Black Belt Grading: The Result...

I have passed my grading and on 31 July I will be presented with my black belt.

I was a bit teary when I found out. It's been a long journey and, throw in some injury frustrations, and sometimes it's been a tough one too. But I am delighted. I am also relieved. I am also a bit worried that I now have to be a black belt and maintaining those standards will be hard work. In fact I'm pretty sure I'll feel like a total fraud for the first six months.

I initially decided to celebrate this personal milestone by buying something I've lusted after for quite a while. It's a Paul Hanwei Zatoichi sword (above). But then I realised it would just sit on a wall as a beautiful thing. And the Missus said it was quite close to owning a gun or buying a fighting dog so I thought better of it.

So instead I celebrated with a Chinese takeaway, a bottle of beer and a bad Steven Seagal movie. I am not very rock and roll. My hellraising days are probably done... on the plus side my black belt ones are just starting.

Hacked Off...

It's been many years since I decided I would make a conscious effort to never fund anything associated with Rupert Murdoch.

I'd rarely bought any of his papers anyway but I think it was about the time of the NOTW paedophile campaign, headed by then NOTW editor Rebekah Wade (now Brooks), that I decided I should make a conscious effort. From what I could see this dangerous campaign launched a lynch mob mentality and created such a climate of hatred that a paediatrician was attacked when some thicko couldn't tell the difference between a sex offender and a medical professional.

I appreciate the fact I won't have Sky in the house or buy The Sun or The News Of The World or The Times, etc, probably doesn't make too much of a difference to the News Corp coffers, but it's me exercising my power as a consumer not to add to Murdoch's profits. And it may be a pointless gesture but I'd still rather be pissing against the Murdoch wind that buying into it.

So it genuinely impressed me the other day to see the Milly Dowler phone hacking scandal so disgust a group of people that they've set up a campaign on Twitter designed to hit News Corp where it hurts and encourage advertisers not to spend money on News Corp titles. Ford cars have already dropped their adverts and other companies are said to be reviewing their policies in the wake of the scandal.

And there's more... the Murdoch bid to buy outright control of Sky could now be in jeopardy because their is a clause about being a 'fit and proper' body when buying a major media company and the behaviour of senior NOTW executive clearly casts doubt on their suitability.

The sad thing in this, obviously, is it's taken sideshow events surrounding the murder of a schoolgirl to stir people into action and that her family are now being forced to relive the horror of it all yet again.

When The Sun screamed the headline The Truth across its front page in 1989 then proceeded to accuse Liverpool fans of looting dead bodies at the Hillsborough disaster, the paper suffered a circulation decline in Liverpool that it never recovered from.

I hope the rest of the country follows this example and makes News Corp and the NOTW and its sister titles such as The Sun pay not only for its criminal activities but for its arrogance in thinking it is above the law.

Go people power! Hit them where it hurts...

Glastonbury: Part II...

Things I learnt from watching Glastonbury on the telly this weekend:

i) Anna Calvi is pretty bloody amazing. She's playing London soon and I'm going. Fact.

ii) I actually like Coldplay. I have now bought three of their albums and found the one I accidentally stole from my mate Spindle. And I will listen to them. Repeatedly.

iii) I still like some of U2's music but will no longer replace my old U2 vinyl with CDs/MP3s as it funds tax-dodging hypocrites. That's you Bonio. And your mates. Scum the lot of you. I don't care if you wrote Two Hearts Beat As One.

iv) I think I would like Elbow if I gave them a proper go.

v) My days of festival going are well and truly over. I'm now veering onto the side of the Missus. Unless it's at least four stars I'm not staying there.

vi) The BBC licence fee is a bloody bargain. Brilliant coverage of Glastonbury on TV, radio and online all weekend. Plus shedloads of other good stuff too. We should protect this institution against the threat of barbarians like Murdoch, the Tories and the rank legions of the Daily Mail at all costs. It remains a brilliant public service broadcaster and is one of the few things that genuinely makes me proud to be British.

That's probably it...

Glastonbury: Part I...

It is Friday night and me and the Missus are in bed watching the highlights of Glastonbury.

U2 have just come off stage and are being interviewed and, strangely, no mention is made of the threat of protestors turning up to their set to draw attention to the fact they are hypocrites whose lead singer bangs on about making poverty history... while at the same time channeling his and the band's money into a tax haven so they don't have to pay anywhere near the requisite amount of tax a group of multi-millionare superstars should pay.

Five minutes into the interview the Missus turns to me and says:
'No only is Bono a self-righteous cunt, not is only is Bono a self-righteous, tax-dodging cunt, but he's also a self-righteous, tax-dodging, boring cunt.'

I couldn't have said it finer than either her or than the above cartoon from the New Internationalist.

Quote Of The Day...

'A will finds a way.'
Orison Swett Marden

Breaking News...

I have broken one of my toes while training.

I would like to pretend I was kicking my way through cement blocks during a demonstration to a wowed audience... but this would be a lie. It was much less dramatic and a bit of a daft/stupid breakage that involved kicking somebody over my head during what is called a sacrifice throw and managing to get my toe caught in his belt/uniform.

I hoped it was just sprained but on waking up this morning it was very painful and very swollen so off to A&E I went. The upshot is it's broken and not dis-similar to what Wayne Rooney did to his foot. And like Wayne Rooney I have to lay of any exercise for at least six weeks. And hobble around a lot.

I did, however, think of the following joke:
Question: What is the difference between me and Wayne Rooney?
Answer 1: Wayne Rooney broke his metatarsal while I narrowly avoided that injury and instead fractured the bone below it by hyperextending the toe.
Answer 2: Wayne Rooney is successful, rich and famous and I am not.
Answer 3: I can read, I have a full head of hair and I am not a love rat.
Answer 4: I am not a cunt.

Choose the answer which you think is the funniest. Or the most accurate...

Words Of Warning...

It is Sunday morning. I say morning. It's actually mid-day. Me and the Missus are curled up in bed and watch Gok Wan on telly. She turns to me and starts to speak.

'You know... you're my favourite husband...'
She rarely says anything slightly sentimental so I enjoy the moment.

But then she adds the following:
'...so far...'

I continue to watch Gok. Sometimes saying nothing is better. And Gok will make the bad thoughts go away...

Pasta Joke...

It was my birthday recently and the Missus bought me a place at an evening course where you learn to cook fresh pasta, various sauces and a lasagne from scratch. The course was at a place called La Cucina Caldezi, which is a restaurant with a cookery school attached in London's Marylebone.

The course was fab and since attending I've made my own ravioli, my own tagliatelle and a lasagne from scratch. These may sound like minor triumphs but the results of doing something quite simple well are both very tasty and incredibly satisfying. I will never purchase shop-bought fresh pasta again because compared to the stuff you can cook yourself using flour and an egg it just doesn't compare.

I've always liked and enjoyed cooking but I've started adding more recipes to my basic repetoire since we got the kitchen done and last night I added freshly made cookies to my ever-growing list. Unfortunately I added a chocolate button onto the middle of each one I made and when they were cooked they resembled breasts.

On the plus side my breast cookies tasted very nice and my new love for baking may have a theme. I could try a cake that looks like an arse next...

Power Of The Press...

My journalistic career – as it is sometimes laughingly called – has reached a new low. And this is even lower than being forced to interview two former soap stars by one particularly pushy PR for interviews that were never going to appear anywhere. Ever. It was just to make the ex-soapies feel more wanted. And important. And I was the fall guy. A sort of fluffer for damaged egos.

Today I have been invited to attend a party at London lapdancing bar Spearmint Rhino.

But in order to get in and get free champagne I first have to stand outside and form an interested crowd with other professional liggers as various F-List celebrities enter the building. Then after they've entered I can go in, neck free booze and interview the said F-List celebrities.

It's the lowest point in a career that has had many lows. And to make matters worse I'm not even invited for my journalistic prowess. Part of my reason for being invited is to be part of a crowd. And I have to be an interested part of the crowd too. I probably won't be going...

The Missus also just phoned. She’s been invited to attend an event as well. Hers is a swish polo party with the stupidly rich and the properly famous. The difference in events sums up our marriage. I've traded up and she's traded down.

At times I recall I once thought about a career in teaching. I could have been a teacher doing something useful. It must be better than this...

The Washer: Part I...

It is Friday night and me and the Missus are heading out for a meal. I go to the loo then wash my hands (some politically correct nonsense about hygiene) and as I turn the tap off I feel something give and the tap starts to leak.

I share this news with the Missus and after the usual barage of 'You idiot', 'You're so heavy-handed', 'You always break things' and 'I told you to sort that out ages ago' we form a plan of action to phone the plumber the following morning.

Then I formulate another plan and borrow a line from Peep Show.
'I can fix it. It's probably only the washer. I mean, how hard can plumbing be? It's just Lego... with water.'

My wife's face drops and it is at least ten minutes before she smiles. And this is only after she punches me several times.

But I'm still going to fix it myself...

Tinseltown In The Rain...

If scientists ever harness the ability to turn intellectual concepts into physical products then they don't need to invent something new for the concept of 'awfulness'. Because while they'll probably have some malevolent green yuk for 'jealousy' and some harsh black granite for 'hatred' the only thing they need to produce to represent 'awfulness' is Andrea Corr singing the Blue Nile song Tinseltown In The Rain.

Now I'm sure Andrea Corr is lovely. I even liked The Corrs before they got famous. And I mean really famous. I still have fond memories of sitting in a Surbiton pub in 1997 or 1998 and first seeing the video for This Is The Right Time on VH1 and thinking 'That's jolly. I like that. I'll buy the album.' And I did. And it was jolly and sweet and beautifully sung and well produced and the instrumentation was very slick.

But Andrea now taking one of my favourite songs and doing a cover version of it has ruined that memory. It's like finding out the drama teacher you always loved and respected at school was not in fact giving you a concentration exercise when he put his hands down the front of your trousers during your 'special' lessons.

For those not in the know Tinseltown In The Rain is an Eighties electro piano and guitar ballad-cum-cry-of-pain for a lost love and for me it's evocative of a certain period and certain feelings. Everyone has such songs. But sung by Corr it now has all the visceral emotion removed and is sacharine in the extreme.

It's like she's taken on the role of Hamlet and forgotten about the tragic indecisiveness, the Oedipal relationship with the mother, the faltering desire for revenge on the stepfather and the passion for Ophelia and just gone 'Tell you what. I'll play it for laughs.'

But it's hard to hate a Corr. They're all so lovely and beautiful and talented and wholesome. It would be like taking a Bramley apple to a nightclub populated by Premiership footballers and letting them rape it one by disgusting one while the drunken punters formed a circle and clapped encouragement.

So I'll just express my disappointment via a sob. And go listen to the Blue Nile original. I will feel better then...

Bach In The Old Routine...

I've recently turned 42 and the Missus treated me to two tickets to go and see a performance of St John's Passion by Bach at Guildford Cathedral. As she'd payed for the tickets I thought it was politic to also take her so off we trolled to our first classical music concert.

And it wonderful. The setting was fab as the interior of Guildford Cathedral is much prettier than the somewhat pedestrian looking exterior and the acoustics were very good. And despite the fact the score was in German, and despite the fact we sat near two little brats who kept talking throughout the first half, and despite the fact neither of us are religious (I tried it and lost interest and the Missus is a long-time atheist), we both fancy having a dabble with some more live Bach and other stuff.

I think we'll probably look for something a bit more user-friendly next time: the Missus likes the Russians and ballet and I like the modern minimalists like Arvo Part, John Tavener, Steve Reich and John Adams. But the initial seed has now been planted and sitting in a big space with nothing to do but listen to music is a lovely way to spend a few hours.

Obviously, fucking is much better but at my time of life I need a breather every now and then.

The Apprentice: Episode 1 Spoiler...

The new series of The Apprentice kicks off with Lord Sugar warning the 16 new candidates not to treat him lightly or under-estimate his wily ways and bulging business brain.

'Don't fink you can play me,' warns the vertically challenged mogul, whose company is behind such hits as the E3 Email Superphone. 'I'm harder to play than a keyboard made of ice, a keyboard made of ice that has been situated in a very hot desert, a keyboard made of ice that has been situated in a very hot desert so that it has now melted into the sand and its watery parts are now sinking deep into the ground.'

In a surprise move Karren Brady is now joined by former Liverpool and Newcastle legend Peter Beardsley to shadow the contestants on their opening task, which is to utilise their own bodies to fashion a public convenience. The girls refuse the task point blank as they think it's degrading to allow members of the public to urinate all over them.

Chlamydia, the project leader for the ladies team on the opening task, also think it's an insult to business wimmin. Peter Beardsley agrees.

The men's team has no such problem. And no such scruples. Or any scruples.

Their team leader, former City trader Rory-Connery Spasticus, soon has all his troops lined up on the pavement with their heads at waist height ready to accept outpourings from the flaccid cocks of businessmen with bladders full from lunchtime drinking sessions.

Sadly the human urinals can't stop talking about themselves or their superb performances in previous jobs long enough to serve what should be their primary function.

Back in the boardroom, neither team has generated any income and an apoplectic Sugar spits several vital organs out on the boardroom table during a fierce tirade. Peter Beardsley is fired when Sugar mistakes him for the ugly progeny of banker types and inbred royaly.

I will not be watching episode two.

Killing Bono...

I was gutted to find out this offbeat comedy wasn't a documentary, but in keeping with the spirit of the title I've come up with my own versions of similar films I'd like to see made.

So if you're a film-maker then please feel free to borrow a title and get cracking:
Butchering Boyzone
Crucifying Chris De Burgh
Dismembering Phil Collins
Massacring Any X Factor Winner
Smothering Blue

The Sweet Smell Of A Little Bit Of Success (Then Failure)...

The shortlist of eight scripts from the sitcom writing competition I entered has been announced and, despite checking several times, my name was not on it.

This is a bit of a pisser because I thought I'd written something pretty good when I submitted the next two episodes. But the judges obviously thought not.

Fortunately I have faith in the scripts I submitted and I'll hang onto them and tinker with them and maybe submit them for something else in the future. I've written enough rubbish and watched enough bad stuff to know when I've written something that is strong on format and good on gags. The time for this show will come...

In the meantime I went to training last night, which was good, then had a few pints with my fellow hapkido students, the Other Woman and surprise guest the Missus, which was lovely, and suddenly the disappointment wasn't quite so awful.

Then this morning two ideas I've been playing around with suddenly crystalised in my head and I couldn't get to the keyboard fast enough. And the Boy's home from uni and seeing him always makes me happy. And there's also the play about cartography to finish.

I'm lucky. I remain too ambitious and have too much good stuff going on to stay down for too long...

Black Belt Grading: Part IX...

It was part two of my black belt grading this weekend and the head of my hapkido academy was in London for the weekend and he shared the following story. It's a good story and it deserves repeating so I've stolen it verbatim from my instructor's website:

An old Cherokee told his grandson about a battle that goes on inside each of us. The battle is between two 'wolves'.

The black wolf is evil. It has anger, envy, jealousy, sorrow, regret, greed, arrogance, self-pity, guilt, resentment, inferiority, lies, false pride, superiority and ego.

The white wolf is good. It has joy, peace, love, hope, serenity, humility, kindness, benevolence, empathy, generosity, truth, compassion and faith.

The grandson thought about it for a minute and then asked his grandfather:
'Which wolf wins?'

The old Cherokee simply replied:
'The one you feed.'

Other Woman News...

The Other Woman has been on a press beano to LA to interview the cast involved in a remake of Teen Wolf for the Twilight generation.

So she's doing the usual round of face-to-face chats with the cast when on her last interview she starts to flag as she is interviewing one of the teen beauties involved in the film. Struggling to fill her allotted interview time she goes off-piste and starts discussing other actresses the actress in question admires until the interviewee mentions Meryl Streep and goes on at some length how she admires her work.

Cue the Other Woman to ask the best interview question I have ever heard:
'So how do you think Meryl Streep would react if she was attacked by a werewolf?'
Even better the actress in question gave a full and frank answer.

The Other Woman is quite possibly a comedy genius.

Rebranding Telly: Part I...

I've decided some telly shows need a title rebrand to more faithfully express their content and the people involved. So here are some I've decided on so far:

Cash in the Attic = Please Let me on TV I'll Do Anything
EastEnders = Shit Shouty Cockney Telly Land
Jamie's Dream School = Should Stick to Cooking, Geezer
Loose Women = Mad and Menopausal
Midsomer Murders = No Blacks, Please, We're an English Rural Idyll
The Model Agency = Nothing of Importance and Populated by Cunts

More will be added at a later date...

Sarah Millican...

If there's one thing I can do to satisfy the Missus, one thing that never fails, one thing that always lasts a long time and invariably brings a look of satisfaction to her face... it's buy good presents.

And that's quite handy because I am not very good at sex.

One of the things I bought her for her birthday last September were tickets to see Sarah Millican and the date finally arrived and we headed to the Bloomsbury Theatre to see Millican's stand-up show.

For those not in the know, Millican is a thirtysomething divorcee from South Shields with a good line in self-deprecation about her weight and dress size. That's funny enough but it's the material she does on her current relationship and her ascent from Job Centre worker to full-time stand-up comic that really steals the show. She's also quite filthy but even when she delivers a punchline about using her vagina to make potato prints so she can show its shape to a friend it somehow seems cheeky rather than smutty.

That has a lot to do with her non-threatening, friendly and slightly vulnerable on-stage persona and the fact she builds a genuine rapport with her audience right from the start.

Millican's well on her way to comedy stardom now with a Radio 4 series and countless TV and radio guest spots under her belt. But if you want the real thing go see her live. You can't help but warm to her and love her. Even when she's utterly filthy.

Me and the Missus have also taken one of her gems of advice onboard and turned it into a new rule: your belly should never be bigger than your breasts.

More Balls...

I captained my last interleague pool team six years ago and when I surrendered my role as captain I promised myself I would never do it again. Not ever.

This was because the highs of winning matches and playing well in events never equalled the grind of chasing up players to ensure they could be at matches, organising transport and sorting out the venue. Captaincy at this level remains a job designed to grind the good will of even the most enthusiastic player into bitter mush.

Fortunately when I took over the captaincy of my local interleague pool team at the beginning of the year all that was a distant memory, despite the best efforts of the Missus to remind me.

Then before the new season even got under way a few players droppped out and a few others explained they had other commitments... and the title-chasing side I had inherited was suddenly in a state of disrepair and needed a bit of rebuilding.

This rebuilding process has now started and the core of the side is still there but it may take a while before it is at full strength again.

One of the plus points to come out of this, however, is I've decided to take a local junior player under my wing and spend some time bringing him through the ranks to strengthen the side in years to come. This happened with me when a long-time county player spotted some potential and started playing against me and taking me to events and helping me improve and that's what I intend to do with my Protege.

It's also good for me because seeing the Protege hungry to learn and improve all the time has made me realise I still love the game and want to improve again myself.

Who knows? I may not quite be ready to hang my cue up yet...

The Sweet Smell Of A Little Bit Of Success (Nearly)...

I recently entered a sitcom writing competition on BBC Writersroom where the winners get to have their work showcased in front of a panel of industry types. And the good news is I've made the long list of the final 32 scripts from 1200 entries.

I now need to write two more 15-minute episodes and aim to get into the last four to have a chance of getting my work seen and potentially get something optioned. Sadly success in the event is still a long way away but I now need to ensure I knuckle down and make the next two scripts better than the first one.

Having a little bit of success is quite strange as I'm so hardened to having scripts rejected that I didn't quite know how to react at first when I heard I'd made the long list. But I've now decided on a policy of smiling and feeling positive about it and I'm planning on sticking with that... until I start writing the next two episodes later tonight and the usual worry and self-doubt and over-analysis creep in.

But until then it's good news.

Going Potty!

This weekend I was at the National Intercounty Championships playing pool for my county.

Last year I spent a lot of time on the practice table but got very poor results in the county side and one game into the season it's the same story this year. The Nationals, however, was a chance to redeem that and going into it I genuinely felt like I was playing very well and was about to shine. Instead I missed a few key pots and just got murdered on the table. The team also struggled and we got booted out of the event early doors.

From a personal point of view I've been playing long enough to realise the following: bad results and bad performances happen no matter how well you're playing; and sometimes no matter how hard you try you will get into a rut and it will take time to break out of it.

In truth I may be missing a bit at the level that I play at at the moment but I'm still practising and I'll reassess at the end of the year.

On the plus side, however, I got a chance to sit down and watch a lot of our county youth team play and that really helped instill some positve feelings about the game. The team has four internationals and several other good players in it but the way they carried and supported each other throughout the weekend was superb and at the end of it they claimed a national title.

If my playing days are done then maybe the way forward for me is to help the kids come through. There are a lot worse things I could do and older players taking me under their wing is how I progressed in the game.

It's one to think about...

Genius...

I came across a new band the other day. They are an American harcore punk band called Gay For Johnny Depp.

I am yet to have a real good go with their music but on the strength of the name alone I'm going to have a dabble.

I suspect many men would be gay for JD.

Royal Fever...

Firm royalist Jilly Cooper was on Radio 4 this morning discussing the impending royal wedding and one of the interviewers asked her what she'd get William and Kate for a present.

I was praying she'd suddenly discover a repressed republican side and answer: 'A cake and a vibrator... then if they don't like the cake they can go fuck themsleves.'

Sadly she didn't and wittered on about buying Charles and Camilla an ornament with pictures of their dogs on it instead.

A good comedy chance wasted by the bonk-buster authoress, methinks...

Dry...

I have just completed my annual January off the booze and am now looking forward to my first pint in a month.

It is my fifth year undergoing this self-imposed booze exile and my third time of completing it. I succumbed one year on the final day of the month as there was a pool tournament and another year I cracked after 20 days following a spectacularly awful day at work.

But this year it's been a breeze, largely because I spent several months last year not drinking in preparation for my black belt grading.

I quite like the idea of trying tee-total for a longer period. But I love a pint or two and would miss it.

The only dodgy side effect my no-drinking seems to have had is a series of odd dreams, culminating in last night's night-time imaginings that I was dating Bianca from EastEnders and we were looking at a grotty flat in Goole for her and her kids. I persuaded her it was a dump and told her, plus the kids, to move in with me.

Then me and Bianca got jiggy to celebrate moving in together. And she was a surprisingly tender and responsive lover...

I probably need a pint...

Other Woman News...

As has been well documented on this blog, my Other Women is a confectionary and chocolate slut. To put it bluntly there isn't much she wouldn't do for a Snickers. Or a Wispa.

But the other day she sent me the following email and I thought I'd share:

'I decided on a new year’s resolution this lunchtime! Here’s how it went:
1.00pm. Go to lunch.
1.01pm Decide that new year’s resolution should be to not buy any confectionary products or cake with lunch.
1.30pm. Have three bites of an apple. It is horrible. Remember why I don’t like fruit.
1.35pm. Throw most of apple away.
1.40pm. Buy a Twix.'

It's just another reason to love my Other Woman in my book.

AWL...

For a feisty cynic the Missus does have a romantic side.

I say side. It's more of a miniscule area that like Brigadooon only appears on very rare occasions. But recently there was a sighting when she was quite touched to read that Denis Healy and his wife had a code for when they felt they were getting stressed over impossible problems.

Their code was three simple letters which were 'AWL' which stood for 'Aren't we lucky?' When uttered these three letters acted as a timely reminder that whenever things were going badly they take stock and appreciate each other and the lives they had. And 'AWL' usually calmed them and made them less stressed.

The Missus found this quite touching and sweet so we've adopted it.

We have, however, also adopted a less tender trio of letters to explain our exasperation at some of the people and problems we also deal with from time to time. And this is 'TAC' which is shorthand for 'They're all cunts'.

Feel free to share it with your friends...

PJ Harvey...

There is much excitement at From Beer To Paternity Towers with the impending release of a new PJ Harvey album, Let England Shake.

Previous Polly Jean Harvey incarnations have been grunge rock chick, sashaying vamp, cosmopolitan sophisticate and ghostly waif and, like her ever-changing image, her music is a constantly evolving thing moving from grunge to blues to rock to folk with a bit of electronica thrown in.

She remains one of the few artists who strive to create something new with every release and each new CD rarely disappoints. I think she's bloody wonderful and her creativity and immense musical talent are things that should be celebrated. She is really that good with a body of work to back it up. She is a national treasure.

Having heard two tracks from the latest CD it seems she's gone a bit Patti Smith meets William Blake with musings on Albion and its current state.

The album is out on 14 February. Can't wait to hear the rest of it...

Why EastEnders Is Shit...

EastEnders has a new name at From Beer To Paternity Towers.

It's now called Shit Shouty Cockney Telly Land. It could just as easily be called Shit Shouty Cockney Telly Land Where Nothing Makes Sense And The Plots Have No Basis In The World Of The Characters but that doesn't trip off the tongue.

So Shit Shouty Cockney Telly Land it is.

I once liked Shit Shouty Cockney Telly Land in the days when it was good old EastEnders and it was well written and well acted. But those days are now nothing but a dim and distant memory, like thinking fondly of a relative who used to give you sweets as a child before you learnt he's recently turned into an alcoholic who shoots kittens with a crossbow then skins them for fun.

The new realisation ruins the fond memory but somewhere you hope the kindly old man is still in there. Although if the kindly old mad was an EastEnders character under the current regime he'd be kidnapping children and dry bumming them in the Vic cellar before having a sex change and mainlining horse. And that's a real horse. And that would happen in the space of one show.

Take the Christmas episode which was actress Lacey Turner's big exit storyline. Her character Stacey had an affair with her husband's dad Max that split up a family, killed a rapist, saw her husband Bradley plunge to his death and was diagnosed bipolar to explain the previous storylines so viewers would regain their sympathy for her. Then she had an affair with the father of her baby Ryan.

So lots of material... and all viewers got was some half-arsed love triangle that required lots of last-minute exposition, the worst stabbing in TV history and an escape from the police that made the events of cartoon series Wacky Races seem credible. Oh, and her dead hubby's dad Max declared his love for her at the airport as she was about to leave.
'So that's it? It's all over?' asked Max at one point.
Yes it is all over. And it was shit.

Currently Shit Shouty Cockney Telly Land features a cot death storyline. But that obviously wasn't considered moving or gripping enough so the producers tagged on a baby swap storyline to it as well. Double the tragedy, double the grief. It's like a cover line from Pick Me Up or some other awful real-life magazine.

Unfortunately Jessie Wallace and Shane Richie, Patsy Palmer and Maisie Smith (Tiffany), Jake Wood and June Brown are the only people who can actually act so watching the episodes when they are not involved is pretty gruelling work. It's like watching a local am-dram group who usually do melodrama suddenly have a go at theatre of cruelty for an audience of pensioners who were expecting farce. It's harrowing. But for all the wrong reasons.

The main problem with Shit Shouty Cockney Telly Land is that it's become drama-porn. In porn it's all about the sex and the money shot. Don't worry about little things like character integrity or creating believable stories. Just get to the action. In about 30 seconds, please...

And that's why EastEnders is Shit Shouty Cockney Telly Land. It's drama-porn. Forget the build-up. Just get to the action. And if two people going at it isn't good enough let's add some more and get them to scream a bit louder. In about 30 seconds, please...

You get the impression nobody involved on the production or the storyline side really cares that much any more. It's just another job in TV land. Unfortunately the show and its viewers deserve something better.

And if they do care and they think this is good... They need telling it's not. But on the plus side it's still not as bad a Come Fly With Me.

Merry Xmas: Part III...

Every year I make a present for the Missus and this year I have probably excelled on previous gifts such as the Self-powered Hairdryer and the DIY Lipsosuction Kit.

We are both fans of potty-mouthed political satire The Thick Of It so I had some tea towels printed. An example of these is above.

I think it's my finest work...

Black Belt Grading: Part VIII...

I have passed part one of my black belt grading. I am delighted and relieved in equal measure.

Now it's continual assessment for four months followed by a written paper in April with continual assessment for another four months afterwards. If all goes well I could be wearing my black belt in August. If it doesn't I have to start the whole process again from scratch.

There's plenty more hard work ahead and I need to do some work in a few areas but I'm on my way. And very happy about it.

Merry Xmas: Part II...

Our friends from Oz are visiting over Xmas and I've been getting very excited about seeing them and mentioned this to the Missus.
'I'm really looking forward to seeing them.'
'Well don't get too excited.'
'What do you mean?'
'I just don't want you to get over-excited...'
'Why?'
'Because if you get over-excited you'll get giddy and loud and have a few drinks then have a few drinks too many...'
'You think I'm like an over-excited child drinking too much pop and and eating too many sweets, don't you?'
'Of course not, darling...'

She then picks up a cloth and wipes my top lip.
'Ice cream...' she says, helpfully.

Merry Xmas: Part I...

Above is a picture of the surprise present I bought for the Missus.

Can you guess what it is?

Black Belt Grading: Part VII...

The Missus has been very considerate and caring of late and, since the Black Belt grading, quite romantic and tactile by her usual standards.

This obviously aroused my suspicions so I decided it was time to confront her about it.
'You're being very sweet at the moment.'
'I know.'
'Are you dying?'
'No.'

Pause. Then she adds:

'You are...'

Who says romance is dead?

Black Belt Grading: Part VI...

My black belt grading is over and I thoroughly enjoyed it. I could have been sharper on a few things and it took me two goes to break two boards at one point but overall I felt like it was a pretty good day at the office.

The previous day was a senior belt class and it felt like everything I touched turned to shit and I spent large parts of Saturday evening wondering why I was even bothering to turn up to test the following day.

But I woke up the next day and stretched and got my head right. Then before I knew it I was getting up to be an opponent for the lower belts and, to quote Madonna, got into the groove.

Unless you've been through something that intense where you spend months training and honing your skills and pushing yourself to the limit it's difficult to explain what goes through your mind in the months and weeks beforehand but for me there were plenty of moments of panic, self-doubt, fear and nerves.

Then as soon as I was up testing and sparring I remembered something quite simple: to relax and breathe and enjoy the moment. And seven years of training suddenly came down to something so simple.

Best gag of the day belongs to the Missus. Because of my ongoing knee injury I'm not throwing lots of kicks so I've been relying heavily on my boxing during sparring and the head of the academy was kind enough to compliment my hand techniques.

At the end of the grading I went over to the Missus and asked her what she thought of it. She smirked and replied: 'Well... I've always told everyone you have excellent hand techniques...'

I married well.

Black Belt Grading: Part V...

It's Friday night and I have a red belt class tomorrow then it's time to grade on Sunday.

I want to borrow a line from John Carpenter's They Live and say something like 'I'm here to chew bubblegum and kick arse - and I'm all out of gum' but that would be quite silly. And gum chewing in the dojang is strictly forbidden and kicking arse also suggests a level of enjoying violence that would be severely frowned upon when I'm there to demonstrate control and grace under fire.

So the line would end up going something like: 'I would be here to chew bubblegum but that's against dojang etiquette and I would be here to kick arse... if only I'd gone to a slightly more aggressive and more ego-filled school where oneupmanship is the name of the game instead of learning both the martial and the art.'

But that's quite a shit quote so it's probably best to say nothing and just get there.

On the plus side the nerves are now kicking in a bit so I'm starting to get a bit on edge. But that's a good sign. Edge is good.

Black Belt Grading: Part IV...

Three sleeps now until grading day arrives and I've had a No.1 haircut. This is something I always do before every grading and usually before any important pool match because, quite simply, it makes me feel quite good about myself.

The Missus, of course, hates it and her previous opinions on the haircut I've now sported for about 13 years have included:
'It make you look like a thug.'
'It makes you look like a care in the community case.'
'It makes you look like a kiddy-fiddler.'
'It makes you look like the type of exceptionally gifted lover, wit and writer that any woman in her right mind would want to have several goes on. Then invite her younger and better looking sister to have several goes on too. Then invite her twin sisters, etc...'

I may have made the last one up. But tonight is my last training session then it's pretty much here. I'm calm, collected and confident. And ready...

Black Belt Grading: Part III...

It's quite unnerving. In fact it's quite worrying... but I'm quietly confident about tackling my black belt grading in six days.

I've put the work in, I pretty much know what I'm doing and now it's just a matter of enjoying my remaining few classes, before arriving on Sunday and waiting for the nerves to start so that final surge of adrenalin kicks in to get me over the line.

One of my training partners filmed us going over our techniques last week and there are times I look quite competent. I surprised myself. Who knows, there may be a black belt martial artist lurking in there somewhere after all?

Let's hope so, eh? And let's also hope that he doesn't do something really fucking stupid and gets himself badly injured between now and Sunday. That would be very bad...

Other Woman News...

The Other Woman sent an email yesterday linking to a quite nifty game her long-suffering other half had created to help pull in punters to a website his company runs. Rather suspiciously, however, she used the term 'lovely' before his name so my curiosity was instantly piqued because I've never heard her say anything affectionate about him in public before. Unless he buys her chocolate. Or sweets.

So my mind was racing: Had she cooked something the previous night and accidentally poisoned him and was trying to throw detectives investigating the case off the scent? Had she done something really bad to jeopardise her relationship with a man who is quite frankly better looking and more intelligent than her?

It seems not...

When I approached her about this she confessed because it was getting near Xmas she decided to be nice about him in public in the hope of getting better presents. But when I pointed out this virtually made her a hussy she didn't take kindly to the accusation.

When I also pointed out the phrase 'chocolate tart' was invented for her she also did not take too kindly to the insinuation.

And finally when I suggested a far easier way to achieve male compliance she simply told me I was sexist and crude.

I don't know. You try to help people...

Black Belt Grading: Part II...

It's my own fault. Preparations for my black belt test were going far too well. My badly injured knee was sort of OK and my less badlly injured knee was pretty much healed up. Even my rotator cuff injury was not a concern. I was even quite relaxed and starting to enjoy myself.

Then I was doing some no-contact sparring with an over-exuberant opponent who thought it would be a good idea to stick his elbow straight through my foot at full force. I obviously carried on with the class and the sparring as I thought it wasn't too bad... but by the time I got home and the adrenalin had stopped flowing I suddenly realised that my foot was bruised to buggery and hurting quite a lot. Swearing hurting. Like proper swearing.

Now it's a waiting game. After resting it most of the weekend I can spar lightly and kick lightly but any type of lateral or pivoting motion is out of the question. And as I need to perform spin kicks to break boards my foot may need some quick recovery or the kicking some supple bodily negotiation.

So, in the words of Cher, if I could turn back time I'd like to say the following to the opponent responsible:
'You clumsy, careless, half-witted fucking oaf. What does 'no-contact' mean in your numb-skulled world? Does it mean I can repeatedly punch you in the fucking face till your skin is flayed off? No. Thought not. You brain-dead fucking cum-bucket for pox-ridden sailors.'

Of course, I could say that. And Cher probably would as I understand she's bit potty-mouthed. Probably too much exercise. Or plastic surgery.

But I won't say anything because I'm too polite. And I wouldn't really mean it. And he didn't do it intentionally. I'd just be venting and I know that wouldn't help.

And I have 12 days to heal up then I have a grading to pass. And my trusty ibuprofen gel seems to be helping. So it's best to let it go and just write about it instead. At least that way it's out of my system...

Black Belt Grading: Part I...

It's now 18 days until I grade for my black belt. My injured knee seems to be sort of mended and holding up and other niggling injuries on one of my ankles and one of my rotator cuffs seem to be fine.

I've also pretty much got a handle on all of my techniques, both old and new, and some dodgy foot placement in forms aside I'm quite confident. In fact if I can get there in one piece without any more dramas I'm looking forward to it.

That confidence still didn't stop my first grading anxiety dream last night, however.

In it I was in a packed do-jang surrounded by my fellow students and trying to break a wooden board that I just couldn't break. In the dream I knew it was because I was tense and not moving fluidly but the more I couldn't break the board the more tense I became.

After yet further failures of one sort or another the dream ended with the head of the academy telling me I was a nice chap who just wasn't good enough. I may also have been naked. And some female students may have been pointing at my genitals and laughing.

Sometimes that sort of dream, whether it's about hapkido or writing or pool or anything else, stays with you for a while and shakes your confidence.

But I already know I need to be relaxed and I know the not being good enough bit is bollocks. And I'm proving it in 18 days.

Rejection...

As a writer sending scripts to various theatres and TV production companies I am used to rejection. In fact I have become hardened to it.

But I have just received my worst ever rejection letter in response to a radio comedy show I sent out a few weeks ago. I'd worked hard on the show and really liked it but, to quote the letter:

'...it didn't make me laugh enough... and that is the one single thing we're looking for when we expectantly crack open a new comedy script.'

I'm still not convinced they have a point but I will reread the script and reconsider. But the production company in question have also produced some dross among the good stuff they've done so they don't always get it right either.

So: self-delusion or self-belief? It's tough to know the difference but there are times you have to trust it's the latter and just carry on.

To quote Winston Churchill:
‎'Success consists of going from failure to failure without loss of enthusiasm.'

But then again Winston Churchill was also funny. Fact. Then again maybe I'd be good at war...

Drunk...

The final county pool game of the season is always a messy affair as several of the team usually venture out for a few drinks afterwards. And that's a few more drinks than the usual few post-match drinks too.

And as my friend Shaggy and two of the Croydon fellas were my drinking companions for the evening, and as it was my last blowout before knuckling down for my black belt test in four weeks, it was never going to be a sober night.

Previous evenings out with Shaggy have ended with him in hospital after falling off a pavement and breaking his ankle, and the two of us being threatened with death by a man carrying a bike in Hampshire. Fortunately as we also had two mutual friends along for the evening – and thanks the delights of a pub near Reading station that was packed with London Irish fans – the night was lovely and incident-free. Our little group even made friends with two local girls who'd been to watch the rugby.

In fairness my head was not a good place to be on Monday morning and I had distant memories of weeing in sturdy plastic bag on the train when I found the only toilet was broken, then carrying it home until I found a drain to pour it down. But at the time I think I decided it was what Hannibal in the A Team would have done in an emergency weeing situation so I felt I was in good company.

But now there's no more stupidity. It's knuckle down time. I have a black belt to earn and four weeks to nail my final preparations. Gulp...

Ancient Worlds...

I'm quite a fan of history. History is big, cool stuff and I'm rarely happier than when I'm reading or watching anything on whatever chunk of big, cool history happens to have caught my imagination.

So I was looking forward to watching new BBC series Ancient Worlds in which archaeologist and historian Richard Miles explores the roots of civilisation. And if episode one is anything to go by, I'll probably stay with it as he's an engaging presenter and the idea of examining 'us' 'then' is a smart idea.

Two things annoy me, though.

The first is that Miles is a bit too sexy to be doing this. I want my historians older and uglier and I certainly don't want them to flirt with me. And Miles does.

Sometimes when he talks directly to camera he tilts his head in a coquettish manner and lowers his voice to speak in a husky yet smooth tone that makes him sound like a telephone sex line gigolo. He may be discussing ancient city Uruk but he could just as easily be whispering sweet nothings and wooing millions of viewers into his book-filled boudoir.

The second is that he looks like a slimmer and more debonair version of a bloke I used to work under who was a major arsehole. Let's call the major arsehole Mike. Because that was his name.

Mike was an arsehole and a pedant beyond belief and, added to this mix, he was also a smug, self-righteous twat. So much so that when my football team was scheduled to play his team some years later I actually offered financial rewards for anyone who stuck their studs through his ankle.

In retrospect I'm not proud of this course of action. Although it was the most satisfying £20 I ever spent. But if you'd have ever met Mike and spent more than five minutes in his company you would have offered me more funds to increase the bounty on his ankles. So that he was crippled for life. And therefore much less likely to ever enter your social sphere again. Fact.

And Miles looks a bit like him. So if he can sort out his appearance and his habit of flirting with the camera I'm sure I'll grow to love him and his show.

Thanks.

Cack-handed...

The very flash and very expensive new kitchen is nearly fully installed and fully functioning at From Beer To Paterinty Towers.

Sadly I am not allowed to use any appliances until the Missus has given me detailed instructions on how everything works because, apparently, I'll 'probably break something' because I'm a 'cack-handed twat'. I'd like to protest that I'm not quite as clumsy as the Missus thinks but sadly it would be a protest in vain.

Recent damages include snapping a metal spade in half, damaging the bath and destroying an electic can opener. And I wasn't doing anything bizarre with any of them either. I was just using them the way they were intended to be used. Sort of...

One item that certainly will not be getting damaged when it arrives, however, is my new cue. It's being made by one of the best cue-makers in the country and it's a replica of an antique Riley tombstone cue I've wanted for at least two decades.

It may be very sad but I'm so excited. It's an early Xmas present to myself. Expensive kitchens are rubbish. New cues are where it's at...

Grappling...

I'm a little bit obsessed with grappling and groundfighting and, if the opportunity arises, I can spend ridiculous amounts of time rewatching the technique videos on the excellent Submissions101 website with Ari Bolden or the equally excellent stuff on Youtube posted by Stefan Kesting (www.grapplearts.com).

But I came across something new the other day and it's an online course run by Ryron and Rener Gracie of the Gracie family at their website www.gracieuniversity.com, which offers full testing and belt certification via camcorders.

I'm a little sceptical about online courses in anything, particularly in something like a martial art where your best learning tool is often the feedback of your opponent, but I've joined and looked at the first video and it's well put together, very informative and very slick – and, hell, it might even work with a decent training partner.

But with a black belt grading at hapkido in the offing I should probably be focusing on that instead. Grappling remains a fun distraction, though, particularly when the path to black belt at hapkido feels like a real struggle a lot of the time...

Healthy Eating Tips...

Don't eat a large bag of grapes followed by a whole bag of wasabi peas.

Your stomach and the porcelain won't thank you...

Other Woman News...

The hapkido academy recently ran a raffle to raise money towards new mats and I won two prizes: number one was a bottle of wine that lasted about two hours from receiving it to finishing it off; number two was a home-baked chocolate cake that was cooked over the weekend and given to me last night.

The cake caused much amazement in class as various fellow martial artists admired and lusted after it. But that's because it looked a pretty amazing cake. And on tasting, it didn't disappoint either... so much so that next year I am running and fixing the raffle so I again win the cake.

The Other Woman, however, may fight me for that honour. On hearing I had cake in class she immediately offered to perform any act so she could taste some. And I mean 'any' act. I could have probably demanded 'water sports' and she'd have agreed for cake.

When this tactic failed she then tried another ruse to claim that as we were such good pals I should offer her half the cake as she'd offer me half the cake if she'd won it. I snorted at this as I know full well that nothing comes between the Other Woman and cake.

One of the first times we went out to play pool she bought chocolate and when I moved in to take a bite the look she gave me suggested that I'd just offered to felate her grand parents after anally inserting copies of The Daily Mail in front of her parents. And all I wanted was a bit of Snickers... And with cake it's even worse.

I nearly took pity at the end of the class as she looked bedraggled and tired and was eyeballing the cake box like a lunatic. I imagined this was how junkies must feel before they burgled a pensioner to get cash for another fix.

Fortunately the cake was successfuly smuggled out of class while she was talking to another martial artist. But I fear denying her cake may be the end of our friendship. Unless I can placate her with a Crunchie. Or a Lion Bar...

Sick...

The Missus has been very ill and laid up in bed for two days.

She finally ventured downstairs last night when I was watching episode two of The Apprentice. She curled up on the sofa with me and watched for about 10 minutes before turning to me and saying.
'They're all totally reprehensible people. There are not enough bullets in the world for any of them. Come the revolution not one of them will survive...'

It's good to see her back to her old self.

Hair Today...

I decided my facial hair was obviously to blame for a lack of confidence and form at a recent county pool match so I took an executive decision and shaved it all off.

The Missus, however, was not happy.
'My God. What the hell have you done?' was her initial response.
'I've had a shave.'
'But you've shaved everything.'
'Don't you like it?'

The Missus pondered then delivered her verdict.
'The problem is that you look like a big baby when you're clean shaven.'
'OK...'
'And your head looks far too big and there's just too much of your face.'
'You want me to grow it back then?'
'Yes...'

Of course, I stood my ground and stated I would not. For about three minutes.

Intensive Weekend...

A few weeks ago myself, the Other Woman and 26 other martial arts students spent two days at an intensive hapkido weekend. And, apart from various bits of my body refusing to function properly for a few days afterwards, it was a lot of fun.

Kicking, punching, takedown techniques, forms, joint manipulation, groundfighting and hapkido theory were all covered and there was a huge amount to take in.

It did make me realise, however, that I am a long way off testing for my black belt at the moment. Before I got injured in June I felt as though as I was close to being there but post-injury and post-holiday everything feels much further away, with my techniques rusty, my forms not very sharp, my confidence drained and my sparring sluggish.

But I was talking to my friend The Actor and his girlfriend is also an actor. Unlike him, however, she hasn't had a large amount of work so she's done several admin jobs to keep the wolf from the door, but she's also refused to give up on her dreams and has kept plugging away at auditions. And it's paid off as she's just landed a role in a touring show that will also play in the West End next year.

Like the pool and like the writing, I've always known perseverence is the key. And I know that with my martial arts studies and the black belt grading too, but it was nice to hear about The Actress and have the point emphasised.

Sometimes it's just about staying in there. Nothing of any real value ever comes easy. To quote Vince Lombardi: 'Winners never quit and quitters never win.'