Tuesday 27 April 2010

How To Conquer The World

I intend to conquer the world, and I have a plan to do it. I am so confident that it will work that I am going to share it with you.

Before I tell you my plan, I have a word of warning: you are either for me or against me and if you are against me then you will suffer a fate worse than death.

The very first thing I am going to do is to build a colossal space ship to explore the stars and work will start on this as soon as I seize power. This spaceship will serve two purposes:

(1) To explore strange new worlds and seek out new life and new civilisations to annoy.

(2) To rid the world of everybody that irritates me.

You see, I plan to capture all of those people who make my blood boil, stuff them into this massive spaceship and send them on their way. I don’t intend to kill anybody (I am a benevolent leader) so the spaceship will be equipped with all the know-how to feed all of those irritating “guests”.

In fact, I will be making sure that certain celebrity experts will be on the spaceship too.

Jamie Oliver will be on hand to cook their food along with Anthony Worrall Thompson and other TV chefs who make me hurl food at my TV whenever they appear.

If any “guests” need help or advice, they will be able to talk to Jeremy Kyle and Vanessa Feltz.

Entertainment will be provided too. I will supply a vast library of all of those TV shows and movies that I hate. You will, for example, be able to see “X Factor” live because Simon Cowell will be on the ship with Louis Walsh, Cheryl Cole and Piers Morgan.

The movies you will be able to enjoy will include Marley and Me, Serendipity, Sex In The City, Independence Day, Dead Poets Society and many other such dreadful wastes of celluloid.

All cookery programmes, talent shows, desperately unfunny situation comedies, reality TV shows (except the Apprentice), house improvement and gardening shows (no gardens in outer space my friends), psychic shows and those awful daytime chat shows will form your televisual entertainment.

Music will be provided by Take That, Boyzone, jazz bands, R’n’B, hip hop, opera and all artists who perform in the other genres I despise. I’m sorry, lads, but Beyoncé will not be on the space ship; she will be undergoing intense training to become a heavy metal vocalist.

And, of course, there will be no rock music on the spaceship whatsoever – apart from Nickleback, Linkin Park, Limp Bizkit and Bon Jovi.

Other celebrity guests will include Katie Price, Mariah Carey, Chris Moyles, The Spice Girls (I might spare Victoria Beckham just to keep David happy), Peter Mandelson, Paris Hilton, Max Clifford (and anybody he has ever represented), Britney Spears, Russell Grant, Naomi Campbell, Kanye West, Amanda Holden, Celine Dion, Derek Acorah, Liam Gallagher, Richard and Judy, Anne Robinson, Camilla Parker Bowles and many many more.

As you can see, if you are against me then you may find yourself in a gigantic spaceship with the most annoying people in the world. If you are a woman you could find yourself being courted by Piers Morgan. If you are a man you may find that Vanessa Feltz is stalking you. Now you understand why I refer to life on board this ship as a fate worse than death.

Anyway, I am getting ahead of myself.

"What is this masterplan?" I hear you cry.

First of all, let me tell you what I need.

(1) A crash course in hypnosis.

(2) An Oprah Winfrey mask

(3) A gorilla suit

(4) A big rubber hammer.

(5) A one way ticket from Manchester to Washington D.C.

(6) An army of interpreters.

So where do I begin?

I did a little bit of research and discovered that “The Leader of the Free World” is some bloke who lives in America and calls himself Barack Obama. He is also known as “The Most Powerful Man in the World”, which is surprising because I thought that was Chuck Norris or Mr T.

Everybody in the world seems to like Mr Obama. I even heard a comedian in Britain say that the person we want to win the British election is in fact Barack Obama, so unless the comedian was joking or one of the fringe British party leaders has the same name, I think that perhaps he might be a popular choice (especially given the three stooges we have trying to woo us at the moment).

I have done extensive, detailed and exhaustive research on Mr Obama and discovered that we have a couple of things in common:

(1) He is in his late 40’s (he is 48, I am 47).

(2) He is a man (I was last time I checked).

That’s about it really.

In every other respect he and I are totally and utterly different. Obama is the epitome of cool; I am a geek with sentient hair.

Mr Obama is so cool that he oozes charisma like I ooze sweat. This is a man who swatted a fly on national TV and joked about being born on Krypton – except I reckon he isn’t joking. He is so cool that my cats watch him on TV.

So how do I overthrow the King of Cool?

First, I must become the world’s greatest hypnotist.

This is the key part of the plan. I got the idea from watching Derren Brown, a fascinating individual who can screw with your mind. Hypnosis is one of his many talents and I have seen him do all sorts of weird and wonderful things to a mixture of people. I can learn a lot from a man like Derren Brown.

Once I have mastered the art of hypnosis and mind control, the next part of my plan is to use my air ticket to fly to Washington D.C. before taking the White House by storm.

How will I do that?

Apparently it is possible to get tours of the White House; I will pretend to be a goggle-eyed tourist (which shouldn’t be too difficult) and once inside I will hide somewhere, perhaps under a table or inside a broom cupboard or maybe behind Hilary Clinton’s ego.

I will wait patiently, biding my time, until I get the opportunity to sneak into the Oval Office. This is where my hypnosis skills will come in handy. Ideally I will collar a lone guard and hypnotise him into thinking I am a cleaner or perhaps George W Bush – the latter will be easier because I’m sure that former President Bush still wanders around the White House trying to find his way out.

If I fail to make it to the Oval office or my plan is thwarted by an over-enthusiastic White House guard-type person then I will have to unleash plan B, my secret weapon; the Oprah Winfrey mask.

I will just whip it out and slap it on – the mask I mean.

Why Oprah Winfrey?

Because everybody in America loves Oprah Winfrey. I won’t even have to speak; all I will need to do is stand with that painted on beatific smile and I will melt even the most resolute concrete hearts. A murderous guard, who is ready to kick my arse into the middle of next week, will melt like a bar of chocolate in a wok when confronted by Oprah and will personally take me to meet Mr Obama.

If that fails then I will have to resort to plan C – bop the guard on the head with the rubber hammer.

Assuming I actually make it into the Oval office and find myself alone with Mr Obama I will proceed to hypnotise him, ruthlessly and efficiently forcing him to obey my every whim.

His first task will be to declare me as his best mate; I will become cool by association and America will love me so much that I will be able, at this stage, to discard my Oprah Winfrey mask.

With Mr Obama behind me, the world will be my oyster. I shall borrow Air Force One and, with my army of interpreters, I shall visit all of the world leaders, hypnotise them using the medium of sign language and mime, perhaps performing a hypnotic impression of Marcel Marceau (which come to think of it might not work with President Sarkosy of France – I may have to rethink my approach with him).

Finally I shall return to Britain in triumph; Manchester will become the capital of the world and I shall rule with a rod of iron, scolding people in my wake, sending all my enemies into space to find a new world to irritate and putting those who cross me on the naughty step in Siberia.

If you are with me say “Aye, Master!”

If you don't believe me, dear reader, be warned! You could find yourself shacked up with Sarah Palin, Kanye West or Richard Madeley on a one way trip to planet Tharg.

Actually, I have forgotten one thing – the gorilla suit. I need that because I like to dress up as an ape.

No, not really.

I will need that to disguise myself when I’m in Mrs PM’s bad books.

I am nothing if not realistic and I know that the one person who can foil my plans is my beloved lady; there is no way she will ever refer to me as her leader – even under a deep trance.

Sunday 25 April 2010

50 More Albums You Really Must Hear

A year or so ago, I posted a list of 50 albums, from my collection, that I think everybody should hear, at least once in their lifetime.

You can read it here.

I actually own a couple of hundred CD’s, most of which Mrs PM despises. Nevertheless, even though she is not at all keen on the music I love, she has heard most of them (when I tied her up and forced her to listen to them that is – I’m only kidding!).

So once more, with apologies for a little self-indulgence, here are 50 more albums from my collection that I think every discerning music fan should hear at least once. Some of them are popular and famous in their own right whereas others are possibly a little obscure. I would urge you to pop onto something like Spotify and have a quick listen if you haven’t already done so.

Here they are in no particular order:

(1) Rush – Moving Pictures

(2) Depeche Mode – Ultra

(3) Sisters of Mercy – Vision Thing

(4) Foo Fighters – One By One

(5) Deep Purple – In Rock

(6) Nine Inch Nails – The Fragile

(7) Thunder – Laughing on Judgement Day

(8) The Hives – Black and White

(9) Blue Murder – Blue Murder

(10) Deep Purple - Purpendicular

(11) Dream Theater – Images and Words

(12) Jethro Tull – The Broadsword and the Beast

(13) Rammstein – Liebe Ist Für Alle Da

(14) Jean Michel Jarre – Equinoxe

(15) Air – Talkie Walkie

(16) Joe Satriani – Surfing With the Alien

(17) Coldplay – A Rush of Blood to the Head

(18) Rush – Vapor Trails

(19) Ten – Babylon

(20) The Wildhearts – Chutzpah!

(21) Muse – The Resistance

(22) Rainbow – Difficult to Cure

(23) Velvet Revolver - Contraband

(24) A-ha – Hunting High and Low

(25) Queensryche – Operation Mindcrime II

(26) Def Leppard – Songs From The Sparkle Lounge

(27) Nine Inch Nails – With Teeth

(28) Electric Light Orchestra – A New World Record

(29) Dream Theater – Metropolis Part 2 – Scenes From a Memory

(30) The Offspring – Conspiracy of One

(31) AC/DC – Highway to Hell

(32) Deep Purple - Machine Head

(33) David Bowie – Aladdin Sane

(34) Ginger – Valor del Corazon

(35) Skin - Lucky

(36) Kaiser Chiefs – Employment

(37) Ten – The Name of the Rose

(38) Joe Satriani – Super Colossal

(39) Whitesnake – Slide It In

(40) Air – Pocket Symphony

(41) Guns’n’Roses – Use Your Illusion II

(42) Rammstein – Sehnsucht

(43) Supertramp – Breakfast In America

(44) Gary Moore – Wild Frontier

(45) Pink Floyd – The Wall

(46) David Bowie – Pin Ups

(47) Pink Floyd – Animals

(48) Pulp – Different Class

(49) Supertramp – Crime of the Century

(50) AC/DC – Stiff Upper Lip

As you can see, it is largely rock but there are a few others in there that might perk your interest.

As always, please feel free to let me know whether you agree, disagree or have any other suggestions I might like – I’m always open to hear new music – as long as it isn’t jazz, R’nB, rap or boy bands.

Wednesday 21 April 2010

Dear Piers Morgan ...

Dear Piers Morgan,

I have a problem and I think you can help.

My name is Dave – and I abuse my TV.

On Friday I was a happy man, smiling at work, laughing with my friends and, most importantly, treating my TV with kindness.

On Saturday, I was positively rapturous, smiling as I watched the Manchester derby and enjoyed a relaxing day off work. The sun was shining and I even patted my TV on the way to spending a rare moment of sun-drenched bliss in Manchester.

Life couldn’t have been lovelier.

I had an enjoyable evening meal and thought that I would settle down on my sofa, with my fat black cat and Mrs PM and watch a little TV.

I switched it on.

First I saw Ant and Dec, those two supposedly lovable cheeky Geordie misfits who make old ladies smile by being silly and cracking puerile jokes. I felt deep rumblings of unease; a memory, lost in a fog within my addled brain, began to surface, gently at first, tapping a warning onto the inside of my head: “Turn over”

“Ant and Dec”, I thought as I reached for the remote control. It wasn’t there. Mrs PM tensed beside me.

As my eyes looked for the remote control, which incidentally should have been within my grasp, as it usually is, Ant and Dec were replaced by Amanda Holden, a pointless woman who (and let’s be fair to her) is about as useful and talented as a chocolate teapot.

Frustration began to mount, Piers, frustration really began to mount.

My remote control is like an extension to my hand and, like every full blooded male, must be within easy reach, six inches at most from my fingertips.

My brain went to amber alert. Mrs PM looked at me and the cat sensed something was wrong, waking up from his post nap snooze as his feline alert system moved to DEFCON 4.

As I searched for the remote control, thinking it may have dropped on the floor, my eyes stumbled onto the TV set again and the image of Amanda Holden vanished to be replaced by a weird dancer who, I presume, was trying to impress somebody – clearly not me. Behind this performing pillock I spotted some words at the back of the stage: “Got Talent”.

“Got Talent? That rings a bell,” I thought.

The remote control remained elusive. I looked accusingly at Mrs PM; as my eyes met hers a secret message passed between us.

“Got Talent? Where have I seen that before?”

A memory finally surfaced and shouted at me.

“Find the remote control! TURN IT OFF!”

“Where’s the remote control?” I asked out loud.

“I don’t know,” said Mrs PM taking a deep breath.

The cat’s feline alert system went to DEFCON 3.

I glimpsed the TV again and the image I saw there chilled me to the very marrow of my bones. It was as if a demon had reached into my chest and wrapped his clawed, cold hand around my heart.

Staring back at me was Simon Cowell.

“Quick,” I yelled. “Where is it? Where’s the remote control?”

I was seized by an insane panic. My mind screamed at me but I blocked it out; I had to find the remote control and I had to find it NOW. I stood up and whirled around my eyes hunting for the little device that would stop my transformation from mild mannered Dr Jekyll into the ranting Mr Hyde.

Simon Cowell was on my TV. I had had such a wonderful day. I thought everything was going well. My soapbox was packed away and it had been an unusually pleasant, sunny, warm April day in Manchester. Birds had flocked around my trees whistling happy tunes; children had laughed as they played in the streets; flowers had welcomed bees; clouds and rain had taken a break to allow me to see the lovely blue sky that we see so rarely at this time of year. I had been content, Piers. I was a happy man, skipping down a country lane watching the butterflies dance in the cool breeze. And now this!!!

I was determined not to let this maniac ruin my day.

I had tried, Piers, to let him know what he should do to make me happy. I even wrote a letter to him – you can read it here.

A part of me hoped that he had read my words and changed his ways. I doubted it and this was the reason why I had to get rid of the man before he destroyed the peace and bliss in our house.

The cat’s feline alert system moved to DEFCON 2.

As I frantically searched for my electronic saviour, I found my eyes drawn inexorably to the pap that was on my TV, which was preparing itself for a colossal tirade of abuse. I could sense it sending me signals:

“Please don’t shout at me again. I can’t control the crap that these people make me show you.”

The dancer had finished. The camera drew back to show three people staring at the man.

Amanda Holden – Simon Cowell – and worst of all YOU!!!!!

As soon as I saw your face on the screen something flipped within me. The demon squeezing my heart flipped a switch and transformed me into the ranting monster that my TV despises.

The cat’s feline alert system hit DEFCON 1 and the cat was out of the room in a flash of black fur, which was pretty impressive since the door was closed.

“Oh no,” said Mrs PM, now resigned to the inevitable as she got up and left the room, making a mental note to buy a new door.

“Don’t leave me alone with him,” pleaded the TV set as Mrs PM left the room.

“Busy busy busy,” said my soapbox.

“Britain’s Got Talent?” I screamed as I strode onto my invisible soap box. “NOOO!!!!! Is this bloody shit STILL on my TV? OH MY GOD! It’s a new bloody series? How can they call this monumental pile of shit “Britain’s Got Talent” when in reality it proves once and for all that anybody in Britain who actually DID have any talent wouldn’t come within a mile of this bloody show? The whole show is dreadful and it is yet another way that Simon bloody Cowell is trying to take over my life. You must have read my letter, Cowell and totally ignored it because not only have you returned to my TV with this utter bollocks, you have dug up that arrogant, smug git – Piers bloody Morgan. I hate Piers Morgan. I hate him more than you Simon Cowell. He is like your evil twin. This man has no business on my screen or in my life...”

And on it went, Piers, on and on and on and on.

Mrs PM got herself a glass of wine and sat in the garden with the cat as I marched around my lounge pontificating to my TV about what an utter tosser you are and how much you make me sick to the lowest pits of my stomach.

Well, Piers, it’s been a few days since that unfortunate episode and I think I might have calmed down. And since I fell a little more serene, I have decided to write you an open letter in the hope that you will see my problem and help me.

And yes, Piers Morgan, you are the only person in the world who can help me.

I am a nice guy who loves humanity – honestly, I am. But there are a minority of individuals who bring out the worst in me. When I see them I become Mr Hyde.

So how can you help me, Piers?

It’s easy. I will say this as clearly as I can (I promise my soapbox is away).


I do not want to see your face or hear your voice. I do not want to see your picture in my newspaper. I do not want to hear your name bandied around in celebrity circles and have to read about you exploits in newspapers and magazines. I do not want to read anything you have written. I do not want to hear your opinions.

I’m sorry Piers, but I want you completely out of my life.

I’m not being funny but I regard you as an arrogant man whose opinions make me want to throw my dinner at the TV.

Yet somehowI know that beneath that smarmy, egotistical, opinionated exterior there must be a kind thoughtful person trying to escape.

Let that person escape, Piers. You can do it.

Set him free and give him all of your money so that you can start a new life on a remote island somewhere in the middle of the Pacific Ocean with no cameras, no photographers and no journalists so that nobody in the world (and most importantly ME) can cast their eyes on your smug face again.

I know there is a nice man beneath that harsh exterior, Piers – there must be. Nobody on this planet can keep up the awful charade you are trying to fool everybody with.

Think of the person who championed Susan Boyle, Piers – that’s when the real you emerged for a second at least. That proves that the cold concrete heart inside your chest does have a shred of humanity left.

Retire to that tropical island, Piers.

Do it for me, Piers.

Do it for Mrs PM.

Do it for my cats.

But most of all – do it for my TV. The poor thing is in therapy as we speak after the mauling it received on Saturday.

And while you are at it, take Simon Cowell, Vanessa Feltz and Jeremy Kyle with you.

Yours hopefully,

Plastic Mancunian

Saturday 17 April 2010

Liar! Liar!

Talking about politicians has really got me thinking – about lying. As I said in my previous post, I simply cannot lie. Well, that’s not true – I cannot lie convincingly, hence I have to tell the truth – well mostly – well sometimes – OK hardly ever!

As a human being we all tell lies and anybody who says that they do not tell lies is in fact a total liar. Some people are quite honest but even these trustworthy people occasionally tell the odd white lie.

Sometimes, telling a lie is better than telling the truth. For example:

“Don’t worry about it; people will never notice.”

I thought I would have a bit of fun and trawl the internet for some popular lies. Here are some of the better ones I found:

Trust me. I know what I’m doing.

I didn’t do it.

I’m sorry.

I can’t make it.

Don’t sit too close to the TV. You will go blind.

This won’t hurt.

It was him/her.

I’ve never met her before.

I’m working late tonight.

Our company is going from strength to strength.

If you are awake when Father Christmas comes, he won’t give you your presents.

Father Christmas lives up the chimney.

I’m popping down the pub. I’ll be back in 30 minutes.

If you don’t wash behind your ears, potatoes will grow there.

We will be profitable at the end of the year and our employees will share in those profits.

I don’t have any change.

I can keep a secret.

Tell me the truth. You won’t get into trouble.

I see what your saying but …

The moon is made of cheese and mice live there in tiny cities.

Don’t swim just after eating – you might drown.

I’m open to new ideas.

I can change.

I can’t come out with you – I’m washing my hair.

No – it doesn’t make you look fat.

I’ll pay you back next week.

Babies are found under gooseberry bushes.

We will not raise taxes.

Stop playing with that – you’ll have somebody’s eyes out.

He/she is just a friend.

Bob Holness played saxophone on “Baker Street”

Click here to make millions of dollars without having to work.

Your account has been frozen. Send us you bank details and we will fix it for you.

Yes – I will respect you in the morning.

If you swear, you will be arrested by the police.

There will be a pay increase next year.

Carrots make you see in the dark.

Don’t pull faces. If the wind changes you it will stay like that.

The dog ate my homework.

It wasn’t me.

If your feet stick out of the bed tonight, Jack Frost will cut off your toes.

There were weapons of mass destruction in Iraq.

I pulled a stunning woman last night.

I’m ill.

It will be finished by the end of next week.

Strip club? No – I wouldn’t go near such a place.

Be good or Father Christmas won’t bring you any presents.

If you eat too many eggs you turn into a chicken.

The best way to get rid of zits is to rub jelly into them.

Don’t eat the pips – fruit will grow in your stomach.

Of course we’ll come to your party.

I’m not angry with you.

Let’s just be friends.

I have 500 friends on Facebook and they are all true friends.

I was a good little boy.

No, the cat didn’t die. He just ran away.

I would pay but I’ve left my wallet at home.

I can drink more than you.

All the girls fancy me.

Eating an apple and drinking tea at the same time will poison you.

The stork brings babies.

It was like that when I got home.

This house is in a sought after location.

I have the greatest respect for you.

The neighbourhood is very nice.

I’ll be home in twenty minutes.

I will do my best.

"The Plastic Mancunian" is the world’s greatest blog.

I particularly like the last one and I tell everybody who I know that there is a really funny and really popular blog by a heroic Mancunian writer who is anonymous, in order to drag new readers to my blog.

Actually, I don’t. That’s another lie. Anyway, dear reader, over to you:

Do you have any fabulous lies that you have told or been the victim of?

What lies did your parents tell you as kids?

What is the biggest lie you’ve heard?

What is the funniest lie you’ve heard?

I’m all ears because I really need to make an effort to control my body language when lying. I will try them out on Mrs PM to see if I can disguise my “lying voice” and “lying face”.

Talking of lies that parents tell their kids; my dad frightened the life out of me when, aged 7, I was messing about in bed instead of going to sleep. He told me: “Look – if you don’t go to sleep, the Night Monster will come and take you away”.

I didn’t sleep a wink all night.

Wednesday 14 April 2010

How To Become a Politician

My last post talked about the general election that is looming in Great Britain, a period when all I want to do is avoid the world outside, lest I be bored into a coma by what is going on around me or ranting about the exploits and ideas of our politicians.

For a short time I actually considered what it would like to be a politician – when I say a short time I mean three nanoseconds.

And then I started thinking about the personality traits that would be required to actually become a successful politician. So I did a little research and discovered a very scary fact:

Politicians are psychopaths.

Actually that isn’t absolutely true, but politicians do share some of the personality traits of psychopaths and serial killers.

If you think about it, it really does make a weird kind of sense (and I am very interested in anything weird even if it doesn’t make any sense at all).

Psychopaths have a need to control others and will use various methods to achieve their goals: charm, intimidation, manipulation, threats, lies and violence.

I am not saying for a second that politicians will resort to violence to get what they want, although some have been known to do that. However, they will appear smarmy and their speeches will be full of lies and outrageous claims that are meant to convince the electorate that they are indeed the people to lead and control the populace.

Some people, who are drawn into the world of politics, are enthralled by the thought of power and the need to be in control of people. And they will use any means at their disposal to get what they want, faking emotions in order to convince people that they are sincere and genuine.

So how do you become a politician?

First, try becoming a liar.

Everybody tells lies, even me (mostly in blog posts to be fair). It’s not that difficult. However, what is difficult is hiding the body language that screams “I AM TELLING YOU A PACK OF LIES!”

Here are some things you can try on your own in the comfort of your own bedroom. Strip naked and stand in front of a mirror and watch your reflection as you tell the most outrageous lies to yourself. You can try:

I am the best looking man in the entire world and all women love me.”

Actually, be careful with this one because I’ve tried it and simply couldn’t stop laughing. And Mrs PM caught me too and wondered why I was standing naked in front of a mirror trying to convince myself that I was a babe magnet while howling with raucous laughter. It did give me a chance to try lying to her – but she spotted my “lying voice”.

Apparently when I tell lies, Mrs PM can tell because the tone of my voice changes and my facial expression changes too, thus giving away the fact that I am a total liar. See what I mean about body language? I wear my heart on my sleeve so there is no way I can tell blatant lies or hide the fact that I find something outrageous. If I really wanted to become a politician, I would have to go on a major “How To Lie” course – I simply cannot tell a lie without giving the game away before I have even uttered the words.

Anyway, if, unlike me, you manage to keep a straight face while standing in front of a mirror convincing yourself that you are an Adonis and not a decrepit, podgy old git with a face like melted cheese, then you can try the next step – lying to other people.

Walk up to a complete stranger in the street and say something outrageous like:

“I’ve just heard that Britain is about to become the 51st State; President Obama is coming over for talks with Gordon Brown about the handover of sovereignty. We need to do something about this. Are you with me?”

There are stupid people around so you may be lucky and find somebody who actually believes you. If you do, then build on it, hone the lie and then try it on everybody else.

If you can master the lie then you need to work on becoming a smarmy git. Try a little sycophancy. Walk up to complete strangers and complement them; pay particular attention to ugly people like me (note – do not try me because I am a politician-hating anarchist who trusts nobody and sees deceit and lies in everything).

If you spot an ugly woman, walk up to her and say

“May I just say that your beauty is radiant that it has brightened up this dismal, overcast, rainy day. May I ask your secret? How do you manage to look like a gorgeous English rose on a depressing day like today? You have made my day; it is rare to see such beauty these days”

I have tried this but the combination of my lying voice, lying face, lack of charm and total look of crazy desperation usually betray me and I end up with a swift kick in the groin and a warning not to “try to chat me up” in future.

A word of warning: you may suffer this fate – but I am sure that if you are charming and do not look like the back end of a baboon you will have more success than me.

Next, you have to try kissing babies. Be aware that you might get beaten senseless by an irate mother. With that in mind I would try holding and kissing a baby that you know. I recently watched David Cameron clutching a baby in a hospital while on the campaign trail and he was a master.

The next trick is to come up with a catchphrase or slogan for yourself. For example:

“The lady’s not for turning.” – Margaret Thatcher

“Yes we can.” – Barak Obama

“I have nothing to offer but blood, toil, sweat and tears” – Winston Churchill.

“Read my lips: no new taxes” – George Bush Sr

One of the key things you have to do is pledge allegiance to a political party – at least publicly – and then use every opportunity to shout down the ideas, principles and manifesto pledges of all of your opponents – even if you agree with them. I suppose this is another form of lying, so mastering the art of fibbing is a natural prerequisite.

Next, try making a few outrageous claims, like Gordon Brown did when he foolishly said “I saved the world” in the Houses of Parliament. I would suggest that such a statement would possibly be a little TOO outrageous; perhaps opt for something that all politicians love to do – quote figures. I cannot believe for a second that politicians can keep a database full of numbers and percentages in their brains. I am therefore of the opinion that they all simply make it all up, that is, it is another fabulous form of lying.

Insults are another good way to get the better of your political nemeses, the funnier the better - for example:

[Being attacked by Geoffrey Howe is like] “being savaged by a dead sheep” – Dennis Healey.

“If Gladstone fell into the Thames, that would be a misfortune. If anybody pulled him out, that, I suppose would be a calamity.” – Benjamin Disraeli about William Gladstone.

[Clement Attlee is] “a sheep in sheep’s clothing” – Winston Churchill.

“Attila the Hen” – Clement Freud describing Margaret Thatcher.

“He has not a single redeeming defect” Benjamin Disraeli on William Gladstone.

“She probably thinks Sinai is the plural of sinus” Jonathan Aitken on Margaret Thatcher.

Another key skill of a politician is the ability to not answer a question. If you watch political interviews, you will see this happen all of the time. When asked a question, most politicians will simply answer another question or, in most cases, ignore the question completely and then use the opportunity to tell a fabulous lie about themselves or their policies or simply insult and put down their political opponents. To me this particular skill is mandatory.

You can practice this. When asked the simple question “How much did you spend?” simply answer another question and throw in a few meaningless and false facts and figures. For example:

“How much did you spend?”

“Going to the shops is a privilege that I, for one, will never relinquish and never ever take away from the normal man in the street. Did you know, for example, that 53% of men are so concerned about the prospect of not being allowed to venture into the city to enjoy this fabulous pastime without having to justify themselves. Our opponents want to remove this right by demanding that 35% of men stay outside the shop. If that is allowed to happen then 23,453 men will stay at home and watch TV, become fat and end up putting a burden on our health service. That’s what our opponents fail to see.”

“With all due respect you are not answering the question. How much did you spend?”

“I am answering the question and, if you will allow me to finish, you see that my explanation answers your question perfectly. You see, shopping is our right and my party wants all men to able to go down to the shops whenever they like and not be concerned about bureaucracy and red tape making their life difficult. Life is hard enough as it is and the hard working man must be able to exercise his freedom. Britain needs freedom and it is the interminable right of every British man to go to the shops. I will not allow it to change; it will be an insult to the ordinary working British man who makes this wonderful country what it is today. It is my right, it is your right and, by God, I will make sure that this right remains.”

“Answer the bloody question – HOW MUCH DID YOU SPEND??????”

And on it will go. Of course, if you read carefully, you can see two new abilities that you need to become a politician.

First, the ability to bullshit; i.e. talk utter nonsense while pretending to make perfect sense. Politicians are masters at this.

Second, you need to be patriotic. Mention Britain a lot (or whatever country you live in) and make believe that your political opponents want to take away your rights as a citizen of your country. American politicians are particularly good at this.

The final and possibly most important trait of a politician is egotism; you must absolutely love yourself, believe in yourself and believe that everybody on the entire planet should love you. You must be totally self-centred and not worry about offending anybody who disagrees with your self-love. The only problem is that you must somehow disguise this egotism with a cloud of deceit, which means that you must lower yourself to mix with the lower classes, smile at them, touch then, hug them, even possibly kiss them. You must befriend these people and make them believe that you are some kind of saviour and that, without you, the world will end.

Sadly, for me at least, no politician has ever come close to achieving this last requirement and most if not all of them reveal their inner selves as sure as those lizards did in the science fiction series “V”.

I am not saying that politicians are lizards (although somebody like David Icke might disagree with me); I am simply saying that I do not trust them – any of them.

And it is this untrustworthiness that makes it impossible for me ever to become a politician. I cannot lie without giving the game away; I wear my heart on my sleeve; I have the charisma of a slug; people mistake me for Mr Hyde; I am totally unable to bullshit

I also like people and can answer questions.

That is probably why I will never be British Prime Minister.

Wednesday 7 April 2010

Tell Me Lies, Tell Me Sweet Little Lies ...

There is a period in the British calendar that most people dread and unfortunately that time is upon us.

It is a time of lies, deceit, sycophancy, boredom and terrible clichés. It is a time when people roll their eyes in disgust; a time for ranting and a time for puking at obsequiousness. It is a time when some grown men will cower rather than answer their front door. It is a time when most people will want to switch off their TV sets and stop reading newspapers. It is a time of awful tabloid headlines (no change there) and violence-inducing editorials. It is a time of tedium. It is a time of pain, anger and frustration. It is a time for old men to kiss babies and visit people they don’t care about who are sitting in hospital beds. It is a time for liars to visit schools and pontificate.

It is time for a General Election.

The TV will be full of insipid politicians blithering on about subjects that matter, but peppering their rhetoric with false claims and lies about other politicians. Old politicians will be wheeled out to make jingoistic speeches on behalf of the current crop of deceitful buffoons.

TV presenters will wet themselves in public as they tell us the results of meaningless opinion poll after meaningless opinion poll. Speeches will be over-analysed, every word being examined to determine its hidden meaning.

If you are very unlucky, you will live in a marginal constituency, which means that all manner of boring politician will descend on your locality, possibly even knocking on your door to urge you to vote for them.

Guess who lives in a marginal constituency? Yes – that’s right – I DO!!

The sickening sycophancy started a week or two ago but now the election has been formally announced, the entire process will crank up several gears into rampant overdrive.

Babies will be kissed so much that their heads will be covered in a thin film of politician saliva.

Some politicians may even stand on a soapbox and wag their fingers in a condescending way to the electorate while making a speech full of big words, political clichés and total bullshit.

I hate elections – perhaps you have guessed.

I enjoy watching the news but during this month of political upheaval there is no news other than the bloody election. Here is a typical 30 minute news bulletin during an election:

“Welcome to the Six O’Clock News. The headlines tonight – the election stepped up a gear tonight …”

28 minutes of political crap.

“… and now other news. A giant asteroid measuring twenty miles across is heading for Earth and may arrive before the end of the election. That might affect opinion polls. Here’s what the party leaders have to say …”

To be honest it is our privilege as a democracy to be able to vote and so it should be. However, what I object to is the constant barrage of political nonsense that I am forced to absorb with all five senses for a month.

Gordon Brown announced the election yesterday, April 6th. The election will take place on 6th May. That’s a whole month when my living room and all newspapers will be full of politics. People will talk about politics and argue about politics. Politics is tedious and I will have to eat it, sleep it, crap it and then flush it away, only for more tons of the stuff to seep into my life the next day.

It drives me nuts.

So who can we vote for?

We have three main political parties and quite a few minority parties.

The current Prime Minister is a Scottish man called Gordon Brown, leader of the Labour Party, who is a dour sourpuss. As I watch him on TV I feel my good humour sapping through my feet and by the time he has finished talking I have mutated into Marvin the paranoid android. Gordon Brown’s image consultants have made him aware that he lacks any kind of charisma and in the past have urged him to smile. But therein lies a problem. When Gordon Brown smiles he changes form a dour sourpuss into a scary alien. I walked into a room and sat watching him on TV attempting to smile to reassure people that he is a happy chap and after ten minutes I turned to Mrs PM and said “Is this a new science fiction series? He’s a really scary bad guy.” Mrs Pm told me who it was and I almost ran from the room in terror – it was only morbid curiosity that made me stay.

His main rival is a man called David Cameron, the Conservative Party leader. David Cameron is young and serious and has moulded himself on Tony Blair (even though Tony Blair was a former leader of the Labour Party). Cameron proclaims that he is a man of the people and that he understands how the average person on the street thinks. He claims that he is just an “ordinary bloke”. Except he’s not. He’s a highly educated rich bloke who has about as much in common with the man on the street as I have with duck-billed platypus. He is a good presenter but he is as shallow as a puddle.

And finally we have Nick Clegg – good old Nick, the leader of the Liberal Democrat Party. He is an average man in the street, so average in fact that if you were to walk past him you would miss him – even if you had just had a twenty minute conversation with him. He is Mr anonymous; he has no charisma and reminds me of one of those stereotypical automatons, you see carrying their briefcases on business trips abroad.

I have a choice between a scary dour sourpuss, a public school snob who claims to be as streetwise as Vanilla Ice and a man who looks and talks like a boring businessman.

I could go for one of the fringe parties:

The Green Party, who claim that our planet is becoming a greenhouse while offering no proof whatsoever and want everybody to sit in the dark to save the planet.

The BNP, a party who want to rid the UK of all non-white people, even those who were born here.

I just wish that the Monster Raving Looney Party had a candidate in my area.

So it looks like I will have to go for one of the “big three”. How are they going to tempt me?

Labour: We want fairness.

Conservatives: We want change.

Liberal Democrats: We want fairness AND change.

Not much help there either.

The truth is that I am totally disillusioned with politics, simply because in the past couple of years they have been exposed for fiddling their expenses, some small amounts of cash admittedly but some running into thousands of pounds. A large percentage of them have been exposed as liars and have destroyed our trust in them – and even worse, tried to justify themselves in the most outrageous ways:

“I need this money to maintain my house. Those who disagree with me are just jealous!”

Such things infuriate me.

What’s more, these same people, or people of their ilk, will start to talk to me about fairness, honesty and integrity while lying through their teeth.

And, because I live in constituency that is quite closely fought between the Liberal Democrats and Labour, I reckon that they will all be lining up to knock on my door and lie to me in front of my own house.

I will be glad when it’s all over.

If I had any political desires myself I would stand as an independent candidate but to be honest the thought of sitting in the Houses of Parliament listening to a tsunami of verbal diarrhoea would fill me with absolute dread.

I think I am going to become a hermit and move to cave in Wales for a month. Mind you, knowing my luck, they would find me there.

I think I might just turn to apathy – at least it might make sense.