Special Hair Service

So there I was, sitting in one of my least favourite places in the world, staring at an amorphous blob in the mirror.

The place was my barber shop and the reason that I was staring at a pale blurred alien-type creature was that it was the time when I had to get my hair cut.

I hate having my hair cut – worse I hate my hair full stop (regular readers will know this).

One of the reasons my hair gets into the sorry state it was in on this particular occasion is that I delay and delay having it cut until I can’t bear my hair any longer and having it removed is better than it taking over my entire head.

Even when my hair is short, it is unmanageable. It is like a wild sentient mop of curly spaghetti that refuses all attempts to get it to behave itself.

When I get up in the morning, I dread looking in the mirror because I wonder what shape it has assumed overnight. A lot of the time, Mrs PM will just smile and say:

“Look at your hair.” 

She will chuckle because that is usually my cue to start a humorous rant about how awful it is. She will watch as I try to tame it with a brush before going into the shower to get the big boys on the job (shampoo and water).

However, there have been occasions when I have been in such a hurry that I have showered, towel dried my hair, got dressed and left the house without having brought it under control.

I arrive at my destination (usually work) and wonder why people are sniggering at me.

 “Is that a wig, Dave, or have you picked up an alien on the way to work?”

Worse, I then have to go to the bathroom and try to tame the mess on my head with a little water and my fingers and usually I end up making it ten times worse – and this is even when it is bloody short!

You would think that I would be used to it after 56 years of pain – but no! I’m not. Every day is a challenge – every day my hair finds new ways to hurt and surprise me by mutating into something inhuman and horrific.

I can sense your next question, dear reader.

“Why don’t you just shave it off?”

Believe me I have considered it. The problem is that some people actually like it. These strange people are members of the opposite sex who on occasion have actually said things like:

“Your hair is lovely and thick!””

“I wish I had hair like yours!”

Mrs PM will not allow me to have it short – she prefers it as it is (for some crazy reason).

So why do I hate having my hair cut when in reality it makes my unmanageable mop more controllable?

Several reasons:

(1) I hate waiting for anything. My local barber does a pretty good job and I feel loyal to them but if I time it badly, I end up having to wait behind quite a few people. The magazines available are all men’s magazines full of cars, weight-lifters, pictures of semi-naked women or all three so I have to read my phone.

(2) While waiting, I have to check every bugger who comes in. If the place is really busy I have to make sure that none of them queue jump when one of the hairdressers says “Who’s next?”. So I can’t really concentrate on my phone at all.

(3) When I finally sit down I am throttled by the gown they make me wear. I see pictures of handsome men with magnificent hair and super trendy hairstyles and I know if I asked for one of those I would look nothing like them – just a stupid old git with a mad haircut. So I ask for my usual style – which is a bit dull but it works.

(4) When I am asked what I want, I have to take my glasses off – hence staring at an amorphous blob in the mirror. I can’t see myself at all – in fact I am so paranoid that I am not 100% convinced that the person I am staring at is actually me or somebody in the building next door peering at me.

(5) I can’t see what they are doing with my hair. I have asked for my usual style and then he or she has set to work lopping off my locks. First my hair is so unmanageable that it has to be drenched with water which, despite their best efforts always ends up in my face or running down my neck. Even if the barber were to shave all of my hair off, I would have no clue. If I ended up with a weird Mohican I would be oblivious.

(6) I have to have an inane conversation about holidays, work, football or all three. That’s not so bad but when I talk to somebody I like to look at them and without my glasses the barber is just another amorphous blob wandering around me. I can’t even tell whether the barber actually has eyes.

(7) When he or she has finished, I will be asked what I think and no matter how bad it looks I will invariably say “Perfect!”. To be fair, they usually do a grand job but I am still haunted by the memory of the mad woman who cut off my mullet in the 1980’s – I still have nightmares about it.

At least when my hair has been cut I have a couple of weeks when I can jump out of bed and mock my hair telling it to do its worst.

That’s right, dear reader – I talk to my hair.

My next visit to the barber will be in a couple of weeks when I have to queue up with everybody else wanting a wonderful style for Christmas.

It’s either that, or spend the weeks leading up to Christmas and New Year doing battle with my mop armed only with wax and a lot of patience.

What a choice!

I really hate my hair!

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.

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?

Room 101 (Part Two)

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

You can read it here.

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

And good riddance!

Monday Mornings

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

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

Antony Worrall Thompson

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

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

It beats me.

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

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

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

Immigration and Customs Officers

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

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

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

“Let me see your return ticket!” 

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

“Where will you be staying?”

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

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

“Where have you been?”

“What did you buy?”

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

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

Boy Bands

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

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

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

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

Diving Footballers

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

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

The Turner Prize

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

Past winners have included:

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

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

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

Lady In Red

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

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



Thick British Tourists

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Obnoxious Parisians

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

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

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

Obnoxious Parisian: Non!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My Hair.

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

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

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

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

It’s not. And here are some examples:

Shocking hair aged one.

Shocking hair aged 12

Can you spot the bad haired boy in this picture?

Shocking hair aged 17

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

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

I have thousands of things destined for Room 101.

I hope Room 101 can cope.

Signs Of Age

I am aware that I am not getting any younger and I realise that I can’t do anything about Father Time’s obsession with transforming me into a shrivelled old prune.

I know that many people cannot accept their fate and the inevitable consequences of living for decades. Some people go to extraordinary lengths to do battle with the inexorable slide into old age and look even more ridiculous as a result.

I have chosen to embrace the mutation into a withered old wreck. After all, I can’t fight it – why bother?

Many people say that I look young for my age and while that is true, the signs are there for all to see (if you are brave enough to get close enough to me that is).

Let’s look at the evidence.

Baggy Face: My face is beginning to droop like a sack of sludge with a couple of holes. I have compared my face with that of a younger more vibrant version of myself and it is quite shocking to see the difference. My cheeks look like I have stuffed cotton wool into them and I somehow seem to have acquired more skin. I would say that my skin is growing but I know that isn’t true. If I didn’t know any better, I would say that my face is slowly melting. I am beginning to look like John McCain with a wig:

Grey Hair: My lovely blond locks have darkened to a dirty brown and the pigment is marching towards boring old grey. I could persuade it to reverse I suppose by applying liberal amounts of a product like “Just For Men” that is supposed to turn an old fart into a dark haired Adonis (but in reality makes them look ridiculous). I will let my hair change colour and, I guess, ultimately I will look like a grey owl:


Actually that may not be the case: people with blond hair tend to turn white. So maybe I will end up looking like a white owl:



Moobs: I can’t deny it - I have small moobs (or moobies if you prefer). Purely in the name of research, I have just, stupidly been cupping them in my hands as Mrs PM walked in and now I feel like a right berk!

“What the hell are you doing?” she has just asked.

“Research for a blog post!”

Now Mrs PM thinks I am even more of a weirdo and I have some explaining to do (“Read the post” doesn’t seem to have worked).

Thankfully my moobs really are tiny and only visible if I am stupid enough to wear a tight T-Shirt. But they are there, dear reader. I can see them and soon they will announce themselves to the world despite my attempts to hide them. I will have to start investing in baggy T shirts.

Double chin: Under a certain light I can see that I have a fledgling second chin. I can’t possibly see the use for an extra chin and I imagine if it gets any bigger it will make shaving a right pain in the arse. I fear that unless I deflate it somehow it might become the first of many. My chin is spawning, dear reader!

Hair sprouting everywhere: Regular readers will know that I have a problem with my hair. It is an unmanageable mess at the best of times. Now, the rest of my body has decided to join in, thrusting hair out of all sorts of weird orifices.

Why on earth would I want monster clumps of hair hanging out of my nose?

What possible purpose can they achieve?

Worse, when I go to get my hair cut, the poor woman who battles my monstrous locks now has to shave my ears.

MY EARS for Pete's sake.

Why at the age of forty does Mother Nature decide to cover my ears with hair? I’m turning into a yeti:


Eyesight: I’ve always been as blind as a bat and now my eyes have decided to kick me in the teeth by making me long-sighted as well as short-sighted. I have to wear varifocals now which means that I have to peer through the bottom of the lenses when reading. Why would Mother Nature do that to me? It’s bad enough having to wear glasses since the age of eight without them suddenly becoming useless at the age of forty five.

Mother Nature certainly has a sick sense of humour.

Wrinkles: My fair complexion is fine and from a distance my face looks as smooth as a baby’s backside. Get closer and you begin to see the flaws. Crevices, fissures and ravines are beginning to appear. And they are getting worse. Mrs PM keeps telling me to stop frowning because my forehead has deepening cracks. It could be worse but I know that it won’t get any better. If my hair decides to throw in the towel I could end up looking like one giant wrinkle.

It is inevitable that I will probably end up looking like this any one of these three guys:

As I said, I’m not Benjamin Button and neither is anybody else, so why would growing old worry anybody? I don't like it but it is inevitable, dear reader. I will live with it and get some blogging mileage out of it too.

I know that I am not suddenly going to become a heart throb with features so handsome that women swoon when they see me - in fact, women have NEVER swooned over me so why would growing old be any different?

Mind you, I guess it is possible that older women might find me attractive, simply because they will be as blind as I am.

Besides, who would want to become younger? Crikey – we would have to go through puberty again and the thought of that makes me cringe – it was bad enough the first time.

And yes, dear reader, I HAVE gone through puberty (despite what you may think).

Dear Simon Cowell ...

Dear Simon,

I was stumbling and bumbling through the world wide interweb when I came across an interesting couple of facts about you.

Before I go into those facts, let me assure you that I am not a crank and my intentions are honourable. I didn’t put “Simon Cowell” into Google hoping to find all sorts of sordid facts about you. Let me make that clear right from the start.

In fact, the truth is a bit sad really. I was devoid of ideas when it came to writing my next blog post and I decided to look for famous Librans – and your name popped up. That’s how desperate I was.

At first, I wondered who you were – so I asked my dear lady, Mrs PM.

“Who is Simon Cowell?” I asked.

“You know when you run screaming from the room on a Saturday night,” she replied. “He’s the reason.”

“Not X Factor,” I cried.

“X Factor, Pop Idol, Britain’s Got Talent, America’s Got Talent – they’re his shows.”

At first, I wanted to hunt you down and subject you to, arguably, my biggest ever rant about the music you promote and those dreadful Saturday night light entertainment programmes that YOU are responsible for, while pummelling you around the face with a rancid salmon to emphasise my points (and believe me there are a LOT of points). I wanted to lock you in a room with Jeremy Kyle and tell him that you were a drunken chain smoker who stole sweets from babies.

But then I thought “No – I am a nice guy and I need to help this man realise the error of his ways. He is a fellow Libran.”

Simon – I want to save you.

We have a kinship, Simon, you and I. Your birthday is 7th October, the day before mine. If astrologers are to be believed, then we have similar personality traits and, although I hate to admit it, we are like brothers.

So I’m going to help you, Simon, in my own inimitable way.

Firstly, congratulations on turning 50 this year. You don’t look a day under 50 and I’m surprised you are so young. Given the dreadful music you promote (and it IS dreadful, Simon, utterly dreadful), I had assumed that you were at least 65 years old. I foolishly imagined that you were a pensioner with false teeth and dyed hair who was seeking a hobby after a long hard life being a gopher for somebody with talent. I guessed that you had a few bits of cash and had used it to inject your face with enough botox to turn you into the Michelin Man.

I admit it – I was wrong - totally and utterly wrong. And I apologise unreservedly for my warped thoughts.

Now, how can I help you?

First of all, being a Libran like me, I can understand your need to rant. I can fully appreciate you desire to vent your spleen when something displeases you. Look at fellow Libran Margaret Thatcher! She vented her spleen for eleven years as Prime Minister of Great Britain.

I’ve seen you in action. I can’t bring myself to watch your appalling TV programmes but, in the interests of research, and in a desire to make you a better person, I have suffered by watching your performances on YouTube; quite frankly I’m appalled.

Here are some of your worst moments:

“You’ve just killed my favourite song of all time”

“It was a bad shrieky version; I’d pack your suitcase.”

“You sing like a train going off the rails.”

“You sounded like Dolly Parton on helium.”

“You’re too old to be a Barbie Doll.”

“I really hate your image – it’s almost creepy.”

“That was like a one year old, singing.”

“Do you have a singing teacher? Get a lawyer and sue her. I’m serious.”

“That audition was like watching a ship sink.”

Simon, there’s no need to be that nasty. I can be that nasty from the comfort of my own living room but the only casualty is my television (which incidentally is thinking of suing me for constant and relentless verbal bullying). The victims of my cruelty are beyond my reach and will never hear me liken them to a screaming tuneless banshee. But you are staring them in the face when you utter those words. It is despicable.

My first piece of advice is, therefore, to be nice to these awful people. They may sing like crows on drugs but they are human beings. They may be the most talentless humans in the world with voices like broken foghorns – but they can’t help it. In their eyes (or should I say ears) they ARE divas; they ARE Elton John; they ARE Stevie Wonder; they DESERVE the fame they are going to get.

Be nice to them. Just say something like:

“I vote no. Next!!”

And when pressed for the reason, let them down gently:

“It was good but there are better people out there.”

The contestants will be happy and the audience will be happy. Nobody will ever take the piss out of your hair again.

Which conveniently brings me to my next point. I have terrible hair and I openly admit it. Mrs PM forces me to put products on it to keep it from invading the house next door. She even does it when I am asleep. You would do well to take her advice. To be honest, your hair looks like a tiny aircraft could land on it. I’m not sure what effect you are trying to create but it does look absurd.

One person said “[his hair] looks like he cut it himself blindfolded in a dark room with his feet”.

I’ve had worse things said about my hair – but you are on telly, Simon. Millions of people watch you every week. People tune in hoping to see a seagull perch on your head and your bonce and crap on your face.

I know it took you a while to get rid of those ludicrous high-waisted trousers and now, apparently, you do actually look a little bit like a human being again. You can do the same with your hair. With a decent haircut you can face your critics with your head held high. And there will be not one seagull in sight.

My final piece of advice is to stop promoting boy band clones, girl band clones, women who think they are Mariah Carey and guys who think they are Robbie Williams and embrace your one true love – ROCK MUSIC!!!

Get out there and start a talent show for young up and coming rock bands; there are thousands of musicians who can actually play instruments, write their own songs and are in bands with mates just waiting for a decent record deal.

I am sick to my back teeth of hearing second rate pop-clones filling the airwaves, warbling badly on a Saturday night and filling our tabloid newspapers with meaningless twaddle about their private lives.

Embrace up and coming rock bands on a Saturday night and I might watch you without:

(a) throwing up
(b) assaulting my telly to a with a cricket bat
(c) getting into trouble with Mrs PM for puking on the carpet and assaulting her poor TV with a cricket bat.

I am trying to turn over a new leaf myself and to spare my TV before it leaves home. You can do the same.

We are Librans. We love Rock music. You can change. You must change.

Yours Sincerely

The Plastic Mancunian

P.S. Sorry for comparing you to Margaret Thatcher. It took years for me to get over the fact that her personality was similar to mine in the eyes of astrologers. I’m still not over it yet actually. The Plastic Mancunian is not for turning – AARRRGGHHH!!! Sorry Simon – ignore that last sentence.

P.P.S. If you want more advice my fees are reasonable. I charge £200,000 for a 10 minute session. Cheap at twice the price – don’t you agree?

The Grilled Mancunian

I’ve been cooked several times in my life and I’m bloody sick of it.

Having blond hair and fair skin is seen by some as a blessing. Phrases like “blonds have more fun” may give the impression that we are rampant extroverts with a party animal mentality and can make any social occasion memorable.

Unfortunately the truth of the matter is that blonds are cursed. I won’t even begin to discuss the common myth that blond people are stupid. You’ve all heard the jokes:

How do you make a blond’s eyes twinkle? Shine a torch in their ear.

Actually, blond jokes are geared towards airhead blond women (at least that’s what people telling blond jokes tell me) so I like to think that people don’t consider me to be stupid just because of the colour of my hair.

How are we cursed then?

We are basically allergic to the sun (well excessive sun at least).

So does that make us vampires? In a way, it does. I’m not saying that I am an evil undead monster who sleeps in a coffin all day and then marauds around at night, attacking young female virgins and bleeding them dry. Last time I checked, a cross didn’t burn my skin and the closest I get to drinking blood is when I have a medium rare steak. Besides, I quite like garlic.

The sun has a similar effect on my skin as it does on your average vampire. I don’t burst into flames and crumble into ash. However I do cook, albeit very, very slowly.

When I was young, like most stupid youths, I considered myself to be indestructible. I would jump around like an idiot, climbing trees, throwing myself off walls and leaping into water from great heights. I was a moron (okay maybe I was a true blond in those days). And I actually thought that I could spend a whole day in the sun without getting sunburnt.

The first time I remember being cooked, I was on holiday in Bala, a lovely little town on the edge of Bala Lake in mid Wales. I was eighteen and four of us were discovering the glory of alcohol and more importantly freedom from our parents. It was my first real holiday with them and I was ready to take the next stupid step.

On that fateful day, we drove to the lake and hired a boat. It was a gloriously sunny day and, being a complete and utter bonehead, I chose to sail on the lake without a shirt. I still don’t know why I did this. Even my mates suggested that perhaps I should wear a T shirt. I wouldn’t mind but my physique wasn’t exactly worthy of parading to other sailors. I was so skinny that I resembled a living skeleton. Arnold Schwarzenegger I wasn’t.

What was I hoping to achieve? If any young women had seen my bony body they would have either fled in disgust or called an ambulance. Either that or tried to play me like a glockenspiel.

I stepped onto that boat looking like a milk bottle. I stepped off it, three hours later, looking like a strawberry milkshake with a blob of chaotic cream on top.

I burned really badly. When I pulled on my T shirt, I screamed like a little girl. There were tears in my eyes as we travelled back to the cottage. I didn’t sleep a wink for the entire night. My whole upper body felt as if it was infested by tiny microscopic devils pummelling my skin with pneumatic pins.

Worse was to come. I came to terms with my stupidity, thinking that the red skin would gradually become brown. It’s not so bad, I thought. At least in a week or two I will look like a tanned hunk and the girls will throw themselves at me.

Wrong!

My red skin began to peel. Having never seen this phenomenon before, I began to panic. My dad reassured me saying that it would be all over soon (as he struggled not to laugh). It was as if I was covered in layer upon layer of cling film. I peeled off great swathes of skin. I could have made curtains for the whole street out the skin. There was almost enough to create another human being. One time, I pulled skin off my entire torso and arms like a jumper.

As the initial pain diminished, it was replaced by a terrible itch all over the exposed and grilled area. I scratched and scratched and ripped off handfuls of skin. It was horrific – just like the incredible melting man. You’ve seen “The Fly” with Jeff Goldblum? That was a picnic compared to me.

And what was the colour of my skin after I had shed more coats than a rampant snake? You've guessed it - white!

Since then I have been very careful. I love to travel to very warm and sunny places and laze on the beach; now I sit in the shade and cover any exposed bits of my body in factor 3 million sun block.

Many people ask me why I bother going to hot places if I come back looking like a ghost. I love sitting in the shade watching people, reading, listening to music; the only difference is that I don’t have skin like leather with more wrinkles than a ninety year old man. My fair skin makes me look younger than my years and I am often mistaken for a man in his mid-thirties.

That said, I have accidentally been grilled a few times.

At the Monsters of Rock festival a few years ago, I foolishly neglected to take a bottle of sun block. As I watched the various rock bands, I was unaware that I was gradually roasting in the sun. The only problem was that the sun was constantly on my right hand side, so I acquired a rather lopsided burn; the right hand side of my face was red raw as was my right arm. My left hand side was milky white.

I looked utterly ridiculous for weeks.

Another time I was caught out was at a cricket match in Manchester. The sun was intense and I burned quite badly. I was wearing sunglasses and when I returned home, I looked at myself in the mirror; a red and white panda stared back at me.

Even though I am proud that I have milky white, fair skin that has preserved a semblance of youth, I am envious of those who simply look at the sun for seconds and turn a lovely bronze colour. In my youth it always seemed to me that bronzed men attracted the best women; of course in my case bronze skin probably wouldn’t help because a bronze baboon isn’t the most attractive beast on the planet.

So what is the worst place to fry? Well in my experience, the backs of the legs is a pretty nasty place because you simply cannot sit down. On one occasion I burned the bottoms of my feet – that was very unpleasant.

But the worst place? Well I’ll leave it to your imagination but suffice it to say I am glad that I am not a naturist.

How Cool Were The 80's?

The 80’s made me the man I am today, which some of you may think is a bad thing.

I entered the decade as a spotty little 17 year old with wild hair, no common sense, romantically inept, naïve in the extreme and woefully immature. That decade turned me into a man and it was the most exciting period of my life.

I am fiercely nostalgic for those times. I have so many fond memories that I am moved almost to tears when I think about what I achieved and how I developed.

Why am I mentioning the 80’s? Well, today I read an article about a music festival that happened over the weekend in Henley-on-Thames where 30,000 people were whisked back in time to see 25 music stars of the 80’s belt out a bunch of classic songs from that decade. It would appear that there is a little bit of an 80’s comeback and I for one welcome it with open arms.

I’m not a child of the 80’s at all; I grew up in the 70’s. Nevertheless, after leaving school and spending three years at university, getting married, finding a good job and travelling, the 80’s laid the foundation for everything I am today.

So many things changed:

Hair

I know I go on about my hair a lot but bear with me on this. In 1980 my hair was long, fuzzy and totally unmanageable. I looked like a mad scientist. When I started university in 1981, with hormones belting around my body I decided that I needed to do something. So I became a New Romantic. That’s right, for a couple of years my hair was short but looked pretty stupid. After university in 1984, I embraced rock music and grew a Joe Elliott mullet. In 1988 I got married and a vicious evil hairdresser hacked off my locks making my hair short and, I suppose, manageable. I haven’t really changed that hairstyle since.

Fashion

When I started university I flipped between two styles: the pseudo rocker, complete with denim jacket, black T shirt and jeans and, at night in the clubs, I blossomed into a member of Spandau Ballet complete with stupid shirt, stupid jacket and stupid pointed shoes that crippled my feet. Many guys my age wore make-up on these occasions – you would never catch me doing that (he says trying to draw your attention away from the Kiss make-up to your right).

I considered myself to be the best dancer at every night club and I would even embarrass myself by trying to "moonwalk" to "Billy Jean". I was no Michael Jackson and I imagine that I looked like a total buffoon.

I grew out of that stupidity (thank heavens) and became more of a metalhead, wearing a leather jacket and jeans. Bizarrely I still have an 80’s leather jacket today – Mrs PM is desperate for me to get rid of it but I refuse.

Music

I loved the electronic music of the early 80’s and made a complete arse of myself dancing in night clubs to bands like Tears For Fears, Adam Ant, Depeche Mode, Blancmange and The Human League. By the mid 80’s I had grown tired of pop music, mainly because the charts were being filled by utter bilge, so I embraced heavy metal once more. I loved the cheesy rock groups like Bon Jovi, Def Leppard and Europe. The 80’s was the decade I discovered Rush – I have never looked back.

Travel

At the beginning of the 80’s I had barely left Walsall. By 1984 I had been on two three to four week tours of Europe, by 1988 I had worked in Amsterdam and Trinidad and in 1989 I spent four week touring the United States. I wouldn’t say that I was bitten by the travel bug that decade – I was savaged by it. If I won the lottery I would give up everything to travel the world – that’s how much the travel bug mauled me in the 80’s.

Women

When I think back to the 80’s and the women in my life at that time, I recall the pleasure and pain of relationships. Pleasure because that was the decade I lost my cherry but pain because of failed relationships, making a complete arse of myself and learning how and how not to deal with the fairer sex. To be fair I still haven’t learned much about women but I do know that, at university, one woman broke my heart into bits. It was the first time I had actually sobbed over a girl (and probably the last time if I think about). Do you know the worst thing about it? She didn’t even know the profound effect she had on me. I made a complete fool of myself in front of a bunch of mates, as this girl refused to dance with me, choosing her best mate instead. I stood there at the edge of the dance floor, my heart torn to shreds, humiliated beyond belief as the two girls made a huge show of making me look like a complete arse. My mates laughed and mocked me mercilessly. I went back to my room and cried my eyes out for two hours.

Ironically, in Manchester in 1985 (two years after the event), I happened to bump into this girl’s best mate in a pub, you know – the one she had chosen to dance with instead of me. She was with her boyfriend who was a friend of a friend. I didn’t recognise her and she didn’t recognise me, but somehow we got talking. When we discovered that we both went to Liverpool University, I asked what course she did. When she told me, I told her that I had had a major crush on a girl who studied the same degree. At that moment a deep hidden subconscious memory began to surface and as it rose through the ether I suddenly recognised the woman I was talking to. I was horrified as her features became clear in my mind. I saw the sarcastic smile on the two girls’ faces as my life crumbled on the edge of the dance floor.

I was amazed that she didn’t recognise me. I had to get out of there before a similar memory bubbled up in her mind. As I started to leave, she grabbed my arm and pulled me back down next to her and said:

“Tell me this girl’s name.”

I simply couldn’t bring myself to do it; I was still in pain. And do you know what she said to me?

“It’s a real shame. I probably know her, you know. You’re a really nice guy and I think you’d make a great boyfriend.”

That cut me like a knife. I felt as if my heart had been torn from my chest and jumped on by a thousand devilish imps in front of my disbelieving face, while a thousand more poured salt into the gaping bloody hole in my chest.

I was devastated and had to leave the pub. I’ve never seen either of the girls since.

Happily, I found myself a girlfriend shortly afterwards; she was a mate at university and we kind of hooked up. She became my wife in 1988. Sadly things didn’t work out but I certainly learned a few things.

Life

In 1980 I was an innocent, pizza-faced little pillock, driven by hormones, clueless, directionless and unsure what life held for me. I left Walsall and after three years in Liverpool, settled in Manchester where I have lived ever since. Through a series of embarrassing and educational incidents, I somehow managed to find a path and stick to it. The blurred uncertain world of that spotty adolescent clarified over the ten years and I suddenly saw potential and possibility in a life that I thought was hopeless. My father died in 1981, one month before I started university. I came from a working class background and nobody from my family had ever dreamed of going to university. Thankfully, he found out before he died and he was so happy; I’m glad that happened. I still think about him today and how proud he would have been. The 80’s built the foundation for the man I am today – this arse whose blog you are reading. I still have ambitions but they are the fruits of embryonic dreams I had in the 80’s – and I aim to fulfil them.

If somebody came up to me and said

“Hey, Plastic Mancunian! I have a device that can return you to any day in your life so that you can live that life again. Where do you want to go?”

I would immediately go back to my 18th birthday on October 8th 1980. I would relive my life from that point onwards.

Finally, being a huge fan of the music of that decade, I would like to list some of my favourite songs of that era:

First, pop music from the early 80’s. The following songs have special significance to me and I love them to bits:

(1) The Human League – The Sound Of The Crowd
(2) Blancmange – Living On The Ceiling
(3) Frankie Goes To Hollywood – Two Tribes
(4) Godley & Creme – Under Your Thumb
(5) Tears For Fears – Change
(6) Spandau Ballet – Instinction
(7) Adam and the Ants – Ant Music
(8) A-ha – The Sun Always Shines On TV
(9) Talk Talk – It’s My Life
(10) Visage – Visage


Remember all those? How about these 80’s metal hits?

(1) Whitesnake – Still Of The Night
(2) Yngwie J Malmsteen – Heaven Tonight
(3) Bon Jovi – Bad Medicine
(4) Van Halen – Hot For Teacher
(5) Def Leppard – Animal
(6) Lita Ford – Kiss Me Deadly (I had such a crush on Lita Ford!!!!!)
(7) Europe – Halfway To Heaven
(8) Kiss – Reason To Live
(9) Rush – The Big Money (Well I had to put a Rush video in there!!!)
(10) Ozzy Osbourne – Bark At The Moon

If anybody ever tells you that the 80’s weren’t cool, just ignore them. I’ve been on this planet for the best part of five decades and I can honestly say with my hand on my heart that the 80’s were the best.

I could go on for pages about the 80's but I'll stop here (for now): Frankie says: “no more”.