Holiday in Thailand: Part III...

I have four basic requirements from any holiday: 
i) Time with the Missus. 
ii) Time to swim on a nice beach. 
iii) Time to read. 
iv) Time to explore something old or cultural.

Thailand is providing all four with stunning scenery and fabulous food thrown in. We should have come here years ago. 

One highlight of the holiday so far is book one from my reading list. I thoroughly enjoyed Tipping Point by Malcolm Gladwell and his second book, Blink, is similarly entertaining and thought-provoking. 

It explores the premise that unconscious decisions are often more accurate and reliable than decisions taken that are backed up by extensive research and planning. Of course, it isn't quite that simple 

But Gladwell argues that unconscious decisions made by people with experience and understanding are often more reliable than decisions made by equally qualified people who purely rely on statistical data and so-called proof... as the former rely on their unconscious to process data while the latter invariably drown in a sea of excessive information. 

Gladwell sort of concludes that the best results come from a joining of both statistical data with 'blink' decisions, but only as long as the statistical data is directly relevant and the 'Blink' decision-maker has the experience to back up his instinct.

It's a wonderful book and it introduces ideas such as 'thin-slicing', 'sensation transference' and 'white space' when it comes to rapid decision making.

I'll be starting on his third book when I've finished Chuck Liddell's autobiography, which is proving to be an enjoyable and entertaining read. That should be no surprise, though, as I'm a big fan of Liddell and used to love watching him fight in the UFC. 

So another Gladwell book is next up. If I'm not tempted by Victorian Prostitutes or Batman first...

Holiday in Thailand: Part II...

Me and the Missus are having breakfast. It is our first morning at a plush spa resort in Krabbi and I have come up with a cunning plan.

This involves me taking redundancy at work, which as a journalist will probably come round at some point, then me and the Missus spending a year in an Asian country; meaning I can train in a martial art at source, and she can spend a year working as an apprentice potter at source. We're also both writers so we'd write about the experience and about each other, too. 

It's a plan I am very excited about and I am waxing lyrical. 
'It would be fab. We'd have to spend six months beforehand learning another language, we'd have to rent the house out but that would pay for itself, and we'd also have to put a chunk of cash in to make it work. But it would be a great adventure,' I enthuse. 'If we went to Korea, I could train in hapkido at source, while you could get a gig as an apprentice potter. It would take some organising but it would be fabulous. It would be an adventure. And it would be our adventure. Just me and you. How cool would that be?'

The missus is silent. I assume she is pondering the plan. Then she speaks. 
'Somebody's got waffles for breakfast.'

I could feel offended that I am being ignored. Until I realise I have the opening sentence of the book version of our travels...

Holiday in Thailand: Part I...

Me and the Missus are on holiday in Thailand. And here are some thoughts so far:

Bangkok is both insane and amazing.

Ayutthaya is stunning. 

The Reclining Buddha (pictured above) is beautiful, 

Krabbi is utterly enchanting.

Five-word Reviews: Byzantium...

Beguiling, stylish, sexy vampire thriller.

Some Thoughts on Ed Miliband...

The problem with Ed Miliband is that we’re supposed to believe he’s a credible world statesman, a politician who can represent Britain and British interests on the world stage.

And it’s not like he has a huge weight of expectation on his shoulders either: the last two Labour Prime Ministers were Tony Blair and Gordon Brown, one of them a war criminal, and the other a Scottish man who was so unpopular that God produced a Biblical flood to wipe him out.

  

The other problem with Miliband is that in a world where media image is increasingly important, he has a look of continual befuddlement, like he just doesn’t understand what is going on and what his part in it is. 

Drink a pint, Ed. He looks ridiculous. Eat a bacon sandwich, Ed. He looks ridiculous. Look like a normal bloke, Ed. He looks ridiculous. Kidnap George Osbourne, dress him in rubber, put you in a Gingham dress, then simulate sex acts with each other in the window of Selfridges on Oxford Street, Ed. He still looks ridiculous. He can’t even get those basic things right.

Ed Miliband just doesn’t look the part. A world statesman? You have to be joking! Running the country? Please! He’d look out of his depth as the assistant manager of the tie department of Grace Brothers in Are You Being Served. Right? Probably. But that's also because we're obsessed with how he looks and how he comes across in the media.

Because unless you want another five years of repugnant, privileged, wealth-shitting former Etonians like Cameron and Osbourne, people who view any form of compassion for the poor like it was a turd that won’t flush in the bowl of the only fully functioning toilet at a dinner party for oligarchs, then you have to put all those media-contructed opinions about Miliband presenting themselves as facts aside and vote for him.

Because if it’s a choice between people who blatantly don’t care for anyone except their rich mates, or a bloke who clearly does care but just looks a bit crap doing it in front of a camera, then I know which one I will be voting for.

And it’s not that smug cunt, David Cameron. 

A Good Day...

This morning, I woke up curled between the Missus and our cat, Buffy.



I went to work then met the Other Woman Who Loves Other Women for dinner (note to readers from below the Watford gap: dinner means the midday meal). 

After work, I went training and spent time in the pub with the Other Woman afterwards.

My day then ended as it had begun, in bed with the Missus and the cat.

 

Days generally don't get better than this. Even with other less good shit stuff inbetween.

50 Shades of Grey...

I am in the pub with the Other Woman, who informs me that she and a mutual friend are having a girly night out to watch the soft-porn S&M chick flick, 50 Shades of Grey. She then asks me if I will be taking the Missus to see it. 

I reply with the following: 'I don't feel an urgent need to watch a fictitious story about a relationship that starts with the promise of spiritual fulfilment and intriguing sex, then turns into a soul-destroying journey where one dominant partner humiliates a submissive partner, only granting them sexual favours on their terms and usually after prolonged bouts of mental torture and physical chastisement. I feel that is a thing I am quite familiar with…'

The Other Woman ponders for a while, then concurs: 
'I see your point.'

The Modern World Disgusts Me: Part 1...

I was in a shop today looking at buying music and I chanced upon a CD by an artist called Joey Badass. But his surname was spelt Bada$$. Honestly. This is a real thing. I have not made it up for comedy purposes. He actually exists. Above is a picture to prove this is real.

I was also walking up Guildford High Street when the Missus pointed out that there was a stand for UKIP opposite the posh bread stall. And there the UKIPs were, talking to people, like they were proper human beings and not the Poundland racists and discredited Tories they actually are. And some people were talking back to them. Like it was a perfectly normal thing to do.

Some people are just fucking idiots.

Five-word Reviews: Ex Machina...

Engaging enough low-key, sci-fi thriller.

Comedy News…

Two comedies currently providing much enjoyment at From Beer to Paternity Towers are Catastrophe on Channel 4 and Uncle, which was a sleeper hit on BBC3 last year and is about to return for a second series.  

Catastrophe is written by Sharon Horgan, who co-wrote the excellent adult sitcom, Pulling, a few year ago, and American actor-writer Rob Delaney. They play a Londoner and an American who find themselves parents-to-be after a passionate fling ends up with a baby en route.

It’s beautifully written and beautifully under-played, with none of the cast grasping for laugh lines. And even though it can occasionally mine uncomfortable territory (birth trauma, cancer, social awkwardness), it still manages to be very human with both central characters eminently likeable. It also boasts a cameo from Carrie Fisher, while the superb Ashley Jensen features in a supporting role.

Series two of Uncle gets under way any day now and Nick Helm still excels as the loveable but emotionally stunted loser of the title, with the excellent Elliot Speller-Gillott as his strait-laced and neurosis-laden nephew, Errol, whose own trial through teenage-dom continues to delight.

  

Catastrophe is currently on Channel 4 and is well worth a catch-up if you’ve missed it. Uncle is well worth a series record when it kicks off.

Breakdown: Part 1...

I am a tad worried that I may be having a breakdown of some description. 

I was out playing snooker with a friend the other day and, dotted around the club, were flyers advertising a vacancy for a part-time table cleaner. The hours were daily between 7-11am and the flyer suggested it would suit 'a student or an active pensioner'.

And I genuinely thought 'I'd like to do that!' It would be a quiet work environment, I could cycle there from home and cycle back again and that would be good exercise, and I could take real pride in making sure those tables were in pristine condition before the club opened and the players arrived. 

I'd get real satisfaction out of doing something like that. I'd be meticulous and I would genuinely care. I'd be good at it, too, because it's a good club and they recognise the importance of providing a professional playing environment for all their players. And I could contribute to that and it would make me happy. 

The Missus pointed out that this was probably an indication of current stresses in my latest job and a lack of satisfaction after a tough few weeks. She also said it would pass. 

But I fear it won't pass. I fear it's getting worse. I'm currently in a well-paid job and an alternative career doing menial work that is probably poorly paid is sounding tempting...

I also read OK! today and I genuinely wanted to shoot most of the people in it. And although that is probably a perfectly rational response, it isn't a right one. Or is it? I'm too confused to tell...

Five-word Reviews: Birdman...

Razor-sharp, offbeat, uplifting satire.

The Best Joke in the World: Part 1...

Q. Why should Grandmaster Flash never bully Bono from the U2?
A. Because he's close to The Edge. 

Upcycling...

The Missus has turned into a crafting dervish: her pottery skills impress on an almost weekly basis when she brings her latest creations home, and she's also dabbling with sewing.

We've also been after a bookcase for the front room and, instead of spunking lots of cash on a new one, she simply got an old one out of the cellar and upcycled it.

I was hugely impressed by this and commended her work.
'That's fabulous. It really is,' I offered as I admired her handiwork.
'I'm pretty pleased,' she replied.
I continued: 'I'm most impressed because it's the first time you upcycled anything. You took something tatty, unappealing, smelly, old and broken and made it both presentable and serviceable. It's brilliant.'
'Actually, it's not the first time I've upcycled and improved something,' she replied. 'I've had one upcycling project going for about 18 years now...'
'And what's that?'
'It remains unfinished...'

And, with that, she started to get changed as we prepared to go out and celebrate our anniversary. It's been 18 happy years...

Five-word Reviews: Foxcatcher...

Unremittingly grim, conspicuous Oscar-chaser.

Happy Anniversary...

It is Sunday morning and me and the Missus are in bed, following a meal out to celebrate 18 years together, a meal that was rounded off with a trip to the pub, then more booze back at home. Consequently, we are a tad 'fragile' and watching rubbish telly before we make the move to get out of bed. 

The TV programme in question is Amanda Lamb Sells Houses. Or something like that. And, in this particular episode, the eponymous TV presenter is advising a home owner and her very silent husband on what they should do to increase their chances of a successful house sale. The woman, however, is quite bullish in her rejection of Lamb's eminently sensible advice and the Missus is perturbed by this. 
'Why doesn't the husband say anything? Is he a mute?' asks the Missus. 
'No. He's just terrified to question her decisions and he's obviously had his spirit broken by years of verbal abuse and criticism, aimed at making him "better".'
'Where on Earth have you got that from?' she replies. 
'I recognise the look...' 
'What look?' 
'Nothing. It's just a wild guess...' 

Shortly afterwards, I was on punishment detail stripping the bed and making more cups of tea. I am banned from having opinions. Fact. 

Grayson Perry...

It's nice when you get an unexpected surprise. And, this week, I've had just such a thing. 

The Missus got into pottery about three years ago and, by osmosis, I now know a bit more about the likes of Bernard Leach and Grayson Perry than I probably otherwise would do. Such knowledge sharing obviously works both ways, though, as she now has a solid understanding of UFC fighters and she can spot a hapkido wrist lock or a BJJ arm bar at 100 yards.

But back to pottery... 

A while ago, I downloaded the series of 2013 Reith Lectures that Perry gave entitled Playing to the Gallery. Topics covered in these lectures included the value and purpose of art in the modern age, a personal review of Perry's own artistic career, and a discussion on what is classified as art in the 'anything-goes' world of modern art. 

And they're utterly wonderful. The lectures are entertaining, thought-provoking and, at times, quite moving. They're well worth a listen if art of any discipline is your thing. 

Even better, they're available for free on the BBC website. Joyous stuff. 

Happy New Year...

It's getting towards the New Year so I'm already planning 2015 and reflecting on 2014.

Should anyone care, here are my highlights of the past 12 months:

TV: Emmerdale remains the best-written thing on UK TV. Yes. Emmerdale. That soap that used to be about farming. Set in Yorkshire. And, once upon a time, was only shown on Tuesday and Thursday dinner-times in the YTV area. But it is consistently brilliant. To retain that level of quality for six episodes every week over 52 weeks every year is an astonishing feat. Coronation Street is the second-best-written thing on British TV. It manages to maintain its quality, humour and drama for five 30-minute episodes over 52 weeks every year. It's an astonishing achievement to do that. Other good stuff I've seen this year has included series one and series two of Nordic Noir thriller The Bridge, and series one and two of The Vikings. There hasn't been an awful lot else to write home about. That, however, may change when I catch up with series two of Brit thriller The Fall. EastEnders wins the award for most consistently awful TV show of the year: bad scripts, poor plotting, terrible character development... It's a year to forget in Walford. Doctor Who also needs a kick up the arse. But, like Enders, that's also been on the slide for a few years now.

FILM: X-Men: Days of Future Past and Guardians of the Galaxy were bit hits at From Beer to Paternity Towers. Yes, the X-men movie wasn't as good as the original comic story it was loosely based on, but it sort of hung together, while Guardians of the Galaxy was just an utter blast from start to finish. I'm majorly excited about the new Avengers movie, Age of Ultron, which is out next year, too.

RADIO & PODCASTS: Fighting Talk, the Radio 5 Live sports comedy quiz, remains a must-listen, while the Richard Herring Leicester Square Theatre Comedy Podcast has been a source of utter joy this year. I will be paying to money to Richard Herring for this. It's wonderful. I'm amazed it's still free. Other shows I've enjoyed dipping into have included Private Passions, a sort of high-brow Desert Island Discs, on Radio 3, and I'm loving waking up to Breakfast on Radio 3 in a morning since buying a digital alarm clock radio. I don't know enough about classical music and this is a good way to learn more without making a massive effort. The Grapplearts podcasts have also been a good and interesting source of BJJ information this year.

MUSIC: The Kate Bush gig at Hammersmith was a thing of utter beauty and joy and was quite possibly my cultural highlight of the year. The Gaslight Anthem gig at Alexandra Palace and Arcade Fire at Olympia were also fabulous. Seeing The Buzzcocks at Guildfest was also very good. CDs I loved this year include Get Hurt by The Gaslight Anthem

THEATRE: The one thing that absolutely knocked me on my arse this year was Ballyturk by Enda Walsh at the National. Intriguing, bizarre, funny and moving. And I still haven't quite figured out exactly what it was that I saw either. The other thing that I found really moving was John & Jen. This musical two-hander was put on by a theatre company I'm involved in, but it was was really engaging and captivating and took me totally by surprise.

COMEDY: Stewart Lee was as excellent as ever. The comedy highlight of the year, though, was Sara Pascoe. Intelligent and funny. I just wish I'd seen the entire show.

BOOK & COMICS: American Vampire and Batman, both by Scott Snyder, have been brilliant this year. I've also been won over by the Warren Ellis run on Moonknight. The relaunch of Electra also looks promising. The book that's really stayed with me this year has been Tipping Point by Malcolm Gladwell, a sort of pop science, history and sociology book about social trends as epidemics. It's an interesting read. I'll be dipping into more of his stuff.

PERSONAL HIGHLIGHTS: Visiting New York at the start of the year, visiting Cornwall at the end of the year, competing in my first grappling tournaments at the age of 45, having a successful readthrough of my most recent play, retaining my health and my sanity in an ever-more-demanding workplace. It's been OK as a year. 

For You, Buddy...

A good friend lost his ten-year-old boy to leukaemia earlier this year. 

Throughout the two-year battle with the disease, his son had shown immense courage and a refusal to let this horrible disease get the better of him. The friend and the friend's family had shown a similar courage throughout what must have been a horrendous ordeal.

Myself and the Missus attended the funeral. To be perfectly honest, it was a day I dreaded ever since hearing the news of the child's passing. At the same time, though, there was never any question that we weren't going to be there. 

Funerals are never good things at the best of times. But when it's a parent burying their child, the circumstances are about as bad as it can be. Of course, you're there to lament the loss and support the parents. But how do you offer words of comfort in those circumstances? What can you possibly say to offer salve to the wound of where a life used to be?

The service was incredibly moving and, from the church, we went back to a church hall for a get-together, where the father had done a slide show of pictures of his son, so those who didn't really know him could get a sense of him. And there were pictures of him with his family, pictures of him as a baby, pictures of him with various celebrities. The over-riding sense was here was somebody who was just up for life. 

And there were pictures of him with his father, both before he got ill and while he was ill. And you saw the love. It was an almost tangible thing. And you realise that is the thing that's left, it's the thing that remains. The love. And some people never have that or don't know how to give that. But here it was just such an evident thing. 

I remain genuinely devastated for the son's death and for my friend's loss. But I'm pleased that legacy of love remains. The older I get, I realise love is the only thing that really matters any more.

And I hope that love provides comfort at Christmas. Because I know that will be a hard time for him and his.

Thinking of you, buddy. And lots of your friends are, too. Even if they don't directly say it.

TV PItches: No.2...

I'm putting the finishing touches to a new TV project. 

It combines the nation's love of prime-time ballroom, tango, waltz and samba, and its current fascination with ridiculing and demonising the poor, the unfortunate and the unemployed. 

It has a competitive element and it's set on a poverty-stricken housing estate over-run with drug dealers and C4 documentary makers. 

It's call Strictly Scum Dancing. 

It's a sure-fire winner. 

Any TV execs out there? Let's talk...

Nightclubbing...

As a 45-year-old man, my days of going clubbing are a thing of the past. Unless I'm on a night out with my pool-playing friends. Then I am in real danger of forgetting this is the case and that it should probably always remain the case.

We generally end up in such places if we've been out and we fancy a late drink. And this was the case, recently, when several of us descended on a local nightclub in Guildford. It was an entertaining evening as we were out for our friend's 40th birthday. 

This was a genuine hoot, even when it got slightly messy, with him too drunk to stay in the club and a couple of other friends expressing their concern at this to the security staff, who were actually very lovely and professional.

The most disturbing aspect of the evening, though – apart from the other men around my age who seemed to be there to secure themselves a much younger lover – were several young boys who I found arguing in the toilets with the attendant. 

They were clearly educated and were dressed in what looked like fashionable and expensive clothes, and they were arguing with the toilet attendant about religion. They were also drunk but seemed to take great delight in mocking the poor man and bamboozling him with theories of narrative fiction and the idea of religion as a fictional construct. 

Then, on the way out, one of them said the following sentence to his friend. 
'Dude. I CAN'T believe you were arguing with the brush-down man! Duh! What were you thinking?!' 

It was at this point in the evening I should have grabbed the over-privileged little twat by the throat and told him to keep his patronising comments to himself, before asking him when the last time he worked for a minimum wage was. I was then going to ask him whether the privileged name for toilet attendant was 'brush-down man' because I had no idea what the proper title was. But he seemed to.

Sadly, I didn't do either. But I should have done. I did, however, enjoy the sight of him getting rejected by at least three young women over the following 45 minutes. They maybe found him equally repellent. 

And it meant I didn't have to follow him home, kidnap him and cut shit off him with gardening shears to teach him some manners.

Footballers...

Over the past few years, my viewpoint towards most Premier League footballers has become one of contempt and disgust. Their outrageous earning power, their seeming contempt for normal codes of behaviour, their seeming existence in a moral vacuum…

I obviously realise this is a hugely bigoted view, but I'd sort of fallen for the tabloid stories and exposes as the norm rather than the exception.

This year, however, I've seen two examples of things that have made me re-address this view.

The first was at the funeral of my friend's son. The child was a mad Chelsea fan and, while undergoing treatment, he had gone to Stamford Bridge and met the Chelsea players and had formed something of a bond with several of their stars. This is obviously something most clubs take part in, but the genuine concern and subsequent relationship built went above and beyond what you'd expect.

The other example was the commemoration of the Hillsborough disaster. This was a genuinely moving experience and you could see how involved all the fans and all the players were.

There are times that sport, and particularly professional football, can be a grubby business, where the high ideals expounded about sporting excellence promoted on the pitch aren't matched by behaviour away from it. But there are also times when sport and its sportsmen transcend that world and are capable of amazing acts of compassion and kindness.

It's good to be reminded of these things. It's just a shame it takes tragic events to begin this realisation. For both me and them...

Smug Bastard News...

I have tickets to see the Foo Fighters at Wembley next year. 

I am beyond ecstatic...

Fit...

I have a few days off work so I ventured to a dinner-time BJJ class. I've been away from any serious martial arts training for a while with an injury and I'm just starting to tentatively return again.

My instructor was pleased to see me, then pointed to my stomach and suggested I'd piled the weight on in my absence. 

The class was fab but I got ruined at sparring. It was good to be back. 

Even if I am fat...

The Gaslight Anthem...

Myself and the Missus ventured to Alexandra Palace in that London (over-crowded and busy place where we used to live) to see The Gaslight Anthem. 

The Gaslight Anthem are an American new wave/punk band the Missus got into about the time of their breakthrough second album, The 59 Sound, in 2008. Now we're both fans and we've seen them a few times since. 

The New Jersey outfit were touring the UK to promote their fifth and newest album, Get Hurt, which is a more mature and mellow affair than their rockier two opening two albums or their more sophisticated third and fourth albums, American Slang and Handwritten. 

With a growing back catalogue, the Gaslight Anthem as a live act can now weave several newer or slower songs into their set, before kicking in when the band goes into attack mode and launches into their more well-known, high-energy tunes.

Because they've spent so much time touring and building a fan base since 2006, they're a fantastic live act and, in lead singer Brian Fallon, they have a great frontman and a genuinely gifted songwriter. 

The band have already produced five really strong albums and, somewhere along the line, they'll 'do a Green Day' and produce something like American Idiot that resonates worldwide and turns them into global superstars. 

Until then, however, I'm delighted I can still get tickets to their gigs.

Not Good People: Part II...

I have a rehearsed reading of a new play in few days so I'm polishing the script and tinkering. I'm still aware the play needs a bit of layering and it also needs a small, trim but it's pretty much there. I can write. I'm actually not bad with words.

Then, last night, the Missus came out with the following sentence while trying to stab e with a fork:
'I'm not cunting well kissing you, you fucking shite-hawk!'

I'm maybe no so creative with words after all...

Romance News...

Me and the Missus are laid in bed. We are doing what young people call 'chill-axing'. But I'm restless and consequently I'm wittering.
'You see, all you have to do is occasionally feed me, fuck me and let me go out once in a while, and I'm sorted.'
'I suppose you're quite low maintenance,' she comments, not really paying much attention.
'I don't watch much out of life...'
'You're very loyal, too. It's something I've always liked about you,' adds the Missus. 
'Yes.'
'And you do enjoy walking, too.'
'Yes.'
'Low maintenance, loyal, likes walking and sometimes demands food and sex...You'd make a very good dog.'
'But dogs are stupid?'
'Yes. You'd make a very good dog...'

Not Good People: Part I...

I have a reading for a new play in three weeks. The play will be ready by then, but it currently needs a bit of editing and trimming to get rid of the more hectoring elements. 

It needs a final scene, too. But overall, I'm pretty pleased with it. And I've pretty much got my dream cast to perform it, so I'm looking forward to it. 

The play is called Not Good people and it's sort of about apathy and engagement with politics. Writing it has been quite good for me because I tend to work out my own thinking on things while I'm writing and it's given me a bit of a kick up the arse about my own political engagement.

With work hectic and my martial arts training becoming increasingly more important, it's easy to forget there's a wider world out there that you are part of and should more fully engage in. And, who knows, this may be the start of me reconnecting with the political again in a more active capacity.

Of course, it may also not be because I've had a cracking idea for a new commercial comedy as well. But we'll see.

I'll post a scene from the play in the next day or so. See what you think...

Fact of the Day...

Tits-out model, entrepreneur and feminist icon to gullible teens Katie Price (or Jordan as she used to be known) is currently promoting her 42nd book. 

I find that astonishing because a crueler person may suggest it is 41 more books than she's actually read and 42 more books than she's actually written. The latter, of course, may well be true.

Is it more depressing that:
a) She has achieved this? or b) There is clearly a market for this?

I don't know. Should I weep over this or secretly admire her chutzpah?

Holiday: Part III…

St Ives had some great stuff and the highlights for me were:

i) The Leach Pottery, which housed the original workshops where the father of the British pottery movement, Bernard Leach, produced work and essentially founded a movement linking British arts and crafts to the millennia-old Japanese pottery industry.

ii) The Hepworth Museum and Studio (above), where the Wakefield-born sculptor worked in St Ives, and the attached and quite intimate gardens, which displayed quite a lot of her work.

iii) The beaches, the scenery and the coastal walks. Quite lovely.

iv) The Tate, which was much less impressive than either of its London counterparts but still quite inspiring in a much more small-scale and provincial way.

V) A seal. I saw one of these quite close up swimming among the rocks. It was totally unexpected and really wonderful. This one small but amazing thing was probably my highlight of the entire holiday.

We also ventured into Penzance to visit Penlee House, which is another art gallery with an attached museum and gardens. The exhibition on here featured a painter called Leonard Fuller, who was one of the fathers of the St Ives art community. He was a portrait painter trained at the Royal Academy, who saw action in World War One, then came to St Ives and set up an art school with his wife and a former Army colleague.

Hugely influential in the local area, he then broke away from the more traditional school he set up to form a school more allied with modernisn, which included Barbara Hepworth among its members. Fuller lived into the 1970s and continued to contribute to both schools and was awarded a major award for his contribution to the arts alongside Hepworth.

Penzance itself was a bit grim, although most holiday places probably look a bit shit out of season and in the rain. The exhibition at the Penlee, though, was well worth the visit.

Holiday: Part II…

Me and the Missus are in St Ives for a few days. As per usual when travelling with the Missus via Reading, we have experienced a two-hour delay and a six-hour journey is now taking eight hours.

On the plus side, as we travel through Cornwall, it is kicking-out time at school and lots of quite posh children are getting on and off the train with musical instruments.

I turn to the Missus and comment: ‘We’re surrounded by musical youth and we are passing the Duchy on the left-hand side. If only we had a song to remember the occasion…’

She sighs and gives me a look that is part-pity and part-despair. 

I feel guilty and immediately apologise.

‘I’m sorry. You could have married a funnier or a cleverer one. You must feel cheated…’

She smiles, before replying: ‘I’m not worried about funny or clever. I would have liked richer, though.’ Ouch!

Holiday: Part I...

Me and the Missus haven't had a proper holiday all year so we're taking a few days off and heading to St Ives for some chilling-out-innit time. 

And I've adapted a famous nursery rhyme especially for the occasion:
'As I was going to St Ives,
I met a man with seven wives:
He was a polygamist.'

I never said it was sophisticated.

UKIP...

UKIP have their first proper MP. This means British politics is in quite a bad state, even though I can only assume it's a protest vote.

But protest vote or not, it genuinely worries me that a majority of voters can genuinely think that a little Englander from a party of racists and homophobes is a candidate worthy of support.

At times, people and their stupidity makes me despair.