Newcastle: Part I: Beer...

Me and the Missus are in a pub in Newcastle called The Bodega. It's an old Victorian pub that still has some old fixtures and fittings and it's bloody lovely. 

In it, they are also serving a beer called Chew Chew by a brewery called Fallen Brewing Company. The beer (pictured above) is a salted caramel milk stout. And it's fabulous! 

Newcastle also has a Brewdog bar that serves all manner of craft beers. Newcastle is pretty darn good!

Competition Time: Part IV...

Today, I was supposed to be competing in the Surrey Open, which was supposed to be my third BJJ tournament of the year. But I'm still recovering from injury, so, like the last one, it was a non-starter, making it a disappointing one out of three for the year so far.

A couple of my pals were fighting, though, so I went along to see what was what.

The first thing to note was that it a very well run event, with mat times and fight schedules running pretty much exactly as advertised. One of my friends picked up a deserved bronze after winning one fight, then losing the next. The guy he lost to looked much bigger and my mate had a damaged hand, so he did well not to get submitted. My other friend fought a guy who quite simply looked like an ogre, and he was eventually submitted, despite battling on very bravely against what looked like a brutal leg triangle attempt.

It was good to watch them in action, though. I then went to watch the people in the category I would have been fighting in. If fully fit, I think I'd have done OK.

But I'm slowly coming back to training and competing in the London Open in October is now the goal.

The Modern World Disgusts Me: Part VI…

The hit Britcom film, Love Actually, starring Hugh Grant, was on telly last night. 

I didn't watch it. I just noticed it was on, but I did some basic maths and worked out that it went on for two hours and 40 minutes.

That seems an awfully long time time. I am assuming extra time was added for adverts, and extra pauses were added so fans of the flop-haired prostitute hirer and affable upper-class twit actor would know where to chuckle, but that's still nearly three hours. 

I haven't seen the film but I reckon two hours would be my limit. The idea of nearly three hours seems like torture...

Emmerdale: The Best Thing on British TV...

Once upon a time, Emmerdale was a 30-minute soap that went out on Tuesday and Thursday dinner times in the YTV region on ITV. Its main concerns surrounded a farming family called the Sugdens and what happened on their farm. It was a Yorkshire-based version of The Archers, but with better visual content and a wonky set. 

That was in the 1970s. Fast Forward to 2015 and it's the best-acted, best-written and best-plotted show on TV in the UK, and it has been for about the past two years. 

The soap produces six 30-minute episodes every week and affairs, blackmail, more affairs, violence, crime, yet more affairs and bitter family feuds are what it does on a regular basis. It does still, however, throw in the occasional farming storyline and relatives of its original family, the Sugdens, are still involved, too. 

But alongside the dramatic blockbuster moments is a bedrock of believable and largely likeable characters that long-term fans have a vested interest in. Most Emmerdale characters are people you'd probably want to spend time with in a pub. EastEnders should take note.

The centrepiece of its latest storyline is the wedding of hunky farmer Pete Barton to Debbie Dingle, the daughter of the machiavellian pairing of canoodling cousins Cain and Charity Dingle. Debbie, however, had been bonking Pete's dodgy brother Ross Barton, a muscled id with nearly fashionable facial hair and a good line in self-confidence, and the secret affair threatening to come out was one of the key stories brewing in the build-up to the wedding. 

The truth about the affair did, obviously, come out just before the first dance kicked off… then events elsewhere saw a helicopter plummet into the reception and leave the wedding party with slightly bigger problems that a betrayed groom and  a damaged wedding cake. 

The build-up to the wedding and the disaster has been a masterclass in both long-term storylining and character development. The actual wedding and disaster is simply superior TV drama. It's well-written, it's well-acted, it's well-produced… and, most importantly, the various plot strands that come together this week are all utterly believable. The aftermath also gives the show for lots of material for future story development.

Kate Oates, the series producer, recently went on record as saying that she thought she had the best ensemble cast of any soap. And, watching Emmerdale this week, it's hard to disagree. There are some beautiful moments, with comedy characters like Dan Spencer and Kerry Wyatt doing genuinely moving dramatic scenes as Ruby Haswell breathes her last. And Val Pollard returning from the grave to say goodbye to hubby Eric is a touching, funny and surprisingly poignant moment.

The big dramatic hitters, such as Michael Parr and Anthony Quinlan as Ross and Pete Barton, and Jeff Hordley as Cain Dingle, are also fabulous. As are Charlie Hardwick and Elizabeth Estensen as warring sisters Val Pollard and Diane Sugden.

But it really is an ensemble piece and it's an excellent one. Enders has been in terminal decline for some years now, and Corrie is still excellent, but Emmerdale has consistently raised its game and, this week in particular, it's hit new heights. 

Emmerdale kicks all sorts of arse. Fact.

Cilla Black...

National treasure Cilla Black has died. The headlines on the 24-hour rolling news channels all read Cilla Black Death. It made it sound like bubonic plague had made a comeback. 

I also have a Cilla Black joke. For any Cilla Black fans reading this, don't worry, it's a bit saucy and it doesn't ridicule or demean her in any way. And it's very funny.

I'll write it up in the next few days and you can judge for yourselves...

Sticking Point: Part IV...

As has been previously documented on this blog, I am learning my first martial arts weapon at Hapkido, the Korean martial art I've studied for more than a decade. 

The weapon is a short stick called a tahn bong and it's used for striking, blocking, stabbing, choking and manipulating joints. It's a little like the billy club my favourite superhero, Daredevil, uses, so I was hoping I'd be a natural with it. Sadly, I'm not. 

To improve, I've built training for 15 minutes every day into my work schedule and I've now been doing this for about six months, and, recently, I thought I was getting somewhere with it. My strikes were fluid and my striking accuracy was definitely improving. 

Then, at a couple of recent classes, I've had a few major corrections to my striking. The first was to do with excessive shoulder rotation and the second was to do with thumb placement. I was also told that I'm gripping my stick too hard. Make your own jokes… 

So I've had to re-adjust my striking technique and pretty much restructure most of my delivery. It's a bit annoying I'm not as good as I want to be, but it's all part of the process. 

At least, I'm slowly working my way through more of the second dan syllabus now. These things take time, and I'm in no rush. I also need to sometimes remember that most 46-year-olds don't even study one martial art, let alone two.

Perseverance is all. 

Competition Time: Part III...

I was supposed to be competing in Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu at the Brighton Open. Unfortunately, my ribs are still healing and a recurring knee injury is flaring up, so I went along to support my team-mates and do a bit of a recce to see what the competition was like. 

My friends did very well. One blue belt pal looked pretty unstoppable in both go and no-gi, while a white belt colleague won all three of his fights to win gold in his division pretty comprehensively.

I watched the fighters in the age and weight category that I compete in and a few of them looked very good, very calm, very experienced and technically very solid. But I felt, if fully fit, I could have worked as hard as they did and have been as dynamic, which would give me a decent chance of at least not getting totally ruined against them. 

It also made me realise that If I want to compete and do well I  have to train, eat and rest properly before an event. Preparation may not be the key to winning against a more skilled fighter, but it will give me a better chance of success. 

I did see two brilliant things at the Brighton Open, though. 

The first was a young lad in a wheelchair, who had lost the use of the bottom half of his body, fighting in the event. He won a massive round of applause for both his fights and rightfully so. Getting caught up with winning and losing can sometimes make you forget that just competing and learning and improving should be enough when you're doing a martial art. It was a good lesson in humility.

The second was a young girl of about six competing. She already looked quite fluid but everyone else was just so much bigger than her. It was impressive to see, though, and again quite humbling. 

But it was a good day. Competing would have been better, but a bit of supporting and the chance to do a recce wasn't a bad second place option. 

The key tactical things I took from the day were: fighting and driving for position and securing a stronger position; and never accepting an inferior position.

The Labour Party...

I've just joined The Labour Party. Living in Guildford, that makes me something of a minority. 

When asked whey I was joining, I said the following: 
'There has to be an alternative.
Labour has to be that alternative. 
And it has to win the argument. 
Now, more than ever…'

Pretentious? Maybe… But it's bloody true.

Five-word Reviews: Ant-Man...

Nerdbait-filled, fun superhero frolic.
Thoroughly enjoyable comic-book romp.

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

'Aaaaaaaaaa!'

'Eeeeeeeeee!'

'Iiiiiiiiiiiiiii!'

'Ooooooooo!

'Uuuuuuuuu!' 

I have irritable vowel syndrome.

The Tory Party...

Growing up in Yorkshire, I saw successive Conservative governments destroy large swathes of my beloved home county and its industries, whether it was attacks on the coal mines, the docks, shipbuilding or any other major or light industry that happened to not fit in with their economic vision. 

Consequently, for quite a long time, I held the view that the only good Tory was a dead one.  I've since met Tories that I've liked and been charmed by, so I've decided my adolescent view of the Tory Party and any fucker associated with it may have been a tad extreme.

Now David Cameron and his pals have been re-elected, though, I'm starting to wonder if it really was all that extreme in the first place. 

Most of them don't seem to give a shit about anyone but themselves and their monied kith and kin, they seem to have very little concern for any form of compassion for those less fortunate, and their economic policies seem to be about creating more wealth for the wealthy and not really giving a shit about the poor. 

And, worse, they don't even try to pretend they care any more. Every policy they create smacks of an arrogant flaunting of wealth; they trumpet the values of the unfettered free market, while scapegoating all those without their fortunate social status who don't have financial or class privilege.

But how do you combat them? 

There's no point in trying to cull them via some act of barbaric terrorism. For a start, that's not an acceptable answer and, logistically, there's just too many of them coming off the Eton production line. And certainly, judging by the result of the last election, the argument about who should run the country and what values we should uphold seems to have been lost. They remain the people most other people want in power at the moment.

It's a horrible feeling that they've probably won for quite a while now. And it's a massively depressing thought that most people either think like them or don't care enough about anything but themselves to seen any alternative.

Labour needs to get its act together. The alternative is too depressing to seriously think about...

Rejection Letter...

Today, I got another script rejection through the post. Actually, I lie. It was an email. But it was still rejection none-the-less. This was a bit galling, but I'm sort of hardened to it by now. 

On the plus side, though, the script in question did make it through to 'an advanced stage of reading' so it means it wasn't rejected outright. And, as I haven't quite finished rewrites on the script yet, it means I have reasons to be optimistic when I send it to a few other places over the next few weeks.

So reasons to be cheerful. Sort of...

Esther from Syria: Part I...

I am getting emails from a young lady in Syria who is 'enthusiastic to establish long-time romance'. She is also keen to know whether I am 'enthusiastic to establish similar'.

It is Saturday morning and I am sitting in my office at home when another email arrives.
'Esther's emailed me again!' I yell to the Missus.
'Again? She's keen,' she replies. 
'I admire her work ethic. She also seems to really like me...' 
'Yes. But she hasn't seen a photo of you yet, has she?'

I think that was an insult. I consider sending Esther a photo...

Modern Phrases: Part II...

'If it looks like a feckless slut, acts like a feckless slut and dresses like a feckless slut, then it's probably a feckless slut. Or a reality TV star...'

Cyndi Lauper...

I've been on a bit of a nostalgia trip through 1980s music for the last few years and I've rediscovered some wonderful stuff. 

My most recent re-find, however, is Cyndi Lauper. She's sometimes wrongly just seen as a kooky American artiste, but I've been delving into her back catalogue and there's some truly wonderful stuff there. 

True Colours, Time After Time and Girls Just Wanna Have Fun, plus her cover versions of I Drove All Night and I'm Gonna Be Strong, are songs that still absolutely stand up. And if there's a more joyful and celebratory love song than That's What I Think then I've yet to hear it. 

Lauper's also still going strong and, most recently, won a Tony award for her work on the musical version of the Brit flick, Kinky Boots, and also released a 30th anniversary version of her debut album, She's So Unusual. 

In summary, Lauper kicks all kinds of arse. And she's not kicking that arse yet!

Richard Herring's Leicester Square Theatre Podcast...

Myself and the Missus recently went to see another recording of Richard Herring's Leicester Square Theatre Podcast (RHLSTP), with Peep Show actor Robert Webb and film-maker Louis Theroux guesting. 

RHLSTP has been going since 2012 is now in its fourth or fifth series. We were relative late-comers to this podcast series, but it's consistently excellent stuff. 

The basic premise is that Herring interviews the great and the good of the comedy world, plus a few others, and, among the funny stuff, there's often some quite revealing moments and cracking anecdotes. Herring's naughty schoolboy persona and sometimes potty mouth is funny and his not-like-Michael-Parkinson-at-all interview technique is a thing of wonder. Herring-Nixon would have been much better than Frost-Nixon.

It's also a self-funded enterprise with income from the theatre audience and the online campaign encouraging people to donate barely covering the costs of the whole shindig. 

My advice: RHLSTP is a free download so download and enjoy. But also donate some cash so it can continue. I did, the Missus did and the Boy did, too. So, if you download an episode and enjoy it, and end up downloading the entire back catalogue, then you probably should pay some cash, too. 

It's well worth the paltry money its makers ask for in donations. Fact.

The Modern World Disgusts Me: Part VI...

I am a magazine journalist and, as such, I have to browse lots of magazines. It's a professional interest thing.

Today, I read Hello. This should be renamed Look How Fucking RIch I Am! Go on! Fucking Look! Look Fucking Long And Look Fucking Hard And Be Jealous Of Us, Our Homes And Our Wealthy Lifestyles You Fucking Unwashed Scum.

It's just an idea. They may not go for it...

A Light Shining in Buckinghamshire...

I remember reading the 1976 Caryl Churchill play, A Light Shining in Buckinghamshire, which is set in the period just before and just after the English Civil War, while I was at college. I thought it was a brilliant piece of theatre that explored so many diverse ideas about politics, sovereignty, state, ownership, government, religion, freedom and privilege. 

I also loved the construction of the narrative and the quality of the writing.

Some 27 years on, I've finally seen my first production of the play, at the National Theatre, and it was a less memorable experience than that first read. The staging is inventive and very impressive, with a lord's banqueting table becoming a debating chamber, a soaked field complete with earth and various other locations. 

But the National have used this production and its quite demanding script to experiment with a community company, which essentially means amateur actors working alongside a professional cast. 

This works in one way because it allows for the production to have a much bigger cast than the budget probably allows. But the difference in standard between the professional cast and many of the amateurs is quite big, and that damages the production, particularly in the scenes where there are lengthy debates about political ideas and religious theories, which need incredibly skilled performers to breath life and vitality into them.

The idea of the community company is a noble one. As somebody who worked on large-scale community plays and grass-roots community arts projects in the 1990s, though, it genuinely sickened me to see lots of major theatres suddenly claiming ownership of the term 'community' if it meant they could soak up some new pot of funding in that period… and often take it away from long-established grass-roots projects who needed the funding and weren't just doing 'community' work to tick some box on a funding aplication.

It would worry me if the National was going down this route, even though politically I support the idea of a community company and the development of any real community project.

The play could have been better. The jury's out on the rest of it at the moment. I hope it succeeds, though. It's a brave idea. We shall see...

Modern Phrases: Part I...

An occasional series of useful thoughts: Today, something Oscar Wilde may have said.

'All of us are in the gutter, but only a few of us actively choose to shit in wheelie bins as well.'

Other Woman News...

The Other Woman is a fellow journalist and she recently managed to secure the Hapkido school, where we both train, a large piece in Metro. 

This involved a lovely reporter coming along and taking part in a class. Afterwards, the senior belts were asked to stay behind so we could demonstrate some throws and falls for the photographer. For one photo, I was asked to be the attacker while my opponent did a throw to escape a rear choke, which ended with me on the floor grimacing as he applied a wrist lock and arm bar combination.

The feature was duly printed and there were no photos of me, so I jokingly mentioned that I should be the eye candy factor to draw new students in. 

The Other Woman then took great delight in telling me that the photo of me grimacing (above) was, in the words of the features editor at the news conference, 'Not suitable or particularly attractive for a section of the paper primarily aimed at women'. 

So there you have it. I am officially not pretty enough for London women. Who read. 

The media is a cruel mistress. And the Other Woman is patently not much better.

Picture credit: Dan Lynch

Nick Helm's Heavy Entertainment...

'Do you like Nick Helm? Do you like Nick Helm? Do you like Nick Helm? Do you like Nick Helm? Do you like Nick Helm?'

Yes. I do like him. I like him quite a lot actually. His kitsch pop star meets socially awkward nerd meets bloke having a breakdown persona makes me laugh lots. He was fab in Uncle and his mix of stand-up comedy and brash but funny songs is bloody excellent.

He gets to showcase the latter routines in his new BBC3 show, Nick Helm's Heavy Entertainment. This is currently three episodes old and it's much more hit than miss.

It's part stand-up, part bizarre musical pastiche and part audience interaction. It features some cracking one-liners, too. Example: 'I went out on a really bad date recently… it was September the 11th!'

It's very good. Watch and enjoy!

Five-word Reviews: Mad Max: Fury Road...

Brilliantly fast, utterly fucking furious. 

High-octane blockbuster that never stops! 

Grand Designs...

The Missus has a long-term crush on Christian Slater. He's been on her 'allowed list' for quite some time and we were discussing 'allowed lists' en route to seeing a movie. 
'I wouldn't mind you getting to grips with the Slater. It would have my approval. As long as it was only a one-off,' I muse. 
'I don't want any other man,' counters the Missus. 

I assume this must be some type of cunning woman trap so I say nothing. The Missus, however, continues: 
'After all, I've put nearly two decades of work into you. I wouldn't just abandon a project I've put that much time into…'
'So, as far as you're concerned, I'm a bit like a marriage version of Grand Designs?' 
'You're not really that "Grand". Probably more like "Mediocre Designs".'

I'm going to fuck Christian Slater instead. And he's going to enjoy it...

Five-word Reviews: Game of Thrones...

Draft 1: Dirty, violent, shag-filled, sweary fantasy.

Draft 2: In love with dragon lady. 
Draft 3: Tolkien gets sexy and bloody.
Draft 4: Like the little fella, too.
Draft 5: Fantasy soap goes soft porn.

The Modern World Disgusts Me: Part V...

I am thinking about trying my hand at stand-up comedy next year. 

My over-riding fear, though, is that my routine may feature a nearly 50-year-old man having a breakdown on stage as he rails against a ludicrous and fatuous world that he simply doesn't understand any more.

I did consult my psychiatrist about embarking down this road and he said: 
'Please take the knife away from my throat. Can you then untie me? You're scaring me and you're scaring my family.' 

He'll laugh about it. Eventually...

Five-word Reviews: Avengers: Age of Ultron

Version 1: Entertaining, politically astute superhero action-fest.

Version 2: Scarlett Johansson's Black Widow rocks! 

Version 3: Geek-tastic sequel with sufficient nerd-bait.

The Modern World Disgusts Me: Part IV...

I was accused on 'Not caring about the little people' the other day...
'You've changed since you became a big shot,' sneered a colleague.

I pondered her comments then offered the following response.
'I may have changed, but that's because I'm now trying to ensure the survival of the project I'm working on, so fuck-headed twats like you, who do nothing but whine like arse-slapped children, will continue to have a job and not have to sell their, frankly, too-much-junk-in-the-trunk arses for past-their-sell-by-date Findus crispy pancakes, because they no longer have an income to put food on the table. Because, to be frank, no other cunt will employ you. Ever. Even for menial work like giving suckjobs to tramps to give the proper whores a rest. 
'And, for your further information, I don't dislike you or your kith and kin because I consider you to be little people. I don't really consider you at all. Fact. And if I didn't like you, it wouldn't be because I'm a snob. It would be because I'm regional facist and I don't like people like you, who come from wherever you come from. Wherever that fucking shithole is? What's that? Manchester? Well I don't like Manchesterians. The place probably doesn't even fucking well exist and, if it does, it's just probably a small village where the inhabitants all fuck each other and have kids with 13 fingers. So cunt the fuck off.'

The office went a bit quiet after that. I may also not have said any of those things. Just thought them. Or imagined them as part of a future comedy routine...

Wife of the Year in Our House Award...

It was my birthday a few days ago and Mrs Brooks again put herself in pole position for The Wife of the Year in Our House Award with her present: an antique print from 1870 by Japanese artist Kunitoshi Utagawa.

I am beyond stunned. She is beyond brilliant.

The Modern World Disgusts Me: Part III...

The Fast and the Furious film franchise has released a seventh instalment. Yes. Seven. That's correct. Four more films than the Godfather trilogy and, currently, one more than the Star Wars franchise. How the fuck did that happen? Are there really that many Top Gear fans who smoke crack and imagine they're Vin Diesel. Or one of the other ones?

Thank god they didn't get hold of Police Academy and extend that movie past the first one.

Little Changes...

My next martial arts grading at hapkido involves using a short wooden stick called a tahn bong. 

Using it is quite difficult and, after learning an eight-strike pattern, there's a seven-block pattern, plus freestyle striking and blocking, plus a whole host of other techniques to counter punches and kicks, and throw people, and choke them. It's quite difficult.

I struggled with the initial striking pattern for months, but I decided the easiest way to improve at this was to break it down and routine the training into bite-sized chunks. 

So every day I'm at work, I take a ten-minute break in the afternoon and do at least 150 strikes or blocks. Since I started this, I figure I've now done 12 weeks by five days by 150 strikes/blocks per day, which means about 9,000 strikes/blocks in total. 

And it's helping matters, too, so I'm going to adopt this tactic of doing a little thing every day in other areas. I've finished lots of writing work over the past few years by utilising my commuting time and that produced dividends. I may adopt a wrestling drill and see how that goes, too. 

Big improvement can be built in little spaces.

Five-word Reviews: Wild Tales

Bizarre, brilliant, twisted revenge stories.

Moments...

It is Friday morning. I am laid in bed with the Missus. 

We are curled up. It is quiet, apart from the purring of the cat on the end of the bed. Regardless of anything else that happens today, or in days to come, this moment won't be lost. It will be logged in the memory banks with all the other moments I cherish. This is called being present.

About 20 minutes later, I am in the bath. The Missus enters and looks around, before commenting:
'The bath's too full and there's water all over the floor. What have you been doing?'
'I was relaxing...'
'Well can you do it less messily?' 
'No. I can't. Fuck off.'

Of course, I didn't say that last thing. My head and thoughts were still enjoying the bed bit...

The Great Gatsby...

Myself and the Missus paid one of our yearly trips to Sadlers Wells in London last week to see the Northern Ballet version of The Great Gatsby. 

Having never read the book, I was unfamiliar with the story, but I soon picked up that it was about a reignited romance between a rich bloke and his one-time lover, and the doomed love affair between the woman's cheating husband and the wife of a drunk garage owner. 

I won't reveal the ending in case you haven't read the book or seen the film versions, but the moral seems to be 'Don't piss off alcoholic garage owners with guns.'

I'm still quite new to the world of dance and ballet and I'm only really a recent convert because the Missus likes it. But I am intrigued because, at its best, it's quite a pure art form, with the story stripped back and any fat trimmed off because there's no verbal narrative or interaction to explains the action; therefore it has to be quite compact. 

There were some jazz bits in this show that were a bit annoying as I don't like jazz, even though stylistically they very well done and in keeping with the 1920s period. The more balletic pieces were beautiful, though. 

A fab night out.

The Wellcome Collection...

One of the real hidden gems of London attractions remains the Wellcome Collection on Euston Road. It's a permanent exhibition of medical curios, which includes all manner of fascinating anthropological stuff with a medical connection. 

It also has a huge library, new exhibitions and a great book shop and coffee shop. 

The newest exhibit it's acquired is a copy of Harris's List, which was a catalogue of famous prostitutes in the late 18th century. And it's now put this up online on its website here. 

It's well worth a look.

The Modern World Disgusts Me: Part II...

I am sat on a train travelling home. It is a Monday evening. 


There is a business chap next to me. He is having a loud mobile phone conversation and he actually says the following thing: 'We need to park this because he hasn't got a benchmark, so it's obviously not a slam dunk.' 


He says it without a trace of irony. 

He says it as a real thing. That matters. 

Using those exact words.


Cunt of the week award? Already won on a Monday? With six more days to go? I think so...

Quote of the Day...

'The key to good decision making is not knowledge. It is understanding. We are swimming in the former. We are desperately lacking in the latter.'

Malcolm Gladwell, Blink

Holiday in Thailand: Part IV...

We were too knackered to travel to either of the major kickboxing stadia during our whistle-stop tour of Bangkok, so we made a decision to go and see the Muay Thai when we arrived in Krabi. And Ao Nang Kickboxing Stadium was about 20 minutes away from our hotel, so we went along. 

The stadium itself looks a bit ramshackle but it's perfectly safe and most of the seating is decent enough: the seats near the ring are 1500 baht (about £30) and essentially offer leather sofas on three sides, plus a standing area on the fourth side where the locals watch the fights and bet; while the stadium bleacher seats are 1000 baht (about £20) and aren't as close but offer a slightly elevated view of the action. The beer is pretty cheap, too.

There were nine fights on our card, with each fight lasting five three-minute rounds, unless there was a stoppage or a knockout. Four ringside judges decide the result if there's no stoppage or knockout.

All the fights except one lasted the full distance on the night we went, so it was about three hours of entertainment for £20, which seemed pretty exceptional value. Most of the fighting was of a decent standard, too, with the heavier and older fighters taking a more considered and technical approach, while the younger and leaner fighters were much more aggressive. 

The final fight was between two young children and their kicking was so technically solid it was astonishing. The referees were also incredibly good and kept on top of the action at all times during all the fights.

From a martial arts student perspective, I was intrigued that there weren't a huge amount of punch, punch-elbow or kick-punch combinations thrown. But the gloves looked about 10-12 ounces so I guess consistently kicking with the raw shinbone does more damage over a long period of time than throwing punches in padded gloves, although one of the better and more technical French fighters did cause a lot of damage with a couple of well-timed uppercuts. 

The plum clinch, where fighters get their hands around the back of each other's necks so they can pull the head down and drive knees into the head and the floating ribs, was also used quite a lot. But this was often effectively defended, so it was then turned into either a hip throw or a trip to down the opponent. I am assuming this was a scoring move as it was used quite frequently.

I'd read reviews online about Ao Nang Kickboxing Stadium that were a bit disparaging, but it was a thoroughly enjoyable night out and it felt a very safe environment to be in. It was certainly much less intimidating and much less testosterone-filled than many boxing matches I've seen in the UK. But Muay Thai is a part of Thai culture and also a martial art where both the martial and the art sides are clearly on display in the actual fighting and in the pre-fight rituals.

The night also offered a chance to see a less sanitised but also very traditional side of Thailand. We got there quite early and had a cheeky poke around the stadium and the training facilities next door and the staff were really friendly and helpful. It's well worth a visit. Just make sure you pre-book a cab back if it's a late finish.