Nightmare...

It is hot so I am sleeping with no clothes on and the duvet is on the floor. This is not an attempt to paint an alluring picture. It is just a fact. Stay with it...

Sadly the little cat has recently got into the habit of waking me and the Missus up at 5am by dive-bombing the bed to demand food. Fortunately we have now become quite hardened to her demands so we can ignore her and sleep through.

Now the dive-bombing approach has failed, however, the cat's latest trick is scratch at one of my exposed bollocks until I wake up. Sadly she has yet to figure out that me screaming in pain is no way to guarantee her being fed. Or remaining alive.

Stupid cat. Poor bollock.

Hotel Joke...

A vicar is booking into a hotel and says: 'I hope the porn channel in my room is disabled.'

'No. It's just normal porn like every room you sick f***er!' replies the receptionist.

Media Careers Advice: Part I...

Job description: chief sub-editor

Duties: Imagine you are a monkey in a zoo in a cage with other monkeys. As the opening time for the zoo approaches it is your job to tidy the cage but the other monkeys insist on throwing shit at each other and have now started eating their own shit and other people's shit too. It is your job to sort all this shit out and when the other monkeys sod off to sleep in the back of the cage you just end up standing there, covered in shit, being stared at by the visitors who want to know why you are covered in shit.

You could explain it to them but you know it's pointless. After all they are visitors to a zoo and you are a monkey and they'd just never understand how the other monkeys can get so much pleasure out of throwing shit about and eating their own shit.

So you stand there, covered in shit, hoping it will be better tomorrow. But it won't be. Ever...

Salary: Probably not enough.

Pret A Manger...

I've just been into Pret A Manger and several of the serving girls are wearing caps with the logo 'Just roasted!'

That's surely not a good thing to advertise...

Statistics...

Apparently statistics show that only one in seven dwarves is happy.

Back To Black...

I have learnt all the techniques for my black belt grading so now begins the real work to ensure they are all up to scratch so it's been training, training, training whenever I can. I am, however, struggling with the first set of the two sets of techniques I need to master to successfuly grade.

These are essentially attacking techniques where there is no momentum coming at you so you have to generate the momentum from your opponent who is in a standing position by utilising correct posture and maintaining a firm base while taking then disrupting your opponent's balance. And it's hard work.

When an oponent's momentum is coming towards you it's much easier to merge with it and redirect it because he's essentialy jeopardising his base to begin with. But when he's not it's much harder.

Fortunately I was playing pool one night this week and I'd left myself a virtually impossible shot to dislodge a ball and a penny suddenly dropped after I'd played the shot. The ball was an easy enough pot but it was a one in a hundred shot to generate the angle or the position needed off the pot to move my last ball off the cushion to make it pottable.

But instead of getting annoyed I relaxed and just committed to the shot and cued it so well that I actually managed to do it. Even my watching colleague, a player and a peer of many years experience, couldn't believe the shot I'd played.

So the lessons for hapkido are to commit to the shot (or the attack) and rely on and trust the technique. After all I only managaed to cue the ball so well because everything was aligned correctly. This type of alignment also applies to hapkido.

Martial arts, like pool, starts with a firm base from the floor then ends with well-executed movements elsewhere. It also relies on a mental commitment to each and every shot. After all laziness on easy shots usually results in missed shots.

It sort of makes sense to me. To paraphrase Musashi, if you can the find the way once you can find it ten thousand times and when it comes to pool I know the way so I need to copy the lessons.

Hell's Kitchen...

Both myself and the Missus work hard for our money and while I generally spend mine on stuff I want she tends to feel guilty about doing the same.

We are in town shopping and she is umm-ing and ahh-ing about treating herself so I give her a pep talk.

'Look. We work really hard for our money so we shouldn't feel guilty about spending it on stuff we want,' are the words of wisdom I offer.

A pensive look comes over her face then she smiles.
'Yes. You're right,' she says.

Three days later she shows me the quote for the new kitchen.
'How fucking much!?' This is my initial reaction.
'But you said we shouldn't feel guilty about spending money on stuff we want...'
'I thought you were going to buy a handbag or a dress. I didn't mean a designer kitchen that I'll also be paying for!'
'But it will be a lovely kitchen...'

She smiles again. I have already lost the argument. It's a good job she can do the sex stuff...

The Singing Detective...

My chances of turning into the Singing Detective (pre-medication and pre-stint-in-hospital) may be receding after a trip to see my new doctor.

My new doctor is lovely. Sadly she away when I last visited the surgery so I got a less attractive locum inserting a digit into an orifice. This is a shame as I wouldn't mind my proper new doctor sticking her finger up my arse at any time.

Sadly she only asked me to drop my trousers so she got a glimpse of my superhero underpants but I could tell she was impressed by my smalls fashion sense as she gave me a new prescription of anti-hystamine tablets, a tube of steroid cream and some other lotion to rub on the affected bits.

Applying the cream wasn't pleaseant and it wasn't pretty and if there are two unsexier words in the English language than 'steroid cream' I have yet to read them. And I have read a huge amount of filth.

Having a body plagued by unsightly rashes made training very interesting, though, and rather than opt for the explain-to-everyone-I'm-not-contagious line I decided to cover up by wearing a base layer under my do-bok.

This was great as it meant I had no more skin eruptions but it was really hot and I sweated buckets. So it was a week of steroid cream and sweat. Nice...

On the plus side I had a cracking birthday and I also came across this brilliant quote by Ancient Greek poet and soldier Archilochus:
'We do not rise to the level of our expectations. We fall to the level of our training.'

I reckon that's on the money.

PS. I also got the new iPod.

Happy Birthday...

I am 41 in a few days and I'm looking forward to having a quiet day at work then spending the evening with the Missus and the Boy.

But what do you get the 41-year-old who has everything? Simple. An eczema-like skin condition caused by a brand new allergy to something.

Great. What I really wanted was a new iPod...

Fashion News...

It is Bank Holiday Monday and me, the Boy and the Missus are heading into town to do some shopping.

I am about to head through the front door when the Boy stops me.
'You're not going out like that, are you?'
'I'm not shaving the 'tashe. We've had this discussion. The 'tache stays.'

The 'tache has been a constant source of amusement to the Boy ever since I grew it at the behest of the Missus, who claimed that growing a drooping Dirty Sanchez 'tache would soften my 'severe face'. I decided to give this a go as it meant the Missus was happy and it also meant I could pretend I was Chuck Liddel when I was sparring at martial arts.

Sadly I have recently realised that the 'tache combined with the sideburns make me look more Seth Armstrong (played by the late, great Stan Richards) from Emmerdale than hardened UFC warrior.

The 'tache, however, still stayed.

'I'm not worried about the tache,' adds the Boy.
'What is it then?'
'It's them...' says the Boy pointing to my jogging bottoms.
'And what's wrong with them?'
'You're about to go out in your pyjamas.'
'They're jogging bottoms...'
'They're pyjamas. I have a pair upstairs...'

I turn to the Missus for support.
'Are these pyjamas or jogging bottoms?'
'They're pyjamas...'
'But I've been going out in these for months!'

The Boy laughs, before adding:
'It's a good job that people have been too busy staring at your stupid facial hair to notice then, isn't it?'

Drive Me Crazy...

The Boy is back from university for a few weeks and he has spent several days brushing up on his driving lessons.

So he is in the kitchen talking to the Missus and explaining how his instructor complimented him on not stalling the car and several other technical feats which washed straight over my non-driver head.

I decide to enter the conversation.
'So... you're an excellent driver?'

The Missus bursts out laughing and the boy immediately cottons onto the Rain Man reference.
'You're an idiot.'

It's good to have him home...

Lexicon News...

Fugly: An adjective meaning not particularly attractive. Ungendered so it can apply to both sexes.
Origin: A contraction of the two words 'fucking' and 'ugly'.
Example: 'I really wanted to have a little go on that but on closer inspection I realised it was fugly beyond belief.'

Solar...

There was much excitement at From Beer To Paternity Towers as my new play, Melt, neared completion of first draft stage.

It's about a cartography professor who was once a big noise in the environmental movement. Sadly his inability to keep his cock in his trousers saw him leave that sphere and end up lecturing on geology and cartography at a minor university – until a major corporation asks him to go on secondment to the Antarctic to help their mission to map the place for mineral reserves.

So I was delighted (irony warning – I actuallly mean really bollockingly fucked off) when reviews of Ian McEwan's new book, Solar, came out last week as it's also about a shagaholic professor who journeys to the Antarctic and it has an environmental theme too.

I'll obviously still finish the play but I sort of feel that my thunder has been stolen. I reckon I could have McEwan in a fight, though.

And fortunately I have an idea for a new play. I'm going to take the songs out of the musical My Fair Lady and turn it back into a drama for the stage...

50 Ways To Leave Your Lover...

It's a slow work day and myself and my work colleagues have noticed that the Simon and Garfunkle song 50 Ways To Leave Your Lover quite clearly doesn't have anywhere near 50 suggestions on how to terminate then walk out on a relationship.

So we decided to find 50 new ones that fit snugly into the metric pattern of the song. Our suggestions so far:

'Smash her back door through, Hugh.'
'Get a new girl, Earl.'
'Shoot her dead in the head, Fred.'
'Dump her by text, Rex.'
'Touch up her mother, brother.'

And here's some from several pool-playing colleagues:
'Tell her she's fat and she's got to go, Joe.'
'Treat her like John Terry, Jerry.'
'Flash her in a mac, Jack.'
'Tweek her on the tits, Fritz.'
'Smash her in the granny, Annie.'
'Cum in her eye, Kia.'
'Cum in her hair, Claire.'
'Touch her kid, Sid.'
'Go to bed with her sister, mister.'
'Burn her with the iron, Brian.'
'Say she looks like Shamu, Stu.'
'Tell him you're actually a man, Jan.'

And, just so we're not accused of sexism:
'Tell him he's rubbish in bed and he has a small willy, Millie.'

Make up your own. It's a great game...

Floored Genius...

Today my status as a DIY demi-god took a major tumble when the Missus realised there was a leak in the kitchen.

So when we got home I spent an hour checking the drains outside then examining the washing machine but everything looked OK. Then I realised the cold water pipe connection was partially out of sight and when I checked it was damp. I then pulled the false floor and the lino up and a large chunk of the kitchen floor was sodden.

I then fessed up that as I originally plumbed the washing machine in it was my fault. Probably...

The Missus stood in the kitchen with half the floor up and a huge wet patch soaked into the floor. I was expecting all manner of hellish taunts and instead I got the following.
'It's OK. It doesn't matter.'
'Sorry?'
'It's fine. We got to it in time and it'll dry then we'll just put the flooring back...'
'And that's it?'
'Yes.'
'The kitchen will just be a tip for a while...'

We have tea with half the kitchen covered in towels to soak up the water and half the floor leaning in a corner. Then the penny drops.
'I no longer have an argument not to get the new kitchen done, do I?'

The Missus smiles. We had been planning to gut it and redo it next year. I get the feeling next year may be happening sooner than I thought...

Down With The Kids...

The Boy was back from university for a few days and he brought his girlfriend with him.

He remained as sarcastic and opinionated and pedantic and belligerent as ever where I was concerned and it wasn't long before he and the Missus were tag-team belittling me. It was almost like he'd never been away.

But it was great to see him. And his girlfriend is utterly lovely and clearly very smart. I also got the impression she knows how to put him in his place should such an act be needed.

I also managed not to embarrass him. Sort of...

I had planned to buy a few posters of the Village People and put them up in his bedroom as a little joke for when he and his girlfriend got home. Sadly the Missus pooh-poohed the idea.

There was one moment when we were sat at dinner, though, and I asked him what he and his girlfriend were doing the following day.
'So what are you guys doing tomorrow then?'
'Not a lot...'
'Just chilling, eh?'

There was a sigh from the Boy. I realised I had broken a cardinal rule by trying to use a 'young person's' word. I tried to extricate myself.
'It could have been worse. I could have said "chill-axeing".'

The Boy just looked at me, looked at his girlfriend then shook his head and went back to eating his risotto. I am not down with the kids. And never will be...

Aussie Rules...

Apparently there have recently been race riots against immigrants from the Indian subcontinent in Melbourne.

And the Australian campaign against these race riots? Have a 'Vindaloo against violence'.

It's genius. I love Australians. They have that Yorkshire way of thinking and speaking that can cut all the fat off an idea and reduce it to its main thrust.

And they also do it with a sense of humour too. Bloody love 'em...

Class Act...

My martial arts instructor is holding extra classes for students who'll be taking their black belt grading later this year.

The first one was yesterday and everything from my footwork to my stances to my techniques were lovingly pulled to bits for two and a half hours.

There's an old saying in poker that if you look round the table and can't spot the idiot then that means it's you. Yesterday reminded me of this.

It made me smile so much I forgot to be annoyed with myself. For a while at least...

All Heart...

Valentine’s Day was a roaring success at From Beer To Paternity Towers.

I bought the Missus some B&W horror movies, I learnt to cook kedgeree and I also treated her to a little poem which went like this:

'Rose are red,
Violets are blue,
I've got a knife,
Get in the van...'

Who says romance is dead?

Ear, Ear...

Thanks to my ongoing allergy and one very violent sneezing fit that lasted for about two hours on Xmas Day 2008 I now have partial deafness in my right ear.

When I eventually kicked up a fuss about it my doctor sent me for an MRI scan and I went in today to collect the results.

The first thing the doctor told me was that it was good news as he'd checked the MRI scan and it showed that I don't have a brain tumour. This was news to me as I wasn't aware I was at risk but, apparently, neural damage that results in hearing loss in some very rare cases can be caused by a brain tumour placing pressure in the aural area.

Unfortunately when he first told me this I initially misheard him and thought he said 'brain tuba' so we were talking at cross purposes for the opening five minutes.

Sadly he then told me the damage to my hearing was probably permanent... but he did offer me the chance to get fitted for a hearing aid if the condition degenerated any more. I am 40 years old and I have the option of having a hearing aid. I veered between manic laughter and Malcolm Tucker-esque swearing on the walk from the surgery to the station.

The Missus has been very sympathetic, though. Well, apart from cracking the obvious 'Pardon' gags. And threatening to trade me in for a younger model. Love her...