Unanswered Questions

When I think about things seriously, I mean really start to think, my brain begins to hurt with pain and despair at the state of the human race.

That’s why I try not to think too deeply.

Well – apart from yesterday when something prompted me to rant again.

When I rant, my addled brain spits forth questions about the unfairness and stupidity of life. And these are questions that I simply cannot answer.  Here are some examples.

Why would anybody pay £220,000 for a bottle of brandy? 

Yes – that’s right. A restaurant/bar in Manchester has one for sale.

Why would anybody pay £1600 for a six litre bottle of vodka with a light at the bottom of it?

I asked the barman who jokingly gave us two glasses and pretended he was about to open it for us. The light at the bottom made it look like a nice decoration for a bar but nothing else.

Why do women wear shoes that cripple their feet?

Mrs PM walks to a restaurant on the night out in here plimsolls and then pulls out her high heeled foot butchering shoes just outside and proceeds to hobble in clutching on to me as if she has severely injured herself.

Why do some 60 year old women wear revealing and tight fitting clothes that are designed for 21 year olds? 

A woman in a restaurant who would have looked okay wearing normal older person clothes, chose to wear one of those short, tight fitting dresses that revealed almost everything and left very little to the imagination. What’s more she was plastered in make-up, so much in fact that it probably took an expert interior decorator about three hours to make her look vaguely young. It didn’t; she looked ridiculous as she waddled to the toilet, her blubber hanging over the strategically placed “sexy” holes in the dress. Once seen, you can never unsee a sight like that.

What on earth is the logic of having a full length mirror in front of a toilet so that I can see myself pee?

In the same restaurant, I had a perfect view of myself as I answered a call of nature. Why? I ask again: “WHY????”

Why would anybody consider having a huge tattoo? 

Cheryl Cole/Fernandez-Vermicelli (or whatever her name is) has the most enormous tattoo on her bum. Why? What on earth is she going to look like at the age of 60?

How has Katie Hopkins managed to carve out television career for herself by being offensive?

Yes, that’s right! They’ve given Little Miss Nasty her own TV show finally!



What the flump were they thinking??????

Why hasn’t anybody exiled Piers Morgan to a remote island in the middle of the Pacific Ocean? Or to the moon?

He is STILL on my tellybox despite my protestations. I thought we had exiled him to America. Well apparently he pissed them off so much they sent him back! Can we send him to Australia now?

Who gives a flying flump about Kim Kardashian or any member of her family?

I am sick of people talking about these people. Stop talking about  them and they will go away.

What is going on in the head of Kanye West?

His ego is bigger than the universe, so much so that he recently declared himself the greatest living rock star on the planet. This after he had murdered Bohemian Rhapsody:



If he’s the greatest living rock star on the planet then I am a cat from outer space.

Why does my cat shit on my doormat?

Talking of cats, my fat lazy cat, Jasper, has recently started dumping his wares on our doormat. I think he’s trying to tell me something. We have had to start spraying the mat with Feliway – a kind of cat pheromone. It’s working but now …

Why do cats wait until you have cleaned their litter tray before immediately dumping their wares back into it? 

It’s summer. The cats should go outside to dump their wares but they are too lazy and prefer to use their trays (which I hate!!!). So there I am, like an idiot, cleaning the last disgusting mess only to find it refilled within seconds!

And why do cats vomit in the worst places?

Cats eat so much of their own fur that it congregates inside their gullets as a repulsive disgusting globule of semi-digested hair which they seem to love chundering up in the middle of my freshly vacuumed and cleaned carpet. Why can’t they go outside to do it? Of do it in the litter tray (I wouldn’t mind if I had just cleaned it).

The Great British Bake Off; what in the name of all that is SANE is this terrible cookery programme doing on prime time British television?

We are all mad in Britain because we watch utter garbage on television and become so obsessed with it that it fills the newspapers and in some cases it becomes all-consuming. We have terrible trailers for this show including one that was banned for copyright infringement, which had 80 year old Mary Berry singing a terrible version of the “Sound of Music”. This programme personifies the stupidity of some of my fellow countrymen who are infatuated with cookery programmes. Put the bloody thing on its own cookery channel  for flump’s sake! What’s worse, people actually complain at so-called funny innuendos that fill the show. People have actually written in to the BBC and complained about the overuse of the phrase “soggy bottom”.

Are these people for real??? I want to complain about the programme itself being so shit. Get the programme off the air before I rant myself into a mad seizure!

Why do people believe everything they read in the newspapers?

The Daily Mail and the Daily Express are the worst newspapers in Britain. They report stories full of scaremongery and have a deep political agenda that people are gullible enough to believe. Almost as bad are the celebrity obsessed tabloids who love to tell us tedious facts like Cheryl Cole/Fernandez-Ventagli (or whatever her name is) has had a tattoo that covers her arse and that we should worry about her because she has lost weight. We are gradually going insane – of that I am convinced.

Why don’t people just stop listening to crap radio stations?

I have listened to radio stations in the car with Mrs PM because we cannot agree on the music we can tolerate, so we search for some common ground and discover that we can both mutually rant about idiotic DJs and the same old dreadful old music that they insist on playing. Please God, give me a radio station. I’ll show them all how it is done and I promise that I won’t spend the time between playing shit songs with banal quizzes and inane uninteresting banter that is not funny and only appeals to morons.

Why does Mrs PM like such shit music?

Why can’t I brainwash her with my fantastic music after being with her for 17 years? There is no depth to Mrs PM’s music. All she listens to is dreadful music including Britney Spears, Cheryl Cole/Flaminez-Vampiri (or whatever her name is). She doesn’t even listen to the words. Even I know the words to the songs that she likes and usually they go something like this:

I see you on the dance floor and I want your love.

If you take me home tonight you can show me all your love.

You can take your love and give it to me all night long.

And then we can beat up the guy who wrote this awful song

Why is the weather in Britain so bloody shit?

Take Friday for example. In the middle of summer I walked about 500 yards from my hotel to take a ride on the legendary “Ferry Across The Mersey” and when I returned, God, in his infinite wisdom, thought I needed a 500 yard shower. I was absolutely drenched by the time I reached the hotel.  I would have been dryer if I had stood fully clothed in my own shower for three hours.

I only went out for five minutes!!

Okay – that’s enough ranting for now.

Thanks for indulging me again.

I’m off to watch the Great British Bake Off and count how many soggy bottoms there are.

Dear America

Dear America,

How are you all doing? How is Uncle Sam? How is the lovely Oprah?

It’s been a while since I’ve been over to visit you all, so I thought I would write you a letter just to let you know that I am still alive and thinking about you all. Last time I was over there, you offered me your spare room in Alaska, rather than somewhere warmer. 

Still, I got to visit Seattle for a day on the way – it’s just a shame that Frasier Crane wasn’t around Bill Gates conveniently had to be elsewhere. I had a few things to say to him about Microsoft (again).

Why do you think he keeps ignoring my emails?

Actually, now the pleasantries are over, I have a confession to make.

I have an ulterior motive.

I think I might have annoyed you – by accident of course. I love you guys and, being British, I like to poke fun at people I love. It’s just the way we are across the pond. Anyway, I’m also keen to make things right and explain my actions.

Here are some of my "sins":

Correcting Your Language

I know somebody has probably told you that whenever I watch an American programme or film (that’s “movie” to you), I stand up, ranting, and say things like:

Stop saying "Do the MATH"! It’s MATHS! And while we’re on, it’s ALUMINIUM not "ALUMINUM". And what the hell is a DIAPER and a FAUCET?

I’m just joking. I know what these things are – I’m just trying to impress any fellow Brits who might be listening by convincing them I can speak a foreign language fluently.

Mocking Patriotism

Listen guys, I can explain what happened on that fateful day in Florida. I was one of three British people waiting to see the Hall of Presidents and I honestly did not mean to say what I said. 

Looking back I should have just stood up and looked around instead of staying seated and cracking a joke.

When the folk band played your National Anthem I did not expect everybody to stand up and put their hands on their hearts and start bellowing the words. When I said “Spot the Brits!” while remaining seated, I was not being disrespectful. Nor was I being facetious when I giggled and pointed at a man who was clearly overwhelmed by the song, with tear-filled eyes and a voice so choked he could barely utter the words “Oh, say can you see …”.

  

It’s just that, as Brits, we are proud of our country but don’t blubber and stand there with our hands on our chests when God Save The Queen comes on. In fact, quite the contrary – it’s a dreary song and I think the Queen is so wealthy she could probably save all of us.

Furthermore, my joke about the ubiquitous nature of the American flag was not meant to offend. I was not actually going to steal one. What would I do with it?

Finally, I know you Americans are under the impression that you live in the greatest country in the world. I really did not mean to upset the poor pastor when I questioned this statement on his pompous blog. I was just having a bad day and all of his talk about how God loves America more than any other country just wound me up. I apologise to the pastor and all of his sheep who may have read my comment claiming that Britain is a far better and safer place to live than America. 

Mocking Stupidity

I laughed at these videos and I apologise:

I also have to laugh when asked stupid questions like “Do you celebrate 4^th July in England?”

And yes, I really have been asked that question.

Moaning About The Slow Invasion Of Britain By America

Every year, a new American tradition seems to find its way across the Atlantic Ocean and wangle its way into our culture. It started with Hallowe’en, which means that every year I am supposed to buy bags of sweets and face armies of kids dressed up as ghouls and ghosts as they bang my door with the words that make my blood boil: “Trick or Treat”.

And then I noticed that the School Prom was the next invader. Both of my lads have dressed up in suits, jumped into a limo and attended a prom – just for leaving school. That did not happen in my day. 

And then the final straw, when, this year, a large percentage of British people went crazy on a day called Black Friday. Shops were invaded by crazed idiots desperate for a bargain, fighting over televisions and other expensive items that had had their price reduced. I don’t want to see my country descending into anarchy because of an American tradition.

What’s next? Will we end up celebrating Thanksgiving?

I’m not being awkward or funny. If I want the things above, I will visit America again and enjoy them with you guys.

Calling America "The Colonies"

What else was I supposed to say? 

Picture the scene. Mrs PM and I were on an old ship in Boston, that had taken part in the War of Independence. We were part of a tour group and were told some very interesting facts about the part that the ship had played in the war against the British over two hundred years earlier. 

“Is there anyone from Britain?” asked the tour guide.

Of course, being proud of my country, I put my hand up with a gleeful smile – and then I was roundly booed.

Listen, this war happened many years before I was born and I didn’t spot any people in the tour group who were that old. My response was simply a natural gut reaction – to inject a bit of humour (as opposed to "humor") into the situation:

“Well, I’m glad to see you’re looking after The Colonies for us until we get it back in the near future!”

There is no plot for the UK to invade America. Just because we are British doesn’t mean that we are all megalomaniacs and evil monsters, as depicted in films (or "movies").

It was a joke. 

And Finally ...

There are lots of other ways I may have upset you guys and if so, I am sorry. 

America is basically like a good friend to me, somebody who provides lots of fantastic films, brilliant music and, even though a lot of you don’t get irony, lots of great comedy.

I do plan to visit again soon but this time I will try not to take the piss out of religion, accents, words, history or the stupid people who live in your country.

Don’t forget, there are stupid people everywhere – including Britain.

Take Boris Johnson as an example:

This man is Mayor of London!! Yes – we REALLY DID elected him!

Actually, that’s not quite true; the population of London did. And there is talk that one day he may become Prime Minister of the United Kingdom.

If that happens, I will be over the pond in a flash.

Actually maybe not. You guys elected George W Bush didn’t you?

Not once but TWICE.

Oh dear – I’ve annoyed you again haven’t I?

Yours Sincerely

Plastic Mancunian

P.S. It’s great to know that you guys hate Piers Morgan too. I’m really sorry we inflicted him upon you – please don’t blame me personally for that!

Telly Hell

What is going on in Britain? We’re all cracking up and going mad – MAD I tell you.

I know why we are going mad – and I have a cure. The people of Britain will not like it one iota but in my view, you sometimes have to be cruel to be kind.

My plan is to purge our television of all programmes that turn people into dribbling imbeciles whose common sense seems to take a holiday for the duration of the garbage they are watching.

What has caused this outburst, I hear you cry?

I was reading about what people like to complain about on the TV and I came across an article that said a number of people had complained about the use of the phrase “soggy bottom” on a programme that seems to have turned the UK into a bunch of maniacs. The programme is called “The Great British Bake Off” and is basically a cookery programme where amateur bakers compete against each other to win some form of pathetic prize – what the prize is, I don’t know – I would never watch such rubbish.

The programme should be removed from prime time telly because, quite frankly, it turns people into brainless goons who find excitement in truly awful entertainment; some people become obsessed with such trash telly and feel the need to write about how the phrase "soggy bottom" upsets them enough to write a bloody letter to the BBC.

What is wrong with these people?

What turns normal every day pleasant and intelligent people into these sad obsessed complainers?

I'll tell you the answer: programmes made in telly hell.

Here are some programmes or types of programmes that I would relegate to the early hours on an obscure television channel or, better still, wipe off the face of the earth, in order to save humanity.

Cookery Programmes

Cookery programmes should be relegated to a specialist channel and not be shown all day every day (or so it seems). Such programmes are becoming more prevalent every single second of every single day, making celebrities out of bizarre people like Jamie Oliver, Anthony Worrall Thompson and Delia Smith. Such shows have turned these so-called celebrities into megalomaniacs – like this:



Yes – Delia claims she wasn’t drunk but wanted to use her “status” to get the crowd behind her favourite football team simply because of who she was.

She just made a fool of herself and of those who thought such a rant was a good idea.

Soap Operas

Soap operas do not reflect real life – if they did then society would break down into total anarchy, particularly if real life reflected soaps like Eastenders.

I have a confession; I used to watch Eastenders, Coronation Street and Brookside religiously (as they are on all the time or so it seems). Thankfully, I had a Eureka moment on 5th July 1991 and said to myself “Hang on! What the flump am I doing watching a programme where every character is a flawed arse who wants to con, shag or kill everyone else?”

Soaps are responsible for inflicting Jason Donavon and Kylie Minogue on us. Thanks Australia for Neighbours and Home and Away. And what about Dallas and Dynasty? America is just as culpable.

And of course, I am absolutely certain that we are totally blameworthy for inflicting Eastenders on our American and Australian friends, making them all believe that every cockney is a depressed gangster who screams at every other one and then kill themselves.

Talent Shows

The X Factor is still on for what seems like the gazillionth year. It is a show that dominates Saturday and Sunday night television, exposes us repeatedly to Simon effing Cowell and his equally talentless judges, and presents to us a bunch of lame karaoke singers who are “on a journey”, “have a deep trauma in their lives” and who all sing shit songs in the style of a bad boy band singer or in a bad impersonation a croaking warbling oversinger. Equally deplorable are The Voice, the BBC equivalent, and Britain’s Got Talent, a show that unequivocally proves that Britain has NO talent whatsover.

Such shows are gold dust for tabloids because they fill their pages with bilge about the contestants - which is apt really because I would probably ban tabloids too.

Reality TV Shows

I do not want to watch Z list celebrities trying to dance on a Saturday night in Strictly Come Dancing. Nor am I remotely interested in any other Z list celebrities who want to be dumped into a jungle in Australia. The only time I would be interested would be if they exiled Piers Morgan on a desert island – but only enough to see his smug face crumble when he realised that there would be no cameras to film him, he wouldn't actually get paid and he had to stay there for six months.

I am equally uninterested in the bunch of oversexed Geordies trying to get their end away in Geordie Shore and a bunch of posh pratts in Made in Chelsea.

I can got to the city centre late on a Saturday night to watch that kind of garbage.

Freak Shows

If I woke up and discovered that I had piled on 500 lbs or developed and embarrassing and totally horrendous bodily ailment that made me look like The Elephant Man, I would immediately call the hospital and beg them to fix me behind closed doors. I would not ring Channel 4 and say “Can I be a contestant on Embarrassing Bodies” and subject the entire horror of my condition to the whole of the UK, including showing the full gory details of all operation I need to rectify the situation.

Mrs PM is a sucker for these kind of programmes and usually watches them when it is my turn to cook (having recorded them the previous week). When I walk into the lounge, I then find myself confronted with my tellybox showing me an explicit operation, complete with blood and gore, of a man just at the point where the surgeon is going to puncture his swollen scrotum. I look at my plate and see a lovely meal but the sight of a bloated ballsack about to be sliced somehow turns me off my dinner and makes me want to throw up.

That is not entertainment.

And Finally...

There are lots more programmes I want to consign to TV Hell. I will tell you more in a future post.

Over to you, dear reader.

What TV programmes make your blood boil?

Which TV programmes would you consign to TV Hell?

Am I being weird in my choice or am I the crazy one?

Actually – perhaps you shouldn’t answer that last question.

Room 101 (Part Two)

Earlier this year I wrote a post about Room 101, a place where all of the horrors of the world are kept and promptly popped 10 things into the room so that they would never be seen or experienced by human eyes ever again – apart from by the eyes of those humans already in Room 101 – like Piers Morgan for example.

You can read it here.

Well, dear reader, it is time to put ten more things into Room 101.

And good riddance!

Monday Mornings

Like Garfield I hate Monday – particularly Monday morning at the precise moment my alarm clock drags me kicking and screaming from the bliss of my beauty sleep into a reality that forces me to get out of bed and go to work. There is no worse feeling than getting dressed and trying to psyche yourself up for the inevitable struggle through five days of frustration, ranting and pleading with yourself not to attack people with cricket bats.

It is the worst day of the week and needs to be dispatched to Room 101 with maximum prejudice.

Antony Worrall Thompson

In Britain we seem to be obsessed with cookery programmes and I hate them. What’s more, I am not keen on any so-called celebrity chefs either. I could spend all day ranting about cookery programmes but I will restrict myself to one person for now: Antony Worrall Thompson, one of the most irritating chefs on television.

His voice is so annoying it makes me feel like my head is pummelled by a woodpecker on speed. How did he ever become a TV chef?

It beats me.

What’s worse is that in 2008 he recommended that we all add a little henbane to our salads. Do you know what henbane is? It is a toxic weed that should not be consumed under any circumstances. Okay – he meant to recommend “fat hen”, a wild herb, so perhaps he could be forgiven.

Except in January this year he was caught shoplifting in Tesco – something he allegedly did on five separate occasions, leading to a tabloid headline “Ready Steady Crook”.

Off to Room 101 you go, Antony; Piers Morgan is hungry.

Immigration and Customs Officers

I am not a murderer. I am not a drug lord. I am not a terrorist. I am not a smuggler. I am not a criminal.

When I visit another country, I do so out of pure pleasure (except when I am working; nevertheless I try to find some pleasure outside work too). Yet when I enter certain countries I am subjected to an interrogation by immigration officers and or certain customs officials. What’s more, I even sometimes suffer on my return to the UK. On a visit to America once, Mrs PM and I approached the immigration officer together as “family” but because we aren’t married, I was bollocked by this uniformed stranger, sent back and then when he finally allowed me to come back, I was interrogated.

“What’s the purpose of your visit to the United States?”

“Let me see your return ticket!” 

“How long do you intend to stay in the United States?” 

“Where will you be staying?”

The temptation to be sarcastic is almost overwhelming but you daren’t lest you be carted off by armed officers, dragged into a room and then subjected to a search that requires a special glove.

Customs officials aren’t much better. On a return trip to the UK:

“Where have you been?”

“What did you buy?”

“Open up your suitcase: I don’t care if it has three weeks of dirty underwear – I have a special glove.”

Into Room 101 you go - and feel free to interrogate and strip search Piers Morgan.

Boy Bands

What is a boy band? A boy band is a bunch of pretty boys who can barely sing and regurgitate the same old insipid song over and over again for an army of teenage girls full of hormones and hysteria, or a bunch of old women who, for some reason, have abandoned all hope and want to be spoon fed dreary ballads.

I hate them; I hate them so much I can barely type out the words that express my hatred of them.

Take That, Westlife, One Direction, Boyzone and all other equally shit “bands” should be locked up and blasted to the planet Tharg at the first opportunity.

Please help me rid the world of them. Oh – OK let’s put them into Room 101 where they can annoy Piers Morgan with their crap cacophony.

Diving Footballers

I enjoy watching Premiership football but there are certain players who are so keen to win or gain an advantage that they throw themselves to the floor when an opposing player breathes on them, screaming blue murder in a vain attempt to be awarded a penalty.

The way some of them do it, you would think a sniper had shot them in the head from the stands. This is not the way football should be played. There should be no reward for cheating. If I had my way, I would ban players found guilty of diving for at least five games and fine them a month’s salary (which could run into hundreds of thousands of pounds). Sadly, I can’t – but what I can do is put them into Room 101.

The Turner Prize

Modern art leaves me stone cold. It is garbage produced by so-called artists for pseudo-intellectuals under the pretence that “it hasn’t been done yet”. The focal point for all that is wrong in the art world is the annual Turner Prize where “artists” compete for a cash prize by producing a piece that makes most people say “What the PHARKKK????”.

Past winners have included:

A bare room where the lights are on for 5 seconds then off for 5 seconds – called “The Lights Go On And Off”.

“60 minutes of silence” in which we see a whole bunch of policemen sitting there staring at the camera for 60 minutes.

It is insanity and only belongs in one place – Room 101.

Lady In Red

Lady In Red is one of the worst songs ever written – four minutes of dreary nonsense masquerading as a romantic song. If somebody were to play it to me in the name of romance I would vomit all over them. The lyrics are so cheesy that they could have been written by mice. And Chris de Burgh’s voice grates my brain and makes me grimace in pain.

A dreadful song – an utterly dreadful waste of four minutes. I’ll bet it is Piers Morgan’s favourite song – he is welcome to it.



Thick British Tourists

Some British people should never be allowed to leave our island. Why? Because they are not equipped to deal with life in foreign countries. In their minds, every country is just like good old Britain, where everybody should speak the Queen’s English and watch British television. In their eyes, Britannia Rules the world, so it is perfectly acceptable to say things like:

“I’m a British ciitizen – give me some Worcester Sauce NOW!!”

I have numerous examples of the obnoxious behaviour of Brits abroad and each time I hold my head in my hands and shake it in despair and shame.

“Give me a pint of lager! What do you mean you don’t know what a pint is?”

“DO YOU SPEAK ENGLISH???? WHY NOT??? I thought EVERYBODY spoke English!”

“I’m not eating any of this foreign muck. Have you got any fish and chips?”

“Are you showing Eastenders in your bar? What do you mean you don’t get Eastenders in Spain?”

Let’s hope they are happy in Room 101 because that is where they are going.

Obnoxious Parisians

When I first visited Paris, I was led to believe that all French people were obnoxious arseholes. Later visits to La Belle France have corrected that initial wrong assumption - the problem is limited to a small percentage of obnoxious and extremely rude Parisians.

There are certain Parisians who simply don’t like anybody who is not from Paris. I can speak a little French and my general philosophy is to try to speak the language of the country I am in – with a phrase book if necessary. One summer, I was in Paris and my hay fever was so bad that I had to seek medication. I found a pharmacy and, with streaming eyes and constant sneezing, I tried to buy some antihistamine tablets. Sadly my French didn’t stretch to “Antihistamine” and the phrase book didn’t help. I was unfortunate enough to be served by an obnoxious Parisian:

PM: Pardon, monsieur (AAAATTTTCHHHOOO!!!!) Parlez vous anglais? (AAAAATTTCCHHOOOOO!!!)

Obnoxious Parisian: Non!

PM: D’accord. Avez vous (AAAAATTTTCCHHHHOOOOO!!!!!) quelquechose pour m’aider (AAAAAAAATTTCHHHHOOOO!!!!) ….

The bugger just left me standing there and went to serve somebody else. I tried to interrupt but he totally ignored me. The other person was quite surprised and started pointing at me and gestured for the arse to help me. I was clearly struggling – and I would have struggled in an English pharmacy to be honest.

What did this arse do? He shrugged in typical Gallic fashion and carried on serving the woman. Thankfully, another assistant came to my rescue and she spoke a little English. With an exchange of franglais she sold me a box of antihistamines with instructions in both French and English.

I saw her talk to the obnoxious arse as I left – and all he did was shrug again.

There are a fair few people like this in Paris, superior people who look down on non-Parisians. Mrs PM lived in Toulouse for a year and told me that people from that town are generally not keen on Parisians either.

In the other parts of France I have visited, I have been welcomed with open arms and encountered some of the friendliest people I have ever met. I want to dispatch these people to Room 101 where they can be rude to Piers Morgan.

The rest of the people in Paris can then make me welcome next time I visit that beautiful city.

My Hair.

I hate my hair. You can read about the reasons here.

Every day is a constant battle to keep it under control. Every day I look into the mirror and grimace in shame because it has morphed into a totally embarrassing shape. One time, on holiday in Spain, I spent a fair amount of time swimming in the sea before strolling around the holiday resort for the rest of the day. When we returned to the hotel, I looked in the mirror and my hair, which was admittedly a little longer than usual, was sticking up all over the place.

“You let me walk around like this?” I asked Mrs PM.

She sniggered and said “Your hair looks like that all the time. It’s lovely!”

It’s not. And here are some examples:

Shocking hair aged one.

Shocking hair aged 12

Can you spot the bad haired boy in this picture?

Shocking hair aged 17

 Into Room 101 you go – and give me a decent hairstyle.

That’s it for now. I will add some more items to Room 101 next year some time.

I have thousands of things destined for Room 101.

I hope Room 101 can cope.

Room 101

George Orwell’s 1984 is one of the few novels I read at school that made me sit up and say “now that was a good read.”

I love the book – but one of the things I like best is the concept of Room 101, a room where people are subjected to their worst nightmares.

In the UK it has spawned a comedy panel show, also called Room 101, where celebrities try to convince the host (currently Frank Skinner) to dump the things they hate into the aforementioned room.

Being a grumpy old so and so I think it is time that I nominated things for Room 101; I just hope the room is big enough to accommodate everything I have planned for it.

In fact, such is the vast number of things I want to cast into an abyss that I have to do it in tiny chunks.

I will therefore pepper my normal inane posts with lists of things that simply must be locked away from humanity – for their own good.

Movie - Highlander 2 – The Quickening

I loved the film Highlander and that is the main reason why I want to hurl this garbage into Room 101. It is a sequel that makes no sense and is the worst film that Sean Connery has ever agreed to make. If you have seen and enjoyed Highlander, I implore you (for your own sanity) not to watch this film EVER! You will rant so much that you might just explode – I know I nearly did.

Celebrity – Piers Morgan

Why this man is a success is beyond me. He is one of the few humans alive who I actually want to torture – preferably by subjecting him to a day in his own company. I first noticed him when he was editor of a tabloid called the Daily Mirror – an odious profession if ever there was one – and now he presents a major show in the US. How? Why? He is an enigma; he is so loathsome yet so successful. How can that be? Into Room 101 you go.

Clothing – Baggy arsed jeans

Kids these days wear jeans that hang so low they may as well not bother. I was sitting down in a bar in Manchester and I turned around and my face was inches from a young git with baggy arsed jeans and “cool” designer underpants. I wanted to stand up and yell at the fool.

“PULL YOUR PHARKING JEANS UP! PEOPLE CAN SEE SKID MARKS IN YOUR UNDERPANTS!”

I couldn’t – but it would have scared him half to death.

Food – Rhubarb

I have posted about rhubarb before. It is the most repulsive foodstuff known to man. It tastes so bad that my stomach heaves when my brain tells me there is some in the vicinity. When rhubarb appeared on the school dinner menu as a child, I was forced to eat it – and I wanted to kill the teacher who tortured me in this way. I simply cannot begin to describe the taste – it is so awful. I hope that Piers Morgan is forced to eat it for ever in Room 101 – mind you, he’d probably like it.

Pop Music – Cliff Richard

The man who gave us “Mistletoe and Wine”, “Saviours Day”, “Wired For Sound” and, the crowning turd on the compost heap, “The Millennium Prayer”. I am ashamed to say that I actually saw the so called Peter Pan of pop live in a show called Time in the late 1980’s. I went to the West End of London and watched it, not knowing that Cliff Richard was in it – and I almost wept in shame. Worse – every year, there is a calendar showing pictures of Cliff topless – AT HIS AGE!!! Get in there and start singing to Piers Morgan – mind you, he’d probably like it.

TV – The X Factor

Every bloody year – EVERY BLOODY YEAR – I have to suffer this utter tripe that is overhyped, filled with cliché and hosted by idiots. Why is it popular? All that I see is a terrible karaoke show watched over by Louis Walsh, Simon Cowell and a couple of other equally talentless judges – and at the end of it, another talentless individual is crapped out and thrust upon the world with a “guaranteed Christmas Number One” only to sink back into obscurity a year or two later. Get rid of it immediately.

Animals – Wasps

Yet another creature I have ranted about. They serve no purpose whatsoever other than to sting human beings and make an absolute nuisance of themselves on a beautiful sunny summer day. They are horrible, vindictive creatures that turn human beings into jabbering wrecks.

Books – The Mayor of Casterbridge by Thomas Hardy

When I was a young man at school, I was introduced to English Literature – and was forced to read this novel – and then write at least two essays about it. I hated it – and it got me into trouble several times. Our homework was to read three chapters and then discuss them in class and I simply could not bring myself to do so – it was so tedious. Invariably I was caught out when after two seconds it was clear that I hadn’t read any of it and had to spend yet another detention reading the bloody thing. I wanted to read Jules Verne, H.G.Wells and George Orwell – but no – I had to read this tripe – and then write utterly pointless essays about it. It almost killed my love of books and that is a crime I simply cannot forgive – so it has to go into Room 101 where Piers Morgan should be forced to read it over and over again. Mind you, he’d probably like it.

Politicians – Boris Johnson

I am tempted to put ALL politicians into Room 101 but instead I will pick on just one; the Mayor of London – Boris Johnson. This man is a bumbling oaf and it amazes me that he can get dressed in the morning, let alone run the capital of England. He struggles to speak because he constantly has his foot in his mouth and has the ability to embarrass himself because of his appearance and his irritating voice. I used to think he was just a joke and now he is the mayor, who knows where he can go? There are even fools who want him to be our Prime Minister. He must go into Room 101 where he and Piers can spend eternity pissing each other off. Mind you, they probably like each other.

China – Chinese Toilets

Regular readers will know that I love China but despise Chinese toilets. Many people think it is better to squat rather than sit but to be honest, that is a recipe for disaster, particularly in public Chinese toilets. I have almost thrown up several times when approaching them, particularly the worst kind – a public toilet on a building site. Thankfully I have stayed in hotels that have pristine, shining western style toilets – and I figure that if I put Chinese toilets into Room 101 then the Chinese will invest in proper loos that don’t make me throw up my breakfast. And of course the added bonus of Chinese toilets being in Room 101 would be that Piers Morgan would have to use them. Mind you, he would probably enjoy that.

And furthermore, Piers Morgan would probably enjoy living in Room 101.

What would you put in Room 101, dear reader?

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).

GET OFF MY TV AND GET OFF IT NOW!!!!!!!

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