Black Belt...

I passed my last grading for my red belt, black stripe last year and it's taken me a good six months to revisit all my old techniques and reach a decent enough standard to enable me to start learning new techniques for my black belt grading (expected some time in late 2010).

There are 20 black belt techniques to learn in all, which then combine with the other 90-odd techniques that I've learnt for all my previous belts, plus the 10 forms and all the hand strikes and kicks and knees and elbow strikes and special hand techniques and punching combinations and board breaking and sparring...

If I think about it to much it can all seem quite a long way off and quite daunting. But then I remember I can actually do some of this stuff and some of it I'm even quite good at. And the stuff I'm less good at I need to tackle like I tackle everything else: dismantle it, understand it, repeat it and learnt it.

I did this with my hand strikes at the start of last year. They weren't good enough so I went off to box and I'm now quite confident, sometimes over-confident, when it comes to using my hands. And that's because I dismantled it, understood it, repeated it and learnt it.

I'm now doing a similar thing with my kicking on my weak left side. I've added a sidekick drill to my weekly routine and soon I'll add a roundhouse kick drill to that. Then I'll do the same with my forms and anything else I'm weak on.

I finally feel like I'm seeing faint glimmers of light at the end of the tunnel on this black belt lark and I'm starting to feel like I'm going to get it rather than hoping I may get it.

Application beats talent every time. I need to remember that – in hapkido and in many other things...

Not OK!

I've just chanced upon a copy of celeb-trash magazine OK! For those who have not had the pleasure of OK! it's like a poor man's Hello! which obviously makes it very poor indeed.

But what do you expect. It's published by Richard Desmond, the same bloke who publishes the now lamentably awful Daily Express and the shockingly poor Daily Star and who also owns a veritable gamut of porn channels such as Red Hot 40+ Wives and Red Hot All Girl.

So essentially we know it can only be barrel-scrapingly awful. So barrel-scrapingly awful in fact that if I ate nothing but prunes and dried fruit for a week then sprayed the contents of my arse over an empty sheet of newsprint it would probably look better and be a more interesting read than OK!

But today's copy of OK! reached a new low in bad taste. Under the banner headline 'World Exclusive: The Last Picture' was a half-page shot of the dying Michael Jackson with an oxygen mask attached to his face obviously breathing his last. Then on the side of the page the masthead read 'OK! With all out love and prayers. The official tribute issue. Michael Jackson. In loving memory.'

Now I have little interest in defending the alleged multi-kiddy-fiddling pop star but for once I actually felt sorry for him. His life was a bizarre circus and now, thanks to OK!, his fans can see him breathing his last on their front page.

To quote the now-dead prince of pop. 'Who’s bad?' Clue: OK!

Victory!

The search to find the perfect cue is finally over and, post willing, my new but very old Riley Tombstone cue will be arriving next week.

I chanced upon it on ebay but I'm somewhat sceptical about buying cues on ebay after I bought a similar cue and it wasn't quite as advertised.

Fortunately – and by total coincidence – I know the guy I'm buying it from and, even better, he is a former cuemaker who originally learnt his trade at Rileys so he knows what he's talking about and is also a straight-up bloke to deal with.

I tried to explain how excited I was by this purchase to a work colleague who happened to around at the time. I tried to explain why it was so important to me and enthused about how it was something with a bit of history and... to be quite frank she just looked blank.

Maybe I need to keep my obsessions to myself in the workplace. Having said that she should thank her lucky stars I didn't start talking about 1970s pornography or Victorian erotica.

But who knows? She may have liked that...

Stock...

I am in rewrite land for my current play, Stock.

It's an odd time because it's like the first day of the football season where everything is possible and this could be the breakthrough script...

But it also depends on how much work I put in on it because it's important I learn lessons from previous drafts of previous plays and work hard to try to get this one as right as I can before I send it off to my usual list of potential theatres.

I'm aiming to send it out by the end of July. So here's hoping...

Movie Madness..

I am in the curry house with the Missus and the Boy and we are discussing films and I give an opinion on something with which he disagrees... then he backs up his opinion by claiming that he's seen more films than I have. Cue argument...

I try to explain to him that he can't have done this as I also love films and have been an avid movie viewer since my early teens and, as I've also got an extra 22 years on him, it's highly unlikely his claim is accurate. But he still doubts my veracity so we decide to settle it mano-et-mano by naming all the films we've seen in alphabetical order.

We begin with the letter 'A' and are still going strong 50 movie titles beginning with 'A' later, until it's my turn and I'm struggling so come up with anything.

So I plump for 'Ass-turbators'.

The Boy looks at me then carries on with his next entry and I then offer 'Ass-turbators II'. The Boy stops me.
'What exactly is Ass-turbators?'
'It's an adult film...'
'You mean porn?'
'Yes...'
'You can't include porn films!'
'They're still films...'
'They're not allowed in this, though...'
'You let me have Aunt Peg earlier...'
'That's because I didn't realise it was a porn film...'
'It's beautifully lit and acted actually. It's not just a porn film...'
'Pick another movie beginning with A...'
'Ass-turbators III?'
'You're an idiot...'

Storm Warning...

Me and the Missus are travelling into work and she's telling me about her recent trip to some flash eaterie the day before – then mentions she also bumped into a work associate on the trip.

During this explanation I switch off for a bit and when I tune back in she’s still talking.
'...but sadly she's having a rough time of it at the moment because she’s splitting up with her husband.'
'The friend?'
'Yes.'
'Is he a dirty, no-good love rat?'
'No... but they've been together for ages and she's gradually decided he's a bit of an arse who's not amounted to anything so she left him.'
'So she left him beause she's an arse and a low achiever?'
'Yes...'

There is a pause and she looks at me before she continues.
'I'm sure it's probably quite common...'

The Perfect Cue...

I recently spent just under £400 on a new pool cue made by John Parris, the country's best cuemaker who also makes cues for Ronnie O'Sullivan.

So it was with some trepidation that I joined the Other Woman and the Other Woman's Real Fella for an afternoon on the snooker table on Saturday to give the cue its first proper road test.

For a player of any decent standard getting a new cue is a big deal as it feels very odd and it takes a while to get used to because it's not what you've been using or are used to feeling in your hand. Even subtle differences can take time to adjust to.

Consequently I was pretty rubbish for large patches of the afternoon.

Fortunately I know this cue migration from my current cue, which is a bit short, to my new cue, which feels a bit long, will take some time and I am prepared for a long haul of mediocrity before I make the switch on a permanent basis.

In the meantime, though, I am still searching for one of two models of an antique cue I have had my eyes on. This is because I am convinced that if I get my hands on one of these cues it will be like the comic strip Billy's Boots and I'll magically become the half-decent player I once was after being inspired by the spirits of all those old players who have used the cue before.

Or I just may spunk another large amount of money on an old cue and sit in my office looking at it. Like I currently am with the last one I bought. And the one before that...

Beautiful People...

A close family friend is a fashion photographer and he publishes a periodical to showcase his and several other people's work. The shoots and the models are quite high end but it somehow manages to be self-financing. How? I have no idea...

But last night was the launch party for the latest edition of his publication so myself and the Missus attended the bash at a Soho gallery. The Missus, of course, is used to such hob-nobbing with the rich and famous and faintly annoying but I was at a bit of a loss because it soon dawned on me that I was in a room surrounded by fashion photographers, fashion buyers, fashion journalists, fashion models and fashion hangers-on all keen to give the free bar a hammering.

And to make matters worse they were all utterly beautiful and immaculately turned out and, judging from the utter hilarity ensuing every time one of them opened their cake holes, they were also incredibly charming and erudite and witty.

The cunts.

I wanted to tell them how their whole industry was a sham built on a lie bought and swallowed by preposterous idiots like themselves. But it my friend's party so I behaved and played my role as the token ugly bloke in the corner. It was like Hollyoaks and I was the token fat bird...

But I'm not bitter. Or jealous. Or insecure of the beautiful people whose club I'll never be asked to join. Oh no... Not me...

Kuniyoshi: A Review...

Utagawa Kuniyoshi (1797-1861) was one of the last great masters of the Japanese ukiyo-e style of woodblock prints and painting.

Add to this little biog that he was also a contemporary and rival of Katsushika Hokusai of the Great Wave Off Kanagawa fame then the exhibition featuring Kuniyoshi's work at the Royal Academy was something of a must-see for me.

The exhibition itself divides his work into five main categories, namely warriors, beautiful women, landscape, Kabuki theatre and humour, and it's incredibly well presented and annotated with clear and concise descriptions attached to all the prints.

The work is truly beautiful and it also makes you appreciate the astounding level of skill the block carvers-cum-printers possessed to mass produce this type of work with such precision and vibrant colours.

In short the exhibition is impressive and the featured work is quite simply beautiful. It's one of those experiences that is, quite simply, incredibly life-affirming and energising.

Neil Sedaka...

I love Neil Sedaka. Not in a sexual way. Obviously... he probably wouldn't look at me twice... but I've always thought that he and Howard Greenfield were one of the finest songwriting duos the US has produced and Sedaka's solo work was also a genuine cut above many other singer-songwriters around in the 1970s and early 1980s.

His music is also beautifully orchestrated and I could quite happily while away an afternoon listening to his Greatest Hits with Solitaire, The Other Side Of Me, Bad Blood and Breaking Up Is Hard To Do (Slow Version) getting several replays.

I could actually talk about my love of all things Sedaka for some considerable time if I was allowed... so imagine my delight when I cycled past the Albert Hall and saw posters of him appearing in concert there at the end of June.

So I rushed home to inform the Missus.
'Do you want to come and see Neil Sedaka with me?'
'You want me to go see Neil Sedaka with you?'
'Well I'm going to see Gaslight Anthem with you...'
'But you like Gaslight Anthem...'
'But you must like some Sedaka. Everybody has a favourite Sedaka song. It's almost like a rule... like not inappropriately touching pensioners in care homes.'

The Missus pauses to consider my thesis.
'I actually think I'd rather die than sit through three hours of Neil Sedaka surrounded by his octogenarian fanclub and you enthusing...'
'So you'll think about it...'
'I refer you to my previous comment...'

Guess I'll have to go on my own then if I can get a ticket.

Addicted...

I am having my annual One Month Off The Beer and it's going quite well and, despite several trips to play pool and several visits to the pub, I have yet to succumb to alcohol.

Unfortunately the key side effect of not having a drink to unwind seems to be a craving for comfort food and this has taken the form of custard creams, which without doubt are the king of economy biscuits.

I opened a double pack on Friday and by Sunday evening they were all gone. More have been delivered in the shopping today and I'm already making inroads, which has prompted the Boy to point out that he would also like to try some if I would be so good as to not guzzle them all down as quickly as possible.

I think he was being sarcastic...

So the good news is my liver is having a rest. The bad news is I may weigh another three stone thanks to the amount of processed fat and sugar I am now ingesting at a rate of Knots. I'm also starting to understand how people can get really fat...

All Change...

The threatened move from cosmopolitan London to the leafy backwaters of Surrey is now becoming something of a reality.

We've had the house valued and we're signed up with estate agents and we're getting property details through at a steady rate and, with the Boy heading to uni in September, there's nothing to hold us back... except the fact we both love our house and we've been really happy there.

But then I realise it's purely nostalgia and I realise the thing that's made our house a home is the Missus and the Boy and the cats and not bricks and mortar. Then I also realise we'll be heading somewhere where the pace is less hectic and there's less noise and I'm warmed and fully back onboard with the idea...

Hell, I may even get a pool room and a garden with enough space for a mini do-jang. The future's bright, the future's Guildford...

Maps...

I've had an idea for a new play and, while I'm in the middle of rewrites for my current one, it's slowly starting to take shape in my head.

It's about maps and as I know very little about maps I decided I'd start reading up on cartography so I bought Remarkable Maps: 100 Examples of How Cartography Defined, Changed And Stole The World by John Clark and Professor Jeremy Black.

I've also started reading up on the various impending battles for mineral rights off the North and South Poles that will be fought out over the next few decades.

My play idea is not fully fleshed out yet but I think it will be about how an academic study of cartography can be corrupted for political means.

I'm hoping to get round to this when my current set of rewrites are done, which will hopefully be in about a month.

Fortysomething...

It's official. I am now old. This is because I have now turned 40. I have grey hair, hair now grows from my ears and nostrils with gay abandon and I sometimes feel very stiff (and not in a good way).

On the plus side, though, I feel pretty damn good about it. And even though my pool game may be going down the shitter, I'm leaner, meaner and fitter than ever before because of the cycling, boxing and hapkido. And I'm geting lots of writing done, too, and I'm more settled and more domestically happy than I've ever been.

So it's still all to play for and I'm still in charge of when, how and where I wee. Excellent!

Neighbours...

The neighbours have kicked off again. We had major problems with them a few years ago and the noise has been steadily building again for a few weeks until they had music blaring out at 1.30am last Wednesday morning.

As cordial relations broke down some time ago – and the last time we asked them to turn the volume down we got a load of abuse – we called the council and they arrived on the scene and paid them a visit and issued a warning. You'd think that would be the end of the matter...

But you haven't counted on the pettiness of our neighbours. They spent the rest of the night tapping on the wall separating our bedroom from their living room, then had another party on Saturday night which culminated in more wall-tapping with the addition of foot-stomping and banging metal pots with a sticks. At 2.30am.

Sadly the council were busy and didn't make it over but I took a sound recording of what was going on as I thought nobody would believe me if I tried to explain it. So in a final bid to sort the situation out I've now written to their housing association to lodge an official complaint.

You'd hope that will be the end of the matter and they'll shut up... but I suspect it won't be.

On the plus side another of our neighbours did say 'Hello' this morning. We met him some time ago and he explained that he'd been away 'shooting animals' so I asked him if he killed anything good.

He looked perplexed and smiled and edged away. The Missus then pointed out to me that he was a photographer. Ho-hum...

Bloc Party...

I am in the kitchen with the Missus discussing the previous night's trip to see the quite brilliant Bloc Party at Olympia when the Boy walks in and goes up to the new cat Willow.

'Be careful,' advises the Missus. 'I stroked her and she tried to nip me.'
'She already bit me earlier,' replies the Boy.
'Well I picked her up and nuzzled her just a few minutes ago and she didn't try to bite me at all,' I say, before ading: 'But then again she probably recognises me as the Alpha Male in the household.'
The Missus smiles...
'We don't recognise you as that, my love, and we're the same species...'
'Well... me and you are, Mum,' adds the Boy.

It's my 40th birthday tomorow and they both have to be nice to me all day. I don't reckon they'll last longer than an hour before they revert to type.

Thinking about it, maybe an hour is being optimistic...

Let The Right One In...

We're all fans of horror films at From Beer To Paternity Towers and vampire movies in particular have been a source of fear then fascination for me for a number of years...

So I could wax lyrical about Let The Right One In as it takes an established genre and turns it into an arthouse rites-of-passage love story between a bullied boy and a 12-year-old vampire.

A wonderful film, beautifully shot, sparsely written and superbly acted, which features under-stated and brilliant performances by its two young leads.

I was going to see it on my birthday but I'm glad I didn't wait.

Hell, it's so good I may even go and see it again...

The Kids...

I went to Yorkshire for a few days to see my older brother play in a pool championship and to catch up with my family and, even though it was only a flying visit, I saw my nieces and nephews and they remain truly fantastic.

It gives me genuine hope for the future because they're such lovely, bright, fun kids and they have such great potential. They really could achieve anything they want to.

They also taught me a rugby league chant, which is sung to the tune of She'll Be Going Round The Mountain When She Comes and it goes along the lines of:
'I'd rather live in Baghdad than East Hull...'

Bless 'em...

Le Corsaire...

I am with the Missus at the London Coliseum to see American Ballet Theatre perform Le Corsaire, a tale of derring-do and piracy which they're performing alongside Swan Lake on a tour of the UK.

As a dance novice I grab the programme and read the plot outline while the Missus grabs us drinks at the bar.
'What's the story?' she asks as she returns.
'It's not very cheery. It's about a princess who gets a spell cast on her and turns into a swan. The some bloke falls in love with her and they both end up dead but reunited in death...'
'Are you joking?'
'No. It's what it says here...'
'You really are a fucking idiot...'
'Why?'
'That's the plot to Swan Lake. You're reading the wrong page!'
'I wondered why it didn't have any pirates in it...'

I get the look. I start to drink and decide to keep my mouth shut...

I Predict A Riot!

To read several internet news sources yesterday and most of the press this morning you could be forgiven for thinking that the British Government were about to toppled by marauding armies of crusties with dogs on bits of string.

Instead, of course, a small percentage of the assembled 4000 protesters kicked off a bit and got kicked back a bit by the assembled riot police. Then some others barged their way into a branch of RBS and smashed a few windows. And that was about it…

From what I could see there were as many would-be journalists and onlookers wielding mobile phones hoping to get a picture of the action as there were protestors. It was all a bit low-key really and most of the assembled throng were law-abiding and peaceful and it all went off pretty quietly.

The media coverage, however, was way over-the-top and suggested London was on the brink of civil war. There are times I hate large sections of the British press but, as ever, thank god for the BBC website for its balanced and factual instead of emotive and sensationalist reporting.

On a related note I chanced upon some very posh, crusty, anti-capitalism protestors on my cycle home who were blocking my route and refused to move. So I threw a £5 note on the floor and they all scrambled after it and my route was magically unblocked.

Down with capitalism and a corrupt financial system? Yeah… right… You should have the speed they went after that £5…