A Load Of Old Balls: Part II...

The trip to Yarmouth to play at the National Inter-county Eightball Pool Championships was pretty poor.

As a team we didn't really perform very well until the last match and I didn't have too much in the way of clear-cut chances in my games. Throw in a bit of bad luck and it wasn't great individually either.

The great thing about going to an elite competition, though, is it allows you to see how you compare against the best of your peers. As a team we just came up a bit short and individually I also just came up a bit short. I wasn't the only one, though.

But I had a good season last year and played some decent stuff along the way to help get us to Yarmouth, and I've also started this season pretty well this year and I'm putting the hours in on the practice table again.

Every year I think it will be my last season as a lot of my pool-playing peers have now retired. But I'm really enjoying playing again and my form's starting to return so there may be life in the old dog yet.

It's 15 years and counting doing this. I could make it 16 at this rate...

A Load Of Balls: Part I...

It's March so it's time to head to the National Inter-county Eightball Pool Championships at Great Yarmouth.

I've been going to pool events here for more than 20 years, whether it be county, interleague or three-man team competitions, and the novelty of staying in a cold caravan park with over-priced beer where the only respite is to head into Great Yarmouth to sample the 'delights' of its seafront nightlife wore off many years ago.

The golden rule used to be 'What happens in Yarmouth stays in Yarmouth'. Not that anything did ever happen for me. It's never been what I was or what I wanted. So I tended to just get drunk. But even that's changed these days. Far too old to do that now. I can't bear the hangovers any more...

So me and the Missus are curled up on the sofa the night before I go and we're discussing what delights the weekend will bring and the Missus offers her wisdom:
'Just don't bring any sexually transmitted diseases back.'
'I won't. But if I do pull I'll pretend it's you while I'm fucking them.'
'It's fine,' counters the Missus. 'I often pretend you're other people when I'm fucking you.'

I married well...

Other Woman News...

The Other Woman is in the middle of grading for her black belt at hapkido.

The way the grading works is that you do a physical test (techniques, forms, sparring, board breaking)... then if you pass that you have to sit a written after three months of continual assessment and do some more techniques... then if you pass that you've got another three months of continual assessment ahead. It's a grueling but very rewarding process.

I went through it from 2010-2011 so I've spent some time with the Other Woman as her practice punch bag and rag doll to be tossed around. And yesterday she gave me a present she'd made (along with her mum and her aunty) to say thanks.

So now I have my very own knitted ninja (pictured). How cool is that? I didn't think I could love my Other Woman any more than I do but she's found a way to make that happen.

She may very well be a genius.

Quote Of The Day...

'Television is a medium because anything well done is rare.'
Fred Allen

Although I must confess I did enjoy Sherlock. That was very well done.

Melt: The Readthrough...

My first play reading in 10 years has been and gone.

The dialogue rattled along and worked, the gags worked – and in some cases should have been filthier – and the new structure hung together pretty well and was an improvement on the first three drafts.

There were obviously some problems that I noticed, even if nobody else did: the central character still needs to be more at the heart of the play and his fall from grace needs to be more accelerated and from a much greater height; there are some parts where the plot mechanics need to be clearer; some gags repeat too often; and some of it is overwritten and needs another edit. The very talented cast also gave me a few ideas with what they did on-stage and during rehearsals.

But overall my first reading in 10 years was a pretty successful affair and has really galvanised me going into the rewrites.

I was also really touched that a lot of the people I love were there to support me: the Missus, the Other Woman, the Other Woman Who Loves Other Women, several of my pool-playing pals, my martial arts teacher and her wife, etc.

And they all laughed at the show's best two gags. One involved a game about a porn film title, 'Glad-he-ate-her', and the other involved a joke about dwarves and statistics. You had to be there.

And, if you were, thank-you. If the quality of a life can be judged on the quality of the people around you then I'm doing pretty well.

Valentine’s Day Is Over...

It's Valentine's Day at From Beer To Paternity Towers and me and the Missus are sat watching The Biggest Loser on ITV1.

For those who have not had the pleasure of viewing this particular show, it's essentially a diet competition for fat folk with one person eliminated each week and the eventual winner getting £25k.

The competitive element of each episode ends with a weigh-off to find out who's lost the most weight, and is intercut with back-stories about the contestants. Each show then ends with the folk about to eliminated pleading their case to stay in the show. This involves lots of large people crying (or blubbers blubbing) amid various plugs for The Biggest Loser Club, which is a Weight Watchers type of affair allied to the programme. And presumably ITV.

Anyway, me and the Missus essentially watch this show so we can support those taking part. That's a lie. Actually it's so we can sneer at fat people whose emotions and vulnerable senses of self-worth are laid bare for the telly-viewing public.

On last night's show the remaining contestants all had a makeover then got the chance to see loved ones for a short period of time. There were many tears. It was either moving TV or a pile of exploitative rubbish edited to make it look much more emotional that it actually was.
'It's only being seven weeks since they last saw their relatives,' said the Missus. 'It's not like they've been in Guantanamo!'
'That would make a much better show,' I offer.
'Yes. I'd certainly watch it,' agrees the Missus.

Later on the biggest chap in the show makes his entrance after his makeover. He's lost a shitload of weight but he still checks in at about 25 stone.
'If you ever get that big I'm leaving you,' says the Missus as she marvels at the biggest loser on The Biggest Loser.
'Well you've got that big and I've stayed with you,' I say without thinking.

Pain follows rapidly. Comments like that are, apparently, an SRO (Spare Room Offence).

England Expects...

My pool protege secured a place at the trials for the England Junior Team at the end of last season by finishing as one of the highest-ranked junior players in the South-East of England. And a few weeks ago he attended the trials – and got through and won a place on the England Junior Team.

I was made up for him, not only because he's worked hard at his game and really made the effort to move up to the next level, but because at 15 he's not even 50 per cent of the junior player he will become – and he's already in the England Junior Team.

I've also enjoyed working with him and practising with him once a month because the things we've worked on are things I do automatically but going through them again has made me analyse how I go about things and it's made me make improvements in things like concentration and being methodical. After all, I can hardly instil solid basics into somebody else if I'm struggling to do them myself.

It's also made me think about what I could do as far as being involved with the county pool scene could offer when my playing days come to an end. And at the moment that could be when the 2012 season finishes as there are other things I want to do and commit time to. But I've said that before...

Who knows? If I can help one junior player with potential become an international then maybe I can help a few more? It's food for thought.

Quote Of The Day...

'A society grows great when old men plant trees whose shade they know they shall never sit in.'
Greek Proverb.

The Ballad Of Ted Hankey…

British Darts Organisation anti-hero Ted ‘The Count’ Hankey, who models his stage persona on Count Dracula and wears a cape during his stage walk-on, recently left the BDO to join a rival darts organisation after losing in the semi-finals of the BDO World Championship to an unseeded qualifier from Holland. His twitter feed several weeks before the event read as follows: "@tedhankey ‘16 pints down pub. wanks out the question’.” Perfect material for a would-be poet...

Pounding the treble bed,
Though not often enough,
Then missing the doubles
Cos this new kid’s too good.

He’s young and he’s Dutch
And he’s throwing on song,
And hitting ton eighties
Like they’re out of fashion, gone.

So I’m wiping my brow
As the sweat’s pouring down,
Then he hits another double
And I respond with a frown.

Once upon a time
It’d be a snarl or a scowl,
And I’d look like thunder
A beast crying a howl.

But I’m calmer these days,
The pantomime villain part gone
And I only wear the cape
Because the habit is strong.

But lobbing bats to the fans,
I don’t do that no more
Since they started lobbing them back
Or leaving them on the floor.

In another few legs
I know I’m well beat:
A world title gone,
A semi-final defeat.

The crowd they applaud
As I say goodbye a last time
And I head back to my room
A big decision in mind:

To throw my arrows elsewhere
I’m going to join the select,
With better opponents to play,
Bigger paychecks to collect.

My mum and the wife,
Who follow me and support,
Know just what I’m doing
The decision I will report.

But before that time comes
I’ll head down to the pub
And sit on my own
And reflect on the rub

Of the oche gods who look down
As I sink pint number one
About the decisions I’ve made
Based on scoring a ton.

Then on pint number five
I realise I’ll be missing me tea
So I text the wife and the mum
Tell them to eat without me.

After pint number ten
I may be a bit pissed
And walking back to the hotel
Is now well off the list.

On pint number fifteen
I get amorous thoughts
But one final pint in
I know it’ll all come to nought.

So I settle for the choice
Of a little tug on the meat.
I won’t wake the missus
As I quietly beat.

But hiding under my cape
The climax just won’t arrive.
It’s like during the match
My big finish denied.

Homeward Bound...

I had the unenviable task of returning to Yorkshire for a family funeral yesterday.

I've yet to go to a good funeral but there were smiles among the grief at this one. At times it was funny and tender and moving. My older brother and his girlfriend were also utterly astonishing during what was obviously an awful day for them.

On the way to their house, however, I chanced upon one of my cousins who told me a funny story about his dad... then dropped the bombshell that our family name was actually fabricated and taken from a dead sailor as our grandfather was illegitimate and wouldn't use (or wasn't allowed to use) his real family name.

Not that it really matters. All family names are made up at some point and if mine ws good enough for my grandfather and my father then it's good enough for me.

And I quite like the idea that I'm descended from bastard stock.

Rejection...

The Boy sent his first comic script off to 2000AD several months ago. I read it and it was pretty good and the two things he's written subsequently are even better. He'll make a funny and inventive writer if he keeps working and makes the breaks happen.

But, sadly, his first script got rejected last week so he now has his first official rejection letter. I felt for him because I've been there so many times (three in the last week if I was actually counting) but I was also delighted to see him take it on the chin and decide to be stoical about it and just keep going.

Perseverance is an important quality at anything. It was a moment of bonding.

Go get 'em, buddy...

Thoughts For The New Year...

Here are some thoughts from the beginning of 2012...

i) Snow Patrol are quite good: I initially eschewed them when several friends were raving about them but I have now given them a go and like them. I plan to be more open-minded about other people's musical opinions in 2012. Unless they're idiots...

ii) The only good Tory is a dead one: This was my first real political opinion, which I formed about the age of 11, and the view has somewhat softened in the past decades as the greedy, in-the-pockets-of-multinationals Blair Government proved they could be as bad the Thatcher and Major lot. I also met a few Tories that I liked and, even though I could never agree with their politics, I did respect they were at least coming from a point of political conviction based on making the country a better one for everyone. Sadly the new lot of posh Tory idiots like Cameron and Osborne may yet have me reaching for a rifle. They really are morally bankrupt in the way they kow-tow to big business and financially rape those in the most need. Why people like them ever got into politic is totally beyond me. Posh scumbags, the lot of 'em.

iii) Work smarter and work harder: 2011 was a pretty good year but with new projects on the horizon in 2012 I'm going to need to be even more organised and focused than normal. That means I'm going to need clarity and decisiveness and the best way I know how to achieve this is through meditation so I'm going to make a real effort to attend at least one ki meditation class every week in 2012. It will help keep me balanced and it's something I am going to need.

iv) Ignore cunts: self-explanatory.

New Year, New Ideas...

It's been an OK year on the writing front with a shortlisted entry in a sitcom writing competition, far-off rumblings and talk of TV work, and a new stage play at about third draft.

In reality I haven't written enough, though, and 2012 at least already promises new ideas with my wrestling play under way, a new idea for a sitcom and my first attempt to write a comic all in the offing.

There may well be the usual amount of rejection in store but there may also be some new hope. The new theatre company I'm production managing a show for holds much promise and they've also reminded me of one very important thing: I never used to rely on other people to stage work as I used to do that myself and, after exercising those muscles again late in the year, I still can.

It was a moment of epiphany and I'm already putting together a new project with this in mind. My new theatre friends may have reawakened a monster. But it will nice to see him back...

Fat: Part IV...

It is the Friday before Xmas and me and the Missus are having a lazy morning in bed when the phone goes.

I answer and it's Little Brother, although as he was topping the 18 stone mark at one point this year the word 'Little' doesn't really apply these days. So we are chatting about our respective diets and he's telling me how him and two friends have a £1000 bet to see who can lose the most weight and I tell him how me and the Missus are doing.
'I've lost about a stone and a half so far,' says Little Brother.
'I've done more than a stone and so has the Missus,' I reply.
'My target weight is 15 stone,' says Little Brother.
'Yeah. The Missus is nearly there at the moment,' I reply.

I feel a sharp dig in the ribs and am all too familiar with the icy stare that will greet me when I turn around. It was a joke but, apparently, girls don't have a sense of humour about weight issues.

Then I realise me and Little Brother are chatting about exercise and diets and losing weight like something from Loose Women. We'll be talking interior design next. God help us...

Play Reading...

I have my first play reading in more than 10 years. There's a proper story, different characters and even jokes. Some of them are quite rude and a few of them are even funny.

It's on at Guildford's Electric Theatre on 28 February 2012, starting at 7.45pm. Everybody is welcome. If I like you I'll buy you beer.

Recycled Jokes No.2...

I told you Kim Jong was Il(l)...

Fat: Part III...

I am ill and it is shit. I have spent the last five days sweating in bed. And not in a good way. I was alone.

On the plus side my eating pattern has not been regular if at all so I may have crept ahead in the diet challenge.

This is war. I will win at fucking any cost.

Pedantic...

The Missus has many fine qualities but patience and empathy are not two things she's blessed with. Fortunately, she more than makes up for the absence of these things with a pedantic streak that is a mile wide and twice as long.

This streak, however, has come back to bite her on the arse (not literally) in recent years because the Boy has also inherited it and when the two of them discuss anything she'll invariably say something slightly inaccurate and he'll jump on it like a hungry wolfpack devouring an injured deer.

Last weekend we visited my Guide Son and his parents and stayed over or the weekend. My Guide Son is essentially my God Son but his parents are card-carrying atheists so using the name of a deity they don't believe in seems redundant, hence Guide Son.

He's an utterly wonderful four-year-old and he now has a little sister, and with me and the Missus staying over at his parent's flat there was a bit of bed juggling so we ended up in their bedroom.

At 4.30am the Guide son climbs into bed with us and once he realised it was us rather than his parents he decided to stick around and curl up and go to sleep. This involved telling us about his nightmare and regaling us with tales from school then giving us a rendition of the Muppet Show theme tune. This went:
'It's time to play the music,
It's time to light the lights,
It's time to get things started,
On the Puppet Show tonight...'

At this point the pedant in the Missus woke up and corrected a four-year-old at 5am in the morning.
'It's "the Muppet Show tonight..."' she advised.

We're exhausted, it's 5am and we need sleep and she still can't turn the pedantry tap off.

A few days later, however, I was telling the Guide Son's father, who is also Young Brother of the Missus, this story and he laughed.
'I used to make the exact same mistake when singing the song,' he said. 'And she used to correct me, too.'
'At 5am?' I asked.
'Probably...'

I have not the words...

Charity Begins...

The Missus has cooked tea and we are preparing to sit down and watch Have I Got New For You.

I come into the living room after tidying up.
'Where's Have I Got News For You?'
'Not on.'
'Why not?'
'It's fucking Children In cunting Need.'

I share her ire.

Excited!

I have a rehearsed reading of my new play and it's my first public readthrough in more than 10 years.

The play is called Melt and the readthrough is at the Electric Theatre in Guildford on 28 February 2012 so I am now gutting and rewriting the play ready for its public debut.

And I've also started work on a new play about a catch wrestler and I'm also project managing a production in June...

It's all quite exciting.

Back In The Old Routine...

In a previous life I was a youth theatre worker and director, a community theatre writer and director, and a Fringe theatre writer and director.

And I did quite a lot of work with various companies and various groups. Some of it was very good and some of it was not so good, but it was a major part of my life for 15 years until an acrimonious split from one company made me ask why I was doing this... and I decided the effort wasn't worth the hassle any more.

Some six years after this split I started writing again and as from last week I'm back involved with a new theatre project in my new home town of Guildford. I met the company director a few months ago and we talked... and last week we had our first official meeting and it wasn't as scary as I thought it was going to be. In fact if anything I found it difficult to keep my mouth shut as old reflexes kicked in and ideas about turning words on a page into a moving, breathing thing on an empty stage kicked in.

The play we're working on is a new piece called Consider This and, if I had to nutshell it, it's a theatrical exploration of the power of forgiveness inspired by stories taken from The Forgiveness Project, a company which collects stories about victims of violence and their loved ones and suggests a better way to deal with hate and ideas of revenge.

That may sound a bit serious and dry and arty but the work of The Forgiveness Project is stunning in its scope and the piece our merry band of drama, music folk and film folk are working on will be lively and fun as well as thought-provoking.

I'll be haranguing friends into coming to see this play when it's on in June 2012. You have been warned...

Fat: Part II...

I have lost 12lbs in four weeks and I am comfortably back under 14 stone, which is about my fighting weight. If I fought.

This should be a reason to celebrate but currently it's torture as the office I share with several colleagues is never short of cakes or biscuits or sweets. And today I have a major craving for chocolate.

In fact I have such a craving for chocolate that I could quite easily walk down the road to M&S, pull out my credit card, buy an entire shelf of the stuff, return to the office and systematically trough my way through it. Then repeat until sick.

This is what it must be like to be a girl: craving nice things but under constant pressure to not eat in case it ruins all your previous efforts to be healthy and stay slim. I will never mock the Other Woman and her constant need for confectionery again. I'll just pick on her because she’s short and sassy instead.

In conclusion, diets are rubbish and I am probably having mood swings. You have been warned.

And I may want to cry for no apparent reason, too.

How Media Works...

My journalistic career as it is sometimes laughingly called has had many low points but I'm pleased to say that at least it will never plumb the barrel-scrapingly awful depths of an email I got earlier today.

Apart from the fact that what it suggests is an awful idea, it should also give non-media folk an idea of how the desperate quest for celebrity works and what depths some folk will sink to in order to keep their talent-free zone faces in the limelight.

The email reads as follows:

'Never underestimate the power of sisterhood' says Lauren and Nicola Goodger from hit ITV reality TV series - The Only Way is Essex.

TOWIE's most famous sisters, Lauren and Nicola Goodger are to recreate the looks of some of the worlds most iconic sisters in an exclusive media shoot.

Successful sisters go back generations; think Joan and Jackie Collins in the 80s, Kylie and Dani Minogue in the 90s and what would the noughties be without Kate and Pippa Middleton?

Regardless of the decade, the support and solidarity of sisterhood is what has helped make these women successful, which is why ‘The Only Way Is Essex’s’ sisters Lauren and Nicola Goodger are looking to recreate the looks of some the worlds most iconic sisters in an exclusive photo shoot.

'Team Goodger' are rapidly proving a force to be reckoned with here in the UK and this iconic photo shoot is set to put these two sisters on the map as the sisters who will be 'doing it for themselves' in next decade.

We're looking for one media outlet who would like to commission this exclusive photo shoot and interview.

I fear for humanity. It's fin de siecle time and these are the vinegar strokes.

Recycled Jokes No.1...

A former Libyan dictator was assassinated yesterday. He refused to take the advice of one of his guards, who shouted 'Gaddafi. Duck.'

Rejection!

I sent a radio comedy script out to an independent production company a while ago.

Sending it out was a bit of long shot but the script was smart and funny and I thought it had a fighting chance.

I got the rejection letter yesterday. It was quite complimentary about the script and its comedy but closed with the line: 'we don't feel it’s sophisticated enough for Radio 4.'

I sort of agreed and I also thought tht line would make a great t-shirt as it sums me up: 'not sophisticated enough for Radio 4'.

Then I thought I could add: 'with it's small audience of arty, tree-hugging, middle-class know-it-alls'.

Then I realised that is probably me as well.

In conclusion I actually can't write for myself...

Fat: Part I...

Myself and the Missus are on diets. I have put on a stone in the space of a year and now weigh 14 stone 6 lbs. I wouldn't mind but it's not like I'm not exercising. It's a sad reality... but I'm now podgy for the first time in my life.

I obviously can't comment on how much weight the Missus has put on or what her exercise regime has consisted of (as that would be a spare room offence) but her weight gain is apparently my fault. For making her too happy.
'I was at my thinnest before we met and I was unhappy,' she laments. 'It's your fault. I'm too contented to care now...'

My suggestion of having an affair so she can find out and be unhappy again apparently was not helpful.

So we're now both dieting. I've never dieted before but apparently it involves eating more fruit and vegetables and less cake and chocolate and drinking less booze. It sounds a bit shit to be quite frank but I'm going to give it a go.

Otherwise I'll be a rotund, middle-aged fatty and nobody wants that look. Apart from Eric Pickles...

Happy Anniversary: Part II...

Apparently a bottle opener attached to a piece of olive wood shaped like a knob is not considered an appropriate 10th wedding anniversary gift.

Happy Anniversary: Part I...

Me and the Missus are on holiday in Crete.

Today we celebrated 10 years of marriage by having a lazy day walking along the beach and getting upgraded to a very flash new hotel room courtesy of my wife's desire for the better things in life and a shrewd ability to negotiate.

Walking along the beach we shared some romantic anniversary-type thoughts.
'You never had that much grey hair when we married,' said the Missus.
"You were a size 12 when we first married,' I reply.

Apparently that does not constitute romantic banter.

Some time later I am getting the blame for the sea splashing her as we walk along the beach paddling. So I decide to defend myself.
'I cannot control the waves. I do not even pretend to able to control the waves. I am not King Canute,' I protest.
'Some of the letters in that king's name are close enough...' says the Missus.

We married well. Still happy...

The Write Stuff!

It's been a busy few weeks on the writing front at From Beer To Paternity Towers with stage plays going off to two theatres, a radio comedy going off to a major production company and a TV show being sent out to two other TV production companies.

The optimism such periods of creativity promotes is a wonderful thing. It's the first day of the football season where your team can still win everything... before hope disintegrates after a string of bad results; it's the anticipation of a first date when there may be romance and mind-blowing sex ahead... before you get dumped for a younger and prettier model.

I'm no longer overly optimistic about sending scripts out. I put the work in and ensure that whatever I'm sending out is better than the last thing I sent out but after that there are so many other factors that decide what gets picked up and what doesn't.

But, like anything else that really matters, it's important to keep doing it and to keep trying because the alternative is just to give up. And that sounds a bit rubbish.

Besides... I can't really do anything else.

Rolling News: Part II...

One of my oldest friends is now back in the UK after living in New Zealand for many years.

We're both Goolies and we both did A Levels together and our lives have intertwined at various stages over theatrical interests and martial arts interests without us actually knowing at the time... and only discovering these bizarre crossover points when we periodically caught up to discuss things.

Apart from us most recently discovering a newish shared passion for cartography, one of the things we're both a bit obsessed about is grappling and groundfighting so once we're sorted with a venue we'll be doing some rolling and some skill swapping.

I'm looking forward to this immensely. I think he is too. I can't think of a better way to reconnect with someone than to do this and in anticipation I've been going over all my old BJJ, submission wrestling, catch-as-catch-can wrestling and judo books and reading up on armbars, kimuras, Americanas and triangle chokes.

I'm even going to suggest we jokingly give ourselves a name:
Goole Wrestling Club: London Branch

It has a certain ring to it...

Rolling News: Part I...

Besides Hapkido, one of my martial arts passions is grappling and groundfighting and I'm a big fan of a website called Grapplearts.com.

This site is run by a guy called Stephan Kesting, who's a Brazilian Jiu-jitsu black belt and a certified instructor in Combat Submission Wrestling under Erik Paulson. The site is part-shopfront for Kesting's various DVDs (and I have his three iPod apps and they are excellent in case you're wondering) but it also has a load of free stuff that you can sign up for, including an email newsletter that features articles and videos on all manner of grappling-based stuff.

Kesting also interviews various luminaries from the world of grappling for a free podcast and his most recent interview features a high-level American BJJ competitor named Ryan Hall, who's a IBJJF/CBJJ Mundial world and European champion and claimed a medal at the ultra-prestigious Abu Dhabi Submission Wrestling World Championship.

The interview is very good and features quite a lot of information that is way over my head but Hall said two things that really struck me.

The first was when he was discussing a particular technique and he very carefully emphasised that this was his understanding of the technique at the moment.

I thought this was important because it showed that even as a high-level competitor he wasn't done understanding the technique yet and that he knew his understanding of it may yet change in years to come. In other words the technique was not a done deal but a steadily evolving organic entity that grows as his understanding of it grows.

The second thing that struck me about this was when he explained that if a more successful or feted grappler should explain the technique in a different way then anyone interested should disregard what he said and listen to them instead.

A willingness to keep on learning and humility. I bet he's a fantastic teacher.

Sign up to Grapplearts.com if you want to hear the full interview.

Love In The Time Of Cholera...

Gabriel Garcia Marquez’s magical realist masterpiece remains one of my favourite books. The story of a teenage love affair in Columbia that is reignited several decades later, it remains one of a handful of books that I go back to every several years and reread and get something new from every time.

When I was a single man I could usually gauge how long any new romance would last by asking if any new partner had read the book and what they thought of it. It wasn't that I was being some sort of intellectual elitist as several former lovers hadn't read the book and they were utterly lovely people, but when you discover you have the same shared literary passion as somebody new in your life then an immediate bond is formed.

When I first got together with the Missus we were discussing favourite books and when I asked her about the Marquez novel her immediate response was 'I've read it and I love it.'

One of the bits in the book we talked about way back then is towards the end of the story when the reunited lovers are travelling on a boat. They are both well into old age and they both have to deal with the practicalities of old age, such as inserting suppositories into one another and masking the smell of their urinary accidents. It sounds disgusting but it beautifully suggests that love is not just the province of the young and that there is also tenderness in caring for your lover in a very intimate way.

Some 15 years after me and the Missus got together, I fear we are now turning into the two ageing lovers from Love In The Time Of Cholera. With her chronically injured shoulder and my occasional martial arts ninja-ries we do seem to be spending lots of time nursing each other at the moment.

I fear suppositories are probably just around the corner, which would be ironic as she often says I'm a pain in the arse. You can probably make your own, better gags...

Black Belt Grading: Black Belt Presentation...

I was officially given my black belt a few weeks ago in a presentation involving the head of our academy and my teacher.

It was a fab day made even better when the Missus turned up with the Boy who came along to support me on a surprise visit from university. But I also felt slightly subdued and overwhelmed by it all.

For me learning a martial art and reaching black belt has been a journey about overcoming my own inadequacies. I'm also not a naturally gifted athlete so it's very much been a journey of perspiration rather than inspiration. I'm quite competitive, too, so it's been pretty tough seeing other people leave you in their slipstream as they pass you by and excell where you struggle.

In the days afterwards it felt like I was mourning the end of something. It felt like something had gone.

In reality, of course, learning a martial art is a continouous journey where the more you learn the less you realise you actually know and getting any new belt is only a signpost on that journey, although getting a black belt is obviously quite a significant one.

In poker it's often said that the really seasoned players have no comprehension of the actual value of the chips they're playing with. The idea of their monetary value is not important. Their chip stack is just a way of seeing where they are in the game. It's still being in the game that is the important thing.

It's an analogy I hope to now adopt with martial arts. The belt is just a symbol of where I am. The only thing that matters is ensuring I'm still in the game and sometimes playing well.

If I've learnt anything through all of this it's probably something along those lines.

Ticket Touts...

My delight at securing tickets to see PJ Harvey at the Royal Albert Hall is only matched by the horror of my credit card feeling like it’s been raped after booking through a major ticket agency.

I am astonished they can charge that much in additional fees.

The robbing bastards should advertise with a mask and a flintlock pistol.

Rioting Jokes...

My favourite two jokes about the riots:

Rioting in Guildford. Three caffe lattes and a three bean salad damaged.

Extensive rioting in Hull. The city centre and several buildings and major landmarks have been destroyed. Officials fear it may cost as much as £7 to repair the damage.

Lemmy: The Movie...

Myself and the Missus watched Lemmy: The Movie on BBC4 at the weekend.

For those who missed it check out the BBC iPlayer as it's a hugely entertaining two-hour profile of the Motorhead and former Hawkwind frontman.

Chief Foo Fighter Dave Grohl and a host of other rock and metal stars joined in to pay tribute to the godfather of heavy metal, who was either sat down with a Jack Daniels in his hand talking about his colourful career or meandering about doing 'normal' Lemmy things like talking about his collection of Nazi memorabilia or driving a tank.

It's a brilliant film and Lemmy is thoroughly engaging and actually quite sweet. He also has the best line:
'You can't have everything... Where would you put it?'

Genius.

Guilfest...

Myself and the Missus plus our Friends From The North and their We-Get-Him-If-They-Die Kid headed off to Guildford's annual music festival Guilfest at the weekend.

The Missus is currently sporting a chronically injured shoulder and my broken toe remains a bit broken so the two of us hobbled around the various stages and various food and beer stands and still had a ball.

Last year I took the We-Get-Him-If-They-Die Kid to his first thrash grunge metal gig at Guilfest when we saw the excellent Japanese Voyeurs. This year he decided he wanted to see Chipmunk and Ziggy Marley, prompting the joke:
Q. How does Ziggy Marley like his donuts?
A. With jammin' but not as much jammin' as his father.

Highlights of the day, though, were fab pies from Pie Society (see what they did there?) and a set by Hugh Cornwell playing both Stranglers favourites and his own solo stuff.

We also saw a band called Joana And The Wolf, fronted by London-based Lithuanian Joana Glaza (above), who was a bit Kate Bush, Patti Smith, Bjork and PJ Harvey all rolled into one. Her band, The Wolf, were also very tight and the set veered between haunting etherealness and kicking guitar-heavy tunes. Well worth a look on YouTube and they also have three singles on iTunes.

We also saw Erasure, who were so-so, and Public Image Limited, who were pretty fab. John Lydon apparently helped install a septic tank in Guildford when he was 15.

James Blunt was also headlining on one of the other stages. I headed home a little early as my injury was playing up and I went to the loo before doing so. I was toying with the idea of having a shit but decided on a piss instead. It was there I heard James Blunt.

Much as I like Blunt when I've seen him interviewed on chat shows I find his music awful and it was almost like my bowel was offering judgement: he's isnt really shit, just a bit piss-poor.

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