The Meaning of Life - Time After Time

You will be pleased to know that this is the last post in the current series mirroring Karl Pilkington’s “The Moaning of Life”.

I think that this post needs a soundtrack – so here’s a good song to listen to while reading it.

Three weeks ago, I had a university reunion in Liverpool, the first one for twelve years and this included a man I hadn’t seen since leaving university in 1984, over thirty years ago.

Initially it was a surreal experience, seeing a bunch of blokes that I had been so close to. When I first met these guys I was 19 years old and, being young men, we were all desperate to make our mark on the world with a cocktail of alcohol, stupidity and a general sense of indestructibility that meant we were willing to do anything.

Of course, by the end of university we had matured slightly and were more prepared for life.

The problem is that when we all got together between 1981 and 1984, we did all of the stupid things that young men do.

Fast forward to a cold and rainy lunchtime November in 2015 at Lime Street Railway station in Liverpool.

I arrived first on a local train from Manchester and clutching a steaming coffee, I awaited the intercity train from London. Two of the guys got off the train and I recognised them immediately, a little greyer and a little chubbier but still the same guys I knew so well. I’ll call them Sam and Colin (to protect the guilty!).

We were expecting two more later, one from Birmingham and one from Liverpool  - this was the guy I hadn’t seen for over thirty years. I’ll call them Oscar and Andy (again to protect the guilty!).

Sam, Colin and I decided to be tourists and explore the city. I have been back to Liverpool often; after all it is only about 35 miles from Manchester. Sam married a Scouser (person from Liverpool) and he came back fairly regularly to visit family.

Colin had not been back to Liverpool since he left in 1984.

Oscar turned up an hour later. He had lost his hair completely apart from some grey bits at the sides. We didn't mention it.

The four of us spent the afternoon visiting the Tate museum, to avoid the heavy rain before having an afternoon snack in a coffee shop where we chatting about what we had all been up to, including, jobs, family, kids etc. over cups of coffee and tea. It was all very sophisticated.

We checked into our hotel and, as I was unpacking and freshening up for a mice meal, I was struck by one thing. Thirty years ago we were like rampant animals making fools of ourselves and acting as if we were indestructible.

Now, the four of us were talking about careers and kids, visiting museums and being totally sensible.

I felt a little sad; it was almost like being out with their dads.

Shortly afterwards, Andy rang and we arranged to meet him in a city centre pub that we had frequented as students.

It was still there and hadn't disappeared like a lot of the pubs from that time.

Andy turned up and he too hadn’t changed. It was really strange chatting to a guy I hadn’t seen for so long.

I looked at my watch as I supped that first beer. The time was six o’clock.

And this was the point that the sensibility disappeared.

“One more?” 

“Yeah – one more!”

Before I knew it, the alcohol had woken something up inside of all of us. We were sensible enough to find a restaurant but that’s about it. The rest of the evening descended into party time as five middle aged men wandered around the city centre, refuelling on beer, and becoming more and more boisterous. As more alcohol was imbibed, the years were stripped away and we became five young men again.  The dads were gone and my mates from the early 1980's were back.

I loved every second of it.

Tales of old were told and we guffawed like teenagers as we recalled the scrapes we got into all those years ago. Oscar's lack of hair was the main topic of raucous conversation for about twenty minutes. Don't worry - he gave as good as he got.

Thankfully, our ageing bodies protested enough to keep us in check – or at least I thought they had. We had wobbled out of the famous Cavern Club, where the Beatles used to entertain the Liverpool crowds, and into an Irish bar and somehow found a table where we could sit down. Before long, a barman came over and told us that the pub was closing. I checked my watch.

“It’s three in morning!” I yelled, although I think the words came out as “Ish three clocksh!”

We staggered back to the hotel and again I was saved by my body urging me to quaff as much water as my stomach could take before going to bed.

The next morning, we met for a late breakfast and, all a little fragile, made a pact to do exactly the same next year.

The whole episode made me think about time.

Although our bodies age around us, the deep inner core of our being remains. As we get older, our outlook on life changes but deep down inside all of us, the young person who wanted to unleash himself on the world, with a seemingly unlimited amount of energy, who existed all those years ago is still there.

The fire of my youth is definitely still  present under the sensible old git that I have become – and I’m delighted about that.

I can find him and I intend to take him out every so often for a breath of fresh air (though perhaps next time I will avoid using alcohol as the transport mechanism).

We can’t win the war against time – but we can win the odd battle - and have massive fun with our small victories.

How about you, dear reader?

Is there a young version of you hiding inside you?

Can you find him or her?

If so, how do you do it?

The Meaning of Life - What a Waste!

If Mrs PM had her way, she would clear our house of a lot of my stuff. To her, I am a hoarder and my stuff is surplus to requirements and therefore needless mess that should either be sold or thrown away.

We’ve discussed this and the bottom line is that it simply is not going to happen.

However, the difference between our philosophies on the subject of household clutter has got me thinking. Over the years, we all buy and collect lots of things, some of which we hang on to for years – in some cases most of our lives.

Take music for example.

I have a large collection of CDs but I also have quite a few old vinyl records. The problem is that I don’t have a record player and I don’t intend to actually get one either. My records are really my own family heirlooms.

I still have the very first single that I bought with my own cash, earned from my very first job as a newspaper delivery boy, purchased at the age of 13 years old. That single will never get played again, unless I sell it to a record collector.

When I see it, I see a piece of my own childhood. I am reminded of a spotty bespectacled blonde kid running all the way home from Walsall town centre back home full of enthusiasm and excitement. Nowadays, I buy CDs online and I feel that same buzz of excitement when I get home and find the parcel on the floor.

Every record and every CD is like a milestone in my life and I simply cannot part with them – just yet anyway.

It’s the same story with books, although sadly Mrs PM has had her way with those. I now only keep reference books. I’ve allowed Mrs PM to purge my paperbacks because they don’t really mean that much to me. Besides, I have a Kindle and can keep them all electronically.

Earlier this year, my mum moved from her house to a flat, mainly because she is getting a little frail and a big house is too much for her. Consequently my sisters and I had to have a big clear out for her.

It was amazing. She’s now 76 years old and she is definitely a hoarder – or should I say was a hoarder. As she’s got older I think she has started to care less about all the trinkets and keepsakes that have cluttered up her house.

My sisters wanted to be ruthless but I was the voice of reason and tried my best to check with mum what she wanted to do with things. I was surprised when she said “I don’t want that now. I’m surprised I still have it.”

She kept the things most dear to her and the rest was discarded. She now lives in a small clutter free flat and I swear there is a spark in her eye that has been reignited.

When I looked in my old room, I found lots of battered old books dating from the 1930’s and 1940’s that my grandad passed onto her. I remember devouring them as a kid and it was really weird reading them again. In fact, as a child, I had defaced a couple of them, scribbling in the corners. There were worthless and falling apart, yet a part of me wanted to bring them home to Manchester and put them in the loft.

Mrs PM would never have allowed that.

I also found a few old things of my own, including school books from my sixth form and notes my university course. I made an exception with those and chose to bring them home, where they now reside in a cupboard in the back room.

I may never use them again (they are so out of date) but they did spark great memories of that time back in the early 1980’s. In fact, when I look at the maths notes, it’s almost like they are written in a different language. There are pages and pages of handwritten formulae, theorems and their proofs, equations, derivations and graphs and I wonder now how I managed to get my brain to understand them.

I must have been very clever in my youth as an undergraduate. I’m certain that if I spent some time revisiting them I might well make sense out of them again. I have no plans to do that at the moment; it just reminds me of what a bright kid I was.

Mrs PM, on the other hand, is as intelligent if not more so than I am – but she disagrees with my need to keep my notes. To her they are rubbish and she has discarded hers and sold all of her university books with absolutely no remorse at all.

She’s happy with her choice but I think it’s sad.

One day I may think differently and change my mind, just like my mum has.

For now, I will bask in my stuff and enjoy it – even those embarrassing CDs I bought in the 1980s, containing songs like this:

I don’t care what you think – I love it.

How about you dear reader?

How many keepsakes do you have buried in yourjunk drawer or in your loft?

Are you a hoarder who can’t bear to part with things?

What worthless trinkets do you have that reignite your nostalgia?

The Meaning of Life - Body Shock!

Are you happy with your body, dear reader?

As far as I am concerned, the answer is yes – and  no.

In my lifetime, I’ve spent hours looking at myself in the mirror and thinking to myself:

“I must have really annoyed God”

Other times I’ve stared at my reflection and thought:

“Not bad, Dave.”

I hasten to add that on these occasions I was almost certainly drunk.

One of my least favourite parts of my body is my hair, something that I have moaned about in many a blog post. I often wonder why I have been fighting a running war with the hair on my head and body ever since the day that first tuft sprouted out of the top of my head.

The hair on my head is a parasitic entity whose sole purpose is to make me look like a complete and utter goon. It is unmanageable, bushy and sculpts itself into shapes that I cannot comprehend, even when it is short.

The hair on my face is strategically placed to cause maximum embarrassment should I ever choose to grow a beard of moustache. My ears are full of hair and so is my nose.

My hair is like a virus, spreading to parts of my body that should not contain hair.

I won’t describe the rest of my hair (in the interests of good taste). Suffice it to say that if I allowed my hair to grow unchecked, it would end up like this bloke:

My eyes are useless. I am as blind as a bat and have been since birth. As a child when I looked at myself in the mirror, I used to scare myself. All I saw was the blurred image of the abominable snowman.



Okay, there are some good bits of my body. I’ve never really been fat (despite describing myself as such on this blog) but I could be thinner.

My bum is, apparently, quite attractive to the opposite sex. Mrs PM (and others) have told me on occasion. I don’t understand why and how women can find that attractive at all.

Also, I have young features – which is probably the best part of all. It means I have been able to act like a young idiot despite being an old git.

Would I change anything?

Yes, I think I would. I would definitely change my hair and my eyes. I’d probably make myself a little taller, too.

I’m Mr Average when it comes to height but to be a few inches taller would be a bonus, particularly at crowded rock concerts. The tallest man in the entire audience usually manages to stand right in front of me and I have to drop hints like pouring beer down his back (not really – bit the temptation is sometimes overwhelming). In fact, when I rule the world I will make sure that all the tall people stand right at the back of the concert hall and the shortest people at the front. Anyone who blocks the view will be made to face away from the stage for the entire duration of the gig to see how they like it.

I would like to be fitter, though. I used to be very athletic, regularly playing football, swimming and going to the gym. I never really wanted to have the body of Arnold Schwarzenegger – I think some of these meatheads with their blown up bodies look absolutely ridiculous.

These days I try to go for a power walk at least five times a week but I don’t do anything more than that.

I did actually cycle to work once this year, on National Cycling Day. The problem was the while I enjoyed it, the fools chose September, just as summer had finished and the days were getting colder and darker. If they had chosen a day in April or May I would have possibly tried cycling again, knowing that weather would improve and the days would get longer. I may even have cycled all summer.

I will aim to push myself for a 30 day cycling challenge in April next year – hopefully.

One thing is for sure, dear reader. I would never ever EVER volunteer to have plastic surgery to make myself look better. My hypochondria is a good thing under these circumstances because, ultimately I would fear the surgeon making a complete mess of my body AND catching an horrendous disease as a result of the surgery.

I am absolutely amazed that some attractive people have chosen to try to improve themselves and either turned themselves into fish or this:

What was Michael Jackson thinking?

In the end he looked like an alien attempt to clone his younger self.

I felt sorry for him in the end. Why on Earth didn’t anybody tell him? I’m sure I would have advised against all of the surgery he put himself through.

I may be imperfect but if I tried to improve myself I’d probably end up looking like this:

No thanks!!!

Over to you dear reader. 

Are you happy with your body?

What parts, if any, would you change?

Have you ever considered plastic surgery or do you think it’s a crazy idea?

The Meaning of Life - How To Live Your Life

Every day there is somebody telling me how to live my life, mostly in a subtle manner but on some occasions, the message is blatant.

To those people, I say this.

“Leave me alone! It’s my life not yours.”

Of course, I don’t have total control. To start with, I am governed by the laws of the land. For example, I can’t break into a rich man’s house and steal all of his money. I can’t strip off all of my clothes, paint myself purple and prance in the centre of Manchester screaming “Look at my dongle!”

In both cases, I would be arrested immediately.

I hasten to add I have no desire whatsoever to do either of those things.

Other forms of control are more subtle but nonetheless still exist.

For example, in order to be able to do the things I like to do, I have to conform to society’s expectations. I need money therefore I need to work. When I work, I have to conform to the terms and conditions of my employer otherwise I run the risk of being sacked.

Work is the bane of my life and I would gladly free myself of the shackles if I could.

The day I win the lottery is the day my freedom begins. Failing that, I have to wait another fourteen years before I can retire. I can’t wait. I just hope that by that age I’m not a doddery old codger who can barely walk without gasping for breath.

That’s why I want to get a lot of stuff done now - while I still can. And I don’t want anybody to tell me what to do or how to do it.

I’m amazed by adrenaline junkies who actually want to risk their lives to get a buzz. I would never try to tell them what to do and what not to do but such dangerous pursuits are not for me.

Anything involving falling from a great height, whether tied to a bungee rope, a parachute wrapped in a rucksack or metal frame with a lot of plastic sheeting is far too risky for me to try. I would be so scared that I probably would probably croak due to heart failure before the adrenaline kicked in.

I just don’t get it. Life experiences are fantastic and I applaud them. But if there is even the slightest chance that I would end up on the ground as an unrecognisable red splat then it’s not for me.

I’ve always had goals of sorts, but what surprises me most is that most of them didn’t materialise until I was older. If, for example, I had decided that I needed to write a book at the age of 18 I would have actually done so by now, changing my plans and studying English or journalism instead of messing around with computers. I might even have even written a few books.

Instead, I find myself writing a blog, which I started at the age of 45 and only now, eight years later, am I actually attempting to write a novel as part of NaNoWriMo (my latest 30 day challenge).

If I had been bitten by the travel bug at the age of 18, I would have seen a lot more of the world than I have.

If I had learned to play a piano or guitar at the age of 18, I could have been a member of a rock band by now, travelling, writing and enjoying the fruits of my creative juices.

My life would probably be so different. That said, I wouldn’t go back and change anything because I would never have had two great kids and met Mrs PM.

Still, it’s never too late to live my dreams. I’m happy enough and I can still realise some ambitions – just as long as they don’t involve heights, danger and pain.

And as long as nobody tries to tell me which goals to choose, I will remain happy.

Equally, I would never tell anybody else what to do either.

The truth is, I still want every day to be the perfect day and my feelings are summed up by this rock song from Skin, a great British rock band, who had some success in the mid 1990’s:

Over to you, dear reader.

Are you an adrenaline junky or have you ever been one?

Are you happy with the way you live your life?

Have you any regrets?

What are your ambitions?

What is your Perfect Day?

The Meaning of Life - Who Am I?

I know myself completely and there is no human being on the planet that is exactly the same as I am.

At the time of writing, the population of Earth is 7,379,260,713 but this is changing every second. People are being born and dying every single second. The population is increasing because the number of births is over twice as big as the number of deaths.

You can monitor the numbers for yourself by visiting this page.   

I am still overawed by the fact that I am completely different from the other 7,379,260,712 human beings with whom I share this world.

 Isn’t that amazing?

Statistically speaking, there must be somebody out there who is the same age as I am, looks like me and acts like me with the same philosophy on life, the same skills and the same logical mind. The curious part of me would like to meet that person but, to be honest, I think it would scare me a little bit. 

I kind of like the idea that I am unique. 

Nevertheless, sometimes I ask myself who I really am. 

I can answer the easy questions, such as my name, age, nationality, description and even some of the more difficult questions about where I have been, what I have achieved, what I still want to achieve. I can also talk a lot of nonsense about my own philosophies and opinions on a variety of subjects, both banal and controversial. 

Does that tell people who I am? Well, I guess it does partially.

Mrs PM knows me more than anybody else on planet Earth and if asked, I’m sure that she would claim to know me inside and out. 

But she’s wrong and I think she knows that.

For example, she reads this blog and quite often expresses amazement at the things I write. On my post about mosquitos, she wrote a comment on the blog saying:

“I had no idea all of this was going through your mind!”

I think she reads the blog to learn more about the person she lives with. 

Equally, I know a lot about Mrs PM but I would never claim to know everything about her. 

Every person , no matter how much in love they are or how open they are with other people, keep part of themselves hidden to protect them. Imagine for a second how terrible it would be if you were in the same room as a person who could read your mind completely.

It would be absolutely unbearable.

That’s one reason I would love to able to read people’s minds, particularly those I know. My curiosity would know no bounds. What are people really thinking? Are they telling the truth or brilliantly concealing their true thoughts and intentions?

Actually, thinking about it, perhaps it wouldn’t be such a good idea to delve into the inner mind of your friends. You may discover something you don’t like about their thoughts. Perhaps it’s best to maintain an air of mystery.

You may feel that you have an insight into who I am, dear reader, thanks to the tripe that I continue to write on this blog. You certainly know that I am a 53 year old man called Dave who works in IT, lives in Manchester, likes rock music and is keen on travel. I may have revealed other things about myself inadvertently but that was almost certainly more by accident than design.

I masquerade as a guy who calls himself Plastic Mancunian, a cyber-identity that initially I wanted to use to remain anonymous, until a couple of work colleagues spent the time searching for it. In fact, they used their knowledge of me to actually find the blog because even though I wanted to create a different persona on the blog, I couldn’t help revealing who I was, albeit with a little subtlety. 

No matter how much I tried to remain anonymous, I was betrayed because I allowed the Plastic Mancunian to become a caricature of Dave, the ranting old git, allowing my true self to be revealed in the rambling posts.

That was a shame. I really wanted to remain anonymous so that I could allow the anarchist within me to surface and take on a persona of its own.

The colleague who finally exposed me apologised but I’ve forgiven him because ultimately I’m proud of my own little corner of cyberspace. 

I said earlier that there are people in the world who look like us. Having done a little research, apparently there are seven such people in the world and they are known as twin strangers. 

There is actually a website you can use to find your twin strangers and some of the examples they have are amazing. 

You can check it out here.

I am contemplating having a go myself. There must be a Plastic Mancunian Doppelganger out there.

In the meantime, here are a couple of my celebrity lookalikes (according to friends, colleagues and cheeky buggers). 

A Plastic Mancunian called Dave

Keith  "Cheggars" Chegwin

Jerry Springer

Charlie and Craig Reid (aka The Proclaimers)

Garth Algar

Joe 90

Benjamin Button

Do you think I look like these guys?

As Mrs PM says, I do have two clones in the world – my sons are the spitting image of me – poor buggers!

The Clone Show (presented by Mrs PM)

How about you, dear reader.

Do you consider yourself to be unique?

Would you like to meet a person who thinks exactly the same as you?

Who are your lookalikes (celebrity or otherwise).

The Meaning of Life - Paint It Black

In 2013, I watched a funny programme starring Karl Pilkington called The Moaning of Life, where he travelled the world seeking inspiration for the meaning of life in key areas, such as happiness, kids and death.

Karl Pilkington is a straight talking funny man whose perception of life in general is rather weird, so weird in fact that he is genuinely funny. The show inspired me to write about the meaning of life from my own perspective mirroring the subjects tackled by Karl.

This is the man at is weirdest best - simply trying to promote the book accompanying the first series:

See what I mean? He can't even talk about his book without flying off at weird tangents.

Anyway, now he’s back with a second series where he continues to give us his view of life with new subjects. Again I have decided to join in and offer my views on the same subject.

The first post discusses something that I have mentioned before (and ranted about):

Art

Regular readers may consider me to be an unsophisticated barbarian when it comes to the arts, mainly because I have written a few posts about my views on contemporary art, the people who produce this art and the people who claim to understand and appreciate it.

These people are wrong.

It’s true that I am a stubborn old git but my opinions on art are just my own. While I may mock the pieces of crap that hang on the walls of museums of contemporary art, I genuinely have praise for paintings and sculptures that, in my opinion, say something to the world.

For example, I love paintings of real things,, such as landscapes, oceans, storms and sunsets, particularly if these images have been captured in the past. I find that they give me an insight into life back then and I can imagine the painter sitting in the English countryside, using his skill to capture a specific moment in time for future generations to enjoy.

Here’s an example or two by J.M.W.Turner:

These are fantastic paintings.

I feel rather sorry for J.M.W. Turner to be honest because, sadly, his name has been used (or should I say abused) in modern times. His name has been given to an annual contemporary art competition that genuinely makes me wonder about the sanity and intelligence of certain elements of my nation. 

The Turner Prize is awarded to a so-called visionary young artist (under the age of 50 – so its ageist as well) for their new works of art.

However, the art is utter nonsense. In fact, it’s worse than that – it’s absolutely shit!

The Turner Prize shows everything that is wrong with art. These days, it has been captured and held captive by the pseudo-intellectual brigade, who refuse to accept genuine art because, in their words:

“It’s been done before!”

I could vomit in a bucket, throw the contents onto a canvas, empty the contents of a filthy cat litter tray on top of that, spread it around with a garden rake, throw in a few packets of cat food for good measure, leave it to dry and then hang it up on a wall with the title “Cat Chores Gone Wrong” and I am sure that some pillock out there in the world of contemporary art would start gushing over it, claiming it to be:

“The most exciting cosmic, trans-species interactive amalgamation in the myriad multiverses”.

I might just do that, actually!

But of course, art is really any form and while I may mock a pseudo-intellectual, I am certain that he has his reasons for spouting pseudo-philosophical crap about a vomit stain hanging on a wall.

I find beauty in many other art forms, such as music, video and the wonders of Mother Nature. To be perfectly honest, I prefer photography to painting, simply because when a camera captures an image, it is real. In the minute moment that a camera clicks, a picture of a moment is preserved, whether it is a moment of beauty or tragedy. 

For me, like a Turner landscape, we have captured a moment in time that can be preserved for our future generations to enjoy, contemplate or simply fantasize about. 

I would love a person from two hundred years in the future to see a photograph that I had taken and just spend a few moments trying to imagine what was going on at the time. 

Another art form that is close to my heart is music. Music is personal and, like a photograph, can have a special meaning for a person. I still maintain that a catalogue of personal music can act as a unique time machine for a person. Whenever I hear certain songs, my mind searches my memory banks for a specific moment, selects it and brings into my thoughts so that I can relive what is probably a cherished memory, either of a specific instance or a special month or year.

In that respect, music gives meaning to life and the good thing about music is that, like a fantastic statue, a beautiful photograph or an oil painting of an ancient landscape, we can think about our lives, past lives, history and the future all at the same time.

I’m not sure that a vomit stain hanging in the Tate Gallery would have such a profound effect.

I’ll leave you with two songs from my vast collection that are very special to me for reasons that I may elaborate on in future posts:

How about you, dear reader. 

Are you a fan of art?

What art do you enjoy?

Do you think that a lot of contemporary art is rubbish?

What does "art" mean to you?

The Wedding Planner

I’ve been trying to come up with a suitable title for this blog post about weddings and reluctantly come up with The Wedding Planner for reasons that will become clear.

I say "reluctantly" because the title reminds me of the film of the same name which is one of the worst films I have ever seen and it has coloured my judgement about any movie starring Jennifer “Jenny From The Block” Lopez, a woman who, as far as I can tell, is just famous for her booty which basically means she has a big arse. Her songs are terrible and her acting is worse. I have yet to see a movie that she stars in that doesn’t make me want to swear constantly.

I think I am a better actor than J-Lo (let's face it YOU probably are, dear reader). Mind you, I wouldn’t  want to take her place in that movie even though I could probably have been more convincing in her part than she was. I would have to draw the line at pretending to be romantically enthralled with Matthew McConaughy, even though I would probably have made the movie more enjoyable.

Similarly Matthew McConaughy have slipped past my radar as a result of that film but he has redeemed himself with Interstellar - an excellent film I have to say. I could certainly have played his part in The Wedding Planner and, yes, I would take one for the team and star as a romantic lead with J-Lo. She may be a bad actress but she’s not bad looking.

Anyway, I’m not here to rant about the movie or daydream about being filmed in a clinch with J-Lo.

I want to discuss a form of peer pressure that once again is being exerted on me.

My friends and colleagues have recently tried to plan my wedding.

Before you ask, the answer is:

“No! I have no intention of getting married in the foreseeable future!”

The problem is that recently, people seem to be trying to marry me off.

First, on a trip to Abu Dhabi earlier this year, the friends we were visiting started to mention weddings. I sat down at a meal and started talking to a female friend and inevitably the conversation turned to marriage. I had nothing to do with this. I was simply asked, “When are you going to marry her then?”

Thus followed a conversation during which I was made to look like a total cad. In her eyes, I should get down on one knee and ask my beloved for her hand in marriage and I am a blackguard for not having done so.

“Just marry the woman,” she kept saying as if I were some sort of movie villain.

The fact that I have been married before is irrelevant. She and her hubby are very happily married and she cannot grasp the concept of being in a wonderful relationship without being married.

About two months later we went to Bologna with a group friends, two of whom, D and S, were also unmarried. Their relationship had been blossoming for almost as long as ours and pretty soon the conversation came round to marriage.

D told me that he didn’t want to get married and although he hadn’t ruled it out, he was happy to carry on living the way they were. On the other hand, S confided in Mrs PM that she would love to walk down the aisle with D but that he was reluctant to.

Mrs PM became a wedding planner and told D that he should marry S.

Fast forward a month or two and S announced that the two of them had got married in secret with a tiny ceremony and only family present (I don’t think D wanted a big party).

We were shocked. I asked D later:

“I thought you didn’t want to get married?”

He told me that S had simply asked him outright and he had agreed.

Of course, since then, this group of friends have been openly asking us when I am going to make an honest woman of Mrs PM.  And, yes, they are all happily married.

Fast forward to last week. A work colleague had been reading this blog with a view to enjoying a bit of banter at my expense. Of all the things I had written, he homed in on one thing, and it wasn’t the embarrassing rants that leave me exposed to ridicule.

“Why do you call your missus “Mrs PM” in your blog when you’re not married?” he asked, sensing blood in the water.

What followed was a very uncomfortable conversation with him and other colleagues about my impending wedding that isn’t actually going to happen.

Fast forward again to last night. Another female friend has recently started a relationship with a very loving guy. They have been together for six months and he is very romantic. He told her a while ago to pick a holiday in Europe.

“We can go anywhere,” he said. “Close your eyes, take this pin and I’ll get a map of Europe. We’ll go wherever you put the pin down.”

She did.

When she opened her eyes, she saw that he hadn’t put a map of Europe down at all. It was a map of Venice, a city that she had always wanted to visit.

That’s where they are now.

And last night, she changed her status on Facebook to “engaged”.

Yes, this romantic guy had taken her to her favourite city and proposed.

I am delighted for them and I applaud his ingenuity and the way he planned to pop the question.

We are going out for a meal with them in a couple of weeks so I anticipate once again that the conversation will once more turn to the wedding that Mrs PM and I are not having and yet more accusations that I am a heartless monster for not wanting to pay a fortune to seal our relationship with a little bit of paper.

Even my own government chip in occasionally, citing the importance of family values in their pompous way. In their eyes, people should get married and remain married, despite any problems the relationship may have.

It’s all a bit hypocritical because most of them are philandering aresholes.

So for everyone out there who seems to want to marry me off, let me just say this.

Please stop planning my wedding for me. 

I will get married if and when Mrs PM and I decide to and not before.

Also, I may just start referring to Mrs PM as Ms PM in future.

The Meaning of Life - Don't Worry - Be Happy!

Some people think that I am a grumpy old man and there is evidence that supports that fact.

 I have a tendency to moan about certain aspects of life, usually involving absurdity, stupidity, injustice and the bizarre obsessions of certain groups of people who try to enforce their views and lifestyle choices on me.

However, beneath that grumpy façade, lies an extremely happy middle-aged man who has used his experience to construct a reasonable existence. Life has tried its best to deflect me from a path to happiness and contentment but I have recovered enough to find myself in a good place.

I find that having a positive view on life helps.

There have been occasions when it has been difficult and I have learned to try to discover the positive aspects of such experiences. It doesn’t always work but most of the time it does.

I can spend my time moaning about my job for example, but in the end it has enabled me to travel and it pays the bills.

Like most people, life has had its turbulent moments for me but I try to remember the good times in the past rather than dwelling on those negative moments. I love chatting about past experiences with friends and family. Reminiscing about past events is therapeutic if you don’t start wondering what would have happened if things had been different. Another way to travel to the past is through music. Music plays a huge part in my life and songs can behave like a time machine to whisk me back into the past to a moment of pleasure.

Music is a personal thing for me and on those occasions when I do start feeling a little bit down, I can select a suitable song and immediately lighten my mood.

For example, here’s a song that reminds me of working in Hong Kong with Mrs PM:

Here’s a song that reminds me of university:

This is one of the main reasons I refuse to discard old CD’s. To me they are as valuable as the TARDIS is to Dr Who.

As long as there is music, there is happiness.

I also love to experience life and for me travelling fulfils a burning need within me. Mr Motivator (the businessman who wants to be the best of the best of the best) will tell you that the way to happiness is through material possessions, a huge house, an enormous car and a high powered position in the rat race, working as many hours in the day as possible.

While that may be true for him, I find that I enjoy living in a modest house with a modest car but the ability to spend my money on trips to Japan, America, Australia and as many other parts of the world as I can. I gain more pleasure thinking about strolling around Red Square in Moscow in the middle of winter than watching the latest films on a 73 inch TV in a huge room in the back of my huge house.

I would rather spend £12000 on a round the world trip than splash out on a brand new car.

Sorry Mr Motivator – but that’s a fact.

Nevertheless, if Mr Motivator is happiest filling his enormous house with trinkets and gadgets then that's okay with me. I don’t think any less of him (as long as he doesn’t try to impose his doctrine on me) and as long as he is happy then I am happy too.

In other words, seeing other people being happy gives me a buzz, even if I am not directly responsible for their happiness. The greatest happiness for me is seeing Mrs PM laughing and smiling and my two lads enjoying life with huge grins on their faces.

Generally they are all as content as I am. My boys share the same outlook on life as me, with slightly different likes and dislikes of course and Mrs PM and I are kindred spirits (if you discount her dreadful taste in music of course).

And with Christmas fast approaching, I feel more content than ever. Yes, I will moan about shops being full, the miserable weather, the Queen’s speech, the cost of everything and having to eat too much. I will almost certainly curse the enforced diet I have to endure in January when my overstuffed and bloated body resembles a massive turkey.

Nevertheless, Christmas really does open a new door to happiness: lots of gatherings, parties and joy all around.

I may end up slobbed out on the sofa, trying to stay awake for the Dr Who Christmas special, resembling a bizarre caricature of Father Christmas as I eat another mince pie and quaff another can of beer – but I will have a huge smile on my face.

Finally, here are a couple more upbeat songs that help put me in a good mood.

Here is a guilty pleasure from two guys who like so much like me they could be my brothers. It sums up how I try to approach life.

If I don’t post again before Christmas (which is likely) I’d like to wish all readers, whether you are a regular visitor or just happened to stumble of this post, a very Happy and Merry Christmas.

I hope that Father Christmas brings you everything you want.

The Meaning of Life - The Grim Reaper

The fourth part of my mini-series on the meaning of life was going to cover happiness, leaving death until the end. However, Christmas is approaching faster than a speeding Santa so happiness is a fitting topic to finish on.

Sadly this means I have to discuss death now.

Death is a nasty part of life – which is kind of weird really because death means the end of life. Some people become preoccupied with death in the later stages of life and become obsessed with it.

I hope that doesn’t happen to me.

I have faced death in a major way, as regular readers may know, when I watched my father die at the tender age of 44. Obviously that was a traumatic event which time helped to cure. The problem was that because his death was so unexpected and so sudden that it planted a seed of anxiety that lay dormant until I approached the same age.

Reason was cast aside and for a whole year, a part of me expected my own life to come to an abrupt and meaningless end. The feeling was totally irrational and while it didn’t dominate my life, I found my thoughts drifting towards the Grim Reaper more times than I would have hoped for.

My 45th birthday was a great day because to me it meant the end of what I described as the year of death. I felt like I had reached the finish line of a great race.

Looking back now, some seven years later, I have no such fears and I can’t believe the thought ever crossed my mind. Furthermore, I really ought to be worrying about it more because I am older and, realistically, closer to the day when the Grim Reaper comes knocking to collect me.

And I can’t help but wonder why that is.

Death is the inescapable conclusion to life and, unless you have discovered the secret of immortality or are a vampire, it will happen to you.

Why worry about it?

There is no reason.

Life is great and when the time comes, it will come; there is nothing you can do about it.

What’s more, death may not be the end. The premise of most religions is that death is merely a transition to a higher plane of existence – or possibly even the chance to pop back to Earth as another person or another creature.

As a Catholic, I have been indoctrinated by the premise that when I die, I will be judged and, having been a naughty boy (and I have been a naughty boy), I will suffer the consequences in Purgatory before joining the legions of the dead in Heaven in eternal happiness.

I could go to Hell of course and spend the rest of eternity being tortured and tormented by demonic forces. My punishment would almost certainly involve being locked in a cell with Piers Morgan with diabolical pop music blaring out of speakers at a high volume.

Reincarnation seems a reasonable option – if options are available. Wouldn’t it be fantastic to be born again as another person and live another life? Of course, it might already have happened and I may have been a slave in Pompeii, or a jester in the court of Henry VIII or an explorer sailing towards America with Christopher Columbus.

Apparently it is possible to be hypnotised and drift back through your past lives. I am tempted to have a go at this but I am too sceptical and realistically I imagine my “past life” will come from a historical novel I have read or a blockbuster movie.

Other options exist; what about the science fiction concept that death is just a way of entering a new plane of existence? When we shuffle off this mortal coil, do we shed our old bodies and float off into space in an alternative reality?

Or the idea that we all drift off and continue to prevail in death? In the Necroscope series of books, when people die, they exist in a different form and continue their life’s work in death.

Apart from Hell with Piers Morgan, most of the alternatives sound appealing in one way or another.

And being a positive person, I would like to think that there is something more. The scientist within me is very sceptical and informs me that we will simply cease to be. After all, we don’t remember anything from before we were born do we?

I have no memory of anything before October 1962, my birth month. I suspect the reality is that I will return to that emptiness.

But I may be wrong.

Death could be the beginning of a brand new adventure.

Finally, please excuse the morbid tone of this post but people can’t talk about death without some negative overtones.

To cheer you up a bit, here are a couple of funny videos relating to death:

The Meaning of Life - Sector 7-G

Some people work to live; others live to work.

I am definitely in the “work to live” camp for the simple reason that to me, work is more like a punishment. I have been in my chosen career for almost thirty years and while interesting, fascinating and captivating at first, my job has become a major chore.

As I get older, I want more freedom. Some people want that freedom when they are younger which is why they delay leaping into the rat race for year or so to go travelling and explore the world. I did a little bit of travelling as a student but now I simply have an almost overwhelming desire to pack in my job and simply leave on a huge trip of exploration and self-discovery.

While I may curse my chosen career, I can’t deny that my job has encouraged me to do this.

Why?

Because my job involves travelling the world – not all of the time – but enough to give me a small taste of freedom.

In fact, I am off on my travels again this weekend, my third visit to Oman this year.

You may think that I am a hypocrite; I have a job that allows me to visit other countries and cultures. I love travelling - so why the bloody hell am I moaning?

Allow me to explain.

First of all, I work in IT – basically I spend my entire day sparring with technology. And I am bored with it.

Second, the majority of my life is spent sitting at a desk in front of a laptop surrounded by people who are equally disillusioned and frustrated and at the mercy of decisions and developments governed by Mr Motivation as he does his best to climb to the top of the corporate ladder.

Finally, while I may get the option to travel to wonderful and interesting countries, I am effectively limited to trips between the hotel and the office with very little chance to explore and only tantalising glimpses of what I could be doing if I were free of the shackles.

I am in a Catch 22 situation; I need money to fulfill my desires – and I need to work to get the money – and the work stops me from fulfilling my desires.

And this is true of most people.

The solution is simple; find a career that you enjoy, a career that makes you smile with glee when you wake up and anticipate the joy of work.  It seems to be too late for me now.

Some people may suggest that it is not too late but to those people I ask this: how can I change career when I can’t really do anything else?

I am risk averse and simply giving up what many people would consider to be a thriving, interesting and beneficial career in search of something else that will give me freedom and enjoyment, but with the same financial clout, would be absolute folly.

So I appear to be in a rut – and I can’t escape.

Outside work, I am very content and happy; when I am at work my life becomes a jumble of confusion, chaos and irritation. There are times when I get a buzz out of work but such times are becoming more infrequent.

And it would be just the same if I were to seek another job in IT in another company. At least the one I am in offers some form of sanctuary with occasional trips abroad. That’s what keeps me there.

Through my job I have visited places like Holland, the Caribbean, the United States, Canada, China, South Africa, Russia, Switzerland, Singapore and Hong Kong. I have become so enamoured with travel that I have visited many other varied and interesting places under my own volition, places such as Japan, Thailand, most of Europe and Australia.

If it weren't for my job, I would never have got together with Mrs PM in Hong Kong. I have a lot to be grateful for.

And it is now that I know what my ideal job would be; a travel writer.

There are drawbacks with that career, it has to be said.

First of all I have to be a good writer – I’m not.

Second I have to be able to fund numerous trips abroad – I can’t.

If I could see my time again, I would change my career choice and become a writer, training to actually improve the words I spill onto a page so that they make pleasurable and interesting reading instead of the inane twaddle that finds its way onto this blog.

The problem is that when you are young, you don’t know what you want; I alluded to this in a post about my schooldays last month.

Of course, another option is to work out a way to beat the system and win the lottery. The problem is that I have a logical, mathematical mind with a degree in computational and statistical science – and I know that the chances of my winning the lottery are about as close to zero as you can get.

You can’t plan a career on the off chance that you might win the lottery – despite what the lottery organisers tell you.

So, unless you know what you want to do and are passionate about doing it at an early age, when you can be trained and steered in the right direction before it’s too late, you will end up just like me, stuck in a rut in a stagnating career that provides money to live and perhaps give you a little enjoyment with a tiny taste of what your career might have been had you made the right choices as a kid.

That sounds depressing doesn’t it? And it makes me sound unhappy as well.

However, I’m not unhappy really – on the contrary – I am delighted with life.

I am also an optimist – I can’t help it – and I am still clinging onto the dream that one day circumstances might change in such a way that I can alter my vocation and wake up full of elation because I am going to work.

Anyway, I will discuss happiness in the next post to give you an insight on why I am happy despite moaning about my academic and occupational choices in life.

One day you might see a book on a shelf in your local bookstore with a picture of a grinning Plastic Mancunian called: The World Through My Eyes.

I can dream - can't I?

Don’t hold your breath though.

How about you dear reader?

Are you happy in your chosen career? 

Do you want to do something else?

Do you think it is too late for me to leave the rat race and unleash myself onto the world?

Any tips for doing just that?

The Meaning of Life - Mini Me

First marriage – then kids.

This seems to be another rule that is self-imposed upon the human race.

“So when are you gonna have kids then?” is a question that is asked to the bride and groom literally five seconds after the phrase “You may now kiss the bride.”

I never considered the possibility of fatherhood. I had no urge to procreate and, like marriage, it crept up on me and before I knew it I was a dad.

I still remember the day I was told.

“What?” I said, “Are you sure?”

I was the stereotypical father, the man who does not believe his wife when she tells him that a tiny explosion of life has begun within her. It was only when she started to throw up every morning for three weeks solid and then grow over the next nine months that I realised my life was about to change.

And it did.

Twice!

I have two kids – or should I say "adults" now.

And their resemblance to me is uncanny, which of course you would expect.

Through all the mayhem that descended when Stephen, my eldest was born, followed by even more pandemonium when my youngest was born, I discovered two things:

(a) I love kids

(b) I am a giant kid myself

I don’t want to dwell on the bad points of having kids (changing nappies at 3am, foul substances exploding out of every orifice – usually on me) - simply because the good points far outweigh them.

I discovered fairly quickly that the best way to deal with children is to become one yourself. And that is the easiest thing in the world for me.

Some people hate kids because they demand so much of your time. For me, however, although tiring, kids are terrific fun and are easily pleased.

I found myself rediscovering childhood toys and TV programmes that were quite entertaining. I knew everything about Thomas the Tank Engine, for example, and Stephen couldn’t understand why I laughed so much at a particular episode called Thomas Comes To Breakfast where a runaway Thomas crashes into the station master’s house. With the whole house wrecked, the station master’s wife says:

“You miserable engine! Just look what you’ve done to our breakfast! Now I shall have to cook some more!”

Not one word about the semi demolished house – only the breakfast.

And when it came to birthday parties, I joined in. One time, in our house, I was surrounded by around ten four year olds all screaming their heads off. The answer was simple. I did what I do best – devolved into a four year old child myself.

I got up out of my chair and knelt in the centre of the lounge.

“I bet that nobody can push me over!” I declared in a loud voice.

Before I could say anything else, all of them, as one, grabbed my arms, pushed me, pulled me and tried to knock me over. They giggled as they struggled, one lot of kids pulling one arm, the others pulling the other arm – competing against each other rather than me.

We all had a lot of fun.

All you need to do to have fun with kids is play silly games with them, draw silly pictures, build things, watch kiddy films - anything that kids love.

I love films like Toy Story and Shrek and I would never have seen them had it not been for the kids. In fact, I reckon I enjoyed them even more!

They are all good fun.

There is a part of me that is sad that my two lads are now grown up (Mike is 17 and Stephen is 20). Our relationship has changed and I still try to stay at their level even though they are now adults themselves.

Mrs PM calls them the clones and I can see why when I look at photos of us together. In fact, I am a clone of my dad too. When I look at photographs of him in the years just before he died, the similarity between us is almost spooky.

Ultimately that is the true appeal of children for me. They are an extension of yourself and when I see them growing up from babies, to toddlers, to boys, to teenagers and now to adults, I can see myself in them.

I know that when I am a cranky grumpy old cantankerous old git, I will still have a child within me somewhere. Hopefully I will also be able to see their kids start out in life too and I imagine that I might have to allow a bunch of four year old kids to try to drag me round the lounge again.

One thing is for sure, though; I will dig out that old episode of Thomas the Tank Engine and giggle with them again – even though my sons will almost certainly say:

“Dad, when are finally going to grow up?”

I can answer that now:

NEVER!!!

And for any "kids" out there - here is the episode I am talking about.

Over to you, dear reader.

Do you like kids?

How many have you got?

Are you a big kid yourself?

The Meaning of Life - Wedding Bells

I’ve recently been watching a TV show featuring the strange outlook on life of Karl Pilkington a fellow Mancunian championed by Ricky Gervais as the funniest man on the planet, simply because his perception of life can be very strange and it comes across as highly amusing.

His new show is called The Moaning of Life and in it, he travels the world looking for meaning in five key areas of life, namely marriage, children, happiness, vocation and death.

Rather than repeating the bizarre viewpoint of Karl Pilkington (and believe me it is sometimes highly bizarre), I thought it would be fun to offer my reflections on these so called key elements of life.

I therefore present to you, dear reader, the meaning of life as seen from the perspective of a plastic Mancunian - starting with marriage.

When I was a kid it seemed to me that marriage was the law; every male person on the planet had to find a female person and they two would join in an explosive ceremony full of pomp and beer. My first wedding was that of my aunt and uncle and as a six year old, I was somewhat bemused by what was going on, having rarely seen so many adults gathered together in one place where, for once, I was not the centre of attention.

I only really started to understand the concept of marriage when friends of mine suddenly lost interest in teenage pursuits and started to chase girls. Of course, being an angst ridden spotty teenager overwhelmed by hormones, I succumbed to this drive as well.

Except I was no good at chasing girls. As a late developer, I found myself left behind as girls started falling for my bigger and better looking mates. I couldn’t speak to girls, I couldn’t impress them enough to persuade them to even kiss me on the cheek – and my goal of being in a steady relationship seemed to be the most unattainable thing on the planet.

Yet somehow I managed to stumble into a relationship with a woman who actually wanted to marry me. Before I knew what had hit me, I had received a marriage proposal and from that point onwards, I felt like I had been sucked into a tornado, buffeted around, my life completely out of my own control and being forced into a slot that I simply had no choice but to fill.

I succumbed to it all; I visited a church I had never set foot in before just on the off chance that a church-going person may know a deep dark secret about me that may jeopardize my forthcoming marriage. Three times I went to that church and three times the local vicar urged me to become a regular visitor. And this wasn’t even the church I was getting married in.

Before I knew it, I was being dragged around shops, looking for a new suit, new tie, new shoes and  a new way of thinking. My wife to be demanded that I look totally presentable and this involved a haircut that consigned the long-haired 1980’s Plastic Mancunian into a little box that said “Never ever have a mullet again”. My work colleagues thought I was going for job interviews when I returned to work on Monday with my lovely locks removed and destroyed by a sadistic young hairdresser.

More terrifying than the prospect of a wedding was the prospect of the obligatory stag party.

Initially it was meant to be a single party on a Saturday night but it inevitably turned into a stag weekend. My mates from university all arrived in Manchester on Friday night and insisted on taking me for a pre-stag party drink, which resulted in my waking up on Saturday, the day of the stag party, with a colossal hangover and my will to live seeking sanctuary inside the fridge. The day continued with yet more beer and more mates as I watched the F A Cup final in a house full of drunken nutters before suffering the humiliation of being subjected to a gorillagram (who was a female work colleague who had somehow been persuaded to totally humiliate me) and then yet more dirty ale on an evening of debauchery, dancing and curry in Manchester city centre.

I woke up on Sunday morning and my will to live had vanished; my house was full of equally hung over mates who decided that the best remedy for a hangover was to go to the nearest pub and drink yet more beer.

The wedding itself was wonderful and, being a bit of an introvert, I found myself at the centre of attention being pursued relentlessly by a crazy photographer and an even crazier video cameraman with the words “just pretend I’m not here” ringing around my head for the entire day. There were so many guests that one trip to the toilet took about 45 minutes as I had to stop and chat to everybody between the toilet and my table.

I sang Save your Love by Renee and Renato to my new wife – as a joke, while kneeling on one knee with a rose between my lips, much to the amusement of everybody there.

While it was a totally special day, I cringe when I think of all the money spent because, sadly, the marriage didn’t survive.

And I still have a feeling of guilt, that simply refuses to go away.

Nevertheless, I have been to many weddings in my life and I have had a thoroughly relaxing and enjoyable time at each and every one of them. And equally, I have joined in a few stag parties too, without the fear of being stripped naked, tied to a lamppost and prodded by passers-by. I have even been the crazy video cameraman saying “just pretend I’m not here” to the bride and groom who asked me to do it for them. I thought my efforts were rubbish but they loved it and insisted on keeping the entire tape – including the bits I wanted to edit out.

The stag party, these days, has become more than a rite of passage – it is an major ordeal that has to be survived; all of your mates are with you and you absolutely know that every single one of them wants to make you drink so much alcohol that you can barely recall your own name – which I suppose is a good thing given the inevitable public humiliation that will follow.

When did stags start travelling abroad for weekends and sometimes an entire week of total debauchery and humiliation? Who made the decree that the stag party would cost an arm and a leg? With the hen party and wedding also costing an arm and a leg, it kind of leaves the poor bride and groom utterly limbless and wallowing in debt before they have even begun.

That said, I love a good wedding and the vast majority have not been as disastrous as mine was. On the contrary in fact – only one or two have failed to survive.

I am all for other peoples' weddings – but not another one for myself.

Every time Mrs PM and I go to a wedding we are inevitably asked “When are you two going to tie the knot?”

The thought of being a stag again at my age fills me with dread and I wonder whether I could survive. Also, we would have to pay for the entire thing and given the astronomical cost of weddings these days, I simply cannot justify the expense.

Mrs PM thinks the same, thankfully. We have been together for 15 years and we are both content with our lives together exactly as they are. If I were to get married again, I would make sure that it was a very tiny event with only our closest friends and family in attendance. Either that or jet off to Las Vegas and let Elvis marry us.

In fact, if the truth be known, I would rather get on a plane and enjoy a first class round the world holiday than spend (probably more) money on another enormous wedding like my first.

That said, with two sons I daresay that I will have to hand over a vast wedge of cash to help them out when they inevitably seek matrimony themselves. And if called upon, I won’t be like Scrooge and be a miserable old git reminiscing about my own past; I will be extremely happy and be the most enthusiastic father I can be.

It’s a shame, actually, that etiquette dictates that I can’t make a speech myself – I doubt my sons would let me anyway, thinking that I would no doubt try to humiliate them in my own inimitable and  puerile way.

The truth is I probably would – but I would also be extremely happy to tell them how proud I am.

That is – as long as I don’t have to go on their stag parties.

How about you, dear reader – are you a fan of marriage? 

Do you think that two people in love have to get married or is it fine to live together?

Does marriage really matter?

I would be interested in your thoughts.