Some Thoughts on Daredevil: Series Two...

Daredevil was always the superhero I loved. While every other geek was waxing lyrical about Spider-Man or the X-Men, the blind-lawyer-turned-crimefighter was my entry point into comics and also my introduction to the work of Frank Miller, who first run on the title, beginning in issue 158 and ending in 191, pretty much marked the start of my mature love affair with all things comics.

The awful Ben Affleck film version from 2003 ruined any hope I had that some form of Daredevil screen success would ever happen. Then Netflix produced an absolutely arse-kicking series in 2015, and have followed it up with what looks like an equally awe-inspiring second series in 2016. 

The villain in series one was the Kingpin (the brilliantly controlled and malevolent Vincent D'Onofrio), while series two has so far featured a stonking Punisher (played with grit and grim determination by Walking Dead actor Jon Bernthal), and the introduction of assassin-for-hire Elektra (Élodie Yung).

At five episodes in, I was genuinely wowed. As a writer, I loved the promising story arcs; as a comics fan, I loved the nods to the other characters in the Marvel universe; and, as a viewer, I loved the production values, the fight scenes and some of the beautifully framed shots, which are clearly influenced by the source material. 

I've now watched the entire second series and, even though that initial euphoria has dissipated, there's stiil so much to commend it. But there are some gripes. 

So, SPOILER ALERT, if you're going to read this any further. 

Charlie Cox is great as the title character, but Matt Murdoch/Daredevil spends far too much time struggling with ethical dilemmas about justice, faith and taking a life in series two, and not enough time showing his human side and caring for and relating to the people closest to him. It's out of keeping with the character developed in series one. It's not consistent enough and his actions spend too much time serving the drive of the plot. This is a shame.

Elektra is a fantastic character in the best of the Daredevil Miller comic books and the stand-alone graphic novels. As this series continues, though, she comes across as a bit of a spoilt rich girl who kills for kicks, rather than a ruthless killer-for-hire whose love for Matt Murdoch makes her occasionally conflicted about her profession. I'm also not convinced by Yung in this role.

The whole Elektra, Hand, Stick and Chaste storyline feels a bit too convoluted and chase-find-fight-escape-and-repeat. This element of the plot does hang together, but it has holes. It feels a bit too thrown together and the fight scenes, while very impressive, are a bit over-long. 

The Punisher story arc is one of the two best things in the second series. It takes a damaged character and the story comes out of the character and what has happened to him. As a viewer, I had an emotional investment in The Punisher and the plot is well paced and it never feels over-extended or gratuitous.

The other element I really enjoyed in series two was the disintegrating relationship with Matt Murdoch and his business partner and long-term friend, Foggy Nelson, played by Elden Henson. The friendship becomes compromised as Murdoch spends more time as Daredevil and less time practising law, and Henson is excellent as the funny and vulnerable lawyer. With Berthnal, he delivers one of the show-stealing performances of series two.

The development of Karen Page felt a bit forced, going from a para legal, to the woman prepping the Punisher for his trial, to ace investigative reporter taking over the mantle of Ben Urich and penning a front-page story. It seem career progression in Hell's Kitchen can be fast, particularly if there's a demanding narrative to support. Deborah Ann Woll puts in a strong performance, though. She's eminently watchable.

Those flaws aside, I'm genuinely delighted to be watching this series and I'm already looking forward to series three, and the loosely connected series of Luke Cage, too. It's making me relive my comic geek teenage years, and it's exciting to see a whole new universe unfolding. This time, though, it's on the screen and not on the page.

And, even though series two of Daredevil may lack the coherence of the first series, it's still pretty kick-arse. Enjoy...

Akhnaten...

I have a sort of bucket list of things I’d like to do before I die. Unusually for me, it’s not actually written down or systematically planned out with specific deadlines. That either means I’m not too fussed about my list or it means I still think I have enough time left to not fret about it.

One of the things on that list is seeing all three operas in the Philip Glass trilogy about famous historical figures who’ve changed our perceptions of the world. The trilogy of works is: Einstein on the Beach, about theoretical physicist Albert Einstein; Satyagraha, about Indian leader Mahatma Gandhi; and Akhnaten, about the pharaoh Akhnaten, who introduced a new monotheistic religion into Ancient Egypt.

The tickets for Akhnaten at the Coliseum in London went on sale last year and I snapped up two front row seats in the dress circle. I figured that if I was going to do this, then I may as well do it in style… although my credit card did yelp in pain when the initial payment went through.

Fortunately, the expense was worth it. It was astonishing experience. 

Staged as a co-production between the English National Opera and Improbable Theatre, it was a visually stunning affair. The set constantly changed to create tableaus of hieroglyphic scripts, then switched to a mass coronation scene, a royal palace, an intimate chamber scene and a street riot, before returning to a tableau of the family of Akhnaten, his mother, his wife and his father reunited in death. The costumes were amazing, too.

I was already familiar with the music and the libretto because it’s one of the classical CDs that’s had the most air play at Brooks Towers. Glass remains one of my ways in to not only modern classical music, but pretty much all classical music. But there was something incredibly absorbing and engaging about hearing it live with a full orchestra and seeing it, too. It was sensory overload.

To paraphrase This is Spinal Tap, it turned the volume of the whole experience up to 11.

I’m still unsure where I stand on opera. In the UK, it’s quite an expensive and an elitist art form, even though a trip to the opera is about the same price as a trip to see a Premiership football team. But I think football is way over-priced, too.

I would, however, rather pay money to the ENO than to a multi-millionaire professional footballer. At least the artists involved aspired towards excellence and pleasing the audience, while too many footballers I've seen seem not to really care about the fans or be very good at their jobs. But that’s an internal debate for another time.

I hope to similarly mesmerised by Einstein on the Beach and Satyagraha.

Five-word Reviews: The Revenant...

It's grim up north (America). 
Don't watch on date night.
Death, violence, death, more misery...

Old Age...

A good friend of mine recently told me a very sad story.

He explained how he and his wife were getting jiggy and they tried a bit of bedroom acrobatics, but his knee gave way. Then, ten minutes later, they were doing something else a little bit ambitious for a pair of olds and her knee gave way.

He lamented how this has never happened before and how it made him a bit sad. It made him realise that old age was probably starting to arrive in ever-accelerating increments.

My thoughts are with him and he deserves your sympathy, too. In fact, buy him a beer. Or just give him money… 

He would prefer money.

Trapped...

Trapped is a Nordic Noir thriller currently screening on BBC4 and it's pretty bloody good.

Set in Iceland, it tells the story of local police chief Andri (pictured above), played by Ólafur Darri Ólafsson. Once a high-flying detective in Reykjavic, Andri is now running a small police department in a small port town, which suddenly becomes big news when a ferry pulls into port and a dismembered corpse is recovered from the harbour. The ferry and its passengers are forced to stay in port while the investigation gets under way, then a blizzard traps everyone in the town and more disasters and deaths unfold.

The 10-part thriller is beautifully shot and the narrative moves along quickly enough, even though it feels quite slow-paced. Ólafsson plays the lead role of the sometimes vulnerable and sweet Andri with under-stated charm, while Ilmur Kristjánsdóttir is reserved and compassionate as his right-hand woman, Hinrika.

It's classy stuff. It's not quite series one of The Killing or The Bridge, but it's certainly in that ball-park for quality and intrigue.

The Rack Pack...

Made by the BBC and broadast via iPlayer rather than on any of the Beeb channels, The Rack Pack is an entertaining drama about the rise of snooker in the 1980s and the rivalry between establishment darling Steve Davis and baize wild boy Alex Higgins.

I'm a massive Higgins fans and he still remains one of my sporting heroes, and Olivier Award-winner Luke Treadaway certainly captured the charm and the tempestuous nature of ‘The Hurricane’. The drama did, however, skirt over some of Higgins’ more self-destructive and offensive episodes and essentially portrayed him as a tortured Byronesque figure. That may well have been one side of him, but it wasn’t the entire picture.

Will Merrick is excellent as Steve Davis, the dominant snooker force in the 1980s, who provided the strait-laced and corporate ying to Higgins’ explosive yang. There’s also a notable mention for Kevin Bishop as Davis’ wide boy entrepreneur manager, Barry Hearn.

The comedy-drama may offer slightly rose-tinted view of the era and its stars, particularly where Higgins is concerned, but it’s a tender and highly engaging piece of TV, and it’s well worth a look if you have affection or nostalgia  for the era or its players.

Quote of the Day...

'The problem with the porn industry is that it gives young people a totally unrealistic expectation of how quickly a plumber will arrive at your house...'
George Takei

Intensive Hapkido…

I had a full four hours dedicated to hapkido training this weekend and, for me, it was a chance to reconnect a bit.

For long periods of time recently, forcing myself to train has been a bit of a chore. It’s nothing to do with hapkido or any sort of falling out of love with it either. For the past three years, I’ve simply faced huge additional demands at work and that pressure has squeezed my free time elsewhere, and it’s affected pretty much every aspect of my life, from my family to my writing, and from my pool playing to my fledgling attempts at learning BJJ.

I have, however, managed to retain some type of weekly hapkido training schedule and my progress has maybe not been spectacular but it has steady. 

So this weekend was a time to spend a precious four hours in the dojang with my teacher and my fellow students and it was hugely enjoyable. It involved basic principles such as nailing down the fundamentals of base and balance, some work on retaining hip integrity during roundhouse kicks, and some work on employing one technique to open up others.

On the last point, we took the principle of the standing armbar and hyper-extending a joint and employed it with a thumb lock from a handshake to a kneebar from several takedowns. We even played with a rolling kneebar at one point.

We also did some sensitivity drills. This involved running through a series of wrist locks to defend wrist grabs, then repeating the exercise wearing blindfolds and executing the wristlocks bereft of the visual stimulus.

It was solid training time and a chance to reconnect mentally as well as physically with a lot of hapkido principles and techniques. It was like catching up with an old friend who’s always about but you haven’t properly seen in a while.

It also reminded me that, after about 13 years of training, I should be much better at this by now. But I'm still managing to be an OK black belt and, at 46, I’m still training and learning and, with pressing time demands elsewhere, I’ll settle for that. For now.

In the Reptile House...

I've just finished reading 25 Years in the Reptile House: British Gothic Rock 1976-2001 by Dave Thompson.


As a Goth, of sorts, I love the music and the book is a comprehensive and thoroughly engaging review of the bands and the period. It's nicely written and Thompson has a lovely turn of phrase as well as a real love of the subject.


The layout is a bit hit-and-miss at times, but it's certainly not enough of an issue to detract from a lovingly crafted survey of the music of my teenage years and beyond. It told me lots of things I didn't know, refreshed my memory about lots of music I'd forgotten and it also made me smile.


Though, I'll keep the smiling bit quiet at my next Goths Anonymous meeting. Smiling is frowned upon. As are most things...

Five-word Reviews: The Hateful Eight...

Tarantino's violent, schlock Western swear-fest.

FBTP End of Year Awards: Part I...

Fuck the Oscars, the Brits or Sports Personality of the Year. It's time for the From to Paternity 2015 Awards!


Best Thing Always on Telly 

Emmerdale is a peak-time soap opera set in rural Yorkshire. It screens six 30-minute episodes every week and it's been the best thing on TV by an absolute mile this year. The storylines all hang together and are utterly credible, the ensemble cast is excellent, and it's delivered cracking plot after cracking plot again and again. Its executive producer, Kate Oates, takes over the helm at Coronation Street next year so it will be interesting to see if this loss affects the overall quality of the show. I hope not. It's been excellent this year. 


The runner-up prize goes to Coronation Street. It may not always be brilliant but it never drops below pretty excellent.


Best Thing Not Always on Telly 

I've written about series three of The Bridge recently and it still totally wows me. It has been the best thing on TV this year. By some considerable way.


Honourable mentions go to the last series of Peep Show, which was a real return to form; Game of Thrones, which was enjoyably violent and dirty nonsense; Netflix comic-book action adventure series, Jessica Jones and Daredevil; historical blood and bonk-fest Vikings on Amazon; and Gotham, which is a pretty splendid mix of superhero actioner and police procedural. Endeavour, ITV's Morse prequel, is also worth a look.


Worst Thing Always on Telly 

The paucity of the writing on EastEnders is a huge problem, but the key issue remains the smashing of Albert Square characters into totally unsuitable plotholes. There have been a couple of high points in Walford this year, notably the episodes dealing with Shabnam Masood's stillborn son, and the first meeting of Sharon Mitchell and the back-from-the-dead Kathy Beale. But it's largely been badly developed stories with one eye on grabbing headlines rather than building a long-term story that makes sense and is credible and stays true to the characters. 


If anything, I have massive sympathy for the writers, who are left to make sense and do their best job with the shabby and non-sensical storylines they are presented with. 


Worst Thing Not Always on Telly 

A seven-word review on the appalling sub-Love-Thy-Neighbour comedy that is Citizen Khan, which got its fourth series the year: How the fuck did this get recommissioned?

Best Gig 

The Unthanks, Newcastle's folk music wunderkids, held their own boutique festival, which they also headlined, and it was a wonderful. The venue was the Stevenson Boilerworks in Newcastle and it was a small-scale and intimate affair. The Unthanks' gig at London's Union Chapel was also ace. 


Honourable mentions go to Gaslight Anthem and Arcade Fire, who remain two of the best live acts out there, and former Supergrass singer Gaz Coombes, who produced a charming and utterly astonishing set.


Best Album 

My favourite album of the year may not have actually come out this year because I've been retro-buying as well as purchasing new releases. The two new albums that have wowed me have been: In Dreams by The Editors, which sees Birmingham's finest continue their delve into moody electronica; and Mount the Air by The Unthanks, which may be a more produced and polished album than their previous output but it still has much to treasure. 


Other things I've fallen in love with in 2015 include: One-Eyed Jacks and Outlands by Spear of Destiny; The Idiot by Iggy Pop; The Circus by Erasure; In Your Room by Yazoo; 12 Deadly Cyns by Cyndi Lauper; The Glare by Michael Nyman and David McAlmont. I've probably missed many more.

Favourite Fighter

Polish MMA fighter and UFC Women’s Straw-weight Champion Joanna Jedrzejczyk has utterly wowed me this year. Her striking is off-the-chart, in its volume, its power and its accuracy, and her grappling looks pretty solid, too. In a year dominated by the in-your-face publicity machine that is new UFC Featherweight Champion Conor McGregor, who can walk the walk and talk the talk, and the seemingly unstoppable rise then dramatic fall of the hardly shy and now dethroned UFC Bantamweight Champion, Rhonda Rousey, Jedrzejczyk has quietly gone about her business with under-stated and, at time, under-the-radar efficiency.


Twat of the Year 

I'm lucky. Apart from a couple of run-ins with largely inconsequential cloth-heads at work and a couple of other fuckwits outside of it, it's been a relatively twat-free year in both my professional and personal life.


Hero of the Year

Jeremy Corbyn's surprise elevation to Labour Leader has reminded everyone that politics should be about caring for people, not about kow-towing to multinationals or ensuring the rich stay rich and the poor get poorer. It's a timely victory and it's brought 380,000 back to the Labour Party.


Not Enough Bullets in the World Award 

Pretty much any member of the Tory Party. They are deplorable people and their lack of compassion should be a source of national shame. I genuinely have no idea how any of the fuckers sleep at night.

From Russia with Love...

I have attracted the attention of a new admirer. She has even sent me an email.

'How are you?? Im Aleksandra! I want a man. I enjoy fitness and drawing. I am 31 years old. I am from Russia. Bye bye, Aleksandra...'

It's genuinely heart-warming to know that I haven't lost it! I can only hope that it's not some sort of elaborate scam preying on my vanity and need for sexual validation.

The Bridge: Season Three...

Goodbye Saga Noren. I am a huge fan and I hope we meet again. But, if not, thanks to you and your police colleagues for keeping me entertained, enthralled and thrilled for three seasons. Even better, for a show whose central characters teeter on the brink of personal disaster and terrible tragedy virtually every week, we even had a sort of happy ending. This, of course, could just be a happy ending and that's it... or it could be the springboard for a possible fourth season. Here’s hoping!

The Bridge is Noridc Noir, a generic description for the spate of superb thrillers such as The Killing and Borgen that came out of Denmark and won deserved worldwide acclaim. The Bridge is a Swedish and Danish co-production and, like the excellent The Killing, it's essentially a superior and intelligent police thriller that operates at its own pace and doesn't feel the need to explain every single thing or pander to its audience. 

The opening two series followed the chalk-and-cheese relationship between strait-laced, OCD-suffering and high-functioning autistic Swedish detective Saga Noren, played by the astonishingly brilliant Sofia Helin, and her Danish detective counterpart, the flawed Martin Rohde (Kim Bodnia).

The third season sees Saga work alongside a new partner, haunted drug-user Henrik Sabroe, played by Thure Lindhardt, as they hunt a serial killer who's targeting victims connected to a multi-millionaire and using his art collection for inspiration when committing the murders.

We also gradually meet the supporting cast of characters. Many of these, such as Saga's boss, Hans Petterson, and IT expert John Lundqvist, we've met before, but others, such as millionaire Freddie Holst and Saga's mother, Marie-Louise Norén, are new. 

I could wax lyrical about how the complex plot perfectly hangs together, or how the intrigue is consistently and tautly maintained, or how brilliant the scriptwriting is, or how excellent the whole cast are, or how the black humour is pointed and beautiful, or how the third season is every bit as good as the first.. But I’d probably end up boring myself and anyone else who chances on this and reads this.

Instead, give it a whirl. It’s ten one-hour-long episodes and it’s probably the best thing you’ll see on TV this year. I genuinely haven’t seen better. It has no weak points. 

A word of warning, though. The only problem with watching something as good as The Bridge is that it may raise the bar too high for pretty much anything you watch again ever. 

It is that good. 

Other Woman News...

The Other Woman is slightly annoyed. Not that this is new. This is often her default position. Usually followed by sarcasm. And barely-contained-if-at-all aggression. 

We've both recently graded at Hapkido and passed and we are now the same level. Apparently, however, I am the senior belt because I've been at the school longer. 

This has prompted her ire. 
'Essentially you're a slow learner,' is her most recent comment on the matter. 'We're the same level and I've learnt faster, and dealt with a seriously broken arm. But it now looks like you're better than me because you're the martial arts equivalent of a special needs child.'

It's hard not to love her generosity of spirit.

New Nickname...

I've been sporting excellent sideburns for a while now and my BJJ teacher thinks they're either brilliant or hilarious. The plus side of this, however, is that I have a new nickname at the BJJ school... Wolverine. 

It's a cool nickname. I am a massive comics geek and I would have paid money to have that. Sadly, as a couple of bad injuries have made very clear in the past few years, I have no mutant healing factor. I may invest in some claws, though...

Sticking Point: Part V...

Hapkido grading... done! I even think it went OK. My form and my double kicks felt a bit wonky because I'm still operating on one leg, but my techniques felt good and I felt pretty strong in sparring. I basically used what limited kicks I have left and relied on my hands, which I'm pretty comfortable with. So we'll now wait and see what the result is. 

The important thing was, pass or fail, to just get through it. After a year of annoying injury that has limited several of my martial arts ambitions in both Hapkido and BJJ, it was good to actually get something solid under my belt. The journey between first and second dan will take a bit of time so it's important to stay on course and continue to refine everything.

There were many things to admire throughout the grading: seeing junior belts go through their paces, seeing the more senior belts (who will be bypassing me pretty soon) look very impressive, and seeing my teacher and her teacher interact in that tender and respectful relationship that they have. 

The highlight of the grading, though, apart from testing alongside the ever-fierce Other Woman, was seeing the Other Woman Who Loves Other Women (or Miss Other Woman Who Loves Other Women now she's a grade higher than me) get her second dan. 

She's an astonishing martial artist. She has a relaxed grace, speed, balance and power that I constantly marvel at. She's awful to spar with because I often switch off and enjoy watching her and forget there may be a roundhouse kick en route that I'm more than capable of walking into, despite her best efforts to pull it. 

It's the sort of good day that makes occasional bad ones worthwhile.

The Modern World Disgusts Me: Part VII...

Far be it from me to criticise marketing people and their ram-their-tawdry-lies-down-your-throat ways if it can make them a fast buck. But here's a thing and HMV, with your in-store Trending This Week section, please take note.

Elvis Presley is not 'trending' this week. He's been quite popular since the mid-1950s when he became something of a big deal, a status he's maintained ever since... and one that not even death has managed to diminish. It may interest you to know that some people even refer to him as 'The King of Rock 'n' Roll', such is his sustained appeal. 

So, please, fuck off with your hipster, shyster, hard-sell nonsense. 

Thank you, very much...

Quote of the Day...

'Perfection is not attainable. But if we chase perfection, we can catch excellence...'

Vince Lombardi

Physiotherapy: Part II…

I am determined to ensure that today’s physiotherapy session goes well. I’ve religiously done the exercises I was give to strengthen my quads. I’ve also set a phone reminder to pack shorts for my appointment so there will be no repeat of the ‘boys escaping from the barracks’ incident, to badly paraphrase the great Alan Partridge. 

But I am late back from training the previous night and I am tired. I am trying to negotiate a looming Hapkido grading with only one functioning leg. Most turning kicks are out and I’m struggling to base correctly for throws and launch correctly for falls, and my footwork is compromised so I’m having to adjust forms and strikes to compensate. This is difficult but I’ve had injures before and worked around them before. This is no different.

The next morning, though, I am late up, so I throw on my clothes and quickly grab my shorts and end up arriving late. My child-looking physiotherapist is lovely about my tardiness, though, so we head to a treatment room. He’s chatty, I’m chatty. This is going well. I take off my trousers, grab my shorts from my bag and put them on. He assesses my damaged leg. This could be a triumph of treatment sessions. I may win an award.

Then, about three minutes into the session, I notice the aroma of cat urine. We are currently having building work done in the house and cat has gone a bit mental, so she’s pissing in strange places as a form of protest. I now realise, far too late, that she’s decided my shorts are an acceptable target.

I know what’s happened and I think my physio has noticed the aroma. Sadly, I can’t be sure. This means I can’t casually mention the cat piss smell. If I say what has happened, he may think it’s a lie and I’m covering up for middle-aged incontinence. I say nothing. I lay there. I do as I’m told.

When the session is finished, there is a diagnosis. It’s a torn meniscus. It's surgery if it gets really bad, but he suggests yet more leg strengthening exercises and careful injury management. My physio then excuses himself for several weeks and explains he has other commitments. We book an appointment for a month’s time.

I fear the ‘other commitments’ may be a ruse. I think he may really fear I’m some sort of weirdo who exposes his bollocks then pisses himself at physiotherapy sessions for his own entertainment. In reality, I’m just a bloke who’s been humiliated by a vengeful cat. 

This is a new low.

Charlie Work...

The Missus has been very vocally admiring the house of her brother, who's just had all the carpets up and had his floorboards sanded, stained and varnished. Just recently, our cat has also been pissing on an area of carpet upstairs.

Putting the two things together meant only thing was going to happen: our hallway carpets were coming up and we were getting our floorboards done. 

Fortunately, we're both very busy at work so I thought we'd last until the new year... then, this week, I was off work and the cat pissed on the carpet yet again. 

So I spent large parts of Friday and Saturday ripping up carpet and underlay and taking pin nails and staples out of floorboards. 

The Missus always gets her own way. I suspect she's been pissing on the carpet herself to speed up the whole process...

Ai Weiwei...

Chinese artist Ai Weiwei currently has an exhibition on at the R&A in London. And it's fab. 

On entering the R&A courtyard, the sight of a small forest of large, leafless, bolted-together tree carcasses greets you. It looks slightly out-of-kilter but it's strangely beguiling, and you're drawn to the trees, made from bits of different dead trees, now Frankenstein-ed together. You can wander around this bizarre forest as you make your way to the R&A building proper. As you do so, there's an armchair made out of marble, plus a red BMW, where donors can deposit Lego bricks through the sunroof for the artist's next project.

It sounds really bloody strange. It's Lego, it's dead trees, it's a comfortable thing made out of a hard and cold material. It's playful and moving and thought-provoking and you haven't even made it through the doors of the exhibition yet. 

Al Weiwei is the Chinese artist the Chinese government wish would keep his mouth shut. They tried to imprison him, but the international outcry was so great he was freed. They tried to bankrupt him by claiming he hadn't paid taxes and presented him with a £1.5million bill. Well-wishers clubbed together and raised the money in record time. They said he couldn't talk about his imprisonment, so he created six half-size, replica cells showing the claustrophobic conditions he endured that were supposed to teach him obedience. 

Weiwei's a fascinating man and, in terms of the global arts scene, he's probably one of the most important living artists. His art comments on the role of China in the modern world and it offers a critique of how the superpower oppresses its citizens, while at the same time celebrating the spirit of those people and their astonishing craftsmanship.

Take Straight, one of the exhibitions at the R&A. It acts as a monument to the lives of the thousands of schoolchildren who died when an earthquake ravaged Sechuan Province in 2008 and many schools collapsed. On the wall is a stark and huge list of the dead, while on the floor is 150 tonnes of straightened rebar steel, the stuff used to strengthen buildings against earthquakes, stacked as a rolling landscape. 

It's claimed that one of the causes of this tragedy was local government corruption, which meant that cheap and sub-standard rebar was bought... meaning the buildings weren't built to standard and vulnerable to major tremors. It's both a strangely moving tribute to the victims and a brutal critique of those responsible. It's also a visually stunning piece.

There's so much to recommend in this exhibition. Straight was the thing that really wowed me, but other rooms have many other diverse items and installations, which vary in size but not in impact. It's a genuine joy.

Sticking Point: Part V...

I am grading in a week and a bit for parts two and three of my second dan in Hapkido. This is quite a lengthy process and there are about 12 parts in total so I am some way off a new belt. But, for the first time, I will be grading alongside the Other Woman, who has passed part two and is grading for part three. 

This means we are grading buddies and we will be testing at the same time. This should be a lovely and harmonious experience. Unfortunately, she is uber-competitive and it has trouble written all over it, particularly as there will be sparring involved and we are also grading with weapons.

How competitive is she? Well, she's entered a 'just-for-fun' Bake Off competition at work and she is genuinely considering poisoning the other contestants to ensure victory. 

I suggested this was not a normal course of action. She sneered. 

This morning, we stayed after class and did an hour of running through Hapkido techniques leading up to black belt. Even trying to be gentle, she was in an unforgiving mood and she seemed to enjoy wrist-locking me and slamming me to the mat a little too much. 

She then went onto to tell me that I should see these rapid and sometimes painful descents at high speed as 'mat cuddles'. 

An hour later, I am so sore from 'mat cuddles' that I can barely move. Fortunately, we have another review and grading preparation session booked in for next week. And I am going to 'mat cuddle' the fuck out of her tiny, violent and malevolent frame. 

If I can move by then...

Howarth: Top Withens Walk

There is some dispute about whether Top Withens, a ruined farmhouse with two imposing looking trees next to it, is the inspiration for the farmhouse, Wuthering Heights, in the novel, Wuthering Heights. But, located a few miles outside of Howarth, it’s known that Emily did walk there and, even if it was not the exact house she based the literary farmhouse on, its remote location on top of a remote hill must have offered some form of inspiration.

The walk from Howarth to Top Withens and back again is about seven miles and it goes over utterly stunning scenery. It’s sometimes a bit slippy-slidy over mud walking paths, and there’s a couple of difficult bits where it goes uphill, but it’s well worth the effort.

The walk also takes in the Bronte Falls, another haunt of the sisters when they went walking, and it’s very picturesque. The views throughout the walk are nothing short of majestic, but it’s the arrival at Top Withens that is the star attraction. The vistas from this site are breath-taking and it’s a great place to stop and rest before attempting the journey back that goes around the other side of the valley. 

Yorkshire is a beautiful place. I’ve obviously always said that anyway, but it’s good to reminded that your birthplace affiliations do actually have some basis in fact, too.

Howarth: Bronte Parsonage Museum

Howarth is a small town set in the Yorkshire Dales with one key claim to tourist fame: its links with the Bronte family. 

Although not born there, it’s the place where Charlotte, Emily and Anne Bronte, plus their vicar father, Patrick, and their dissolute artist brother, Branwell, grew up and lived the bulk of their lives. It’s also the place where the three sisters created a world-famous literary legacy by writing novels such as Jane Eyre, Wuthering Heights, The Tenant of Wildfell Hall and several others in the first half of the 19^th century. 

Bronte Parsonage Museum, the home of the Bronte family throughout that period until their deaths, is the physical focus of that fame, and it’s an amazing place. 

The parsonage was bought thanks to private donations in the 1930s, then given to the Bronte Society to restore and create a permanent home for the ever-growing collection of Bronte artefacts, as well as providing a hub of pilgrimage for Bronte fans. What they have created and built over that period of time is a stunning achievement. 

The parsonage itself has been restored so most of the original rooms are recreated as they would haven been when the family were in situ: downstairs is Patrick Bronte’s study, opposite is the living room where late at night the sisters would walk around the table and discuss their novels, then there is the study of Charlotte’s husband, and the kitchen, where Emily would spend lots of time and look out onto the moors through the window. Upstairs are the bedrooms, then a room leads to a permanent exhibition about the sisters and their work and lives. 

The combination of the restored house and the exhibition offers a comprehensive but not overwhelming or intimidating introduction to the lives and works of the three sisters, and it also tells the story of their father and their brother, plus the other two Bronte sisters, Maria and Elizabeth, who both died young, and their mother, also named Maria, who also died young. 

For what could have become a garish literary Disneyland in more corporate hands, it’s a surprisingly intimate and tender place. It doesn’t take too much imagination to see the sisters and their family living and working and writing in the restored rooms. You can tell the whole project has been nothing short of a labour of love for those involved for the past 80-plus years.

When we went, we splashed out on a VIP private tour, which was followed by a private viewing in the collections room. There was obviously an additional price attached to both these experiences, but it was worth every single penny. Our guide, Amy, was obviously passionate about her subject, but she was also knowledgeable, funny and engaging as she took us through the house. 

It was a wonderful experience. I bought it for the birthday of the Missus, who’s a bit of a Bronte nut, but I also found it thoroughly engaging and surprisingly moving. 

Physiotherapy: Part I...

I am a bit knackered. An old martial arts injury has reoccurred so I am undergoing a course of physiotherapy. And it's got me a bit perplexed...

The first unsettling thing is my physiotherapist. He's utterly lovely and he clearly knows his stuff. But he's young. The sort of young that makes me realise I am not. He looks younger than my son.

The second problem is I forgot to pack any gym shorts for my first consultation session. I did obviously have clean boxer shorts on, but there was a moment I was laid flat out on a bench, raising one leg at a time, and I realised my boxer shorts were a bit loose... and I may have exposed a low-hanging bollock to a young, fresh-faced boy on a Monday morning.

This badly conflicts with my preferred self-image.

In my head, I am not a 46-year-old man: I am a modern-day member of the Hwo Rang Do, a breed of historical warrior poets from Korea, who valued intelligence, courage and compassion and were trained to fight. I am articulate and witty.

But, in reality, I am an injured old man who has exposed a testicle to a twentysomething boy.

Grappling Talk...

I’m currently injured so I’m out of regular BJJ training for a while, apart from a few open mat sessions, where I’m essentially turning up to do light rolling or drilling.

It’s not my first injury lay-off and it won’t be my last, so I try to remain philosophical. But injuries remain annoying, especially when it’s put the kibosh on all my BJJ competition plans for this year. 

I was reading an article online a few days ago, though, about an American black belt called Chris Haueter. He’s one of the so-called ‘Dirty Dozen’, a group of BJJ practitioners who were the first 12 Americans to be awarded their black belts in the US. And he said the following thing:

‘It’s not about who’s good, it’s about who’s left.’ 

I love that and it chimed with me a lot as it reminded me about my other ongoing martial arts journey. 

In Hapkido, a Korean martial art I've now studied for 13 years, I was a terrible white belt and not much better in my other early belts. I also saw younger, more skilled and more graceful students join and leave me in their slipstream as they progressed up the ranks while I struggled. Their kicking, punching, knees, elbows, takedowns, joint locks, throws and sparring were all superior to mine. 

But they didn’t stick around and I did, so I was left. And because I was left, I slowly got better. Even at the giddy heights of my current black belt, I still wouldn’t claim to be a good black belt, especially when I look around the do-jang and see other students who are faster, more technically proficient, more graceful, more balanced, etc. 

But I'll be left and that means I'll continue to improve. And that's the same approach I take into BJJ and pretty much anything else. It’s a good lesson and one that keeps me sane when injury prevents me from seriously training in either Hapkido or BJJ.

Fame at Last…

I am in Metro. It’s an idea I came up with in the pub with the Other Woman and now it appears it will be an occasional column (see above). 

The gist of the column is that I am a Tech Virgin, an idiot who doesn’t understand technology but who would like to. 

In truth, I have some competency with technology that I use regularly. But the rest of it is a muddled blur, so the gimmick is not too far from the truth. I still have no real idea what a Twitter is or how it works, even though I had an account for a few months. 

But I’ve also had a wife for a while now and I have no real understanding of how that works either. As she continually tells me… 

The thing that seems to have amused most people about the page, though, is not my laser-sharp wit or cunning turn of phrase, but the fact I am pictured next to Sean Connery as James Bond. 

In my head, I could easily be James Bond. But it seems many other people disagree. The cunts.