Glutinous Chops

I have never liked the idea of gym membership. Encased in a hot airless room, fighting for the latest sweat basted instrument of torture designed to develop obscene dormant muscles. The pained outline of a strangers buttocks have barely released their PVC imprint when some other poor drone slides on. Gyms seem to be mostly financed by a growing number of 'no show' people who need to purge their excesses mentally, using the membership as another weapon in their social not physical armory.

I need to keep fit in the winter and for some reason Wing Chun Kung Fu seemed to be an appealing option.

The build up to the first lesson produced much apprehension, visions of Enter The Dragon and Karate Kid, laced with Crouching Tiger. But I consoled myself with the fact that it is a defensive Chinese martial art invented by a woman, hopefully meaning my nose would not be dispatched on first visit, just plenty of sharpened nails.

I am now five lessons in and loving it. I feel a sense of purpose learning a new skill rather than mindlessly pumping iron.

One of the moves is called 'Sticky Hands', whereby you literally stick to your opponent. This got me thinking about the glutinous (a.k.a. sticky) rice the Chinese use for brewing rice wine. I might suggest to my sifu (master) that rice wine would be a very civilised note with which to end a session. It is used as part of a healing treatment for martial art bruising in China and is even responsible for a style of its own. Legend has it that a Buddhist Monk with a penchant for rice wine got very drunk, and while being expelled for this act he defeated 30 monks. He later perfected his drunken style kung fu fighting that remains today.

I am off to wax my car after a few pints at my local...

Canal Carpaccio

I have just returned from a spell in Venice and then Amsterdam. I am now a canal connoisseur.

As a Venice virgin I felt the full impact of the jaw dropping beauty. A charming collection of buildings supported precariously on stilts, separated by thin murky slivers of reasonably pungent water. Sadly global warming and geological forces spell a submerged future for this quirky place. The narrow streets and lack of traffic create a unique atmosphere, just watch out under foot for the smelly presents left by the local, seemingly IBS ridden dogs. Cafes were few and far between, but there were plenty of good trattorias to choose from. I went to Harry's Bar and anointed myself with a Bellini, wondering whether a beef carpaccio would be a bridge too far.

St Marks Square was impressive. Walking from one side to the other you gain a grey pigeon coat, like you are just another giant breadcrumb in their renaissance feeding bowl.

Navigation skills are essential, and I found myself lost in strange dark narrow places, trying to remove the eerie images of 'Don't Look Now' from my mind.

Venice is in the Veneto wine region which is famous for Valpolicella, Soave, and sparkling Prosecco to name but a few. I enjoyed many a carafe of local ink with my meals.

Amsterdam was a wholly different experience, a flurry of elegant steel frame bikes, alot like the one James Coburn rode in 'The Great Escape'. Cyclists stop for nothing so beware, probably due to that lack of handlebar brakes (just back pedal). If the bikes don't get you then a tram or canal might, especially after a visit to a 'coffee shop'. The odd red neon window seemed to attract passers by like moths to a naked flame, quite a spectacle. A fascinating place, and in many ways very pleasing on the eye. I naturally drank no wine, just superb locally brewed beer.

The short flight home and time difference catapaulted me back before I departed.