10 Years

I’m interrupting my End of the World series of posts to highlight a little milestone in my life.

Wednesday 21st March is the 10th Anniversary of “The Plastic Mancunian”.

Yes, that’s right – I have been posting inane drivel on this blog for ten years.

Can you believe that?

On Friday March 21st, 2008, I wrote and posted my first tiny little missive about the trauma involved in supporting a third rate football team called Walsall.

Although it wasn’t a particularly auspicious subject, sadly the same sentiment rings true today. I still support Walsall Football Club, my home town team, and they are still shit, threatening to ruin Saturday afternoons for me in the football season with their sometimes totally inept performances. Sometime, however, they do me proud and actually win games.

Enough of that nonsense – I don’t want to depress myself.

So what has happened to the blog since that first post?

Basically, I‘ve written 720 posts (including this one), mainly involving small essays. I have ranted mercilessly about things I don’t like, tried my best to introduce my wonderful musical taste to the world, talked about my travel exploits and skirted around the things that have popped in and out of my life.

Some of it has been funny, some of it has been controversial and some of it has been rubbish.

I’ve steered away from certain subjects such as my job. One day, when I finally quit or retire, I will let rip about my career – there is a lot of material there – but for now that subject is taboo – lest I get into trouble. I think that deserves a blog in its own right to be honest.

Anyway, back to the subject at hand; I have enjoyed writing these mini articles – even the bad ones.

The truth is that in the last few months I have been debating whether or not to call it a day – and the bad news is that I have decided, for now at least, to carry on for a while.

I’ve enjoyed the interactions with people from across the globe; UK, America, Australia, Europe and even places like Russia – it’s a truly global thing.

I’m also happy to have stamped a little of my inner thoughts on the vast universe of the internet – even though future generations might put me down as being a bit of a goon.

I don’t care really.

So what’s changed in 10 years?

I have become older, wiser, fatter and more grumpy but, ironically more happy with life. My work still irks me but now I can see the light at the end of a long and frustrating tunnel.

My hair is still mad and I now have grey streaks at the side. My eyesight is worse – I now wear varifocals and am even more frustrated about wearing spectacles than I was as a child.

I’ve learned a lot of stuff from reading other blogs – some amazing stuff in fact, written by some very funny and very interesting people with the same desires to put a little bit of themselves out there into cyberspace. You know who you are.

I’ve written about 75% of a rather terrible novel that needs a lot of work but may one day see the light of day (after approximately a thousand rewrites).

I’ve done a fair amount of travelling too, including weird and wonderful places like Brazil, Japan, Canada, USA, Iceland, Turkey, United Arab Emirates and Oman as well as a lot of European countries.

Mrs PM and I are celebrating 20 years together this year – and I am still a slave to two very old but very demanding moggies. All of them have been with me for the past ten years.

My two boys are now adults – one of whom is travelling to Australia on Friday for what I suspect might be the beginnings of a life-long love of travel. I'm proud of them both.

However, they do make me feel quite old – but I also feel quite young too in a bizarre way. People tell me that I don’t look my age. Judge for yourself.

Here I am in 2008 when the Plastic Mancunian first arrived.

Mrs PM and I in Hong Kong in 2008

And here I am now.

A selfie in Abu Dhabi taken last Friday

Regular readers (if there are any) will probably cringe at this next sentence – here’s a beautifully mellow song by one of my favourite bands to finish off (I love to end on a song). It's by a band called Riverside and is called "Towards the Blue Horizon" and is in many ways quite apt.

I’ll see you soon for the next post which will discuss the next instalment of the End of the World.

Perhaps I should have reconsidered that topic if I'm trying to be positive.

Anger Management

I wanted 2017 be a good year compared to the debacle that was 2016 but so far it is proving to be as bad – if not worse.

I won’t elaborate yet but suffice it to say that I am struggling to contain my anger as well as the other negative emotions that are vying for position.

The good news is that I have a new framework for controlling them – but boy is it hard sometimes.  I want to focus in particular on anger, arguably the most negative and destructive of these emotions.

I have recently been driving to my hometown of Walsall quite a lot and this has been one of many sources of anger and frustration. The distance between Manchester and Walsall is approximately 75 miles and motorways cover all but about five of those miles. On a good day, in the past, the journey has taken me about an hour and fifteen minutes – which doesn’t seem that bad – does it?

The problem is that the main motorway that joins Manchester and Walsall is the M6, which is the worst motorway in the world – or at least in the north of England (if I’m honest).

When I am driving between the two places, the motorway tries to make it as difficult as possible by pushing every single one of the hot buttons that make me angry when I am behind the wheel of a car.

The ensuing road rage is a sight to behold, particularly if you are watching from a distance. If it were a movie, you would grow fat on all of the popcorn you ate as you watched me devolve into a ranting Neanderthal version of myself.

Let me take you through some of the hot buttons.

First, there are major roadworks for four junctions near to Manchester, resulting in the speed limit being reduced from 70 mph to 50 mph. There are 17 miles of this nonsense. During this tedious distance several things happen. There is no hard shoulder so if a car or lorry breaks down or a car has an accident then the whole motorway grinds to an absolute standstill. The motorway is usually busy anyway so we all end up sitting there immobile for what seems like hours on end. Equally frustrating, cars and lorries overtake each other at approximately 35 mph sometimes slowing everybody down completely.

The M6 on a good day!!!

I have crawled along every single mile of that damned motorway at 10 mph! I know every bloody square inch of that motorway in intimate detail!

Next, the M6 is full of lorries. You have never seen so many lorries on a motorway. Some of these lorries travel at 55mph, which isn’t a bad thing until another lorry, just behind, decides to overtake at 56 mph. When this happens, some car drivers lose their minds and swerve into the fast lane without really looking. Others decide to overtake the overtaking lorry at 57 mph thus blocking the motorway for those of us who are in a hurry and travelling at 70 mph. This behaviour causes instant congestion and, depending on how busy the motorway is, can lead to irritating lengthy tailbacks.

Next, the M6 brings out the dick in many drivers’ heads turning them from normal human beings into complete dickheads. For example, there I was in the fast lane overtaking other cars in the other two lanes when Mr Dickhead came up behind me. I was travelling at around 70 mph and this moron roared up at 90 mph and got so close that I thought his car was trying to mate with mine. In my rear view mirror I could see him bashing his steering wheel in frustration. He started flashing his lights.

So where the fuck was I supposed to go? Next to me in lane two were lorries driving nose to tail. I couldn’t have pulled in if I had tried, at least not without causing a major collision.

Did he think my car was Chitty Chitty Bang Bang and could take off just to let him pass?

And these dickheads always seem to be driving a Mercedes or a BMW or an Audi. Is it a prerequisite of buying such a car that you have to mutate into a total dickhead when you get behind the wheel?

And then there’s the person who was in lane two approaching a junction. I was in the slow lane. Suddenly, he realised that he was going to miss his turn off and, without even looking went to shoot across my lane to escape the insanity of the motorway. Except I was there and this pillock was inches from side-swiping my car and causing a major accident. Thankfully, he realised at the last minute and swerved back, missing his junction and making my heart miss several beats.

And this is just the tip of the iceberg, dear reader. This post could have gone on for days and days but I think I had better rein myself in.

The journey generally takes at least an hour and a half with the record being two and a half hours, which included being stuck in the same place for 45 minutes while the emergency services cleared up an overturned caravan.

I am somehow managing the anger because I have my music (a useful tool for dissipating rage as described in my last post) and when the traffic comes to a standstill I tend to escape into a calmer place with mindfulness techniques.

Also, I can rant on this blog post – that’s a great anger management technique.

Speak English!

Recently I have been struggling with the English language. Certain groups of people have taken it upon themselves to make me look like a fool by speaking a language that sounds like my mother tongue but in fact is far from it.

I have stared at these people, either in the flesh, or on my television set, as they abuse the language I have spoken all my life and, basically, speak meaningless nonsense, masquerading as English, in an attempt to make me look and feel like the dumbest person on the planet.

Don’t get me wrong; these people are using English words and constructing sentences and, strictly speaking, if you analysed their sentences you would find that they were in fact speaking English.

The problem is that their sentences make no sense at all.

They are talking bullshit!

For the past ten years or so, I have been paranoid, thinking that I am devolving and gradually turning into a total cretin. However, thinking about it, I have become aware that the language I speak fluently is being abused by certain groups of people like businessmen, politicians and youngsters who have taken my language and mutated it into a new and sometimes unintelligible load of gobbledygook.

The problem is that other people in the same group actually understand what is being said, so I have often found myself looking blankly at them as if they are speaking Russian. To them, I look like the village idiot and really, what I should be saying is “Speak English! You are making no sense whatsoever.”

I am not the only one. Other clever people have noticed this disturbing trend.

I’ve found myself in meetings and at presentations listening to people who use phrases that make no sense whatsoever.

For example, here is a sample presentation with the thoughts going through my head:

Presenter: Going forward, we have to make sure that we are all on the same page.

PM: Are we supposed to be reading a book?

Presenter: I’m sure you all realise that we have to address the elephant in the room.

PM: How rude! I’m not fat!

Presenter: The helicopter view is that we need to make maximum use of our greatest assets and some of those assets are here today. We need to leverage our potential and grab the low hanging fruit.

PM: What are you saying? Are you asking me to fly into the office in a chopper and pick fruit? I didn’t even know we had any apple trees.

Presenter: Nevertheless, we all need to touch base on this one.

PM: Baseball this afternoon anyone?

Presenter: To maximise our business and climb the strategic staircase, we must look under the bonnet. 

PM: I thought we all worked in retail, not an upstairs garage.

Presenter: And for that reason we need to downsize. We will be looking for some volunteers but from the rest of you, let’s put on a record and see who dances.

PM: Party time.

Presenter: Anyone who wants to discuss this can touch base with me offline.

    LATER

PM: What on earth were you talking about?

Presenter: You fired! Bye!

I’m not saying that such bullshit is spoken in my workplace, but I have noticed an alarming increase in such nonsense.

It’s not just business.  Politicians infuriate me with their bullshit or simply revert to gobbledygook in an attempt to cover their tracks with a string of nonsensical jargon. Either that or they repeat the same drivel ad nauseam. Everybody knows it yet they still do it – and worst of all – they get away with it.

Interviewer: Are you going to admit that you are wrong and that you lied to the House of Commons about the tax increases?

Politician: Let me refer you to my earlier statement. We, as a government, are totally committed to making sure that the working families of the United Kingdom are rewarded.

Interviewer: By paying more taxes?

Politician: The fiscal machinations of the governmental departments are designed, unequivocally and exclusively to promote the advantages of the diligence of our dedicated citizens who reap the rewards of full time employment. 

Interviewer: What does that even mean? You lied to the House, didn’t you? Working families will be much worse off.

Politician: The figures show that our policies have led to the most successful government in years, unlike the last government who were a disaster.

Interviewer: But …

Politician: Will you let me answer the question? My point is that we have increased spending in the NHS by 3% in this term.

Interviewer: What’s that got to do with you lying in the House?

At this point I would love the interviewer to throw down his microphone and slap the politician in the face with a large fish while screaming:

“JUST ANSWER THE PHHHAAAAARRKKKINNGG QUESTION AND STOP TALKING BULLSHIT!!!”

One thing that really annoys me about politicians trying to bamboozle us with inane rhetoric is that they basically think the rest of us are stupid. As they lie to our faces, refuse to answer questions or smile in the most insincere manner possible, they secretly believe that we are stupid enough to buy what they are saying.

Of course, there is the dim possibility that they are sticking to a prewritten script in order to save themselves from being caught out and forced to resign for actually baring their true soul to us.

Finally, we have the youth of today whose “urban” speak is like a foreign language. It comes from rap, I guess, but to me it makes absolutely no sense whatsoever.

Thankfully, here is the very funny Doc Brown to give me a helping hand:

Mind you, I’m a bit of a hypocrite myself. I originally come from Walsall, a town near to Birmingham, in an area known as “The Black Country”, so-called because of the heavy industry there, pumping vast quantities of soot and smog into the atmosphere.

It is the area that gave us Judas Priest and, most famously, Ozzy Osborne and Black Sabbath, as well as Led Zeppelin.

I used to speak in Black Country slang as illustrated by this jolly little video.

Did you understand it?

Goodbye 2015

Don’t the years just fly by? It seems like only yesterday that I was waving goodbye to 2014, and now here I am showing 2015 the door as it heads off into the sunset of the past.

I’m starting to feel old.

Anyway, tradition dictates that I simply must summarise the past year with a meme that I stole some time ago.

This could be a long one – so here goes – dive in with me:

1.What did you do in 2015 that you’d never done before?

I travelled to South America for the very first time, visiting a country that is absolutely huge – Brazil, As part of that trip, I also spent six hours in Argentina too.

2. Did you keep your new year’s resolutions, and will you make more for next year?

2015 was a very good year for achieving some of the things I have procrastinated about for the past few years.

Firstly, I took it upon myself to take up a few 30 day challenges and I completed every single one of them. Here are some of the highlights:

(a) Improve my photography (completed January).There is still a long way to go but I have learned lot of technical stuff.

(b) Creative writing (completed March). All I did was read a book about the subject. I just need to put it into practice.

(c) Learn basic Italian (completed April). I did this because we visited Bologna in May. I learned a few choice phrases and some basic vocabulary, which I have since forgotten.

(d) Japan travelogue (completed August). The travelogue is still incomplete but at least I put a massive dent into this unwritten travel diary for our visit to Japan a couple of years ago. Another 30 day challenge may just complete it.

(e) NaNoWriMo (completed November). I actually wrote over 50,000 words of a novel that I have had in my head for the past couple of years for National Novel Writing Month. And I won. The problem is that the novel will end up being about 80,000 words and is, in its current form, full of major plot holes and is in fact rubbish. However, I hope to have completed it by the end of January, to set about rewriting huge swathes of it later next year. This particular challenge is the best of them all.

I also actually cycled to work one day this year. Can you believe that??? No – neither can I!!

3. Did anyone close to you give birth?

A couple of guys at work became fathers but they didn’t actually give birth themselves.

4. Did anyone close to you die?

No, thankfully.

5. What countries did you visit?

I visited friends in Abu Dhabi in the United Arab Emirates in April.

The Grand Mosque - Abu Dhabi

In May, I went for a weekend away to Bologna in Italy with a group of friends.

View of Bologna from the roof of our hotel

In June, we visited Prague in the Czech Republic to celebrate Mrs PM’s mum’s 70th birthday.

A busy square in Prague

Also in June, I visited Beijing in China for a week with work, where I gave a training course.

Finally, in October, I visited Brazil for the first time and also popped across to Argentina for the day.

A famous statue in Rio de Janeiro

6. What would you like to have in 2016 that you lacked in 2015?

I won several major battles in my war with procrastination this year so I would like a bit more willpower to gain the upper hand.

I think it’s achievable.

7. What dates from 2015 will remain etched upon your memory, and why?

March 22nd sticks in my memory because my beloved football team, Walsall, reached Wembley for the very first time in the Johnson Paint Trophy Final. I travelled to London with Mrs PM and my eldest lad and the atmosphere was fantastic.

The score at this point was 0-0 - so I was happy (briefly).

Sadly, we lost the game 2-0  – but at least I was there.

My eldest lad graduated from university on 10th July.

Like father like son?

Meeting old friends in a night of drunken debauchery in Liverpool on November 14th.

8. What was your biggest achievement of the year?

Without a doubt, writing at least 50,000 words of a novel.

9. What was your biggest failure?

Finding just enough willpower to cycle to work more often (i.e. more than once!)

10. Did you suffer illness or injury?

Nothing whatsoever apart from the odd cold. In fact, I've just recovered from two particularly nasty ones that waited until I had finished work for Christmas before unleashing themselves onto my poor old body!

11. What was the best thing you bought?

I didn’t buy any gadgets this year. I would probably say that the holiday to Brazil was worth every penny.

 12. Whose behaviour merited celebration?

As usual, I award Plastic Mancunian Knighthoods to those heroes who dedicate their lives to helping others without wanting the plaudits that many more famous people crave.

I salute you all - you know who you are.

13. Whose behaviour made you appalled and depressed?

There are too many to mention. But I will.

Kanye West, as usual for declaring himself the biggest rock star on the planet at Glastonbury and then performing like an old has-been (who was never any good anyway).

Katie Hopkins for still being in the news and on TV despite the fact that she is attention-seeking little Miss Nasty.

Sepp Blatter for doing his best to destroy FIFA and football in general and then acting as if he has done nothing wrong. Finally (hopefully) his ban from having anything to do with football will remain. The sad thing is that he still thinks he is innocent.

Donald Trump for starting out as an outrageous clown and then proving that he is a bigoted idiot, I honestly worry about the possibility of this nutcase gaining any form of power.

There is also so much evil in the world but I don’t want to go into that. Nor the hypocritical politicians who continue to use and abuse us all.

 14. Where did most of your money go?

Mrs PM’s had to buy a replacement car after it suddenly died and, as mentioned above, the holiday to Brazil, as well as kids and mortgage.

 15. What did you get really, really, really excited about?

My first trip to South America and Brazil; it didn’t disappoint.

16. What song will always remind you of 2015?

I will discuss this in more depth in a later post in due course. However, this is probably the song that weill remind me of 2015. Steven Wilson is a genius in my view, and his music is sublime and magnificent. Every song on his latest album Hand. Cannot. Erase. is perfect. However, the title track is probably the most accessible and, for once, more of a pop masterpiece than a progressive rock masterpiece.

Judge for yourself:



17. Compared to this time last year, are you: (a) happier or sadder? (b) thinner or fatter? (c) richer or poorer?

Happier, slightly fatter and perhaps a little richer.

18. What do you wish you’d done more of?

I wish I had cycled more. Having dusted down my bike, removed the cobwebs and actually rode the thing to work, I put it back to gather dust again. Whoever thought that having national cycle to work day in September, just as the weather is descending into dark wintry horror, needs to be sacked. If the day had been in the middle of April, I would have taken it up – honestly.

And yes, I will try to cycle in April 2016.

19. What do you wish you’d done less of?

I wish I had gone to work less. Sadly, I have to work to live and sadly that is something I can do nothing about.

20. How will you spend New Year's Eve?

Exactly the same as last year.

21. Did you fall in love in 2015?

I am already in love – so yes.

22. What was your favourite TV program?

Of all the hours I spent watching TV this year, I reckon that my favourite was – and still is – Dr Who. Yes, I am a sad geek.

23. Do you hate anyone now that you didn’t hate this time last year?

Hate is too strong a word but all of the people I disliked last year are still disliked this year.

24. What was the best book you read?

I quite enjoyed Hunter by James Byron Huggins, not a brilliant book by any means but an enjoyable romp.

25. What was your greatest musical discovery?

I will reveal all in a later post.

26. What did you want and get?

I wanted a kick up the arse to force me to write a chunk of a novel. Somebody or something gave me that kick.

27. What did you want and not get?

The power and means to quit my day job.

28. What was your favourite film of this year?

Avengers: Age of Ultron but honourable mentions must go to SPECTRE and Terminator Genisys.

29. What did you do on your birthday, and how old were you?

I am now 53 years old. I spent my birthday exploring Salvador in Brazil.

30. What one thing made your year immeasurably more satisfying?

Sorry to mention it again, but actually attempting to write a novel.

31. How would you describe your personal fashion concept in 2015?

I reduced the length of my sideburns last month. Does that count? Also, I have been lazy for a couple of weeks and I now have a bit of a beard. Sadly, it is irritating and I can't see it lasting until 2016. Bizarrely, Mrs PM approves of it (apparently because beards are fashionable at the moment).

32. What kept you sane?

Mrs PM – apart from when she played her music.

33. Which celebrity/public figure did you fancy the most?

There are a lot of attractive female celebrities but nearly all of them are too young for an old git like me.

34. What political issue stirred you the most?

Lunatic extremists and the ongoing hypocritical antics of the current party in power in the United Kingdom.

35. Who did you miss?

Nobody leaps to mind.

36. Who was the best new person you met?

Again, nobody leaps to mind.

37. Tell us a valuable life lesson you learned in 2015.

Coca Cola is a disgusting sugar-filled sickly drink that doesn’t even taste nice – but it is a great hangover cure.

38. Quote a song lyric that sums up your year.

It's a thousand pages, give or take a few

I'll be writing more in a week or two

I can make it longer if you like the style

I can change it round and I want to be a paperback writer

Paperback writer

Those are the ideal lyrics but the truth is more like my own version:

It’s a thousand pages if I finish it

And if the truth be known, it’s a pile of shit

But I’ve had a go and I’m proud of it

Even though I know that I’ll never be a paperback writer

Paperback Writer

Skool Daze

I was having a chat with a couple of work colleagues the other week about the subjects we all did at school and I started to think more about school days. The picture above is me aged twelve. Just look at that bloody hair!!!

I’ve already mentioned a couple of my exploits as a child at school but I’ve never really written anything about the school itself.

At junior school, I was regarded as quite a clever kid. I was one of the stars of my year and I excelled in everything I did. Ultimately I took an exam called the 11-plus, along with all of my fellow pupils, and I passed easily. At the time I didn’t think anything of it. I certainly didn’t consider the reward for this achievement.

My father had been told that I was good enough to apply to the local grammar school in Walsall. It was a boy’s only school (there was an equivalent girl’s only school) and it was considered a privilege to go there. Most parents wanted their kids to enrol but in order to qualify, they had to pass the 11-plus. Since I had sailed through that exam I was accepted without question. Some of my mates didn’t quite do well enough and one or two had to take a further entrance exam.

Unfortunately, amongst the kids of Walsall, my school was considered a school for toffs or rich kids; we were mocked mercilessly by them. To be fair, most of the kids in my year did come from more privileged backgrounds.

Sadly I didn’t. My father worked in a factory and my mother didn’t work at all. We didn’t even own a car.

And this is where I had a huge problem.

I lived within spitting distance of the local comprehensive school which meant that when I walked to school I had to pass kids from the two comprehensive schools every single day. But it was worse than that, dear reader, because on the way to school I had to pass yet another comprehensive school. The journey to and from school took about half an hour and it wasn’t pleasant.

First of all, I was forced to wear a school cap in my first two years. It was a bizarre school rule to say the least and obviously something that was traditional. Such customs were irrelevant for my eleven year old self; all I thought about was a safe and trouble free journey – I rarely got one.

No other school in the borough of Walsall had a similar stupid rule about caps, meaning that I stood out like sore thumb. It was even worse than that, dear reader, because as far as I know, I was the only kid in the entire first year who lived in my area and consequently I was alone in my journey home. You can imagine what happened.

“Look – it’s a TOFF!” a voice would cry and then before I knew it I would be surrounded by kids from one of the other two schools. My cap was their target.

I had to try to fight them off or run away from them. I wasn’t always successful. That bloody cap was run over by a buses and cars, stuffed into dustbins and hurled around all the time.

I actually stopped wearing it for a while until I was caught by a teacher who just happened to be passing. This cretin stopped his car and screamed my name.

“Where’s your cap?” he said.

“I forgot it,” I replied thinking of the worst excuse possible.

“Detention, lad!” he said before driving off.

I was bloody annoyed I can tell you. The school’s idea was that wearing a cap would show that you were from a great school and that “you should be proud to wear it”. I wasn’t – I hated it.

I’m convinced that this episode was the beginning of the anarchic streak within me. I actually had an argument with the teacher who had stopped.

“You don’t have to walk back through a bunch of kids whose idea of a joke is to steal my cap,” I argued. “That’s why I don’t wear the fracking thing.”

“Don’t argue with me boy and how dare you use language like that!” he snarled. “Every time I see you on your way to or from the school without your cap you will get a detention.”

“That’s not bloody fair,” I cried. “My parents don’t own a car so I can’t get a lift. Everybody else leaves school, gets into a car and I’m willing to bet the cap comes straight off. It’s not fair.”

My arguments fell on deaf ears and the idea of rebelling against these stupid and idiotic rules was born. I became a rebel because of that bloody cap.

I managed to get away with not wearing it most of the time and only got caught a handful of times – each time I got a detention and sometimes I argued myself into yet another one.

Thankfully, when I reached the third year, the cap became optional. I ceremoniously burnt the bloody thing at the bottom of the garden by hurling it onto my dad’s bonfire.

It wasn’t just the cap the got me into trouble on the journey to and from school. One day a week I had trombone lessons and I had to carry the bloody thing for half an hour each way, sometimes with my sports bag and briefcase (yes that’s right – I had a bloody briefcase while other kids had Adidas sports bags or no bags at all).

Sometimes I looked like a pack mule.

The kids from other schools absolutely loved trying to steal my stuff. Thankfully, I used the trombone case and whatever else I was carrying as a weapon and swung them around hoping to make contact. It was sometimes like running the gauntlet, I can tell you.

The other problem I had was my background. My father was fiercely proud that his son had managed to get a place in the best school in Walsall because, at the time, it was considered quite an achievement. He worked in a factory in Darlaston and I was one of the only kids in my year whose dad wasn’t a businessman or some similar profession.

Consequently I ended up on the receiving end of a lot of abuse from certain arseholes in my year. Some of the posh kids considered me to be a pauper and called me names like “El Cheapo”. I gave it back, I can tell you, but it hurt my feelings, especially because my parents were so proud of me.

In the end I developed a thick skin and tolerated it, occasionally lashing out when the abuse got too much (as I did here). And because I regarded some of the school rules as totally stupid, I also gained a reputation for being an impudent child, arguing with teachers, taking the piss out of teachers and even calling them names to their faces while questioning their intelligence.

In summary, dear reader, I don’t really look back at my schooldays with too much affection at all.

I liked some of the teachers (they weren’t all arses) and I liked a lot of the kids; my problem was that those I didn’t like made it quite difficult sometimes and turned me into the rebellious arsehole I am today.

I simply do not believe that stupid rules have to be obeyed just because they are there.

Nevertheless, ultimately, I have to be grateful because the school made sure that the kids were driven and pushed academically. Without that grammar school I would never have gone to university and I wouldn’t be where I am today.

And I thank the school and the teachers for that – even though the buggers made me wear a bloody cap.

Painting the Town Extremely Red

My last post touched briefly on my exploits when out in Manchester with friends applying red paint liberally to the city centre.

And it got me thinking about how much this has changed over the years.

I thought I would present for your fun and enjoyment, dear reader, an account of the first time I had a tussle with alcohol while attempting to paint the town red.

If you are squeamish, stop reading now.

For the rest of you ...

My tussle with alcohol was hardly a fair fight - I lost!

Spectacularly.

Let this be a lesson to you if you are young and foolish as I was then.

Back in 1980 I was an eighteen year old spotty kid with long, bushy and unmanageable hair who was discovering for the first time that it was possible to venture out and, with the aid of alcohol, have a wonderful night of laughter and drunken debauchery.

I had sampled the delights of alcohol briefly and at that age I really didn’t like beer at all.

Despite this, I succumbed to peer pressure and along came that fateful day when I first got really, really drunk.

At the time, I was in my second year in the sixth form at school, preparing for university but my best mate at the time had left a year or so earlier and joined a building company.

To protect his identity I shall simply call him S.

Unfortunately for S, his job only lasted a year before he was made redundant with a few other mates, some of whom were in their early twenties. They decided to drown their sorrows with a pub crawl around Walsall town centre and I was invited along.

I had only ever had a couple of beers and I reasoned, foolishly in hindsight, that drinking was easy and it would be fun.

We started at 7 o’clock and aimed to move around the numerous pubs drinking half a pint in each. Because I hated beer, one of the lads suggested I try lager and lime. It was quite pleasant and I thought that this would become my drink of choice.

We visited pub after pub and the more I drank the happier I became. I started chatting to complete strangers as my inhibitions were washed away in a tsunami of alcohol. I even recall kissing a girl at one stage to raucous cheers from the lads I was with.

I loved it and the fuzzy haze that was beginning to descend made me feel even better.

I was brave.

I was adorable.

I was loved by everybody.

I could conquer the world.

I was absolutely totally and utterly rat-arsed.

As you can imagine the inevitable happened. I recalled being in a certain pub at a certain time and then my mind went blank. It was as if God himself had erased part of my mind. One minute I was in a pub, the next I was in Hell.

I thought I was dying.

With the help of S, my irate mother and my irritated father, I was able to piece together the events of the previous evening.

S and I had walked home and at some point I had fallen over in a pile of mud – the evidence was there in front of me. My jeans were caked in filth and my shirt that had started the evening light blue had become a dirty brown.

I had arrived home and walked into the house where apparently I had said “Hi Mum, I’m off to bed.” Except it hadn’t translated that way – it came out as a drunken vocal splurge and my mum chose that moment to severely bollock me, an act that proved to be a catalyst to the inevitable consequence of drinking far too much.

My next words were “I feel sick!”

She understood that sentence and as I collapsed onto the floor she found a bucket and put my head in it – not one second too soon.

Ten minutes of puking later, my dad arrived home and saw my mum emptying the contents of the bucket down the toilet and cursing me with all of her venomous might.

My dad then made a fatal mistake. He uttered the words that would haunt him for the next 24 hours.

He said “That’s my boy,” and laughed as he carried me to bed.

My mum exploded in rage and had so much to distribute that she shared it equally between my father and me.

She was livid and sleep didn’t subdue the erupting volcano within her.

Next day she screamed at me from the moment I opened my eyes.

My head was pounding so much that I thought it was going to explode. I spent the entire morning retching over the toilet.

The phrase “Calling God on the great white telephone” had never been more apt.

My stomach was empty, yet I continued to puke air – this was a new and hellish experience for me and my stomach was in agony. My throat burned with fury and my headache was so bad that I thought my brain was trying to break out of my skull.

To make matters far worse, my mum continued to vent her spleen. There is nothing worse than being screamed at by an irate woman when you have hangover so evil that Satan himself would shy away from it.

I wasn’t the only target of her wrath. My poor innocent father was verbally ripped apart for laughing and uttering his ill-chosen words. He was a laid back guy but even he started shouting at me as he buckled under the onslaught.

“Look what you’ve done. You come home pissed and it’s ME who has to suffer.”

“But Dad – I’m dying here – and she’s screaming at me too.”

“I have NO sympathy!”

I stayed in bed being plied with water by my angry mum for the rest of the day and only surfaced in the evening. Thankfully, by this stage my mum had decided that she wasn’t going to speak to me any more (which was a major bonus).

My dad glared at me – because she hadn’t stopped haranguing him.

“It’s YOUR fault,” she hissed. “If you didn’t drink then he wouldn’t be copying you.”

I sat in silence, nursing a pint of water and struggling to eat some toast.

If you think my tale of woe is bad, you should hear what happened to S. Actually, allow me to tell you. His story is far worse than mine.

I heard about his exploits from his younger brother who laughed so much that he nearly had an accident.

S had arrived home, giggling like a baby. Unlike me, he had vague recollection of what had happened on the way home. We had decided in our drunken wisdom to take a short cut across a building site that was so far away from the street that it was absolutely pitch black.

I had been barely able to stand up let alone walk and soon the inevitable happened; I fell into a filthy and very muddy puddle.

The scary thing is that I honestly do not remember this at all.

When S arrived home, still laughing at my expense, his parents were alerted by what they thought was a maniac. They were convinced that a hellhound had arrived on their doorstep and was trying to break down the door. S could not manage to get his key in the door. His dad opened the door and S collapsed inside the house still laughing while trying to tell his parents about my fall. His words made no sense and eventually his irate father carried him upstairs and put him into bed where he fell asleep.

Mother Nature decided that she had to be cruel to be kind and the inevitable tsunami of vomit announced to S that he needed to get to his own great white telephone in the bathroom as quickly as possible. Sadly, he only made it as far as the window, which he somehow managed to open before chundering into the back garden all over his mother’s prized flower beds.

To make matters worse, he then decided to go to the toilet to relieve himself and somehow managed to stumble into his brother’s bedroom where he chose to urinate all over the floor.

His brother woke up and screamed “WHAT ARE YOU DOING?”, waking up his parents in the process. They rushed into the room, switched the light on and saw S standing in a puddle of urine with vomit dribbling down his chin and still holding his todger.

Needless to say, I didn’t see S for two days; neither of us felt well enough to hang out.

I very nearly became tee-total after that. I went to the pub with S and other mates a week or two late and they howled with laughter as they heard our stories.

I drank coke for six months before I plucked up the courage to try lager and lime once more.

I have been drunk since then (obviously) but that first time sticks in my memory because it was so painful.

I have learned my lesson, albeit slowly but have never since been in a situation where I cannot remember getting home. There have always been flashes of memory and the beer scooter has always been there for me.

I often wonder what would have happened had I become teetotal. I have encountered many people who don’t drink because of incidents with alcohol and based on that first experience I can’t say that I blame them.

Common sense now prevails and apart from a few lapses in judgement I tend not to go overboard any more.

Besides, at my age, even the mildest hangovers last for days and it takes a relatively small quantity to spark one into existence.

Added to that I simply cannot take the pain any more.

What a sorry old git I am.

The Happy Award

I’ve received another award (the first for a while) and this one also comes from across the great pond that separates Great Britain and the United States.

It is the happy award and I’d like to thank a Lady from Delaware called Lynette, who happens to be the girlfriend of a mate of mine called Mark.

Apparently there are “suggestions” – here they are:

1. Link the blogger who gave you the award on your post...

2. Write 10 things that make you happy...

3. Share it with at least 10 friends...Have fun!

I am not one for following rules or suggestions because I am a closet anarchist. However, I will link to the blogger who gave me this prestigious award. You can find her here at an intriguingly titled blog called A Blog In The Rough. I have actually met Lynette when she popped over to see Mark (I think she still has nightmares about it – I am kidding of course – or am I?).

Moving on, I need to write ten things that make me happy. Here they are (in no particular order):

(1) Rock music – I have said this before and I shall say it again, you simply cannot beat a fabulously loud blast of rock music or heavy metal to grab hold of your stress, slap it about the face and send it on its way with a kick up the backside. When I am driving home from work, I tend to turn up the volume and sing along to all manner of metal mayhem. Currently top of the pile are Dream Theater, an American progressive rock band. METAL!!!!!

(2) Mrs PM – I’m sure my beloved will read this and say “Why aren’t I number one?” And my answer is, of course, that she is number one. As I said, this list is in no particular order. Nothing makes me happier than seeing my beautiful lady smiling when I return home after a traumatic day. She is my world and she puts up with my weirdness, despite the fact that I am an annoying, opinionated, grumpy old git with mad hair, a bizarre sense of humour and a tendency to rant at the drop of a hat. I salute you my sweet and I love you.

(3) My two lads – I got divorced ten or so years ago but the one brilliant thing that came from that are my two boys. The eldest is 17 in June and the youngest is 14 in a couple of weeks time. Mrs PM calls them “the clones” because they are like smaller versions of me (though they have almost caught up in height). They are both great kids and, thankfully, aren’t as weird or as childish as I am (they think I am embarrassing – read about it here) – so I have high hopes for them.

(4) Football (or to any Americans reading – “soccer”) – There is no sport in the world better than football. I know people may think it strange that I love the game, given that I support a team in the third tier of the English League but I simply can’t help it. My team, Walsall, possessed my soul at a very early age and, as crap as they can be I am elated when they win. I am not one of these people who jump on the nearest bandwagon and support the team at the top of the Premiership – I regard myself as a “true” fan – a man who supports his team through thick and thin. That said, I love to watch the Premiership and enjoy a good game, no matter who is playing. Of course, the World Cup is coming in June and I am really looking forward to it. COME ON ENGLAND!!!

(5) Beer – As I get older, my capacity for drinking fine ales has diminished significantly. If I overdo it I suffer big time. While I don’t drink as much as I used to, I still love a beer a two particularly at the weekend – and related to that …
(6) Pubs – There is nothing finer than visiting a local hostelry to enjoy a pint or two of fine ale while indulging in a bout of reckless banter with your mates. Equally enjoyable is a nice cosy twosome with Mrs PM, me with my pint of ale and Mrs PM with her glass of dry white wine. Lovely!

(7) Rock concerts – You are never too old to go to a rock concert. Living in Manchester is fabulous because most of my favourite bands visit the city. Only last week, I was present at a pyrotechnic feast of crazy industrial rock – all sung in German. Yes – Rammstein were in town and did their best to set fire to the Manchester Evening News Arena.

(8) Travelling – I am a huge fan of travelling and, the journey there aside, I am delighted to visit foreign countries. My job gives me that opportunity sometimes and even when I have to work I do my best to find some time to see the place and immerse myself in the culture. I have three trips planned this year: a holiday to the west coast of America and Canada in May, a weekend break to Iceland to celebrate Mrs PM’s 40th birthday August and an autumn break to Majorca with friends. I can’t wait.

(9) Writing – Incredibly and much to the surprise of friends, I actually enjoy sitting at a computer to write down the weird drivel that cascades through my brain, some of which makes it onto this blog. When I am angry, I can dissipate the negativity by ranting about it in cyberspace. So, sadly, writing this very blog post (and others like it) makes me very happy.

(10) Tranquillity – Picture the scene; England’s rolling countryside in summer, with green grass, a blue sky sparsely populated with fluffy white clouds, the distant sound of sheep bleating and cows mooing, the songs of many different birds serenading us, and Mrs PM and I strolling along with very few people around and a camera to record the scenes for posterity. It is so tranquil and peaceful and is the best way to unwind and embrace happiness.

There are other things that make me happy but those are the ten that immediately leap to mind. I may share a few more in future.

I am supposed to pass on the award to ten other bloggers but this is the point at which the anarchist in me surfaces and says “No!”

I invite any regular readers to list ten things that make them happy and if you wish, please let me know – I will be interested.

Finally, thanks again to Lynette for the award and allowing me to bare yet more parts of my peculiar soul.

Yow Cor Spake Propa

Do you understand the title of this post?

No, I thought not. However it makes perfect sense to me and (I hope) it makes perfect sense to people from Walsall, Wolverhampton and Dudley. Note that I didn’t mention Birmingham!!!

Allow me to translate: it means “You can’t speak properly”.

If you say the title as it is spelt you will be speaking with a “Black Country” accent. The dialect is spoken in the towns mentioned above, a region of England known as “The Black Country”, an area just north and west of Birmingham (that does NOT include Birmingham), so called because the area is (or was) a centre for heavy industry, raising a level of pollution that covered the area in black soot.

I was born there, in the town of Walsall (pronounced in the accent as “Worsull”).

The Black Country accent does have similarities with Birmingham accent but to people from that area there is a significant difference. Outside the West Midlands, people claim that the two accents are the same, something that particularly irks those from the area. Worse, the Black Country accent is universally regarded by the rest of England as the worst accent in England.
Personally I think this is totally incorrect.

I left Walsall when I was almost nineteen and moved to Liverpool where I studied at university for three years. I was young, foolish and naïve. People would walk up to me and say “Which part of Birmingham are you from?” and I would say, “How do you know where I’m from?”

I had a huge problem communicating with Liverpool people because we simply couldn’t understand each other. Bear in mind that Liverpool is about 90 miles from Walsall. After Liverpool, I moved to Manchester, where I’ve been ever since. My Black Country accent has dissipated and now I speak with a strange “Northern” accent. However, my original accent does resurface when I am drunk or angry (so I’ve been told).

Back to the point of the post: I intend to give you all a little present – the ability to speak with a Black Country accent. Don’t thank me – it’s the least I can do. I love to see people improve their lives and the ability to speak in this wonderful dialect is a gift that simply cannot be refused. I particularly want American, Australian and Canadian readers to have a go.

Let’s start with a greeting. Say the following:

“Orroit cocka”

See – that wasn’t too bad was it? That means “Hello mate” (translated literally as “Alright Cocker” – “Cocker” being a term of endearment. In Walsall, if somebody calls you “cocker” then they like you.).

Next, try this

“Tararabit”

Easy – eh? That is roughly translated as “Bye – see you soon”

I think you’re getting the hang of this, so here are a few other words and phrases that you can throw into casual conversation with the English word next to it:

“Yow” – you

“Yow bay” – you are not

“Wesh” – wash

“Yowm riffy” – You’re dirty

“Yowm kaylied” – You are drunk

“The cut” – The canal

“Where’s the suck?” – Where are the sweets? (or for Americans – Where is the candy?)

“Kissa” – Face

“Orroit me old mucker” – Hello, old friend

“Ov node im fer ayjis” – I’ve known him for ages.

“Olgu fust” – I’ll go first.

“Tayters” – Potatoes

“Oy woh” – I will not

“Waggin” – Playing truant

“Yown gerrin on me wick” – You are getting on my nerves

“Is jed” – He is dead

“Om guwin um” – I’m going home

“Where’s me clobber?” – Where are my clothes?

“Stop blartin yow babby” – Stop crying, you baby

“It’s bost” – It’s broken

“A poy ana point” – A pie and a pint

“Oss” – Horse

“Gimme an opple” – Give me an apple

“Oy loike yow” – I like you

“Yower” - Your

So now hopefully you can at least do a passable imitation of a Black Country accent. And if you think it sounds daft or stupid, just think – I used to talk like that all the time.

Finally, here is a demonstration:

Come On You Saddlers

It’s that time of the year again.

Tomorrow at approximately 4.50pm I shall either be sizzling with satisfaction, fiercely frustrated or dangerously depressed. Yes, that’s right - the football season starts again. And I’m talking about the real football season here, not the pseudo-rugby that Americans call football, nor the pompous, over-rated gluttony that is the English Premiership.

My attention will be focussed completely on a small Somerset town where my beloved team, the mighty Saddlers (aka Walsall), will be in combat with Yeovil Town at Huish Park. I will not be there, much to my chagrin, mainly because I live so far away, but also because Mrs PM would reject me with maximum prejudice were I to spend my weekends away from her, screaming with a tribe of like minded Saddlers, as our mighty team do battle on the field of play.

I’ve waited for this all summer. When the football season ends in May, a little piece of my soul is stolen. In England we are meant to enjoy the beautiful weather and relax; the only problem is that the beautiful weather never arrives and most of the time we stare out of the window as the storm clouds expel an ocean of water onto our cities. I would argue that summertime in England is the ideal time to play football, and would gladly back any argument to play the beautiful game every single week of the year. Of course this is not possible and players deserve a rest, so begrudgingly I don’t complain (too much anyway).

During the void that is summer, I have to content myself scrutinizing the internet searching for news on new players. Will we sign a new striker or midfield dynamo? How about a stalwart defender who will let no opposing striker run rampant in our area? What about the safest goalkeeper in the league?

I was disappointed last season because after a lot of promise and a massive unbeaten run, Walsall floundered and ended up finishing in a tedious style in mid table. We also lost the manager, Richard Money (or “Dicky Dosh” as the fans christened him). I was distraught. I regarded him as our best manager for years and he simply walked out. I don’t want to dwell on the reasons why but my frustration was almost unbearable. Many Walsall fans share my irritation (some more than others) and voice their opinions on different platforms. I prefer not to do that. I am not as vociferous as most.

However, now the new manager, Jimmy Mullen, has acquired several decent new recruits and I feel frighteningly confident. I am desperately resisting the inexorable urge to be over-optimistic but it is a massive struggle. My heart tells me that we shall romp through the season winning every game. My head shoots that line of reasoning down in flames, reminding me that there are some very good teams out there who will potentially destroy us. Leeds United will be formidable as will Leicester City. I hope I’m wrong but common sense tells me otherwise.

Of course every fan of every other League One team will be imbued with exactly the same amount of confidence as I am, even though in some cases that confidence will be undeserved.

Me, I will choose to succumb to the excitement in the hope that my club and the players will not let me down.

At 4:50 on Saturday I may be drinking a beer to toast the heroic Saddlers or to drown my sorrows. I pray that fate shines a light on the away team at Huish Park tomorrow and we demolish Yeovil Town.

Come on Walsall – make my day!

Up The Saddlers

Walsall - Redressing The Balance

In 2001, I came across an article written by a man called Theodore Dalrymple (well that’s his pen name anyway) describing my place of birth, Walsall in the West Midlands, as possibly the ugliest town in the world, “like Ceaucescu’s Romania with fast food outlets”. I was extremely angered at this, not just because I come from there, but also because I still have relatives there.

Walsall may not be the most salubrious place in England, but there are worse places, if not in the United Kingdom as a whole, then certainly outside our beloved island.

When I read the article, a scarlet mist descended and I found myself interrogating Mr Google, my favourite internet knowledge base, and came across something even worse. Another person, this time a resident of Walsall, had actually gone to great lengths to highlight how hideous he thought the town was by creating a web site called uglywalsall.com, full of hideously grotesque pictures of the worst aspects of the town. My blood boiled and in a fit of pique I added a comment to his website, excerpts of which appear below:

When I first heard about Theodore Dalrymple’s article about Walsall I was shocked and incensed. His comments about the town were cruel, upsetting and inaccurate. To liken Walsall and the Black Country to Ceaucescu’s Romania is at best insulting and at worst downright vindictive. Although I no longer live in Walsall I was angry enough to seek out Mr Dalrymple via the web so that I could protest about his article. My investigations led me to your “Ugly Walsall” website, which, frankly, took my breath away. For a resident of the town to dedicate an entire website to bringing the world’s attention to “Ugly Walsall” is unbelievable and I ask myself whether Mr Dalrymple may have chanced upon the site searching for inspiration to write his article. Perhaps; perhaps not.

Obviously you feel that you should bring the worst things about the town to the attention of people surfing cyberspace, but if you really cared about the town and its people, I would have expected you to at least balance the bad with the good. Your site, by name alone, gives the casual visitor a completely negative impression of the town. Wouldn’t it be more constructive to have a site dedicated to the town but show its good points as well as the bad? If I were thinking of relocating to Walsall and came across your site, I would think again. Perhaps that’s what you want. I’m sure if you walked around the more pleasant areas that you could fill a web site full of pictures of “beautiful Walsall” despite your denials that such areas exist.
Walsall may have its problems but no more than many other towns and cities in England. Graffiti-covered buildings, littered streets and boarded up shops can be seen in many towns across the UK. It is unfair to focus on Walsall and its people.

Now the author of the web site felt compelled to publish my remarks, which surprised me to be honest. He regarded my comment as “constructive” simply because I had made positive suggestions. To me it was obvious that there are nice areas in Walsall – I’ve seen them; I know. Thankfully, the web site vanished along with its creator who managed to get a writing job based on the strength of his web site. He maintained it for a little while after his departure just giving me the opportunity to add one final comment wishing him luck in his new venture, though I added a sting in the tail, mentioning that I hoped his views of Walsall would be consigned to that compost heap in cyberspace.

In the interim years, I’ve noticed with interest that Walsall has been trying to shake the image created by one-sided articles and web sites such as I’ve described and I regard that as a good thing. There are areas in the town that have failed to shine and still live as a sickening reminder of the town’s industrial history. However I am pleased to say that something is being done about it.

http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/uknews/1499489/Walsall-wants-to-shake-off-its-fat-and-ugly-image.html

I appreciate it will be a slow process but something is happening.

So why, after all of these years am I mentioning it again now?

Well I was browsing blogs to see if there was anything interesting about Walsall when I came across something from a young lady who also still has relatives there, who reignited the irritation I felt when I first heard the name Theodore Dalrymple. In fact, she did worse than that – she actually put a link to the story on the BBC, thus enabling the casual viewer to read about this so-called hellish town just north of Birmingham. Did she give a balanced viewpoint? Nope! She was scathing describing it as “a complete hole”, saying “it’s grim in Walsall” and saying that it “evokes images of The Waste Land; it is just an ugly, charmless town with nothing much going for it”.

Upon reading this, I felt the old red mist rising again and was compelled to leave a comment, only to discover that she had restricted comments to, presumably, those who know her.

I believe that the lady in question has a right to her opinion, just as I have to mine. But what particularly annoyed me about this was the fact that she doesn’t want to take responsibility for what she writes and allow people, like me, to comment on it. Had I been able to do so, I would have eloquently suggested that perhaps she should be a little more balanced in her view and perhaps read about how Walsall is trying to change its image. After all, she was happy to dig up Theodore Dalrymple’s awful view of the town and point the residents of cyberspace to that alone.

C’est la vie. I’m just irked by this again. And what’s more I am happy to accept comments on this article. I’m sure that there are people out there who are adamant about their negative views of the town despite the efforts involved to make the town a better place.

By the way, to redress the balance a little more, just follow the link below:

Enjoy.

http://www.walsall-regeneration.co.uk/

The Mighty Saddlers

It’s not easy being a football fan.

It’s even harder supporting a team whose threshold of success is firmly capped at mid-table in the Championship, or as I like to call it the old Division 2.

I support Walsall, a team that in recent years has yo-yoed between Divisions 2 and 4 suffering seasons of brave torment in the upper echelons, where victories are sparse and defeats are expected against so called “big” teams like West Brom and Wolves, and seasons of glory in the basement division beating teams like the mighty Accrington Stanley and Macclesfield Town.

My father took me to see the mighty Saddlers as a child. I barely recall the game; I only know that we won and I was totally hooked. I begged my dad to take me to every home game and occasionally he obliged. I became part of the tribe, utterly devoted to the cause. There was a blank piece of my mind waiting to have a football team etched on there permanently, like some kind of bizarre mental tattoo, and that team was Walsall.

There have been times when I have been proud and delighted to stand on the terraces and scream with the crowd as one as our beloved team destroy the opposition. But there have been other times when we have all been cast into the pits of despair as a team like Exeter City score their third goal.

These days, living in Manchester, I rarely get to see them play at home and have to suffer the infamous “away days” at places like Rochdale, Bury and Oldham. I am surrounded by people who support Manchester United and I hear the red side of the city complaining when United suffer a rare defeat. They don’t blame the players, or fate; they blame the referee. Their team has a divine right to win every game and every trophy the play for. They cannot understand why I have chosen to support a team like Walsall.

But let’s get things into perspective here. A club like Manchester United won a colossal amount of trophies; 15 top division championships, 2 second division championships, 11 F.A. Cups, 1 League Cup and 2 European Cups. Liverpool have an even better record. And what about Walsall? Two division 4 championships – and a play off.

I dare say that there are a large number of Manchester United, Liverpool and Arsenal fans who are season ticket holders and have the logo etched on their brains. Sadly, the remainder have leaped onto a bandwagon, supporting a team just because of their success. That would never happen to Walsall.

Despite Walsall’s failings, I will continue to support them through thick and thin. I will sit in the driving freezing rain at Oldham’s Boundary Park and cheer on the lads in the vain hope that they pull off a shock away win. I will even occasionally travel down to Walsall and watch them, hopefully, brutally destroy the opponents with assurance and no compassion.

Watch out for Walsall’s results. When they win, you will know that this particular Mancunian is delighted. Don’t even consider the alternative.