The Ugly Stick

While on holiday recently, I woke up, prematurely, thanks to jet lag, and stumbled into the bathroom to answer a call of nature. 

It was 3am and pitch black.

I was in that weird state of limbo when you have woken up but your brain is trying it’s best to catch the train back to dreamland. Reality exists but it is tinged with a dreamlike trance created by your subconscious mind and you basically have no clue what is going on, driven only by natural instincts - in my case, the instinct to pee. 

With one hand on my head, scratching through the forest of hair that was sticking up all over the place, the other hand groped the wall outside the bathroom in the hotel room, searching for the light switch. My face was drawn in one of those massive vociferous yawns – you know the type – a yawn that makes a peculiar wailing noise, like a bear with a headache.

My brain registered the yawn and tried to ignore it.

I found the light switch and stumbled into the bathroom, blinded by the sudden brightness. I squeezed my eyes tightly shut, opening them fractionally in a futile attempt to get them used to the painful brilliance.

I didn’t have my glasses. My eyesight was worse than Mr Magoo’s.

After a couple of minutes, my eyes adjusted to the light and I looked around the bathroom searching for the toilet. I had only been in the room once and it was totally unfamiliar to me.

And then I saw it; a blurred image staring at me, grimacing like a grotesque gargoyle. Its skin was pale and wan and I could just about make out two dark orbs tinged with red. Its head was huge – a caricature of a human being with a monstrous entity moving menacingly on its head like the serpentine style of Medusa.

My ears were filled with a horrific wailing. 

And then the door burst open and in walked Mrs PM.

“What the phark are you screaming about?” she shouted.

It was as if somebody had slapped my face with a wet fish.

I realised that the horrific wailing was my own terrified cry. More embarrassingly,  I realised that the monster that had freaked me out was in fact my own reflection in the mirror as seen through my useless eyes.

“I … er …I …er “ I stuttered, like a gibbering imbecile.

“You scared me half to death,” wailed Mrs PM. “I’m going back to bed. You’re a bloody idiot.”

I returned to the bedroom briefly to pick up my spectacles so that I didn’t annoy Mrs PM any further by missing the toilet bowl. 

Yes I am that blind without my glasses.

I returned to the bathroom and answered the call. When I had finished, I stood staring at my reflection again. I asked myself one question.

“When did I get beaten so badly with an ugly stick?”

My hideous hair was all over the place. My eyes were bloodshot through lack of sleep. But my face was drawn and haggard and, worst of all, jowly. A close inspection revealed a network of wrinkles, highlighted by the brightness of the mirror light and various blemishes peppered my face.

And then to my body – when did I start looking so chubby? I’m not fat – just slightly overweight – but the mirror revealed various pudgy portions of the body that, as a youth, I used to think was skinny but acceptable.

Of course, being a 50 year old man, what else can I expect? I realised many years ago that I am not Adonis. My problem is that while I have always made jokes on this blog about my own appearance being very similar to that of an orang-utan, the image that stared back at me in that hotel mirror resembled a primate more than any other reflection had in the past.

When did that happen then?

It got me thinking. I returned back to bed and lay there unable to sleep and listening to Mrs PM making her own bear noise as she snored and started to pinpoint the moment when my already monkey like visage started sagging.

Regular readers may know that I have always been terrible at chatting up women. In the dim and distant past, I have tried too hard and ended up making a complete arse of myself. On a couple of occasions, though, some women have been brutally honest:

“I just don’t fancy you!”

“Your mate’s far better looking than you.”

“What? Me go out with you? Do I look like I’m into bestiality?”

Maybe I always aimed too high. 

Thankfully, some women have in fact been forward enough to ask me out so I have figured that perhaps I am not as unpleasant to look at as I used to think. Certainly when I look back at photos of myself when I was younger, I don’t look too bad. I’m nothing special – just plain – but not offensive to the eye. 

I’ve always had the feeling that I have been pursued throughout my life by an evil little entity brandishing an ugly stick. Whenever the little monster has had the chance he has given me a sound thrashing with it, each blow removing an element of attractiveness. 

Now I am older, it is more difficult to outrun the little bugger and the thrashings are becoming more frequent. 

Some call it ageing; I know the truth.

However, with ageing comes wisdom. 

With wisdom comes acceptance and contentment. 

Yes, my blurred reflection, a bloated mass of blubber with mad hair and red eyes, might have scared the living daylights out of my jet-lagged mind but at least I can be grateful that there is a woman who still loves the monster she shares her life with.

If I didn’t know any different I would swear that The Beauty and the Beast was loosely based on our relationship.

You can’t outrun the little beast wielding the ugly stick but you can put your own mind at rest. Next time I grimace while examining my crumbling countenance in the mirror I shall thank my lucky stars that I am wiser and happier than I was in my youth. 

I will look the vile ugly stick wielding goblin in the eye and say:

“Come on then – give it your best shot! By the way – can you lay off the hair? I think it’s had enough.”

Ultimately, beauty is in the eye of the beholder.

I am so pleased that Mrs PM believes that.

Taking Notes

A year or two ago, I declared war on procrastination and told the world that I would write a book.

The good news is that I am about to start and hopefully score a massive victory after years of abject failure.

Actually, what I am planning isn’t really a book as such; it is a travelogue of my recent trip to Hong Kong and Japan. It will be my third such piece of work.

There is also an added bonus. Because I travelled to the other side of the world, jet lag claimed me as a victim for a couple of nights, resulting in my lying wide awake in bed at 3am with Mrs PM, a woman who can sleep anywhere and anytime, snoring loudly next to me, leaving me no other option but to create a novel in my head.

As I lay there in the dark, soaring through my own imagination, I came up with a story that I think will work. Furthermore (and this is a definite first), I have an ending.

I am therefore going to say to you now, dear reader, that by the end of 2013 I will attempt to write not one but TWO books.

I will start work on the travelogue immediately and the novel will begin on 1^st November and will be completed on 30^th November, providing that my company doesn’t send me abroad again. That’s right – I will attempt to create a novel in National Novel Writing Month in November.

The travelogue will, of course, be easier than the novel because I will take my time over the coming five months using the copious notes, photographs and sound bites I recorded during the trip.

Real published writers have told me in the past that the notebook is perhaps the most important tool in a writer’s toolbox. I would go further and suggest that a camera is also imperative and, in case of emergency, a device for recording verbal notes.

When I travelled around China and down the east coast of Australia, I had a notebook with me all of the time. My problem is that I am quite shy and hate having attention drawn towards me and making notes in public is, to me, quite a difficult thing to do, depending on the situation.

In China, it was easier because I had Mrs PM with me and I was already the centre of attention, due to my obvious foreign appearance, exaggerated by my blonde hair and wispy ginger beard. Some of the local people openly stared at me, making me the centre of attention by default. Whipping out my notebook to write notes about the contents of the plate in front of me in a weird restaurant did nothing to make that situation worse.

Australia was trickier. We were accompanied by Mrs PM’s mum and her other half, and I was writing the travelogue as a 60^th birthday present. I had to hide the notebook whenever we were all together and make notes from memory at the end of the day or the beginning of the next day, lest she ask awkward questions like:

“Why are you writing everything down?”

Thankfully, we were in possession of a fairly decent digital camera and I could elaborate on my mental notes with decent photographs. In China we didn't have a decent camera and had to use film. We didn’t take anywhere near enough photographs. In Australia, however, I took loads of them and, on occasion, was asked questions by \mrs PM's mum like:

“Why are you taking a photo of the menu?” 

to which my reply was: 

“Just to show my mates that you can actually eat kangaroo down under.”

Japan was better in many ways, but worse in others. 

Unlike in China, we weren’t the centre of attention in Japan but because Japan is arguably the most amazing country I have ever visited, my notebook was a constant companion. 

At first, Mrs PM volunteered to carry it around in her handbag. After a while, with constant requests to “hand me the notebook”, she began to tire of it. Mrs PM’s handbag is like the TARDIS, small on the outside but seemingly huge on the inside. However, with guide books a phone, a Nexus 7 tablet, my notebook, a camera and everything that she needed to survive outside the hotel room contained within, she found on occasion that it got a little too heavy and awkward to carry.

I offered to take my rucksack, which is like an inverse TARDIS, big on the outside but seemingly tiny on the inside and even more awkward for me to carry. Besides, Mrs PM, as forgetful as she is, never ever leaves her handbag behind in restaurants and bars. Sadly, because I am not used to carrying a bag normally, I have a tendency to leave things behind. I promise that I don’t do it on purpose and have lost countless umbrellas by leaving them on buses and trains or in restaurants and pubs because I simply forget I have something with me.

I walked out of one hotel in Japan to check out and actually left the rucksack behind in the room. Thankfully, I realised before we caught the taxi to the railway station, prompting Mrs PM to demand that I leave it in the hotel room when we were out and about.

Making notes in Japan drew back vague feelings of anxiety about being the centre of attention in the middle of a bunch of strangers because I would invariably take it out and start scribbling in a restaurant or bar full of people. On more than one occasion, I noticed that the staff in particular were watching me surreptitiously, as if I were a food critic or something. On a train, one guy next to me was actually trying to read what I was writing.

Whether or not he could understand English, read my dreadful scribbling or even make sense of my terse and unintelligible notes is irrelevant; I felt self-conscious. It didn’t stop me from scribbling but the feelings were unmistakeable.

I discovered yet another tool during this trip that also had potential for embarrassment. One day, as we were strolling around, I asked Mrs PM for the notebook, only to discover that I had forgotten to put it in her handbag.

As I cursed my luck, Mrs PM made a suggestion.

“Why don’t you use the voice recorder on your phone?”

This proved to be a fabulous idea and I found myself pausing every so often to record a small sound bite or two to serve as memory stimulation for when I returned to the hotel. I could pretend that I was making a phone call, but unfortunately on at least a couple of occasions, I found myself getting carried away and talking loudly in full earshot of passers-by. While it may be fine in Japan, it may yet prove to be potentially awkward if I feel the need to use it in the UK or somewhere where English is widely spoken.

Can you imagine: 

“I’ve just walked past the weirdest meathead I have ever seen. Oh dear – I think he’s heard me. Oh no – I am now running away. Shit – he’s caught me and is about to …”

I just need to learn to be discrete and not use my normal loud phone voice when recording such messages.

Work starts on the travelogue later today (I’m currently off for the rest of the week to recover from jet lag in the comfort of my own home) and hopefully the novel will be spawned in November. While I am promising myself I will complete these tasks, the thing I can’t promise is that the two manuscripts will be appealing to anybody but me and perhaps Mrs PM.

Hopefully they will be a bit of fun and I may pop the travelogue into a brand new blog. Either way, expect a few excerpts, summaries and snapshots on this blog in the next month or two.

Another Music Meme

Mrs PM and I are off on our travels again tomorrow, This time we are heading to Japan, a country neither of us has been too before, via my favourite city outside the UK – the wonderful Hong Kong.

And I can’t wait.

In the meantime, here is a music meme I stumbled across while drifting along through cyberspace and thought it would be fun to inflict yet more of my music on you, dear reader.

Here goes - and please follow the links for maximum enjoyment/pain...

      (1) Name some songs/music from your childhood:

I assume by childhood, you mean “pre-teen” (given question 2 – yes I did peek ahead). I remember being obsessed by a really weird tune. At the time I thought it was amazing – but then again, I was a kid so didn’t know any better. The song was Popcorn by Hot Butter.   Actually, listening to it now, it is quite catchy.

Other than that I was really into Glam Rock and loved The Sweet. Listening to Ballroom Blitz you can see the similarity between that and the rock music I love now.

And I still love songs like This Town Ain’t Big Enough For The Both Of Us by Sparks which is also quite a rocky little number.

(2) Name some songs/music from your teenage years:

I was really into the charts when I was a teenager and, although I am slightly ashamed to admit it now, I loved Abba – particularly a song called So Long which is also quite a rocky tune. Regular readers may recall that I have confessed to having a crush on  Agnetha Fältskog  and I took every opportunity to watch her when she was on TV.

I was also a huge fan of the Electric Light Orchestra, with songs like Turn To Stone.

(3) First live concert you atteneded:

My first concert was an American band called Cheap Trick when they played Birmingham. I had never heard of them but I didn’t want the ignominy of being a concert virgin at school. The mother of one of my mates worked at a theatre in Birmingham and offered him some free tickets to give to his mates.

I wasn’t overly impressed but it was free and musically, they popped my cherry, so to speak. Here is I Want You To Want Me. 

(4) Songs you parents sang along too:

My dad had an eclectic taste in music ranging from jazz to rock and roll via country and western. One of his favourite artists was Jerry Lee Lewis and I heard him singing Great Balls Of Fire more than once.

(5) Songs your grandparents played:

I really don’t remember my grandparents singing and playing music although I once found a book full of old time music songs in my grandad’s house. He had a small piano and my mum said that he used to play quite often. One of the songs in the book was an old time music hall number called Joshua and I can imagine my grandad playing and singing it.

(6) Did your family have sing-a-longs at home or with the neighbours?

In a word – no. I think I was born about 20 years too late for that to happen.

(7) Did you have a musical instrument at home?

My sisters had a recorder and I borrowed a school trombone for about five years making it a fairly regular visitor.

(8) What instruments do you play, if any?

I used to play a trombone, although I imagine that if I picked one up now, the neighbours would accuse me of torturing my three cats. That said, a tiny part of me wants to give it another go – just to see if I can still remember how to play one.

(9) What instrument(s) do you wish you could play?

Regular readers will know that I would love to play an electric guitar. To be honest I would also love to play a piano/keyboard as well as bashing seven bells out of a drum kit. At various points in my life, electronic keyboards have appeared in my home and, with a little practice, I have been able to play a tune on them. One day, I might invest in one – just for fun.

(10) Do you/did you play in a band or orchestra?

Yes indeed. I played in the school Brass Group, had a brief stint in the school orchestra and even briefer stint in a jazz group – that was until I confessed that I hated jazz.

(11) Do you/did you sing in a choir?

No. My music teacher held auditions for the school choir within a week of starting at the age of eleven. All I remember is having to sing a scale and failing miserably (partly because I could barely stifle the wild guffaws wanting to escape from my throat). The teacher was frank, telling me I sounded like a cat being strangled. This is yet another reason why I try not to curb my desire to sing at home in case the neighbours think I’m a serial cat torturer.

(12) Music you fell in love to:

Mrs PM and I do not share the same taste in music. It is therefore extremely difficult to put my finger on a song that we could share as our song. 

I guess the nearest from my perspective might be something by Morcheeba, a band that Mrs PM introduced me to when we first got together. Here is a song called Fear and Love.

If I were to choose one from my collection, it would have to reiterate exactly how much I love Mrs PM – so I would choose I Love You More Than Rock and Roll by Thunder.  

(13) Romantic music memories:

As I said, that’s tricky when it comes to Mrs PM because any songs we think are romantic will immediately be cast aside because of our mutual hatred of each other’s taste.

(14) Favourite music genres:

I am a huge fan of Progressive Rock but I generally like any rock music, ranging from Classic Rock to Heavy Metal. I am also a fan of ambient electronic pop music and I regard classic Motown as a real guilty pleasure. I also  love most chart music from the 70’s and early 80’s (up to about 1986). Finally, I quite enjoy listening to certain classical music, which leads me onto …

(15) Favourite classical music:

I love the Planet Suite by Gustav Holtz, particularly Mars .

I also particularly like Dance of the Knights by Prokofiev and Grieg’s Hall of the Mountain King. 

(16) Favourite opera:

I hate opera.

(17) Favourite musical:

One of my guilty pleasures is West Side Story and I love the song America.

(18) Favourite pop:

Pop music has always been lurking in my music collection and there are a fair amount of albums by bands that might surprise you. Here are a couple of songs by some of my favourite pop artists from over the years:

Minor Earth Major Sky – A-ha 

Clocks – Coldplay 

Mer du Japon – Air 

(19) Favourite world/ethnic:

Assuming that by World/Ethnic you don’t mean anything by a foreign artist (America is after all foreign for a Brit like me). I guess I’ll opt for Return to Innocence by Enigma. 

(20) Favourite jazz:

I hate jazz.

(21) Favourite country/folk:

I hate Country and Western – apart from Wichita Lineman by Glenn Campbell. 

(22) Favourite movie/show musical:

See (17).

(23) Favourite sound tracks:

That’s a tough one. I would probably choose the soundtrack to the Matrix because it has a couple of cracking heavy metal songs: Du Hast by Rammstein and Dragula by Rob Zombie.

(24) What music do you like to dance to?

These days I don’t dance unless Mrs PM drags me kicking and screaming onto the dance floor. I used to occasionally go to a rock club in Manchester many years ago and, after a beer or two I would basically go up and dance to any half decent rock song. Sadly rock music doesn’t lend itself to dancing so I probably looked like a complete arse.

(25) What dances did you do as a teenager?

A mate of mine taught me a dance to Tiger Feet by Mud which you can see if you follow the link. I later reproduced this at university at a night club when they had a retro night, much to the amusement of my new mates. I could also do the dance to Prince Charming by Adam and the Ants and I had another go at this a couple of years ago at 1980’s night, again amusing my mates in the process.

(26) Do you use music for called ID on your mobile phone?

Not now. I use a standard boring ring tone.

(27) What songs do you use for caller ID?

I used to use Clocks by Coldplay for a while and then replaced it with The Immigrant Song by Led Zeppelin.

(28) What music do your children like or listen to?

Stephen actually likes some of the same music as I do but some of the bands he likes are not exactly my cup of tea. There is a significant overlap though, like Metallica and Rammstein.

Michael likes music that is similar to Mrs PM, i.e. complete and utter garbase.

(29) Favourite live music concert as an adult:

I’ve seen loads of concerts spanning a period of 30 years or more and there are only one or two of my favourite bands that I haven’t seen. Favourites include Rush, Dream Theater, Rammstein, Metallica and the Foo Fighters but most of them have been incredible.

(30) Silly music memories from your family:

As a kid, my dad used to listen to Lonnie Donegan and because his songs were mildly amusing, we used to sing them occasionally, songs like Does Your Chewing Gum Lose Its Flavour on the Bedpost Overnight.

I’m sure that my own kids would tell you, if they had a blog, that their old man (i,e, me) used to sing stupid songs when in the car or change the lyrics to existing songs in a stupid way.

I don’t care – its fun and it used to make them laugh (not now sadly – they would probably tell me I’m a bloody idiot).

(31) Silliest song you can think of:

Apart from the Lonnie Donegan song above, you mean? How about The Majesty of Rock by Spinal Tap?  

(32) Pet hate in music/singing:


Rapping and vocalists who over-sing.  Rapping is pointless and awful and over-singing completely ruins songs. Who are the main culprits? Any rapper and people like Mariah Carey and Christina Aguilera who sing like this.

(33) A song that captures family history for you:

For me, a great song to capture silliness in my family is Stupid Things by the Wildhearts. 

The reason? I bought the album shortly before Mrs PM and I got together – but Mrs PM hates the Wildhearts and this song in particular. 

So when I got the kids to repeatedly sing the chorus to her, it drove her up the wall  - and it still does.

Doing stupid things, doing stupid things

Ain't it funny how they all turn into saints and kings

If your only sin is doing stupid things

Doing stupid things when you're feeling low

Isn't something that you want all of the world to know

If your only sin is doing stupid things

You deflate, ego shrunk

You're just a little bit crap when you're drunk

But it's worse in your mind

‘cos everybody everywhere

Does stupid things from time to time

Marvellous – though Mrs PM would disagree.

(34) If you could only play 5 albums for the rest of your life, what would they be?

My goodness – that is a tough question. I have so many albums.

Off the top of my head:

Images and Words – Dream Theater

Fear of a Blank Planet – Porcupine Tree

Hold Your Fire – Rush

Moon Safari – Air

Mutter – Rammstein

(35) Favourite artists - list as many as you like:

Being ultra selective - take a deep breath …

AC/DC, A-ha, Aerosmith, Air, Airbourne, Black Country Communion, Black Sabbath, The Black Spiders, Coldplay, David Bowie, Deep Purple, Def Leppard, Depeche Mode, Dream Theater, ELO, Enya, Foo Fighters, Guns’n’Roses, The Hives, Joe Satriani, Judas Priest, Led Zeppelin, Metallica, Muse, Nazareth, Nine Inch Nails, Pink Floyd, Porcupine Tree, Queen, Queensryche, Rainbow, Rammstein, Rush, Steven Wilson, Supertramp, Tears For Fears, Ten, Thunder, Whitesnake, The Wildhearts, Within Temptation.

That really is the tip of the iceberg. If I were to name all of the bands I really like, it would be an enormous list.

And finally ...

That's enough for now. 

As usual, please feel free to steal the meme – I did.

See you in a couple of weeks.

A Night On The Toon

My eldest lad, Stephen is currently enjoying his student career in arguably the party capital of the United Kingdom.

I am of course referring to Newcastle.

Believe it or not, I had never been to Newcastle prior to 2011, when I first visited him up there, a shocking state of affairs if you think about it, considering my boast about being a seasoned traveller. I have tried to rectify this by visiting again and this weekend just passed, Mrs PM and I arranged to spend a night on the Toon with Stephen.

Newcastle is about three and a half hours away by car and this time I suggested that we catch the train instead of driving so that we could relax and spend the journey with more cerebral pursuits such as reading and in-depth analysis of the nuances of progressive rock (in my case at least).

In the end, my attempts to satisfy my intellectual side were slightly thwarted by what proved to be a very interesting train journey.

The train was full of people travelling to the various stops along the way, such as Huddersfield, Leeds and York. The people who were travelling to Newcastle were the most interesting; those visiting for a good time.

A group of boisterous lads walked past us and left one of their mates coughing his guts up next to the door. As he caught them up, I heard him say to one of his mates:

“Oy! You’re supposed to be looking after me tonight! What chance do I stand if you leave me choking by the door?”

This was one of a couple of stag parties that were on their way to Newcastle.

Right next to us were a group of young women who immediately extracted several alcoholic beverages from their bags when they sat down and proceeded to drink them with gusto. They were all yapping away as you imagine a group of young girls about to go for a night out on the town would do – but their animated conversation did not cause me or any of the passengers to scream “Please keep it down ladies!” in frustration.

All of the young women were deaf.

Each one of them was signing frantically, so much so that their hands were blurred. Their activity was punctuated by the odd noise but apart from that it was pure silence and animated mouthing and lip reading. One of the girls at one stage took something out of her suitcase and struggled to close it again, choosing to sit on it, in the aisle right next to me, and repeatedly bounce on it in a futile attempt to close it.

I couldn’t help myself; it was so funny that I ended up smiling. She looked at me and laughed and then mouthed “Sorry”. I mouthed “It’s OK!” back.

We arrived in Newcastle and checked into our hotel, arranging to meet Stephen there. He turned up looking slightly subdued.

“What’s the matter with you?” I asked. He is normally a chatty young lad. And then it dawned on me.

“Are you hung over?” I asked.

“I’ve felt better,” he confessed. “I didn’t get in until 3am last night.”

After a late lunch we wandered around the city for a while. Mrs PM was tired so went back to the hotel for a snooze, leaving Stephen and I to go to the cinema to see Olympus Has Fallen.

I noticed that the volume of music from various establishments was extremely loud and remarked upon this.

“It’s only 5pm; these places sound like night clubs.”

“This is Newcastle,” said Stephen as if that was the sole reason for the activity.

After the film, we collected Mrs PM and went to a pub for a pre-dinner drink. The pub we chose was very noisy and full of large groups of men and women ready for a big night out. There were three hen parties and a stag party, the latter of which had reserved a table that was absolutely full of beer. Most of them were already drunk.

Maybe I’m getting old but it was just a bit too much for me. I suggested somewhere else but it seemed that everywhere was the same. All I wanted was a nice quiet drink and a lovely meal. We had earmarked a restaurant and by the time we got there it was absolutely full.

Eventually, we found a combined bar/eating establishment and managed to get a table. Although it was noisy, the food was superb and I spent the time chatting and watching the other customers. Most of them were young and wearing hardly any clothes. The men wore T-shirts despite the chill and some of the women wore very tight-fitting dresses.

I had to avert my eyes lest Mrs PM punch me in front of my son.

As the evening wore on, the place we were in slowly changed its emphasis. The diners slipped away and a DJ appeared just to my right, playing loud music, as younger people started to enter the establishment.

The sheer volume of music drove me to distraction and I suggested that we call it a night. Stephen was fine with that because he was still recovering from last night’s exertions.

The time was 11pm.

We left Stephen and strolled back to the hotel. Every building seemed to be bursting with life; youngsters congregated outside a seemingly endless number of late night drinking establishments, each louder than the rest, with all manner of loud music bursting out of them. Bouncers joked with perspective customers before letting them in.

I saw one young lad throwing up against a wall as his mates stood around chanting

“CHUNDER! CHUNDER! CHUNDER!”.

as if vomiting were a right of passage.

It was yet another poor stag suffering from a massive bout of overindulgence.

When we got back to the hotel, there was a wedding reception in full swing. Large numbers of well-dressed men and women in varying states of high-spiritedness and inebriation wandered about the hotel as we climbed the stairs to our first floor room. Loud music blared from a nearby suite marking the place where the happy couple were celebrating.

We were about to open the glass door to the corridor leading to our room when we spotted a man on the other side of the door staring at us like a member of the cast of The Walking Dead.

I opened the door and said “After you,”.

He muttered something unintelligible and quite literally wobbled through the door. It was then I noticed the vomit stains down his shirt – another victim of overindulgence.

Our night was fairly restful but, being a light sleeper, I was woken up a couple of times by various party animals returning to their rooms in the wee small hours.

We awoke early on Sunday morning and enjoyed a fabulous English breakfast with quite a few other diners, a lot of whom were nursing hangovers.

Mrs PM and I were fully healthy and followed breakfast with a stroll along the Quayside area, enjoying the scenery and the market adjacent to the Gateshead Millennium Bridge. Unlike the previous night the city was peaceful and the night clubs and bars we passed were all quiet and closed up, seemingly resting until the masses descended for the next party.

We met Stephen for a final coffee and lunch and watched the Gateshead Millennium Bridge tilt upwards to allow a couple of boats underneath.

I didn’t know it did that.

Before we said goodbye to Stephen, I  handed over some money to help him cope with life as a student, making him promise to spend it on food rather than another night of debauchery.

“Of course,” he reassured me. “I’ve got work to do, you know – and I DO have to eat.”

On the train on the way back we shared the coach with a bunch of other lads who had been to Newcastle for a stag party and although they were a little worse for wear they were still quite boisterous.

I realised then that I am too old for that kind of thing and while Newcastle is a great place to visit, the social life is a little too intense for a decrepit old git like me. I can still enjoy watching it though – it is a great place for people watching.

That didn’t stop others my age, I have to say.

As Stephen says, this is Newcastle.

Sympathy For The Devil

As a fan of heavy metal, I have often been accused of being in league with the devil. Pseudo intellectuals seem to think I am part of a cult that is being brainwashed by long-haired Satanists and that my ambition is to live a life of debauchery with a view to gathering enough Satanic Brownie Points to make my transition to Hell as easy as possible.

I have laughed this off as mumbo jumbo, although in my youth I used to take it seriously enough to argue with people about it.

Now I just mock these people for being complete idiots, both to their faces and also in this very blog.

However, recently I have been thinking about exactly what I would need to do to actually guarantee my place in Hell, if the place were to actually exist.

You may well be aware that the death of a certain woman in the UK last week has caused quite a stir.

I am, of course, talking about Margaret Thatcher, the so-called Iron Lady.

In the UK there has been a mixed reaction to her death.

Conservative party members, her beloved political party, are in mourning, lamenting the loss of, in their words, the greatest Prime Minister in British history.

Some people, mainly youngsters, are saying “Who?”

A few people are wondering what all the fuss is about. To them she is just another politician.

A large number of British citizens despised the woman in life and of that number, a fairly healthy percentage have taken to the streets celebrating her death to the tune “Ding Dong! The Witch Is Dead!”, which incidentally has reached number 2 in the UK charts:

What has this got to do with the devil, I hear you ask?

The people who are quite literally dancing on her grave are happily speculating that the Iron Lady is, as I type, on her way to Hell for the horrendous pain she afflicted on the people of Britain during her reign of terror.

I was a student when she was in power and the anti-Thatcher movement was really strong. It was bordering on anarchistic with people rioting, marching to London because of the shortage of jobs and miners striking as she destroyed the lives of a large number of working class people by savagely slashing the manufacturing industry and all but destroying the coal mining industry.

She was one of the least popular Prime Ministers I can remember. At the time I hated the woman; she was divisive, arrogant, driven and cold. The only reason she was Prime Minister for so long was that the Falklands War happened during her first term in office. If it wasn’t for the Argentinians invading the Falkland Islands, she would have lost her second election.

Despite this, I’m not bitter and I have drawn the line at thinking about dancing in the street. In the end she was just a sick old lady whose life ran out. I won’t mourn her. To me, she is just a politician who I choose to forget.

But that doesn’t stop me airing my views when provoked, as I was on my trip to Oman last week. While I was there I had a rather entertaining discussion with a colleague who, unlike me, actually had a lot of respect for the Iron Lady.

Over a few beers, he did his best to get me to start ranting about the woman mainly, I think, to have a go at me when I started singing Ding Dong! The Witch Is Dead.

I disappointed him. All I did was point out to him why I hated her and we had a bit of a political argument. As I consumed my second pint, I decided that I didn’t want to talk politics because it is a sure fire way to get people to argue, sometimes angrily. I don’t like arguing at all; I like discussing politics even less.

I decided instead to lighten the mood with a few cracks about what may happen to Mrs Thatcher if there is an afterlife. Here are some of the quips that I threw into the conversation.

“I’ve heard that Maggie Thatcher has already taken over in Hell and closed two incinerators.” (Ed – not an original Plastic Mancunian joke)

“If you are really upset about Mrs Thatcher’s death, why don’t you see a psychologist? He may help you face your demons. And if you are lucky – one of them might be Thatcher herself.”  (I thought of this myself – I think at least. Apologies if you thought of it first, dear reader).

“St Peter was absolutely terrified when he heard Mrs Thatcher had died; he thought she might come to Heaven.” (Ed – again not an original Plastic Mancunian quip).

Finally, I said “I tell you what, with my luck, I won’t go to Purgatory. Listening to all that rock music will give me a free pass straight to the bowels of Hell. And when I get there, I reckon that Thatcher will be my mentor.” (Ed – ever the pessimist, eh PM?)

It looks like I’m doomed either way.

Rest assured I won’t be watching the funeral tomorrow. To me she is just like another celebrity, albeit a celebrity who did her utmost to ruin the lives of a fair portion of the UK population. I’m a bit sore that, as a tax payer, I have to contribute to it – but then I expected that much anyway.

I will certainly not miss her.

That’s the end of this political post and I promise that I will try not to write another one again, as I hate discussing politics at all.

I will leave you with my favourite song by the Rolling Stones, which coincidentally has a very apt title. If Mrs Thatcher really is going to Hell, then I really do have sympathy for the devil – and for me, if those pseudo intellectuals are correct.

Rooting For The Bad Guy

American television dramas have changed over the years. In the past, certainly in my youth, the philosophy was that the good guy had to win otherwise the TV audience would feel that evil had prevailed.

And in America, this went against the grain.

In Britain, we didn’t care about this at all. British drama was grittier, more realistic and sometimes the good guy came a cropper at the hands of the evil villain.

I love it when the bad guy triumphs. If you consider the situation in real life, no hero is so perfect that he can outwit and outsmart the villain. It doesn’t make sense if you think about it. 

I can understand the need to leave a movie theatre with a warm, fuzzy feeling because John Rambo has managed to single-handedly wiped out an entire army of malevolent bandits under the control of a ruthless psychopath. 

By and large I agree with that sentiment. Sometimes, however,  I want the hero to get his arse well and truly kicked and by the end of the film, I want to see him slink away in utter defeat, perhaps to come back stronger in the next instalment or maybe just to take it on the chin and realise that he is not utterly perfect.

And then there is the anti-hero; a guy who is inherently evil yet always seems to get away with murder.

My current favourite American TV series is Dexter, which tells the story of a psychopathic serial killer who works as a blood spatter forensic lab geek in the police force but uses that position to find potential victims.

The police want to bring bad guys to justice. Dexter wants to put them on a slab, stab them, cut their cold dead bodies into little pieces, pack the bits up in plastic bags and take them out to see and dump them where they will never be found.

And because he is a forensic specialist, he can hide all of the evidence and get away with it.

I watch every episode of the show and all the way through I am rooting for this sadistic bad guy. I want him to get away with murder. 

Purists may argue that he is, deep down, a good guy because the only people he kills are evil serial killers themselves. In a sense, Dexter is a good guy because he is handing out his own form of justice. Nevertheless, Dexter is a flawed character with a deep burning desire to kill.

That makes him a bad guy.

Even in the more conventional films and series, the bad guys are almost becoming lovable rogues. Let’s take another of my favourite bad guys, Dr Who’s nemesis – The Master.

The Master is a fellow time lord and a truly dark version of The Master. In the classic Dr Who series, he was pure evil and totally insane, using hypnosis to persuade people to help his evil plans. His catch phrase, as he stared into the eyes of his hapless victims was “I am The Master. You WILL obey me.”

In the reboot of Dr Who, The Master is still insane but is still eccentric and evil but has a deep charm, with much more humour – a charismatic bad guy who I actually, deep down, kind of hoped would win. His evil exploits in the new version of Dr Who have far exceeded anything the older Master could achieve – turning Earth into a giant warship while holding the Doctor prisoner for a year as well as, in a later episode, turning every single human into a copy of himself – the Master race, as he called it.

Yes the Doctor prevailed eventually but in each case there was a price to pay.

These days, TV series and movies are much more realistic generally. The heroes are flawed and the villains are charismatic and sometimes win.

Even James Bond suffered in his latest outing, Skyfall. I won’t reveal the story because I don’t like spoilers myself, but those of you who have seen it know exactly what I mean.

Regular readers know that one of my ambitions is to write a blockbusting novel. Maybe one day I will, but you can rest assured that because I love bad guys so much, I will endeavour to create the ultimate villain, an utterly contemptible man, but with a hidden charm that will, I hope, make quite a few readers start rooting for the bad guy.

I have some ideas and when I eventually start (maybe in November if I can force myself to have a go at the NaNoWriMo writing challenge) I hope to create a villain worthy of Dexter, The Master, Hannibal Lecter and/or Darth Vader when he was at his most evil.

Evil megalomaniacs should sometimes be allowed the freedom to make their plans come to fruition. 

The bad guy should sometimes win.

And I will continue to root for the bad guy – well sometimes anyway.

After all, we can’t let Jason Bourne, James Bond and Dr Who suffer too much, can we?

Over to you, dear reader - do you have a favourite bad guy?

Left My Soul There Down By The Sea

When I need to unwind and relax I conjure up a picture in my mind.

I see myself relaxing on a beach, lying there in the warm sun as it rises or sets. Next to me is Mrs PM, holding my hand and leaning her head against my shoulder. The waves are gently lapping against shore.

The image at the start of this post was taken in Port Douglas, Australia on the morning of our arrival as the sun rose over the Coral Sea and, although it was almost eight years ago, I still see it every single day, both at work and at home.

Why?

Because the image is my background picture on my work laptop, my home laptop, my desktop and my Nexus 7.

When I feel the need to escape from the stresses of everyday life, I find that by staring at that image, I can momentarily immerse myself into the tranquillity of the memory invoked by the photograph.

Ultimately I would like to retire to the seaside, whether it be a cold and breezy British shore or a warm and relaxing southern European beach somewhere.

I’ve even strolled along the promenade at Blackpool on Boxing Day with a biting, icy wind blowing all of the cobwebs from my addled mind; the cold wind and the sound of waves crashing on the shore brings a clarity to my mind – and peace.

I am happiest when I am by the sea – but not in the sea.

I am quite happy to watch the waves, smell the sea air and let the wind carry me away to a restful place in my mind. The thought of stepping into the sea summons an altogether different feeling – one of fear.

I’m not such a scaredy cat that I won’t actually set foot in the water (although Australia is the exception on that front); I just don’t like the things in it.

First of all, I’m not a huge fan of sand. Some people love walking barefoot on the beach and letting the wet sand cling to their feet.

I hate it. Sand gets everywhere. I hate the feeling of it in between my toes and under my toenails. The feeling makes my teeth itch. When I walk on a beach I have to wear sandals and even though they protect me from most of the sand, I still find myself having to wash the sand off my feet as I leave.

And I have another confession, dear reader. I hate seaweed. I hate the feel of it and the look of it. It all stems from an episode in my childhood. I was around five years old and sitting watching television, safely in my own living room with my parents at my side.

Dr Who was on.

I loved Dr Who – I still do – but this particular story scared the shit out of me. It was called Fury From The Deep and basically featured monsters made out of seaweed that terrorised a North Sea gas refinery.

Fast forward a couple of years and I found myself standing in the sea in Brighton, screaming blue murder while standing in about five inches of sea water.

My dad rushed to my aid and asked what was wrong. I pointed down to my feet and he simply laughed – but saved me all the same. My legs had become entangled with seaweed and in my immature and childlike imagination, the seaweed monsters had come to get me.

Even now, when I swim in the sea, I find myself shuddering in utter disgust if seaweed touches me or drifts to the vicinity of where I am swimming.

I love waves as long as they are small. Big waves are bad.

On a holiday to San Sebastian in Spain, I decided to go for a swim. I noticed that the waves were pretty big but I thought I was a strong enough swimmer to cope with them. I waded out into the sea and started swimming away from the shore. The waves were getting quite big so I stopped swimming and decided to turn back. To my horror I found that I was out of my depth and my feet couldn’t quite touch the bottom.

I decided to tread water and let the waves carry me back ashore. It worked – sort of.

I was floating in the water and noticed a young woman about twenty feet ahead of me.

And then I saw it.

A huge wave was approaching fast.

The woman pushed herself up to try to ride the wave. She failed. It hit her full on and I saw her silhouette in the water as it washed over her and bowled her over completely. I saw feet where her head should have been and as the wave reared up in front of me like a giant leviathan, only one two thoughts entered my head:

        “I hope there isn’t any seaweed in that wave."

    “OH SHIT!!!!”

The wave hit me and I kind of lost track of time for a few seconds. All I remember is being overwhelmed by the sound of water smashing against my head. I had no sense of where I was and had no idea what had happened. I was like a marionette and powerless to fight back against the unknown forces assailing me.

When the ordeal was over, just a few seconds later, I found myself lying on the beach having been washed ashore. My swimming trunks had opted to give a few people a great view of my arse. Thankfully I was face down and I managed to pull up my trunks before too many people reeled back in horror.

Sadly that was when I realised my trunks were full of sand – and seaweed.

I staggered out of the water like a demented seaweed monster from Dr Who, much to the delight of my mates who had seen the entire thing from the comfort of their sunbeds.

The final horror of the sea are the creatures that live within. Billy Connolly once said that we are not ever supposed to be in the sea but are too stupid to take the hint; the hint being that creatures in the sea bite us, sting us and eat us.

I refused to go snorkelling at the Great Barrier Reef because of box jellyfish, irukandji and sharks.

I have been snorkelling in Barbados and the Bahamas but on one occasion I almost added my contribution to existing marine excrement when a huge grey fish swan past me.

Of course it was just a harmless fish but to me, viewing it underwater and without my glasses, I thought it was Jaws ready to have Plastic Mancunian for lunch.

In conclusion, I want to be beside the seaside – not in the sea. My ultimate plan is to spend my time strolling by a beach somewhere in the world, watching the sun rise or set and enjoying the beauty and tranquillity of nature.

Here are a couple of relaxing songs that remind me of the peace, beauty and tranquillity of the sea.

And my dearest hope is that the writers of Fury From The Deep didn’t base the story on real life events.