If there's one thing I totally suck at (minds out of the gutters now), it's being disciplined. Sure, I'm not a raging antisoc with ASBOs hanging off me like price tags on a chav, but there are three things I just cannot make myself do: keep time (I'm always 15 mins late.. even tried setting my clocks back, but no.. then i'm half an hour late), save any appreciable amount of money, and stopping smoking.

The last one is the most frustrating. As the old joke goes, stopping smoking's easy, I've done it so many times. Usually lasts about three months before I fold.

Now, there's something I've wanted to do forever and ever: learn a martial art. Not only would it be useful against the odd gang of 6'4" neonazis looking for a spot of headcrunching, I figure it will, in the proverbial one fell swoop, help confront my triple-headed demons:

1. Me: (enters class 15 mins late)
Sensei: (Whack!)

2. Me: (hungover)(bloated)
Sensei: (Crack!)
Me: (drinks less, eats light, saves cash!)

3. Me: (stops mid-duel to light a fag)
Sensei: (Smack!)

So, I figure it was a gentle nudge from fate when a couple of days ago I got handed a flyer on my local high street, for a martial arts class just down the road from my office. Wing Tsun, no less.. the chosen combat skill of Mr B Lee himself. Twice a week in the evenings, and the total monthly cost is.. my cigarette budget. I'm signing up pronto.

Ripped abs and lightning reflexes, you say? Give it two years (and fifteen minutes).

back from a few days in Cologne, a work trip to the Intermot motorcycle trade show. my feet are still blistered from walking a zillion miles around the vast exhibition centre in freakin formal shoes, but, as ever, it was great to experience a new city.


cologne, like so many other german cities, was bombed pretty much to rubble in WW2. but, unlike the rows of blocky brick houses the brits constructed post-war, the germans painstakingly rebuilt every building the way it was. who'da thunk this was one big a demolition site six decades ago?


from the land of mercs and beemers, beer has to be nothing but top-notch to get past the beady eyes of teutonic quality checkers and the law. yup, there are beer purity laws. so not only does the brew taste fantastically clean and crisp, there's no trace of a headache the next morning, even after one too many (but what's with those freakin 200ml glasses??). the food was impressive too, nice and hearty.. i have a newfound appreciation for the pig. even made myself try a hitherto gross-sounding blood sausage for the first time. not too shabby, must say.


got an invitation to go to the cologne karting circuit one evening. no random spinning around and bashing into tyres here.. proper kit, rules, practice and qualifying, racing in relay with pitboards and all. the dozen other guys were all very competitive, and i was absolutely awful, a good 2 seconds behind the pace each lap, and it was not hard to see why a german has been the F1 champ seven times... would have been good to win one of these beer keg prizes tho..


of course this was a work trip, so work there was aplenty. but at the end of the day, it was still a motorcycle show, and getting to see hundreds of brand new and custom bikes and very fine showgirls - a special mention here to the body-painted fittie at the Continental Tyres stand - sure does beat gazing forlornly out of a window at the ol' office..

ah well, back in jolly england for now - but next month, there's the Milan motorcycle show.. heh.

my friend 'A' propounded this theory that 'everything in life is equatable to cricket'. sheer fucking brilliance! now those of you who do not like, understand or follow the Beautiful Game may be excused for not reading further, but otherwise, you'll see how bloody perfect this is. ok we were at a nightclub a few drinks down when we discussed this, so i'll explain it in context:

1. you're dancing with a hot girl. she flirts, you flirt. you think you're going somewhere. then - random bloke walks in. picks up girl, walks away. = Third Umpire

2. hot girl dancing near you. some eye contact. uninhibited moves on her part. you muster up the courage to make a move. she turns away. leaves. = Exhibition Match

3. flirting is underway. all the signs are clear, you think. you ask her home. she is gone before you can say 'but i'd love to have your children.' = Googly

4. club full of horny men = Washed Out; No Refunds

5. a steady-relationship kind of guy lands up in a club due to peer pressure, and is confronted with one-night-stand material = Test Batsman

6. lad who can pick up girls with equal grace and creativity, regardless of target being an opening bat or a tail-ender = Leg Spinner

7. chap who steams, full-on and forceful, into any girl in sight = Fast Bowler

8. as above, but who departs unsuccessful, back to his bachelor pad = Right Arm Fast-Medium

9. ten minutes to one, place is emptying out. couples aplenty leaving, with one destination. now or never. = Slog Overs

10. score = Last Ball Six

;) you can equate a hundred more like this, and variations, no sweat. it's universal. try it!

and when you go clubbing next, just remember to play with the spirit of the game.

PS: off to Germany on work - see you folks next week!

The Ostrich has landed. I'm terribly kicked this supertalented, generally brilliant singer-songwriter-poet and old friend has made it to these balmy shores. She's gonna study in London and that's just ace.

So the weekend whirled by in one sleepless dose of clubs + pubs + mad dancing + gigs (in the pic - The Footlong Heroes... but soon enough I'm sure, we'll be going down the road to see Ostrich in action.. how cool is that!) + R's super homemade Greek lunch + greasebomb takeaways + legendary Lahore Kabab House biryani + mango vodka shots + Guinness + Jack + not-so-benign flora. Ahh heck yeah.

Here's to the gal, her future platinum records, and to more of y'all moving here. Clink.