Bull in a China Shop

So there I am sitting in a quiet place, minding my own business, and enjoying the silence as I read, contemplate life and take a nice quiet journey around my weird and wonderful imagination.

And then you hear something approaching in the distance; the Bull in the china shop.

Note - I use the word “bull” just because the phrase sums this person up perfectly but it is not necessarily male.

Let's call this person Bull.

First the voice – either a shrieking high pitched cackle or a deep booming laugh – before Bull appears and shatters the tranquillity in the noisiest way possible.

Bull shouts rather than speaks.

Bull laughs so loud that windows shake and glass struggles not to shatter.

Bull sits right next to complete strangers and invades their personal space even when he has never met them.

Bull slams doors.

Bull orders noisy food to eat and slobbers and crunches his way through the food.

Bull finds it impossible to stay still.

Bull finds it impossible to stay quiet.

Bull has to talk to people in his vicinity even if he doesn’t know them.

Bull thinks he’s the most popular person in whatever room he is in.

Bull moves things around with so much noise that he disturbs everyone and everything in his path.

Bull is usually a clumsy oaf.

Here is an example of Bull:

I don’t mind people who are talkative and funny and loud sometimes, but Bull is something else entirely - always loud, rarely funny and totally annoying – the kind of person who comes into a room and wants to simply take over, even when the room is quiet – for example a restaurant.

When Bull sits on the adjacent table in a restaurant, your enjoyment of the meal plummets.

Even when total privacy is required, Bull can invade your space.

Take for example if you are in a public toilet cubicle and Bull comes in. You hear him march in, slamming the door and cringe as he goes into the cubicle next to you, slamming the door of course. There is no subtlety – he groans, belches, farts throws himself onto the toilet as if from a great height, snorts, groans, makes as much noise as he can and in the worst case, starts talking on his phone.

Worse – he starts talking to YOU!

I have had the misfortune of sitting next to Bull on flight from Europe to Manchester.

The conversation went something like this:

Bull: WHAT ARE YOU READING?

PM: I’m sorry? 

Bull: I SAID WHAT ARE YOU READING?

PM: “A Short History of Nearly Everything” by Bill Bryson.

Bull: OH – I LIKE BILL BRYSON BUT THAT BOOK IS BLOODY SHIT! I DON’T KNOW WHAT HE WAS THINKING WHEN HE WROTE THAT GARBAGE. HOW FAR THROUGH IT ARE YOU?

PM: I’ve just started it.

Bull: WELL IF I WERE YOU I’D LEAVE IT ON THE PLANE. WAIT UNTIL YOU GET TO THE PART …

PM: I’m sorry – I’m enjoying it so far. I’ll make my own judgement. Do you mind if I carry on?

Bull: YOU MUST BE A BIT WEIRD IF YOU LIKE THAT BOOK. IT’S NOT EVEN FUNNY!! 

PM: Thanks for that. I’ll be the judge of that.

Bull: NOW HERE’S A GOOD BOOK!

PM: I’m not interested really – I just want to read this.

Bull: WELL THIS ONE IS MUCH BETTER THAN THAT PILE OF CRAP! HERE – TAKE A LOOK!

And so it went on – and on – and on – and on! By the time I had left the plane (the longest two hours of my life) he had told me his entire life story, why he was so great and why I was so weird and had no decent taste in books. Not content with bellowing in my ear for the entire trip, his elbows kept nudging me as we both ate and most of his meal ended up on the back of the seat in front of him.

I’ve seen Bull on a train too – thankfully annoying somebody else. In the UK we have quiet carriages where people are asked to be quiet so that others can read or work in peace. Personally I don’t travel in them because I listen to music and the noise of the headphones can annoy others. Bull shouldn’t travel in them either – but once I saw Bull thrown out of the quiet carriage because, unsurprisingly, he was making far too much noise and totally irritating everybody else. Bull then sat in a seat close to me and told the entire sorry tale to a perfect stranger who wasn’t interested at all but was being polite.

“I JUST STARTED TALKING TO THIS WOMAN AND SHE TOLD ME TO BE QUIET! I KNOW IT’S MEANT TO BE SILENT IN THERE BUT IT WAS LIKE A BLOODY LIBRARY – HOW BORING! ANYWAY, SHE COMPLAINED AND THE GUARD ASKED ME TO SHUT UP AND LEAVE! I DECIDED TO JUST GO! I LIKE TO TALK TO PEOPLE – DON’T YOU? THEY SHOULD CALL IT THE BORING BASTARD CARRIAGE! ANYWAY – WHAT’S YOUR NAME? I’M BULL AND I’M A REALLY FUNNY GUY. OH SORRY - I'VE SPILLED MY DRINK ALL OVER YOUR  BOOK. IT 'S SHIT ANYWAY!"

And so he went on – and on – and on! Thankfully, I could drown his voice out by listening to some rock music. I pitied the poor guy he had inflicted himself upon.

I don’t mind friendly people and I am willing to chat to anybody as long as they are pleasant, quiet, interesting and stop talking when I have had enough and want to read or listen to music.

Bulls don’t do that – they are relentless – they can’t take a hint even when it is blatant. They enter a room like a Bull in a China Shop!

Have you ever met anybody like that? 

How do you deal with them?

I think most British people are too polite and that is why Bull thrives in the UK.

I’m too nice to tell them to just SHUT THE FUCK UP!

Maybe I should do just that.

Confessions of a Shopaphobe

I am a shopaphobe, if such a word exists. If it doesn’t then it ought to - and I want it to be added to the Oxford English Dictionary immediately, with the following definition:

A person for whom shopping is a complete nightmare.

Whenever I hear or read about people wanting to improve their mood through retail therapy, I want to scream in anguish on their behalf.

There is no such thing as retail therapy; there is only retail trauma!

If I were feeling low and depressed, the last thing I would do is head off to Manchester city centre or the Trafford Centre in order to combat my dark mood. Such a trip would almost certainly push me over the edge and you would find me sitting cross-legged in the car park rocking backwards and forwards while chanting something incoherent about shopping malls from Hell.

I hate shopping.

I have always hated shopping.

I think I always will hate shopping.

If you are a shopaholic, you may be reading this and shaking your head in disbelief, asking yourself how retail therapy can be rebadged as retail trauma by an idiotic old fool in Manchester.

Allow me to explain:

Shops are generally overcrowded.

Whenever I head towards the city centre or the Trafford Centre, our local piece of Hell, I suddenly become aware that I am becoming increasingly agitated. I am reminded of a Star Trek episode from the original series called The Mark of Gideon, in which Captain Kirk finds himself on a planet that is so overcrowded that there is absolutely no privacy and nowhere free of huge throngs of people, eternally crushed against each other.

Captain Kirk's view of the Trafford Centre

You have to queue for changing rooms, queue to pay, even queue to browse for books and CDs. The staff are run off their feet and seem to be in a constant state of flux, darting around with three pairs of shoes for three separate customers to try on, or struggling to answer questions from around six people about the latest smart TV’s.

I am not claustrophobic at all, but in places like the Trafford Centre on a Saturday afternoon, I find myself fighting to escape. The shops are full but so is the shopping mall itself. There is no escape – except to fight your way out of the place and breathe in precious oxygen in the inevitable rainstorm outside.

I can be indecisive.

Such is my hatred of shopping that I have to decide exactly what I want to buy before I embark upon my trip to the shopping mall from Hell. I have a plan etched into my mind; I know exactly what I want, in which colour and from which shop.

The problem is that when I get there, I find myself changing my mind, particularly if I see something similar that may be slightly more appealing or even better. I am then torn and end up wandering around looking for other alternatives, possibly at a cheaper price. Basically my plan crumbles quicker than badly built skyscraper in a massive earthquake and I either spend hours searching for something else or arrive home disappointed with nothing to show for my trauma.

Mrs PM is indecisive.

Mrs PM claims not to be indecisive - but she is.

I learnt a long time ago not to go shopping for clothes with Mrs PM. Sadly, sometimes, she insists and I have to spend hours in a woman’s clothes shop while she tries of dress after dress after dress, shoe after shoe after shoe, coat after coat after coat, skirt after skirt after skirt – you get the picture.

Even worse, this is not just limited to clothes. If we need something for the house – an item of furniture, a carpet, paint etc. it is even worse. The amount of money we have to spend is potentially larger for such items – so she has to get it right. Consequently I feel that I may as well take a tent and supplies to such shops so that I can bed down for the night while she decides exactly what will fit in our house, what the exactly colour scheme match will be and whether the cats will be comfortable sitting on whatever we buy.

Women’s clothes shops are not designed for men.

You may have seen the episode of Father Ted where a bunch of priests are trapped in the lingerie section of a department store.

I feel the same way as Father Ted but at least I have an excuse because I am with Mrs PM.

The problem is that she is so indecisive (see previous point) that she goes to the changing room with around two hundred  items to try on, leaving me standing outside the changing room like a spare part for the best part of two hours.

Worse, every single ladies' clothes shop has the changing room right next to or within the lingerie section.

What sadistic psychopath dreamt up THAT layout?

I am left standing outside trying my best not to appear to be staring at women’s knickers, bras or the mannequins modelling them.

No matter how obvious it is that I am waiting for my lovely lady, I can’t help thinking that every single woman who sees me considers me to be some kind of colossal pervert who likes to hang around in the lingerie section.

Ikea is a Maze 

The worst shop in the world is Ikea.

Don’t get me wrong, I love the wares for sale in Ikea.

What I hate is the shop itself and the layout of the place. I have a theory that there are people who like to explore dark and inhospitable places who will draw the line at exploring their local Ikea simply because it is like a huge labyrinth that is impossible to escape from.

I am convinced there are people who visited for a set of glasses two weeks ago who are still trying to escape from there.

Even if you know how to negotiate your way out of the place, you still end up buying ten times the amount of furniture or household equipment that you planned to buy when you walked through the doors. The worst thing about the store is that you walk around, lifting box after box of build-it-yourself furniture onto you shopping trolley and then have to find a way to somehow cram it into the car for the fifteen mile journey home.

And Finally

There are many more reasons why shopping is a pastime conceived by a particularly devious and sadistic demon from Beelzebub’s legion of pain and I will no doubt elaborate on those in a future post.

In the meantime, I am sure that there are people out there who are shopaholics and absolutely love to traipse around shops for hours and hours on end.

Over to you, dear reader. 

Are you a Shopaphobe or a Shopaholic?

If you are a Shopaholic, why do you think shopping is therapeutic?

More importantly, have you any tips to help me overcome my fear and hatred of places like the Trafford Centre.

My own way is to avoid these places and shop online.

I wonder whether I can get a doctor’s note excusing me from shopping because of “shopaphobia”?

It’s worth a try. All I have to do is video myself after a trip to Ikea.

That would convince even the most sceptical doctor.

Shopping - Will I Ever Learn?

I am the most stupid man in the world. Will I ever learn from my mistakes?

We are going to a family wedding next weekend and, of course, Mrs PM has to have a new dress for the occasion. I know from past experience that shopping with Mrs PM is a dreadful experience, made even worse when she has to buy clothes for herself.

I’ve suffered before (read about it here).

Last weekend, I made several mistakes. First, I told Mrs PM that I was thinking of going to the Trafford Centre to buy a new shirt and tie for the wedding.

“I need to buy a new dress,” she replied.

The horror of a trip to the Trafford Centre being dragged around lady’s clothes shops well up inside me and I almost screamed:

“NOOOO!!! Don’t make me come with you. In the name of all that is sane and holy, please don’t make me come with you.”

Thankfully, my mental firewall intercepted the tsunami of pure panic that threatened to overwhelm me and turn me into a gibbering, blubbing wreck and I managed to compose myself and say:

“Fabulous. I tell you what – why don’t you go ahead and I’ll join you later. I’ve got one or two things to do; I’ll give you a call when I arrive.”

“Fine,” she said, much to my relief.

I let her go and my intention was to give her three hours before joining her. That was my second mistake.

I can barely stand to spend more than an hour in the Trafford Centre myself, so I foolishly assumed that three hours would be ample time for Mrs PM to find herself a dress. Wrong!

Three and a half hours later I set off and arrived at the Trafford Centre with a very simple plan; meet Mrs PM for a coffee, buy a shirt and then go home.

I called her.

“Where are you?” I asked.

“I’m in NEXT”, she said.

“Have you found a dress?” I asked.

“No!” she said.

I felt an invisible hand squeezing on my heart. I almost wept. People stared at me as I crumbled.

“Are you there?” she asked.

“Yes,” I squeaked. “I’ll see you in a minute.”

I managed to pull myself together before I reached NEXT and found her looking frustrated as she moved from dress to dress. I managed a smile.

“Honestly, I’ve been to loads of shops and I can’t find anything,” she said.

“Fancy a coffee?” I said hopefully.

There was no chance. She looked at me as if I had just kicked a dog. We spent the next twenty minutes wondering around NEXT before she dragged me off to Debenhams.

Some people say that Debenhams is a great shop because of the wide variety of choice. I say that it is the eighth level of Hades. The entire ground floor is dedicated to woman’s shopping; if you aren’t asphyxiated by the smorgasboard of female fragrances, then you find yourself, as a man, surrounded by all manner of female attire. It is quite easy to panic in there and find yourself in the lingerie section. If you a male and alone there, you may as well start praying to your maker.

Within Debenhams, there are a large number of franchises each of which has a huge selection of clothing. Mrs PM was like a kid in a candy shop. I was hauled around every single rack of clothing. I saw dresses for small women, big women, fat women, thin women and there were numerous varieties for all ages. I was surrounded by females all of whom were totally and utterly indecisive. Are all women Librans? I think they are. I made another mistake at this point. I said:

“There are hundreds of dresses. Why can’t you decide? You’re worse than I am.”

She physically abused me at this point. If the look of rage wasn’t enough to strike fear into my soul, the thump that followed was an appetiser that had me wondering about the manner of my impending doom at the hands of my beloved.

I had to make amends. I had to feign interest.

“What about this one?” I asked.

“Are you mad?” she replied with ill-concealed venom.

“How about this?” I asked picking up a small number that I foolishly thought would accentuate the better parts of her figure.

“DON’T YOU KNOW WHAT I LOOK LIKE? ARE YOU BLIND?”

I decided to shut up and only add words of encouragement when she showed a little interest in a garment.

After an eternity Mrs PM managed to select some dresses. By this time my diminishing interest was but a memory; I had no idea where she had picked up each item and had followed her around the store like a lost puppy.

“Right,” she said. “I’m going to try these on.

“At last,” I whispered under my breath.

“WHAT?” she snarled.

“Nothing, my sweet,” I said smiling.

I thought that I could see the light at the end of the tunnel. I had a moment of pure optimism where, in my mad mind, I saw Mrs PM trying the first dress on, loving it and then both of us leaving the store happy.

What an utter clueless goon I was.

I forgot two things:

(1) It was Saturday afternoon, arguably the busiest time on the busiest shopping day of the week.
(2) Debenhams had a sale.
(3) Mrs PM had several dresses to try.

We arrived at the changing rooms and found a queue. We moved to another set of changing rooms and found another queue. My heart sank.

“We may as well join this one,” said Mrs PM and before I could blink, she added

“OOH – just hang on a minute. I want to look at that dress over there. Keep my place in the queue.”

She handed me the dresses.

Just when I thought it couldn’t get any worse I found myself in a queue of four women waiting for a changing room cubicle to become free - and I was holding several dresses. To the average passer by it looked as if I was queuing to try on the dresses myself.

For the first time I felt like a colossal pervert, a cross dressing maniac. Several blokes walked past. Some laughed openly; others whispered to their partners and pointed; the rest shook their heads, knowing the torment I was going through.

After what seemed like an eternity, Mrs PM returned.

“I didn’t like it,” she said, as if that would make me feel any better.

After an eternity, Mrs PM finally reached the front of the queue. As she disappeared within the changing room I said “If there’s anything you need, let me know.”

That was my biggest mistake. Born out of a desperate need to rectify the numerous faux pas I had offered to assist Mrs PM in the hope that we would leave this hell hole in harmony.

I vowed not to make the mistake of trying to answer the world’s most difficult question: How do I look in this?

Regrettably I heard seven words that shattered any hope of leaving with a tiny amount of my pride intact. The changing room attendant came out holding one of the dresses that Mrs PM had taken in.

“Are you Dave?” she asked.

I should have run away at that point but I said, yes.

“Can you get this in size 14?”

She handed me a purple dress and disappeared back into the changing room leaving me standing there like a complete cranberry.

For a while I was too shocked to react. When I finally came to my senses I realised the enormity of the task before me. I hadn’t paid any attention to the exact location where Mrs PM had acquired the dress. It could be anywhere in this enormous shop. And then I realised that I would have to find the location whilst clutching the bloody dress. I wouldn’t have Mrs PM with me so once more I would look as if I were shopping for a dress for myself.

This last fact was with me as I walked through the shop. I was being mocked by a series of thoughts entering my head from an unknown nemesis within:

“They think you’re buying that dress for yourself.”

“I’ll bet it would suit you if you tried it on.”

“They’re all laughing at you – you’re a PERVERT!”

I ran around the store, frantically searching. My haste made matters worse because the dress clung to me like a purple leech, giving some people, I’m sure, the impression that I was actually wearing it.

It probably only took me five minutes to find the location and swap dresses but it was the longest five minutes of my life. I raced back to the changing room and almost threw the dress at the changing room attendant. My face was red and flustered; I’m sure I heard mocking laughter.

Thankfully my efforts weren’t in vain and Mrs PM chose the dress that I had just humiliated myself with.

Two hours had passed since I’d arrived- Mrs PM had been there for FIVE AND A HALF HOURS.

I managed to buy a shirt and tie within ten minutes and we enjoyed a relaxing coffee before finally going home.

To give you some idea about how I feel when shopping with Mrs PM, consider the following excerpt from the hilarious show “Father Ted” where a bunch of Catholic priests suddenly find themselves in the lingerie section of a department store and have to escape unnoticed (follow this link).

I am looking forward to the wedding – I just hope that Mrs PM doesn’t tell everybody about our escapades with the dress. Knowing her, she will convince them that I actually tried on the dress myself – or worse that I actually enjoy shopping with her!!