Crash Card...

It's been a busy old time at work of late and I've had my head down beavering away and not really taking too much else in.

So when a colleague asked me to sign a card for somebody who was leaving my mind adopted its usual default position while I was concentrating on something else and wrote what I usually write in leaving cards which happens to be ‘Good riddance’.

Most of my previous work colleagues who've left have realised this was a joke and took it in the spirit it is meant, but 20 minutes after signing this card I suddenly realise I have just signed a card for some poor sod who has been made redundant rather than leave of their own volition. Bugger...

So I run round to the card bearer's desk, ask to have the card back but am informed it has already been sealed and is due for presentation.

I therefore explain my faux pas and he laughs and five minutes later I am carefully slicing into a sealed card to add a phrase so it reads 'Good riddance... not!'

I reseal the card and an hour later my departing colleague approaches my desk to say good bye. She is very sweet and laughs at my comment. I've narrowly escaped looking like a total twat...

Note to self: in future stick to signing something simple like 'Good luck!'

Number Of The Week...

This week's number is 231,000,000 because this is the rate of inflation in Zimbabwe.

The Zimbabwean treasury has just issued its first ever 100trillion Zimbabwean dollar note, which is worth about 30 American dollars.

And we think the UK economy is in trouble...

If The Cap Fits...

My gorgeous guide son and his family visited From Beer To Paternity Towers at the weekend.

A guide son or a guide daughter is essentially the same thing as a god son or a god daughter but from an atheist point of view. And – minus the religious bits – the general gist is the same, that the guide parent is on hand to watch over the offspring in question and provide additional love, support and help as they grow up.

And my guide son's parents have entrusted me with this responsibility.

The Boy and the Missus, of course, immediately commented that the other potential candidates for this honour must have been pretty bad for me to get the job, but I did point out that I am a god parent to two children already and I have yet to have any sort of malign influence over them. In fact they're both lovely and smart (although I will confess this is obviously down to their parents rather than me).

Anyway it was an absolute pleasure to see both him and his parents and I gave him my first guide parent present, an Ultimate Fighting Championship beanie hat. He looked very cute and it also means nobody at his nursery will mess with him. Ever...

Doggy Style....

It is Saturday and I have agreed to go with the Boy to the reopening of a comic shop which has moved to new premises.

It has, however, been an early start and I am tired so as we are travelling up the escalator I lean my head on his shoulder in an affectionate-cum-tired manner. But the shoulder moves rapidly away and I am greeted by a look of total horror as the Boy steps off the escalator and we go on our way.

I make a mental note to remember my family, particularly the 18-year-old Boy part of it, is not as affectionate as I am and we continue our little trip.

Back home I walk into the living room and the Boy is explaining my latest transgression against all that is natural and right to the Missus.
'It was horrible. He was behaving like a dog... he was nuzzling up to me then when I shifted my shoulder he just looked at me like a dog that's been told off.'

I enter the fray and defend myself.
'I was being affectionate...'

The Boy, however, is having none of it.
'You were behaving like a dog. I suppose I should be grateful you didn't sniff my arse or anything...'
'Well I'm hardly going to do that, am I?'
'I don't know...'
'Well... not while you're awake any way...'

The Boy looks in disgust.
'You're just wrong...'

Gone To Pot...

It was the first pool competition of the year on Sunday and I was intending to stay sober and try to win some prize money.

Even better I was cueing well and I won my opening two games against two good players. Then Shaggy, my one-time drinking partner at pool events, thrusts a pint of lager into my hand and that was all it took to see any resolve at sobriety crumble.

I then lost my next match against an 18-year-old Surrey potting prodigy who’s already a professional player and has future world champion written all over him. In fact in 25 years of playing pool I have never been so comprehensively beaten by anyone. Ever...

This was about 3pm but I decide to stick around and have a few pints and get some practice in.

I arrive home at 1am. Quite pissed. I've also left my keys at home meaning I can't get in. I ring the doorbell. The Missus is not happy to be woken up at this time and I am not very popular. But she has her revenge...

The next morning we have builders in doing some work and I am laid in bed in a darkened bedroom willing my hangover to go away. I want to sleep. But the light suddenly goes on and in walks the Missus with two of the builders and she proceeds to spend ten minutes telling them what she wants doing.

I want them to go way but there's not a thing I can do. She is evil but I deserve this. She has me bang to rights...

A Reader Writes...

Dear sir/madam

It has come to my attention that popular music singer of Irish extraction Boy George has been jailed for 15 months for falsely imprisoning a male escort in his flat in East London.

Although the escort suffered no serious injuries his imprisonment was, apparently, in breach of his human rights.

Well piffle I say!

For a start this escort chap (a Norwegian!) regularly sells his body and swallows semen for a living and probably also plays S&M games as part of his profession. But suddenly he's some shrinking violet who cries wolf when it suits him?

Secondly, if my experience of Norwegians in the Army is anything to go by, when it comes to a sticky patch a Norwegian would cry wolf because they generally don't like it up 'em! Well, unless they're getting paid for it it would seem...

And yet we take the word of this Nordic cad over the word of one of our finest-ever vocalists?

What has happened to British justice? At one time it was the best in the world when we were locking up Irishmen by the dozen on flimsy evidence but this latest effort is just pathetic!

I hang my head in shame to be a Brit!

Yours in sadness

Colonel Dwight Micklewhite
Pall Mall Club
London

On Form...

It was my first lesson back at hapkido today and I am now starting to learn the new form for my black belt grading.

When I first started learning hapkido the forms and their purpose totally baffled me, but I eventually realised the individual moves of any martial art are like learning the individual letters of a new alphabet and the forms are structured ways to teach students how to put those letters together into something cogent.

Well, I say I eventually realised but I actually read it in a book.

I've now being studying hapkido for more than five years and in that time I've learnt nine forms and am now starting to learn my tenth and, after really disliking this aspect of hapkido at first, I'm slowly growing to appreciate and maybe even to like studying forms.

At their worst they can be frustrating and bloody difficult to get a handle on and there have been times when I never thought I'd win through with them. But occasionally you get a brief glimpse of understanding, then when you start to get hold of one it can be quite a graceful and beautiful thing. And the fact forms also help improve your stances, understanding and movement in other areas is a real boon too.

Sadly five years in and the only one I really feel I've got a very good understanding of is the first one I learnt. And if that's the rate of learning then I may actually be really good at all of them by the time I'm 95.

Here's hoping, eh?

Heat...

The new cat Willow is on heat and is desperate to escape the confines of the house so she can go and get some action with any nearby male cat who fancies a bit of pussy loving.

On the plus side she's acting very lovable and demanding lots of attention so I often go into the living room last thing at night and spend 20 minutes talking to her and calming her down. It may seem a bit mental but I talk to all our cats, even the dead one whose ashes are still in my office, and it's a nice wind-down at the end of the day.

So I go to bed and the Missus turns to me and gives the following advice:
'You do realise that Willow doesn't understand you, don't you? You can speak to her as much as you want but all cats understand is the tone of the voice and whether it's a harrsh tone telling them off or a soft tone being nice to them.'
'Of course I know that...'
'Why do you insist on having lengthy conversations with them, then? When you talk all they hear is blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah...'

I know how they feel but I decide it would not be politic to air this view...

Candle In The... Bin!

I try to be a 'live and let live' kind of guy who tries to keep a sense of equilibrium on most things and who has an open mind where possible.

In fact I'm generally so chilled these days that, if I was king, I probably wouldn't even order compulsory death sentences for no-talent zones like Phil Collins, Ross Kemp or that racist thug from Girls Aloud. Instead I'd just give them some brutal torture and make them promise to never make music or TV shows again in return for their lives.

Sadly the down side of trying to be so goddam understanding like this is that I'm sometimes prone to trusting too much and willing to give anything a chance. So when my brother-in-law suggested Hopi ear candles may be a good way to sort my ongoing ear problem out I thought I'd give it a bash.

For the unitiated Hopi ear candles are Native American Indian technology (ie. quite old). They are essentialy hollow candles made out of some type of linen soaked in wax where you stick one end in your ear and light the other end until it burns down a bit. According to the leaflet it's supposed to remove impurities from the ear and regulate air pressure within the ear.

So I follow the instructions and lay on my side and get the Missus to insert the candle and light the other end and hold it in place and it slowly burns down. I then follow the same procedure for the other ear...

And the result? The living room stinks of candle wax, the Missus and the Boy have proof that I'm a gullible idiot, I am £8 out of pocket and I've relied on medical hokum rather than listened to a trained doctor who assures me it will clear up in its own good time.

And my ear. Still can't hear a bloody thing. Secretly I wonder if the Hopi Indians were wiped out because they couldn't hear the enemy approaching...

Chart Success...

The Missus and the Boy both accuse me of being anally retentive to the point of suffering from Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. In fact they quite happily refer to me as Mr OCD when they tire of caling me an idiot...

And, sadly, I'm proving them right at the moment because outside work and family stuff I've realised the only way I can fit everything I want to do in my life – namely hapkido, boxing, cycling, weights, pool and writing – is to properly organise it by having a chart and keeping to it.

Hence the introduction of the Life Chart!

Quite simply I sat down last week and have worked out what I need to do and when I need to do it and if I complete a week I'm going to reward myself a bit and if I complete a month and don't miss anything out then I'm going to properly treat myself with something big.

It probably sounds ridiculous but I've decided I need to discipline myself more in 2009 and this is the only way I can do it... by treating myself like a three-year-old child and running my own reward scheme.

Car-nage...

The Missus is in the kitchen sorting stuff out. Over the Yule break she has gone into sorting out overdrive and I am a tad worried that she is becoming some sort of Stepford Wife, albeit a sarcastic one with a streak of random violence...

As she tidies she is watching a musical on telly and its theme tune is being sung so I join in and make up my own lyrics on the last line.
'Gangbang chitty-chitty gangbang, our fine foreskin-fendered friend...'

I think this is quite funny but applause is not forthcoming and I turn around to see the Missus has stopped her sorting out.
'You bastard. You've managed to ruin yet another Xmas movie for me...'

Survival instinct kicks in. I leave the kitchen. Quickly...

Ear, Ear...

It's been a quiet Christmas and more quiet for me than most because I've managed to lose the hearing in my right ear.

This is a most unusual malady and I think it was triggered when my hay fever type allergy went into overdrive on Christmas Day and I had a violent few hours of sneezing and something went pop in my eardrum.

Ironically the Missus had bought me several CDs by Philip Glass and I've sort of managed to listen to these with my good ear and buzzing and delayed sounds in my dodgy ear. But as it's Philip Glass that may also just be the CD.

I'm assuming it's just an infection of some sort or a temporary bit of damage to the eardrum as I'm not keen on life with dodgy hearing and I'm asuming it will sort itself out after a trip to the doctor.

On the plus side, of course, it does mean whenever the Missus or the Boy are taking the piss I can pretend I haven't heard them and ignore them completely. In fact I could do this with everyone if I don't feel like talking.

In some ways it could be the perfect Christmas present...

It's A Wonderful Life...

It's Xmas Eve and me and the Missus have been to see It's A Wonderful Life at the new local arty community cinema that's just opened near us.

The Missus is a real sucker for old movies and Xmas and this particular offering coupled with the seasonal atmosphere has made her go all girly. And that doesn't happen often.
'Did you enjoy it?'
'I loved it. I didn't cry though...'
'Well you've seen it lots of times.'
'I have...'
'So you're probably immune to its emotional bits...'
'Yeah. Probably...'
'It's like watching a porn movie you've seen lots of times. You know where the best bits are and when the money shot's coming...'

There is silence. The winter air suddenly feels a bit more chill. There is a stare too. The sort of emasculating and exasperated stare only certain wives can give.
'You have just taken my favourite movie and compared it to people coming in a porn film...'
'I merely meant you knew where the emotional climaxes were and so you were prepared for them...'
'You have sullied the evening.'
'I only meant...'
'Don't speak to me again. Ever.'

Other Woman News...

Me and the Other Woman have met up for a pre-Xmas drink and the beer and the conversation is flowing – until she drops this little gem into the proceedings.
'I know what I meant to ask you... Would you ever shag an Ewok?'

Sensing this is not as straightforward a question as it seems I delay my response.
'This is a trick girl question where even the right answer will turn out to be wrong, isn't it?'
'Not at all,' she replies. 'It's just that my other half sometimes says that sleeping with me is like shagging an Ewok because I'm quite short. So I was just wondering whether you'd shag an Ewok and think it was wrong?'

I take my time. A wrong answer here could damage years of friendship.
'Well for a start you're not covered in fur and you've also got a good two feet on most Ewoks. Even the big ones.'
'That's what I said.'
'And he's presumably not complaining about this either before or during said shagging?'
'No. Any shagging would be off the agenda if he did...'
'Well... if it was an Ewok in you form then I'd definitely not worry about it. In fact I think it would be fab...'
'And in Ewok form?'
'Not terribly interested...'
'Sure?'
'OK. I'd still probably give it a go. Don't knock it till you've tried it, sort of thing...'
'Good. You also should remember that Ewoks are quite resourceful. If they can make things that swing from trees to smash hi-tech weapons then a shagging hammock and all sorts of S&M paraphenalia probably isn't beyond them either...'

So there you have it. Ewoks: the sexual deviants of the universe...

The Weighting Game...

I rarely make New Year Resolutions as I figure trying to think about changing things when I'm half-cut and as generally miserable as I am on New Year's Eve is a bad idea.

But one thing I am definitely continuing next year that I've started already is to use weights as part of my training regime.

Bizarre though it may seem for a big-nosed, speccy beanpole, I used to be a bit of a gym bunny but I generally found it quite dull and no matter what weight programme I adopted I never put any weight on my arms. It was simply a case of 'I've always had skinny arms and that's probably always going to be the case'.

Since I started hapkido, however, I haven't worried about it as my arms and grip quickly became much stronger and all I wanted was functional muscles rather than big-bulging, chick-attracting biceps.

Since I've started boxing, however, things are happening and while I may never be Lou Ferrigno I may yet lose my twiglet arms. And I figure this would also be a bit of a boon because more arm muscle would help protect my shoulders and elbow joints, which have both been injured in the past few years.

Weight training has always been a contentious issue in the martial arts as it's always thought that technique and speed generate power rather than brute strength. Another worry is that excessive strength may make a martial artist forget technique and rely on power.

But much recent thinking has argued against this and the rise of UFC has made a lot of martial artists realise that sometimes technique and speed aren't enough against well-trained, all-round fighters.

Anyway... I was enthusiastically explaining this to the Missus but she was watching Strictly Come Dancing and told me to be shut up.

She probably doesn't need weight training.

Belt Up!

Yesterday I was awarded my black stripe after I passed my recent grading at hapkido, which means my next grading will be for my black belt. Gulp...

On the plus side I don't have to worry about this for some considerable time but on the scary side I now have to really get my arse into gear in every class because it now gets serious and I have to do so. It's going to be hard work.

But I also have to remember that it's been hard work so far anyway. In fact it's mostly been a journey of persistence and determination over ability so I shouldn't expect anything to change too dramatically because at heart I remain a bright bloke trapped in the body of a (now slightly less) befuddled half-wit.

Most encouragingly, though, I've now seen three of my peers grade for their black belts and the thought of going through the test itself is much less frightening than it once seemed. In fact part of me is already starting to relish the idea.

So I'm sure it will all be fine. Probably...

Sports Personality Of The Year...

Lewis Hamilton is a F1 driver and the current F1 world champion.

He is also a Brit who is about to become one of the richest sportsmen on the planet yet he has chosen to live in Switzerland rather than reside in the UK to avoid paying tax to the country of his birth.

If this is the case then a simple way to remind the viewing public of the fact that he is a tax-dodging scumbag would be to ensure he is never allowed to be included in the voting for the BBC Sports Personality Of The Year Award again.

Instead the BBC should place him in the category for Overseas Sports Personality Of The Year Award because if he no longer wants to be a Brit then we shouldn't have to pretend he is and he shouldn't be allowed to pretend he is either.

I'm glad cyclist Chris Hoy beat him into second place for the main award.

Clean Break...

We are eating dinner with the in-laws and the Missus is discussing costumes for fancy-dress parties with her much younger sister.
'I've got a French maid's uniform,' says the younger sister.
'Maybe I could get a French Maid's uniform too...' suggests the Missus.
'Will it actually mean you do some housework?' I politely ask.

She politely tells me that it won't...

Family Values...

It is Sunday and we are visiting the Missus' family in leafy Barnes for an afternoon feed.

We arrive at the house and I knock on the door, which prompts a several-minute critique from the Missus on why I should have used the doorbell rather than the knocker.

Fortunately such ridiculous witterings are nothing new. In the past the Missus has also criticised me for breathing too loudly. And the fact the Boy now often adds his twopennethworth as well has pretty much made me immune to their verbal nonsense.

So we are sat down eating and my father-in-law mentions the fact that's he's often bullied in his house so I offer my version of the earlier events.
'I actually got criticised for knocking on your front door rather than using the doorbell this morning.'
'I know exactly how you feel. But it's even worse for me. I live with two grumpy women.'

I turn to the Boy who is sat at my right and look at him before commenting:
'So do I...'

The Boy tells me to go away. And not politely...

Artful Dodger...

Most of the Boy's teachers really like him and like teaching him, too, but one of them is an utter nightmare.

I've met her on a few occasions and, to nutshell it, she is an utter cow with a very patronising attitude and very bad people skills when it comes to dealing with either adults or teenagers. She was the Boy's art teacher when he was doing his GCSEs and he went into this course full of enthusiasm, but that was soon removed by her constant sarcasm and unsupportive critiques of his work.

So we asked one of his other teachers about her and he admitted she had 'an unfortunate manner' while one of his schoolmates quite sadly added 'She's just lonely...'

So myself and the Missus told the Boy to just get on with it and keep his head down and he did and passed, no sodding thanks to this wretch of a teacher I might add.

He was delighted and when he finished the course and started his A Levels we all assumed it would be his final dealings with her. Then when he joined the Sixth Form she tagged along as the new head of year and she's been a similarly patronising cow when it comes to her recent dealings with him.

Myself and the Boy were discussing this last night and I suggested that he should just save all his contempt for the last day of school when he could approach her and simply say.
'You know, Miss, you've been thoroughly unpleasant to me ever since I've known you but I have sympathy for you because I do pity an old woman who's watching her life ebb away rather than living it.'

The Boy, however, has another plan.
'I was going to be more direct and just say "Oi cunt! Good fucking riddance!"'

Perhaps sometimes the direct approach is best...