Today I did something that I do quite a few times a day.
I went to the toilet.
Yes – this is another post about toilets – I am not obsessed, honestly.
If you are in anyway offended by toilet talk – please stop reading.
For the rest of you …
I was chatting to my work colleague and he was explaining something to me and it looked like it was going to take a while. And my body was urging me to go to the loo.
So I interrupted him and said:
“I’m just off to answer a call of nature.”
And while I was answering that call, I started thinking about some of the bizarre euphemisms people use when they explain that they are off to the loo.
Yes - I am THAT weird!
I know that you are curious, dear reader, so I have done some research on your behalf. I used your name – I hope you don’t mind.
Here are some common euphemisms that tickled my interest and some that people have said to me.
I need …
… to spend a penny.
... to answer a call of nature.
... to visit George. (This was used by W’s father and I honestly thought for a while that he was going out to visit a friend. Yes I am THAT stupid sometimes.).
... a Jimmy Riddle.
... a pit stop.
... a comfort break.
... to see a man about a dog.
… to point Percie at the porcelain.
… to water the trees.
… to water the tulips.
… to shake hands with an old friend.
... to see a man about a horse.
… to free Willy.
… a tinkle.
… to take a leak.
… to powder my nose.
... to water the porcelain.
... to siphon the python.
... a squirt.
… a slash.
… a whizzle.
I think my favourite was said by eldest lad when he was about six.
“Where are you going?” I asked.
“I’m going for a short one, he replied.
It took me a few seconds to work out what he meant – a short one as opposed to a long one.
I wonder who taught him that one?
It wasn’t me.
Do you know any strange or funny euphemisms, dear reader?
There is a saying: “to err is human; to forgive, divine”.
Most of us are not divine, hence the reason why there is not a lot of forgiveness in the world.
A manager I worked for quite a few years ago, used to insist that the work environment was “not a blame culture”.
But it is, and it always will be.
I actually used that quote to the manager in question.
She said “It’s YOUR fault, Dave.”
And I said “Yes – it is. I made a mistake. To err is human; to forgive, divine. So if you forgive me, that makes you a Goddess!”
I think she thought I was flirting with her (I probably was – apparently I do this quite a lot: read about it here ).
Make a mistake and you will be pounced upon and blamed. You will be a scapegoat, depending, of course, on the nature of the mistake.
I have watched this happen repeatedly within the working environment for all of my working life and the hypocrisy and arrogance that walks hand in hand with finding a scapegoat is breathtakingly obvious to me – yet, unbelievably, missed by a lot of people.
We see it every day in the news and in life.
People are unwilling to admit to making mistakes.
Let me start a trend here:
I make mistakes.
I have always made mistakes.
I will continue to make mistakes.
Why?
It is not because I am crap at everything I do.
It is not because I am a useless good-for-nothing buffoon.
It is not because I am stupid.
It is not because I am careless.
It is because I am a human being.
Everybody makes mistakes, even those who claim not to make mistakes and see themselves as perfect human beings.
These people are not perfect – they are arrogant and deluded.
We strive for perfection these days. When I was a young man, we seemed to be able to cope with people failing at something. These days it is totally different – particularly in business.
I’ve joked about the overuse of the word “excellence” before (read about it here ) but the essence of that post is serious.
We have to appear to be flawless in every aspect of our work, these days. Whatever you do, it has to be perfect. If something goes wrong then the hunt begins; the hunt for the scapegoat.
I’ve seen this many times and not just in my line of business. The best example is “The Apprentice” where the hunt for scapegoat is played out in front of an audience who love the smell of blood. The difference here is that the victims will never, ever admit to the so-called mistake that led to failure.
Why? Because they think they are perfect; they think that they are divine.
They are not – they are human, with all of the flaws that entails. This clip sums up exactly what I mean:
It illustrates how people claim to be better than they are and use the term “idiot” when referring to mistakes that they themselves invariably make.
By this standard, I am an idiot.
But I know different – I am human.
I make mistakes.
Everybody does, including you, dear reader. Sorry for that bombshell – but it’s true.
Ultimately, the global culture now seems to be driven by this striving for excellence and if you cannot convince people that you truly are excellent then you are made a scapegoat and seen as a failure.
I think that it is about time things changed.
If people admit, to me, that they made a mistake I am much more likely to think better of them than if they deny it or blame it on somebody else.
Ultimately, this is why I like “The Apprentice” because it takes a bunch of people who think that they are excellent, think that they never make mistakes and are exposed as being just as flawed as the rest of us mere mortals.
What I will say is this; if you make mistakes, and admit them, then you are, in my view, a much better person than somebody who will sit there and watch others take the blame for their mistakes.
Sadly, I don’t have anybody to blame for this blog post and if there are mistakes in it then they are all my fault.
But of course their wil bee no missteaks at hall. Why? Becos I am NOT youman – I am deevine.
With Every Heartbeat is a song that Mrs PM introduced me to during a car journey to see her Mum in Blackpool.
She played three songs from Robyn’s album and I hated two of them. I grimaced as I endured the first two songs but then With Every Heartbeat came on and I smiled in surprise.
“Is this the same woman?” I asked incredulously.
“Yes,” she replied.
“This is a great song,” I said and Mrs PM almost crashed the car in shock.
It reminds me of the early 80’s when pop music was good with the electronic sound that I still love.
I struggle these days to listen to pop music because it has changed so radically and is mostly utter rubbish. I realise that I sound just like my dad did in the 70’s.
The song was released in 2007, the year before I started this blog, which I think is a fitting place to end this blogathon.
I hope you’ve enjoyed reading it and seeing a few glimpses into my life and the events that have shaped the person whose nonsense you have been reading, dear reader.
There have been ups and downs and I’m sure there are more ups and downs to come – mostly ups hopefully.
But that’s life, isn’t it?
At the moment I am thoroughly enjoying my life and have been, really, since the turn of the millennium. As the years go by I am more and more content. I am probably happier now than I have ever been.
I have a house that I am proud of (though it still needs some work) and three adorable cats. Yes – even Liquorice, the hellcat, can be extremely cute. I now know her well enough to be able to predict when she wants to rip my face off.
Here is Poppy trying to decide whether I want to feed her – or eat her.
Here is Jasper, the fat cat, doing what he does best – sleeping.
And here is Liquorice helping me cure writers block - I daren't refuse.
I have a job that winds me up on a daily basis but has the major perk that it allows me to visit other countries. I may moan about my job but it has taken me to Europe, Singapore, Hong Kong, Russia, China, Canada, the Caribbean and the United States. It is the one dilemma left in my life – and I’m sure I will work it out in years to come. The travel bug is still alive and kicking – and I have plans over the next year or two to visit some fabulous places.
I have two brilliant sons. I would call them boys but one of them is 18 and the other almost 16. Mrs PM calls them the clones because their resemblance to me is striking – just like my resemblance to my dad.
Time has healed a lot of the pain between W and myself and we now get on relatively okay. We always said that the boys would come first, and thankfully we have both tried to make that the case. I don’t think the boys have ever seen an argument between us since we split up.
And of course, there is Mrs PM. She is a wonderful woman and has been there for me for the past fourteen years. It is difficult to say in words how much she means to me so I will just say that I love her more each day and I simply don’t know what I would do without her. She has embraced my sons as if they were her own and she adores them. She has seen me at my lowest and has been there to help me find my way back. She is always there for me.
And of course, the last four years or so has been taken up with The Plastic Mancunian blog. I’ve always loved writing but I never really got my words out on paper until Mrs PM and I went to China. I also wrote an account of my trip to Australia in 2005 that we embarked upon with Mrs PM’s mum and her partner for her 60th birthday. I wrote the account as a present – and she loved it.
After that, Mrs PM suggested that I get my drivel out there into cyberspace and when I saw that a work colleague had done it, I took the plunge in March 2008. I decided to start the blog as a new hobby but it took me three months to pluck up the courage to actually publish my first nonsensical post – about the football team I support.
Since then, I have thoroughly enjoyed posting all manner of garbage out there into Blogland for anybody in the world to read.
For me it is a great hobby that is an outlet for my love of writing. It’s fantastic to know that there are people out there who do actually read it (I’m delighted by that in fact) but even if nobody read my musings I would still hurl them into cyberspace.
Writing to me is an means for me to vent my spleen and express myself in my own absurd way. Work colleagues read it, my sons occasionally read it, friends read it and people from all over the world read it. Mrs PM reads it too and often chuckles at my portrayal of our life together.
And I love that – I really do.
I’ll sign off for now by reiterating that I hope you enjoyed this little 31 day blogging exercise. It gave me the chance to enjoy some music from my past and to reminisce about events that have shaped my life, both good and bad.
I’ll leave you with another photo of me, Mrs PM and the boys from Ibiza last year.
Not sure who that bloke is at the back though - probably laughing at me in shorts.
Her music is a bit hit and miss though – some of it is dreadful.
What You Waiting For however is a triumph.
It’s been quite difficult for me to find examples of pop songs from the 2000’s that I actually like; mainly because the charts are dominated by drivel.
My two lads have exposed me to all manner of musical nonsense, some of it I have liked, most of it I’ve not liked.
Stephen, my eldest lad, has followed in my footsteps to a certain degree. I have followed rock music as it has progressed and been introduced to some marvellous new bands. Stephen has embraced some of them too and has become a bit of a rock fan himself.
In fact, we are both going to see Rammstein in March. Sadly, my influence hasn’t been absolute, because he also likes some pure drivel, which he is keen on inflicting on me.
Michael, on the other hand, has rebelled. He listens to music that is more in tune with Mrs PM and they discuss music quite often. He puts up with my music because he has no choice.
I don’t care and I welcome the fact that they have both veered off in their own direction. I have watched the two of them grow up and become young men and I am very proud of them.
Stephen, now 18, has followed in my footsteps and gone to university in Newcastle, studying IT - just like I did.
And, like me, he loves it.
Mrs PM and I visited him a month or two ago and it was like stepping back in time. He shares his accommodation with a mixed group of people and he thoroughly enjoys it. The place was an absolute tip – just like I remembered my place being.
“I’ve tidied up a bit,” he said.
I laughed, because it was a complete mess. “What was it like before?” I asked incredulously. Later, when we returned after a brief tour of the university, two of his female flatmates were cleaning the place up.
Stephen, unlike me, is not shy at all. He has always been a good talker and can march into a group of people and start a conversation with ease.
Michael, now almost 16, is more like me. I wouldn’t say he is shy but he is a lot quieter than his brother. He is also a very sporty lad. He plays for a local football club and is very interested in sport of any kind. I’m not sure where he gets his footballing skills from – certainly not me. I was absolutely rubbish, relying totally on pace rather than skill. Michael has both.
Having seen his brother go to university, Michael is keen to do the same. He is just about to take his GCSE exams and then he will go into the sixth form and A levels.
A part of me is envious. I remember what it was like for me.
Unlike me, however, my two lads are more prepared for the years ahead. For me, going to university was like stepping through a massive door into an unknown world. For Stephen and Michael, Mrs PM, W and I have all encouraged them, guided them and prepared them for what lies ahead – well as much as we can.
We’re already seeing a change in Stephen.
As I’ve said before, another part of me sees them almost grown up and regrets the fact that they are not children any more. That part of me is selfish – it is the child within who wants to be young again. I miss playing with them, teasing them and generally fooling around.
When Stephen once said to me “Grow up, Dad,” the child within me was hurt. It was a moment when I realised that I could no longer act like a child with him.
I miss the little rituals we had – hiding in the bedroom at bedtime and scaring them, drawing Mr Men on a blackboard and then reading the stories to them; giving them Mohican hairstyles in the bath; watching Thomas the Tank Engine videos; chasing them around the house pretending to be a monster; playing football with them in the park and many more things.
Now, it is like having two adults around the place – and that is fun as well. I can see them becoming fine young men.
Yes – I am envious. I am sure they will make mistakes but I hope to be there for them as long as I can, accompanied by Mrs PM, who adores them, and of course W, who has been the perfect mother to them.
Anyway – this is me and the boys back in 2006 in Blackpool (Mrs PM’s home town). Michael is closest - he was 10 - Stephen was 13.
And this is last summer in Ibiza. Stephen, now 18, is next to me, taking after his father and drinking beer. Michael is now almost 16.
As I’ve already told you, Mrs PM and I do not share the same taste in music at all. The good news is, however, that we do have the odd song in common that we both like.
Strict Machine is another one of them.
For me the song has a style takes me back to the early 1980’s and a time I have already described that I am fiercely nostalgic for.
For Mrs PM, it is just another pop song she likes.
We needed some music that we had in common; particularly when we were working on our new house.
As I said in the previous post, we bought our house in 2002 and it needed some work. It needed more than just “some” work – it needed LOADS.
It is an old three bedroomed Edwardian terrace built in 1906 and is a bit like Dr Who’s TARDIS. From the front it looks small but when you open the door it just goes back and back.
The previous occupants were an old couple who didn’t have much money to spend on the house. They sold up because the area where I live is a fairly popular area and the housing boom meant that the house was worth a lot more than they had paid for it originally. The moved to a smaller, cheaper house on the outskirts of Stockport and made a fair amount of profit I believe.
Sadly, the house was not decorated to our taste. Every room was covered in woodchip.
The main bedroom was like a cave. The walls were painted a dark avocado green and the old couple, when they moved out, took all of the bulbs with them and replaced them with useless low wattage excuses for bulbs.
“What have we done?” asked Mrs PM as we struggled to see each other that first night.
“We’ll sort it out,” I said.
And we have – well sort of.
The main bedroom was first. We stripped all of the wallpaper, replaced the horrific carpet, plastered the room and bought loads of new furniture.
The main living room was next. Originally it had an awful fake brick façade straight out of the 1970’s. We smashed it all down, bought a new mantelpiece and fire, new carpet, new furniture, new wallpaper etc..
And so it went on. Every year since then we have had some major work done to the house including a new bathroom, new kitchen and lots of plastering.
Finally – FINALLY – it is in a state that Mrs PM is happy with.
I have been throwing cash at builders, decorators, furniture stores, carpet stores, DIY stores and all manner of other people to get the house in good state.
Of course, we have contributed hard work ourselves. And this is where the tiny overlap in our musical tastes has helped.
When I am painting or doing anything like that I NEED music to keep me sane. Sadly, playing heavy metal and rock music has a negative effect on Mrs PM.
“If you play ONE MORE SONG from Dream Theater I will pour that pot of paint over your head.”
My reaction was similar except the main artist to drive me nuts was Lady Gaga – or J Lo – or the Black Eyed Peas – you get the drift.
In the end we just played stuff that we both liked. The problem is that Mrs PM gets fed up of old music really quickly so now we have another approach to our problem.
When we are in the car driving somewhere that involves a journey of say an hour or two, we take it in turns playing three songs each. That way we endure around fifteen minutes of Hell followed by fifteen minutes of Heaven.
Sadly this has had a bad effect on me – like walking down the street and suddenly, out of the blue singing Lady Gaga songs:
Rah-rah-ah-ah-ah! Roma-Roma-ma-ah! Ga-ga-ooh-la-la! Want your bad romance
before realising what I am doing and then screaming “SHIT!!! WHAT AM I DOING????” to alarmed passers-by.
I just hope that Mrs PM suffers from the same embarrassing affliction.
This song is so infectious that I had it as my mobile phone ring tone for a while. It was one of those old Nokias and I had to painstakingly type it in, a kind of crude version of the tune.
Mates and work colleagues took the piss but I didn’t care.
Coldplay are one of those bands that people love or hate – I love them – Mrs PM isn’t too keen at all and this song drives her up the wall.
So back in 2002, when the song was released, we moved into the house we live in now. And the family increased by two.
That’s right – we bought two black kittens from the Cat Protection League, which in itself was a bizarre experience. Mrs PM had always wanted black cats, so I called the charity and was told that a representative would come to visit us and check us out.
The way it was phrased, it appeared as if we were being scrutinised to see if we were suitable “parents”.
And that’s exactly how it was.
A woman called on us armed with a book of photographs and then interviewed us in our own home. She had long grey hair and looked at me in particular as she asked the questions, probably because I was the less enthusiastic of the two.
“Do you consider this to be a dangerous road?” she asked me.
“Not really. It’s not a main road is it?”
“This IS a dangerous road for cats,” she replied, shaking her head in disbelief. “Just count the cars that go past.”
I did – and there seemed to be quite a few.
She then continued the interrogation – er sorry – interview – asking questions about how we would look after the cats.
I wanted to jump up and scream at the woman: “Look – I have owned a cat before. I know how to feed them and how to look after them. I will not harm these animals. For Pete’s sake – if you think we are unworthy then I’ll just go out and get some kittens from somebody else.”
I didn’t say those words. I just nodded when she suggested that the cats should be kept in ( “House cats are better” she said), knowing that I would let them out because that’s exactly what cats want.
Eventually, Mrs PM chose Jasper and Poppy, whom regular readers will now be familiar with. A couple of days later, she brought them round and sat with us in the lounge just to make sure that we knew what we were doing.
“I have brought up two kids. I KNOW HOW TO LOOK AFTER A BLOODY CAT!!!!”
I didn’t say this at all – though the urge to do so was almost totally overwhelming.
She stayed with us for one hour – ONE HOUR!!!!
When she finally left, I allowed these two delightful little creatures to roam our house and have fun doing so. They were already house-trained, which was a massive bonus.
And the woman even rang us up a couple of times to ask “how the kittens were settling in.”
“I’ve fed them to next door’s dog,” I said.
I didn’t really.
At the time she rang, I was reading in bed and had Jasper on my chest and Poppy was sitting on Mrs PM purring.
And they have been with us ever since.
Here they are, as they were in 2002:
I was going to tell you something about the house we live in but I got carried away with our moggies (as I so often do).
Well at least that gives me something to talk about in tomorrow’s post – unless I start waffling about the cats again, of course.
Another decade was over – a fiery decade – another life changing decade.
As the 1990’s drifted to a close and a new millennium, no less, was upon me, I finally began to settle and take stock of my life again. You would have thought that would have managed over the previous 38 years – but I like to think that life is a constant challenge and evolution and self-development are inevitable.
This is the approach I decided to take as 1999 became 2000.
And for once I was content.
I had first heard I Wish I Could Fly sometime in 1999, as my time in Hong Kong was over. Mrs PM and I were happy and all I could think of was a rosy future. The song reminds me of the new feeling of hope that I had.
I was happy and I still am – nothing much has changed in that area – apart from possibly being even happier.
That’s not to say it wasn’t tough at first. I was used to living in a three bedroomed detached house and found myself renting a house for six months before we bought a two bedroomed (and small) flat.
It was the first time Mrs PM had owned her own place and she was very excited. I wasn’t as excited as she was because I was used to a house and this place was much smaller than I was used to, although it was very homely.
I am a bit of a hoarder and I had a lot of stuff. There was no room in the flat so I had to make sacrifices – and that hurt.
The flat was another brand new property in South Manchester and right next to an area that was a thriving student community.
In fact, I had come full circle because it was about 100 yards away from the bedsit I had first lived in way back in 1984 – remember the mad professor who thought that there was a pervert leaving elastic bands on his front door?
He was long gone and the building I had lived in had become (and still is) an old people’s home. Thinking about it, moving back to the area I first lived in when I first came to Manchester, didn’t seem like a good plan of attack to get my life back on track .
But in a way, it kind of worked. I started to look back at what my life was like back then and it helped me decide on a way forward – with Mrs PM’s help of course.
The area was a lot livelier than I remember and the number of student bars that had suddenly appeared was incredible.
I began to feel quite old for the first time in my life, mainly because I realised that students looked like children and the fact that my fortieth birthday was just around the corner didn’t help me.
In 2001, I finally suggested to Mrs PM that we ought to consider looking for a bigger place. I think at first she was reluctant, but when we talked about it, she began to see my point of view. We were living on the top floor of a block of flats in a lively area and I wanted something a little bigger and a little more peaceful.
Mrs PM agreed and we began to hunt for houses.
In the end, we had a couple of failures, as the housing market was on the up. Mrs PM has a penchant for older period houses and had a fairly specific style of house in mind.
And we found one.
There were quite a few problems trying to buy the place, mainly because we were in a chain and we were let down a couple of times by people who said they wanted the flat and then changed their minds. It was quite frustrating.
We got there eventually.
My life was settling down at last. The plan started to come together.
