some work and I am laid in bed in a darkened bedroom willing my hangover to go away. I want to sleep. But the light suddenly goes on and in walks the Missus with two of the builders and she proceeds to spend ten minutes telling them what she wants doing.

I want them to go way but there's not a thing I can do. She is evil but I deserve this. She has me bang to rights...

A Reader Writes...

Dear sir/madam

It has come to my attention that popular music singer of Irish extraction Boy George has been jailed for 15 months for falsely imprisoning a male escort in his flat in East London.

Although the escort suffered no serious injuries his imprisonment was, apparently, in breach of his human rights.

Well piffle I say!

For a start this escort chap (a Norwegian!) regularly sells his body and swallows semen for a living and probably also plays S&M games as part of his profession. But suddenly he's some shrinking violet who cries wolf when it suits him?

Secondly, if my experience of Norwegians in the Army is anything to go by, when it comes to a sticky patch a Norwegian would cry wolf because they generally don't like it up 'em! Well, unless they're getting paid for it it would seem...

And yet we take the word of this Nordic cad over the word of one of our finest-ever vocalists?

What has happened to British justice? At one time it was the best in the world when we were locking up Irishmen by the dozen on flimsy evidence but this latest effort is just pathetic!

I hang my head in shame to be a Brit!

Yours in sadness

Colonel Dwight Micklewhite
Pall Mall Club
London

On Form...

It was my first lesson back at hapkido today and I am now starting to learn the new form for my black belt grading.

When I first started learning hapkido the forms and their purpose totally baffled me, but I eventually realised the individual moves of any martial art are like learning the individual letters of a new alphabet and the forms are structured ways to teach students how to put those letters together into something cogent.

Well, I say I eventually realised but I actually read it in a book.

I've now being studying hapkido for more than five years and in that time I've learnt nine forms and am now starting to learn my tenth and, after really disliking this aspect of hapkido at first, I'm slowly growing to appreciate and maybe even to like studying forms.

At their worst they can be frustrating and bloody difficult to get a handle on and there have been times when I never thought I'd win through with them. But occasionally you get a brief glimpse of understanding, then when you start to get hold of one it can be quite a graceful and beautiful thing. And the fact forms also help improve your stances, understanding and movement in other areas is a real boon too.

Sadly five years in and the only one I really feel I've got a very good understanding of is the first one I learnt. And if that's the rate of learning then I may actually be really good at all of them by the time I'm 95.

Here's hoping, eh?

Heat...

The new cat Willow is on heat and is desperate to escape the confines of the house so she can go and get some action with any nearby male cat who fancies a bit of pussy loving.

On the plus side she's acting very lovable and demanding lots of attention so I often go into the living room last thing at night and spend 20 minutes talking to her and calming her down. It may seem a bit mental but I talk to all our cats, even the dead one whose ashes are still in my office, and it's a nice wind-down at the end of the day.

So I go to bed and the Missus turns to me and gives the following advice:
'You do realise that Willow doesn't understand you, don't you? You can speak to her as much as you want but all cats understand is the tone of the voice and whether it's a harrsh tone telling them off or a soft tone being nice to them.'
'Of course I know that...'
'Why do you insist on having lengthy conversations with them, then? When you talk all they hear is blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah...'

I know how they feel but I decide it would not be politic to air this view...

Candle In The... Bin!

I try to be a 'live and let live' kind of guy who tries to keep a sense of equilibrium on most things and who has an open mind where possible.

In fact I'm generally so chilled these days that, if I was king, I probably wouldn't even order compulsory death sentences for no-talent zones like Phil Collins, Ross Kemp or that racist thug from Girls Aloud. Instead I'd just give them some brutal torture and make them promise to never make music or TV shows again in return for their lives.

Sadly the down side of trying to be so goddam understanding like this is that I'm sometimes prone to trusting too much and willing to give anything a chance. So when my brother-in-law suggested Hopi ear candles may be a good way to sort my ongoing ear problem out I thought I'd give it a bash.

For the unitiated Hopi ear candles are Native American Indian technology (ie. quite old). They are essentialy hollow candles made out of some type of linen soaked in wax where you stick one end in your ear and light the other end until it burns down a bit. According to the leaflet it's supposed to remove impurities from the ear and regulate air pressure within the ear.

So I follow the instructions and lay on my side and get the Missus to insert the candle and light the other end and hold it in place and it slowly burns down. I then follow the same procedure for the other ear...

And the result? The living room stinks of candle wax, the Missus and the Boy have proof that I'm a gullible idiot, I am £8 out of pocket and I've relied on medical hokum rather than listened to a trained doctor who assures me it will clear up in its own good time.

And my ear. Still can't hear a bloody thing. Secretly I wonder if the Hopi Indians were wiped out because they couldn't hear the enemy approaching...

Chart Success...

The Missus and the Boy both accuse me of being anally retentive to the point of suffering from Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. In fact they quite happily refer to me as Mr OCD when they tire of caling me an idiot...

And, sadly, I'm proving them right at the moment because outside work and family stuff I've realised the only way I can fit everything I want to do in my life – namely hapkido, boxing, cycling, weights, pool and writing – is to properly organise it by having a chart and keeping to it.

Hence the introduction of the Life Chart!

Quite simply I sat down last week and have worked out what I need to do and when I need to do it and if I complete a week I'm going to reward myself a bit and if I complete a month and don't miss anything out then I'm going to properly treat myself with something big.

It probably sounds ridiculous but I've decided I need to discipline myself more in 2009 and this is the only way I can do it... by treating myself like a three-year-old child and running my own reward scheme.

Car-nage...

The Missus is in the kitchen sorting stuff out. Over the Yule break she has gone into sorting out overdrive and I am a tad worried that she is becoming some sort of Stepford Wife, albeit a sarcastic one with a streak of random violence...

As she tidies she is watching a musical on telly and its theme tune is being sung so I join in and make up my own lyrics on the last line.
'Gangbang chitty-chitty gangbang, our fine foreskin-fendered friend...'

I think this is quite funny but applause is not forthcoming and I turn around to see the Missus has stopped her sorting out.
'You bastard. You've managed to ruin yet another Xmas movie for me...'

Survival instinct kicks in. I leave the kitchen. Quickly...

Ear, Ear...

It's been a quiet Christmas and more quiet for me than most because I've managed to lose the hearing in my right ear.

This is a most unusual malady and I think it was triggered when my hay fever type allergy went into overdrive on Christmas Day and I had a violent few hours of sneezing and something went pop in my eardrum.

Ironically the Missus had bought me several CDs by Philip Glass and I've sort of managed to listen to these with my good ear and buzzing and delayed sounds in my dodgy ear. But as it's Philip Glass that may also just be the CD.

I'm assuming it's just an infection of some sort or a temporary bit of damage to the eardrum as I'm not keen on life with dodgy hearing and I'm asuming it will sort itself out after a trip to the doctor.

On the plus side, of course, it does mean whenever the Missus or the Boy are taking the piss I can pretend I haven't heard them and ignore them completely. In fact I could do this with everyone if I don't feel like talking.

In some ways it could be the perfect Christmas present...

It's A Wonderful Life...

It's Xmas Eve and me and the Missus have been to see It's A Wonderful Life at the new local arty community cinema that's just opened near us.

The Missus is a real sucker for old movies and Xmas and this particular offering coupled with the seasonal atmosphere has made her go all girly. And that doesn't happen often.
'Did you enjoy it?'
'I loved it. I didn't cry though...'
'Well you've seen it lots of times.'
'I have...'
'So you're probably immune to its emotional bits...'
'Yeah. Probably...'
'It's like watching a porn movie you've seen lots of times. You know where the best bits are and when the money shot's coming...'

There is silence. The winter air suddenly feels a bit more chill. There is a stare too. The sort of emasculating and exasperated stare only certain wives can give.
'You have just taken my favourite movie and compared it to people coming in a porn film...'
'I merely meant you knew where the emotional climaxes were and so you were prepared for them...'
'You have sullied the evening.'
'I only meant...'
'Don't speak to me again. Ever.'

Other Woman News...

Me and the Other Woman have met up for a pre-Xmas drink and the beer and the conversation is flowing – until she drops this little gem into the proceedings.
'I know what I meant to ask you... Would you ever shag an Ewok?'

Sensing this is not as straightforward a question as it seems I delay my response.
'This is a trick girl question where even the right answer will turn out to be wrong, isn't it?'
'Not at all,' she replies. 'It's just that my other half sometimes says that sleeping with me is like shagging an Ewok because I'm quite short. So I was just wondering whether you'd shag an Ewok and think it was wrong?'

I take my time. A wrong answer here could damage years of friendship.
'Well for a start you're not covered in fur and you've also got a good two feet on most Ewoks. Even the big ones.'
'That's what I said.'
'And he's presumably not complaining about this either before or during said shagging?'
'No. Any shagging would be off the agenda if he did...'
'Well... if it was an Ewok in you form then I'd definitely not worry about it. In fact I think it would be fab...'
'And in Ewok form?'
'Not terribly interested...'
'Sure?'
'OK. I'd still probably give it a go. Don't knock it till you've tried it, sort of thing...'
'Good. You also should remember that Ewoks are quite resourceful. If they can make things that swing from trees to smash hi-tech weapons then a shagging hammock and all sorts of S&M paraphenalia probably isn't beyond them either...'

So there you have it. Ewoks: the sexual deviants of the universe...

The Weighting Game...

I rarely make New Year Resolutions as I figure trying to think about changing things when I'm half-cut and as generally miserable as I am on New Year's Eve is a bad idea.

But one thing I am definitely continuing next year that I've started already is to use weights as part of my training regime.

Bizarre though it may seem for a big-nosed, speccy beanpole, I used to be a bit of a gym bunny but I generally found it quite dull and no matter what weight programme I adopted I never put any weight on my arms. It was simply a case of 'I've always had skinny arms and that's probably always going to be the case'.

Since I started hapkido, however, I haven't worried about it as my arms and grip quickly became much stronger and all I wanted was functional muscles rather than big-bulging, chick-attracting biceps.

Since I've started boxing, however, things are happening and while I may never be Lou Ferrigno I may yet lose my twiglet arms. And I figure this would also be a bit of a boon because more arm muscle would help protect my shoulders and elbow joints, which have both been injured in the past few years.

Weight training has always been a contentious issue in the martial arts as it's always thought that technique and speed generate power rather than brute strength. Another worry is that excessive strength may make a martial artist forget technique and rely on power.

But much recent thinking has argued against this and the rise of UFC has made a lot of martial artists realise that sometimes technique and speed aren't enough against well-trained, all-round fighters.

Anyway... I was enthusiastically explaining this to the Missus but she was watching Strictly Come Dancing and told me to be shut up.

She probably doesn't need weight training.

Belt Up!

Yesterday I was awarded my black stripe after I passed my recent grading at hapkido, which means my next grading will be for my black belt. Gulp...

On the plus side I don't have to worry about this for some considerable time but on the scary side I now have to really get my arse into gear in every class because it now gets serious and I have to do so. It's going to be hard work.

But I also have to remember that it's been hard work so far anyway. In fact it's mostly been a journey of persistence and determination over ability so I shouldn't expect anything to change too dramatically because at heart I remain a bright bloke trapped in the body of a (now slightly less) befuddled half-wit.

Most encouragingly, though, I've now seen three of my peers grade for their black belts and the thought of going through the test itself is much less frightening than it once seemed. In fact part of me is already starting to relish the idea.

So I'm sure it will all be fine. Probably...

Sports Personality Of The Year...

Lewis Hamilton is a F1 driver and the current F1 world champion.

He is also a Brit who is about to become one of the richest sportsmen on the planet yet he has chosen to live in Switzerland rather than reside in the UK to avoid paying tax to the country of his birth.

If this is the case then a simple way to remind the viewing public of the fact that he is a tax-dodging scumbag would be to ensure he is never allowed to be included in the voting for the BBC Sports Personality Of The Year Award again.

Instead the BBC should place him in the category for Overseas Sports Personality Of The Year Award because if he no longer wants to be a Brit then we shouldn't have to pretend he is and he shouldn't be allowed to pretend he is either.

I'm glad cyclist Chris Hoy beat him into second place for the main award.

Clean Break...

We are eating dinner with the in-laws and the Missus is discussing costumes for fancy-dress parties with her much younger sister.
'I've got a French maid's uniform,' says the younger sister.
'Maybe I could get a French Maid's uniform too...' suggests the Missus.
'Will it actually mean you do some housework?' I politely ask.

She politely tells me that it won't...

Family Values...

It is Sunday and we are visiting the Missus' family in leafy Barnes for an afternoon feed.

We arrive at the house and I knock on the door, which prompts a several-minute critique from the Missus on why I should have used the doorbell rather than the knocker.

Fortunately such ridiculous witterings are nothing new. In the past the Missus has also criticised me for breathing too loudly. And the fact the Boy now often adds his twopennethworth as well has pretty much made me immune to their verbal nonsense.

So we are sat down eating and my father-in-law mentions the fact that's he's often bullied in his house so I offer my version of the earlier events.
'I actually got criticised for knocking on your front door rather than using the doorbell this morning.'
'I know exactly how you feel. But it's even worse for me. I live with two grumpy women.'

I turn to the Boy who is sat at my right and look at him before commenting:
'So do I...'

The Boy tells me to go away. And not politely...

Artful Dodger...

Most of the Boy's teachers really like him and like teaching him, too, but one of them is an utter nightmare.

I've met her on a few occasions and, to nutshell it, she is an utter cow with a very patronising attitude and very bad people skills when it comes to dealing with either adults or teenagers. She was the Boy's art teacher when he was doing his GCSEs and he went into this course full of enthusiasm, but that was soon removed by her constant sarcasm and unsupportive critiques of his work.

So we asked one of his other teachers about her and he admitted she had 'an unfortunate manner' while one of his schoolmates quite sadly added 'She's just lonely...'

So myself and the Missus told the Boy to just get on with it and keep his head down and he did and passed, no sodding thanks to this wretch of a teacher I might add.

He was delighted and when he finished the course and started his A Levels we all assumed it would be his final dealings with her. Then when he joined the Sixth Form she tagged along as the new head of year and she's been a similarly patronising cow when it comes to her recent dealings with him.

Myself and the Boy were discussing this last night and I suggested that he should just save all his contempt for the last day of school when he could approach her and simply say.
'You know, Miss, you've been thoroughly unpleasant to me ever since I've known you but I have sympathy for you because I do pity an old woman who's watching her life ebb away rather than living it.'

The Boy, however, has another plan.
'I was going to be more direct and just say "Oi cunt! Good fucking riddance!"'

Perhaps sometimes the direct approach is best...