Half-eaten Kebab

Have you ever been drunk?

I have – quite a few times, but thankfully not in recent years. Don’t get me wrong – I do like a pint or two but these days I tend to take it easy so that when I do drink I know I can wake up in the morning feeling reasonably fine.

Sadly, in my youth I was easily led and I thought that I was indestructible, especially when it came to the demon drink. I was rarely so drunk that I couldn’t remember anything but I have been in that position in my youth.

When you are in such a terrible state, weird thoughts go through your head, the biggest one being “I’ll be fine! I can handle another pint!”

Wrong! 

If you are drunk, that is the thought that you should totally dismiss because deep down you know for a fact that when you wake up in the morning your head will feel like Satan himself is hitting it with a lump hammer, your mouth will feel like you have just eaten the contents of a vacuum cleaner bag and your stomach will feel like it is about to explode in a tsunami of half-digested food.  If you have the strength to crawl to the toilet your entire world will spin like a demented spinning top and you will almost certainly be uttering the Hangover Mantra which is:

“NEVER AGAIN!”

Of course when you are in the throes of alcohol-fuelled ecstasy, you have lots of bad ideas. Logic doesn’t seem to enter into your thoughts. If you were sober then you would almost certainly say to your brain “You want me to do WHAT?? No bloody chance!”.

But when you are drunk, your response is “WHAT A GREAT IDEA!!!”.

Before I go on, there is something that any foreign readers must understand. Pubs and drinking are a massive part of British culture (and to a lesser extent Europe too). For example, when I have been to the US, I have been amazed that hanging out in a bar for an entire evening seems to be frowned upon – certainly more so than in the UK where such behaviour is commonplace.

So what good ideas have I encountered when drunk that are really terrible ones?

Have another drink

This is bad because, as I said above alcohol gives you the illusion of indestructibility. In this state you think you are utterly fine until the first light of day brings you back to reality with an enormous crash.

Go for a curry

Indian food is massively popular in the UK and drunk guys will flock to Indian restaurants after a night out because they think that it will satisfy the alcohol-fuelled hunger. Now the problem with a post-drink curry is that first of all Indian restaurants offer even more booze to add to your already saturated brain but worst of all, the bravado of being drunk means that you will almost certainly select the hottest curry on the menu because you think it is a fantastic idea. It isn’t because a hangover with a curry nestling in your stomach is not a good idea. Remember, a really hot curry burns twice; once on the way in and once on the way out.

Chat up a woman

I have fallen foul of this “good idea” many times and have been ritually humiliated. Worse, on one occasion I was out with workmates, including a female friend of mine. While in a pub, she started talking to a lovely young blonde woman who happened to teach her daughters ballet. Sadly, my mind told me to complement this vision of beauty. I walked up to her, in front of my female friend and a lot of workmates and said (I am not making this up): 

“First of all, I’m not coming on to you at all. But having said that, can I just say that you are ABSOLUTELY GORGEOUS!!” 

Thankfully, she took it in good stead and said a polite “Thanks” before blanking me out completely. What followed was a tirade of abuse and piss-taking from my work colleagues and, worse, from my female friend who later said “What the phark are you on?” I am still reminded of this even to this day and it happened about twenty years ago!

Buy a kebab

 If you don’t go for a curry, you go for a kebab. Britain is filled with kebab shops, some better than others. When sober, I would never have one because I prefer healthier food. Yet when drunk, it has almost become the law. Kebab shops in the UK are filled with drunk people from around 11pm to much later and I am amazed that people know what to order. One of the problems is that your average kebab is huge and you are incapable of eating the entire thing. This has three possible consequences (and I have seen all three). 

Number one: you leave the half-eaten kebab on the sofa and crawl to bed, only to see it the following morning when your stomach is too delicate to deal with a now rancid stinking half-eaten mess. 

Number two:  Put the half-eaten kebab in the fridge to be finished off for breakfast. This is so wrong because the last thing you want to see when you go to the fridge to get a can of coke to help your hangover, is a half-eaten kebab stinking out your fridge with half-eaten fries that you felt you couldn’t do without. 

Number Three: you fall asleep while eating the kebab and wake up three hours later with your head resting in a mound of spicy meat, fries and rancid salad covered in spicy sauce.

Thankfully, I have grown up a bit and while I still drink, I no longer allow myself to have stupid ideas. That said, I have been known to indulge in a curry or a kebab but, thankfully, with a relatively sober head.

I’ll finish off with a song about a hangover from my collection. Check out the lyrics because they sum up most of the stuff I’ve said in this post.

Stress Relief

Over the years I have been a victim of stress sometimes and while I still occasionally confront the demon stress-monster, these days I can usually vanquish him with casual and relaxing punch in the face.

Most of my stress comes from my job, something I think is true the world over. It amazes me that we as a society can allow ourselves to wind ourselves up at work to the point where it actually causes physical symptoms. You often feel like you really have been in a fight with a monster.

Something like this happened to me about seventeen years ago and I vowed that I would declare war on the beast that threatens to destabilize my life. These days we spar intermittently with me almost always coming out on top.

I have a few techniques that work for me to deal with stress. Some are obvious, others may seem rather unorthodox. They work for me and usually manage to keep me in control of the demonic beast at both a professional and a personal level. Here they are:

Hypnosis

Before you slap a label on me as a crackpot, let me explain. In a previous post, I started out attacking hypnotism as a mystical load of old bollocks for gullible people. That is until I tried it, in the name of research. 

You can read about it here.

What I discovered was that if you lie back in a darkened room and listen to a hypnosis tape for a while, you actually do start to de-stress. I would never pay money to go for hypnotherapy and on a couple of occasions I have tried it to relax with a lot of success. Try it - YouTube is full of them.

I am still sceptical about it – particularly when people start talking about past life regression and nonsense like that. I can’t imagine for a second that I have lived before, let alone suddenly find that under a hypnotic trance that I weirdly have access to these past lives. That is plain ridiculous.

Beer With Friends

Some foreigners may think that the British tradition of sitting in a pub with friends and/or family at the end of a hard work is a bit strange. The truth is that there is no better way of unwinding with good company, good ale and a bellyful of laughs. The stress monster is never invited to such shindigs.

Listen To Chill Out Music

Music is very therapeutic and it is a very important part of my life. There are numerous songs in my collection that are gentle, peaceful and soothing and usually invoke a special memory like lying on a beach in the sun with the waves kissing the beach and Mrs PM next to me as we sip a cold drink. 

Here is an example of a stress melter:

Playing With Cats

I have three cats, all of which have different personalities. They are getting on a bit at the moment yet I can entertain myself with each one of them, either gently stroking them, or baiting them with string, toy mice or my own hand (which is risky, particularly with the hellcat who has the capability and the will to induce more stress; having to go to hospital can be quite stressful itself).

Ask Yourself “What’s the worst that can happen?”

I am afraid of public speaking and the first time I had to really face my fear was when I was asked to travel to America to give a course. Beforehand, I spent about a month beating myself up about it to the point where I actually decided that I was going to just refuse to go. However, I am professional and I decided to take the bull by the horns and go for it. I asked myself “What is the worst that can happen?” and I answered my own question. Nothing, even the sack, would matter – I would bounce back even from that. In the end, I was nervous but I completed the course. And since then I have given courses in Russia, Switzerland, China and South Africa. I still hate it it but I don’t allow myself to get stressed about it.

Go for a Long Walk

My days are generally split into two when working. I endure the morning period and then at around 12:30, I pick up my iPod, leave the building and embark upon a walk of just over two miles with my music as a soundtrack. Not only does this get me away from my desk, it also allows me free thinking time where I can drift into my own imagination and even reignite my creativity. And of course, my mind wonders away from the pressure of work for half an hour or so.

Go on Holiday

Whenever work starts to grind me down, I look at my calendar and remind myself of my travel plans. Sadly, I don’t get enough holiday to travel anywhere near as much as I want to, which is frustrating but at the same time makes the trips I take very special. At the moment, I have two holidays to Europe booked and a weekend break next week in Barcelona. The stress is fading just thinking about it.

Play a Video Game

You may think that I am a little too old to indulge in childish pursuits such as playing games on a console. And the truth is that I am. Yet when I decide to pick up the joystick and play a football game or become a nightmarish villain in a surreal city or even fight zombies and monsters in a scary labyrinth, my imagination runs amok and once again I have a victory over worries and tension.

Read and Write

I may not be a good writer, but putting down my thoughts on paper is a fantastic way of winding down. Whenever I put myself at the mercy of my imagination, I usually have fun, even if it’s writing a simple blog post, a plan for one of the many books in my head or just my thoughts. Whether anybody reads my words is totally irrelevant – it’s great to just get them down.

Alternatively, there are few things more enjoyable than immersing yourself in a decent book. Stories are wonderful things and I always imagine myself as the constant companion of the heroes of the story, watching them as they struggle, lose and ultimately triumph (though not always). It’s a great way to forget about your own woes.

Listen to Hard and Heavy Rock Music

This may sound a bit weird, but when I allow myself to totally succumb to stress, which does happen, albeit infrequently these days, I simply blast away the negativity with a good dose of noise. It may seem wrong to unleash loud and heavy music when in a mood like that but for me at least it totally works. At the end of a heavy tune I feel a lot better – something like this:



R.I.P Lemmy

Spend Time With Family

Letting off steam to Mrs PM and family generally can be therapeutic because ultimately they will listen to you and offer words of encouragement. Of course, simply chilling out with family is equally good. There are few things I like better than spending time with Mrs PM and/or my two lads.

And Finally …

Over to you, dear reader.

How do you cope with stress?

What techniques have you for winding down and beating back the stress demon?

The Meaning of Life - Time After Time

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And this was the point that the sensibility disappeared.

“One more?” 

“Yeah – one more!”

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

I loved every second of it.

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

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

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

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

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

The whole episode made me think about time.

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

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

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

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

How about you, dear reader?

Is there a young version of you hiding inside you?

Can you find him or her?

If so, how do you do it?

Life's Sick Joke

Life is great.

Life is a gift that we should all take full advantage of, something we should grasp with both hands and squeeze as much fun and enjoyment out of before fate decides to whisk it away from us.

However, we all know that there are constraints that stop us from acquiring all of the pleasure and delight that life offers.

I hear a little voice from time to time warning me of the consequences of overindulgence, usually in tabloid newspapers, on the news or in the rhetoric of self-obsessed megalomaniacs who seem to think that life should be lived their way instead of mine.

And of course, there is nature itself that seems to delight in playing one almighty sick joke on the whole of humanity.

It is this latter constraint that I wish to bring to you attention, dear reader (even though you know all about it and will no doubt agree with me).

Mother Nature is a wonderful thing but rules us with a rod of iron, applying all manner of rules that are punishable by curtailing the gift of life.

Here are some examples:

Fatty food is divine. There is nothing more satisfying that waking up in the morning and devouring a full English breakfast of bacon, sausage, egg, black pudding, beans, toast covered in butter, all washed down with a massive cup of strong tea or a potent brain boosting cup of extra strong and delicious coffee.

Yet if I were to have that breakfast every single day of my life, I would grow fat and the dark figure with the scythe would almost certainly call for me a lot earlier than his original plan to. Fat is bad for you, caffeine is bad for you and endless bacon and sausage is bad for you.

The same can be said of burgers and fries washed down with fizzy soft drink. Eating such food on a regular basis will turn you into a huge monster and Mr Death will come calling sooner rather than later. Sugar and fat are simply killers in disguise.

And what about chocolate and cream and monstrous desserts? People love them yet if they overindulge the same thing will happen; they will look like a walking whale with the scythe-carrier marching behind and looking at his watch with a knowing grin on his face.

Smoking and alcohol are the same. There is nothing better than a pint of ale after a tough week but if you choose to take it to excess, you will pickle your vital organs.

You can’t even spend your life sitting in front of your tellybox. Watching too much television, so experts say, dulls the brain and at the same time stops you from exercising to keep your body in shape.

And while exercising helps, keeping Mr Death at bay, you can even fall foul of that if you overdo it.

Thrill seekers who like to hurl themselves off cliffs have the Grim Reaper as a constant companion, waiting for a burst of adrenaline so great that the scariest adventure might result in premature demise.

It’s a sick joke, dear reader.

We should be able to live our life as we want to without Mother Nature stepping in and applying certain rules to it.

“Yes, Mr Mancunian, you can stuff your face with steak every night for the next ten years and wash it down with the finest red wine from France – but it will cost you twenty years of this most precious gift.”

“Yes Mr Mancunian, you can bungee jump off a high bridge in New Zealand but one day that bungee rope might just snap.”

“Of course you can drive a fast car around a track, Dave, but I can’t promise that you will not crash into a wall at high speed.”

But it’s worse than that. Some of these constraints are built into my brain. For example, I want to see as much of the world as I can and this includes the desire to climb to the top of the Eiffel Tower, the Empire State Building and other huge man-made structures, as well as Nature’s own constructs, to see the view and marvel at our beautiful planet.

But in my case, Mother Nature has said:

“Sorry Dave, I’m going to stop you from seeing the whole of Dubai from the top of the Burj Khalifa; you need a fear of heights to limit what you can see of the world.”

It’s not fair.

I’m greedy.

I want it all.

So while life is great, it could be so much better, if Mother Nature cut us some slack and allowed me to indulge in the way I want to.

Sadly, she won’t allow it – and  I, like you, dear reader, am powerless to resist.

I am certain that Mr Reaper is waiting in the wings (at least 200 years in the future with any luck) so now my challenge is to keep him at arm’s length while keeping old Mother Nature happy.

I can do this by indulging my desires – but limiting them.

I can enjoy an English Breakfast every so often, spend the occasional evening watching my tellybox all night, enjoy a pint or three down the pub occasionally and even get some half decent exercise with a daily two mile walk and the occasional six mile hike at the weekend.

Sadly, I think my fear of heights is here to stay so I no longer plan to climb any mountains or man-made structure higher than my own house.

Mother Nature’s henchman might be stalking us all but we should plan to make his life difficult.

Whisking us away may be his raison d’etre but like Mother Nature can play a sick joke on him by keeping him as far away as possible.

The truth is that if you don’t stuff your face with a huge slab of chocolate cake every day, it is certainly more enjoyable when you do allow yourself to have one occasionally.

And when you do, just address Mother Nature and her henchman:

“Screw you! This is MY divine cake and this is my divine day to stuff my face with it.”

That cake will taste so much better, I can assure you.

Old Farts' Reunion

Last night I had a trip down Memory Lane.

Every year, there is a reunion in a small pub in Heaton Mersey in Stockport. It is a reunion of old work colleagues and a couple of my mates attend every year. It usually occurs on the Friday before Christmas.

I have been invited but am usually unable to attend because it coincides with another event that is also annual and traditional – my workplace’s Christmas pub crawl around Didsbury – which usually takes place the day before, on the last Thursday before Christmas.

As much as I love beer, it usually too much for me to take in both events – there is only so much beer you can drink at my age, so I attend the Didsbury crawl – and have done for the last ten or so years.

This year, however, the Didsbury crawl will take place next Thursday and I was delighted to hear that the Heaton Mersey reunion would be a week earlier. In fact, it took place yesterday afternoon – and I went.

The pub is about fifteen minutes’ walk away from my house, and as I braved the snow and rain, I started thinking about who might be there. One of my mates jokingly refers to it as “The Old Farts’ Reunion” because at the age of 54, he is one of the younger people there.

I walked into the pub and it seemed empty, but then I heard some raucous laughter from a room at the back. I walked in and was astounded to see around twenty guys that I have not seen for years – some of whom I last clapped eyes on about twenty years ago.

I was slightly overwhelmed and blurted out:

“Bloody Hell – I haven’t seen some of you old buggers for YEARS!”.

This exclamation was greeted with laughter. It was four thirty in the afternoon and some of them had been there since three o’clock; most were slightly inebriated.

I was the youngest there – at the age of 49 – and some of these guys remembered me as a spotty faced little idiot joining their project team way back in September 1984. I was still a youngster to most of them.

The conversation flowed, with lots of names popping up that I had not heard for years. My very first software team leader was there as was my first supervisor, who greeted me with the following words:

“How are you, lad?”

I liked that – “Lad” – as if I were still a pasty-faced 21 year old filled with innocence.

We chatted for a few hours and over several pints, reminiscing about how life had changed.

I was reminded of a three way bet involving football that apparently was still in place. I foolishly pitted my team, Walsall – a shit little club languishing in League One, against Manchester United and Bolton Wanderers, the teams supported by the other two guys. The supporter of the team that finished lowest of the three in their respective divisions would have to buy a pint for the other two.

I support a team that is (and let’s be kind here) – absolutely pathetic and I have lost every year almost for the past twenty or so years.

“You owe us about twenty pints,” I was told. “Get your money out.”

Another guy who last saw me when I was married was astounded to find out that I had divorced. Another guy who had seen me just after the divorce said,

“How many women have you had since then, Dave?”

What followed was a very amusing character assassination and my claims that Mrs PM was and is the only woman I have been involved with since the divorce were hurled aside in favour of banter with me as their target. 

"It was thirteen years ago," I said but my claims fell on deaf ears.

And it was hilarious – I thoroughly enjoyed being savaged by these guys.

Another guy said “How old are you then?”

“I’m 50 next year,” I said.

“Farkin’ hell – you MUST use cream on your skin. You haven’t even got any grey hair. I’ll bet you’ve been using products for twenty years.”

More raucous laughter followed by more piss taking at my expense.

It was sad to hear about people I knew as a young man who had died – a melancholy diversion from Memory Lane – but overall it was brilliant to see some of these guys again. As the evening drifted on, Mrs PM’s words echoed in my head:

“Don’t get shit-faced. It’s my Christmas party tomorrow and you are coming whether or not you are hungover.”

So reluctantly I had to go, leaving behind a handful of die-hards sipping more beer and chatting about age, work and the past. I thoroughly enjoyed this little trip down Memory Lane and promised that I would do my best to come back next year.

And as I wobbled back home in the snow and rain, the one clear thought that shone through the alcoholic haze was this:

I will keep that promise.

Beer Versus Chocolate

At work last week, we had a charity coffee morning. The idea was that members of staff buy or bake cakes, bring them into work and then senior managers take on the role of waiters and visit everybody in the office selling coffee and cake for a small fee, with all of the proceeds going to charity.

It’s nice to see a senior manager being a waiter – doing something useful for a change.

I like to do my bit for charity but I decided that I didn’t want to bake a cake because I hate cooking and I am sure that I would have inadvertently poisoned my co-workers. Instead I went to the local supermarket and bought a nice big chocolate party cake. I was convinced that there would not be enough cake for everybody; sadly quite a few others thought the same and in the end, so much cake was baked or bought that we had tons of the stuff left.

This has meant that for the past few days, we have been selling what’s left, again for charity.

Today, in the kitchen at work, there was a huge chocolate monster of a cake. I was urged to buy a slice and the temptation was almost overwhelming but I declined because I am trying to climb back down to a healthy BMI and a slice of this cake would have annihilated a week’s effort. Add to that, if I had had one slice I would have struggled not to go back for more and more and more.

All this got me thinking, which is a dangerous thing.

There one other thing that has the same effect on me as “Death by Chocolate” monstrosity that was tempting me – and that is beer.

For a bit of fun, I have decided to present to you a comparison of these two supposedly evil foodstuffs.

In the red corner we have chocolate; in the blue corner we have beer.

(1) Beer is addictive. If you have a pint at your local pub, you immediately think to yourself “Just one more for the road”. Before you know it you have had several for the road. Similarly, if you open a box of Lindor chocolate, you subconsciously reach into the box eating one after the other until you finally look down and realise with horror that you have eaten every last one – and STILL want more.

(2) Chocolate appeals to half of the human race – the female half. Beer appeals to the other half of the human race – the male half. Of course some men love chocolate and some women love beer – woe betides those who love both.

(3) Beer is brown – well the best beer is anyway. Lager is a kind of yellow colour whereas bitter has the same hue as a bar of Cadbury’s milk chocolate. Chocolate is also brown. I am not talking about that disgusting white chocolate which is especially made for kids and weirdos. I am weird but at least I am willing to admit that white chocolate is like rhubarb – unpleasant, unnatural and belongs in Hell.

(4) Chocolate makes you fat. If you spend your evenings sitting on a sofa munching a box of Quality Street you will inevitably weigh more than your house. Equally, beer makes you fat. If you spend your evenings sitting in a pub drinking pint after pint of Old Stoatwobbler you will eventually have a beer gut so big that you can build a house on it.

(5) Beer is apparently bad for your body. In small doses it can have health benefits. Sadly by “small dose” the “experts” mean one pint a month. Any more than that and you are a binge-drinking boozer with a leather liver, red blotches and a beer gut you could use as an offensive weapon. Chocolate is also bad for your body. If you plough through box after box of Milk Tray, you will rot your teeth and be so obese that the only way you will be able to leave the house is via the window on the end of a crane.

(6) Beer makes you sick. An evening in the company of several pints of Guinness will eventually cause your body to say “ENOUGH!” and hurl the entire contents of your stomach into the nearest receptacle (the toilet, somebody’s lap, a fruit machine) in a bid to rid itself of the ale. Equally if you spend an entire day trying to eat a shop’s worth of Cadburys your body stomach will say “I don’t care if you like the taste of this chocolate – it’s being evicted”. The good thing is that with chocolate at least you will be compis mentis and have some control over the location of the ejected food matter.

(7) Chocolate makes you feel good. Beer makes you feel good. Why? Because both release endorphins in the brain. When I first heard that I asked Mrs PM why we don’t end up dressing up in weird vivid lycra costumes with a crash helmet and start kicking shit out of bad guys.. She said “Endorphins, you moron, not Mighty Morphin Power Rangers”. So what are endorphins? They basically make you feel good and full of energy. That explains a lot and may also contribute to the reason why beer and chocolate are addictive. Sadly, the endorphins seem to vanish when we over-indulge and start throwing up.

I love beer and I tolerate chocolate – but not together. Chocolate is too sweet and ruins the taste of a good pint. Besides, it’s probably a good thing that I don’t like them equally because I would end up being so big that Tories would start pointing to me and saying “That’s what’s wrong with Britain.”

They probably say that about me anyway.

It is possible to combine beer and chocolate in a bizarre way though. At a beer festival earlier this year, I spotted a “Chocolate Beer”. Mrs PM was with me and she said “OOH!! I have to try some of that.”

Me and my mates grimaced and thought that it was an unholy alliance. We weren’t so appalled that we didn’t want to try it though. Mrs PM obliged and gave me a swig.

At first I thought, yes – it really DOES taste like chocolate.

Sadly, that’s about as far as the positives went before being swamped by the negatives. After the initial chocolate buzz the taste of the beer burst through leaving a totally unpleasant bittersweet taste in my mouth that made me feel slightly queasy. Worse, the colour of the beer wasn’t the most alluring thing I have ever seen; a kind of dark diarrhoea brown.

Mrs PM struggled on and by the end of it, her verdict was “I’m never drinking that again.”

This just goes to show that two rights can make a wrong.

Leave the beer in the pub, to enjoy with your mates, and the chocolate at work to get you through the day – especially if served by senior managers with a nice cup of coffee.

Nothing is sweeter than that.

Mr Clumsy

I am not clumsy by nature.

There are people out there who may not believe this and, sadly, there is evidence suggesting that I can be a lumbering oaf with all of the coordination of a drunken donkey.

Take last Thursday for example.

I was invited to the Stockport Beer Festival. It was Thursday, so initially I wasn’t too keen. Drinking on a “school night” is bad practice, typically, as the repercussions the next day can be quite nasty. Hangovers at my time of life are monsters and torture me for days.

I decided to go late and leave early – a sound plan in theory.

The event was held at Stockport County Football ground, which is about four miles from where I live and a bus ride away. I arrived at about 8:45.

Beer festivals are fun and great for people watching. Once you have paid your entrance fee, you buy your souvenir glass and sample all wonder of real ales from around the region. For those who like weird drinks, they also have a fairly chunky selection of perries and ciders that can quite literally blow your head apart if you have too much.

I stick to beer – I know its strength and I know how many I can have before I have to stop.

The real ale connoisseurs who attend these festivals can be quite weird; they treat their beer like wine and urge people to sip it and savour it. You are expected to buy half pints so you can sample as much as you can before falling over. Most of these people have beer guts so big that small moons orbit them.

And some of their beards are something else.

I met a couple or mates and a few work colleagues and had an enjoyable hour or two sipping various beers with names like Black Mamba, Nutty Slack, White Nancy, Sworn Secret, Wren’s Nest, Tiger Rut, Silver Magnet, Dizzy Blonde, Village Idiot, Brassed Off, Battle Cruiser, Blond Witch, Alchemist Ale, Weapons of Mouth Destruction, Matron’s Delight, Dragon Slayer, Old Stoatwobbler and Monkman’s Slaughter.

At around 10:40 I decided I’d had enough and started the fifteen minute walk back to Stockport Bus Station to catch my bus home.

Sadly, I was walking a little too slowly and realised that I would miss my bus if I didn’t run. I was carrying my souvenir pint pot in a plastic bag. I decided to run.

Running is something I used to do quite a lot and I was quite fast in my youth. Sadly, these days, I am neither fast nor fit. Something kicked in and I managed to sprint to the station with not much trouble. At the far end of the station I could see my bus. I would make it.

At this point my clumsy gene kicked in. As I ran across a kerb, I tripped.

I was hurtling at quite a fast pace and realised what had happened. I found myself lurching forward. Had I not been carrying a pint pot I might have made it with my pride intact. Half my mind was determined to save the glass so I foolishly adjusted my body so that I didn’t smash it.

I found myself careering out of control towards the floor, my arms whirling like a demented windmill. The laws of physics refused to yield and I sprawled headfirst into the pavement, the shattering of my pint pot ringing in my ears as it lost the battle with the concrete.

The word that escaped my lips, dear reader, is not one that I would like to publish in this post.

My bus was still there and I had to reach it, so I got up and started running again. That was when I discovered the consequences of my fall.

My right hand had scraped along the concrete and taken the top layer of skin off an area the size of a 2p piece.

My right elbow was bruised.

My right elbow was grazed.

My left knee was bruised.

My left hand (the hand carrying the pint pot, the hand that had failed in its sworn duty to protect the pint pot, the hand that is probably pissed off with me because I am right handed) was injured.

The shattered glass had escaped the bag and cut my left hand in a few places. I stood up and started running again and noticed blood splattering as I ran.

I stopped and stared at my hand in disbelief.

There was no pain – just blood. It looked as if I had dipped my hand in a bucket of the stuff.

I made the decision to continue my run for the bus but as I did so, I identified the cuts and sucked them to try to stem the bleeding.

I reached the bus just as he was pulling off but he took pity on me and let me on.

With my bloody left hand hidden behind my back, I managed to extract the coins I needed with my right hand (which was also cut) and paid the driver.

I ran upstairs hoping that there was nobody there. There wasn’t – I was alone.

I examined my still bleeding left hand and realised that all of the blood was coming from just two cuts. The rest of my injuries were minor scratches.

I found a discarded newspaper and tore strips off it to add pressure to the cuts – and thankfully after a few minutes they stopped.

All of this was too late because by now my jeans were blood-stained and I had nothing to wash the blood off my hands.

When the bus arrived at my destination, I plunged my hands into my pockets and walked downstairs. There was a trail of blood spots from my injured hand.

I thanked the driver who stared at me as if I had just walked off a spaceship and said “Take me to your leader.”

When I arrived home, I was about to tell Mrs PM the entire sorry tale but she beat me to it.

“WHAT’S HAPPENED TO YOU?” she said looking shocked.

It was then I caught my reflection in the mirror; my mouth was covered in blood. I looked like a crazed vampire. No wonder the bus driver was terrified.

My attempts at sucking my wounds had deposited great smears of blood onto my face.

Mrs PM thought I had been in a fight with a rabid vampire.

I cleaned up my wounds and as I applied a couple of plasters I told my sorry tale to Mrs PM. She struggled between sympathy and trying not to laugh.

The next day at work, my colleagues were merciless.

“You drunken oaf!”

“HA HA HA HA HA HA HA! You idiot! HA HA HA HA HA HA!”

And I swear that I wasn’t drunk, dear reader. Even my beloved children were merciless.

My eldest lad, who has just turned eighteen pointed at me, laughing and said “FAIL!!!!!!”

My youngest lad just laughed.

So there you have it, dear reader. Mr Clumsy is alive and well and living in Manchester.

What lessons have I learned? A simple one :

NEVER RUN FOR A BUS WHEN YOU ARE CARRYING A BEER FESTIVAL PINT POT. THERE IS ALWAYS A TAXI AROUND.

The truth is that smashing up my souvenir pint pot hurts more than the wounds or my pride.

What a pillock I am.

Survival Of The Drunkest?

The human race is evolving and it is all down to alcohol.

You may think that I have lost my mind, dear reader, but if you read on you will find yourself agreeing with me.

I am certain of this.

Well, there is an element of doubt.

Okay – you may NOT agree with me and you might end up considering me to be a weird arse. Nevertheless, please indulge me because I know I’m right.

Well maybe – perhaps!

Picture the scene. You have been invited to a major event that will involve drinking, dancing and generally revelling in a night club, or some similar debauched establishment, and you are preparing yourself.

You want to turn heads.

You want members of the opposite sex to fall in love with you.

You want the world to be talking about you tomorrow.

There is only so much you can do, physically. If, like me, you look like a decrepit old grape, then the task is almost impossible. If you are a woman, no matter how wonderfully attractive you are, you will still want to spend approximately six hours perfecting your appearance.

That is a given and has nothing to do with evolution. That is human pride and the need to be loved. And we all need to be loved (well, apart from Piers Morgan or Sarah Palin perhaps).

The evolutionary part is the way our bodies have developed to cope with the effects of imbibing too much alcohol. Some of these evolutionary traits are harmful - so I guess maybe you could say that there is a paradox here – we are evolving and regressing at the same time.

Of course, not everybody goes out planning to drink a lake of beer and wine. Most people know their limits and can enjoy themselves responsibly.

However, there are those who opt to break the record for the largest amount of alcoholic beverages ever consumed and there are also those who forget about responsibility and simply go with the flow without realising that they too are consuming a small river of beer.

And this is where evolution kicks in – and also regression.

The evening has started and you are surrounded by your friends. Everybody has had a couple of beers and the conversation is flowing. This is when the first evolutionary trait suddenly kicks in – the Beer Brain.

The Beer Brain is responsible for unleashing that inner potential that exists in all of us. When the Beer Brain is activated, entrepreneurial ideas that exist in a dusty old chest within our minds are suddenly released. The fact that this chest has a sign on it saying “DO NOT OPEN – EVER!!!” is completely ignored. Alcohol gives us the ability to shatter that lock and unleash all of our potential on the unsuspecting crowd. There will be those who are sceptical about this – but I am certain that in that chest there is a massive idea waiting to be implemented.

Something like, perhaps, the spaghetti mask. When eating spaghetti and you slurp it up, the end flies around spraying tomato sauce all over the place and, more importantly, all over your glasses (this is painful for me I can tell you). So you wear a metal mask with a mouth hole that takes all the spray as you slurp.

What about a homing sock? Each pair of socks comes with a remote control and an in-built locator device. When the button is pressed on the remote control, the sock comes to you – you will never lose a sock again.

Maybe a pair of underpants that you can turn into a toilet at the push of a button (something like this would be useful for me on my forthcoming trip to China).

How about an ironing machine? All you have to do is throw you clean but frazzled clothing into a machine, wait a while and extract the neatly ironed product. Some men may say that they have a device that goes the whole hog – called a washing basket. All they have to do is pile their dirty washing in the washing basket and, hey presto – in a couple of days it is hanging up crisp and clean in your wardrobe. Sadly, I don’t own such a basket and have to endure the full manual cycle – including the ironing.

After the Beer Brain, comes the Beer Ego. The Beer Ego transforms you into the greatest person who has ever lived – all it takes is a little more beer. Suddenly, when the Beer Ego detonates, you are the world’s greatest dancer, the world’s greatest conversationalist and the world’s most attractive person – all rolled into one. You can do no wrong. Eyes turn whenever you hit the dance floor and every member of the opposite sex wants to have your babies.

What about this poor fella?

Yes - that is me under the influence of the Beer Ego playing my guitar to the Drifters at New Year.

And, of course, there are the Beer Goggles that help you to select an equally attractive mate. The most hideous creature known to man can in an instant become the most attractive person on the planet:

Somebody once told me that Beer Goggles help ugly people get partners. It clearly didn’t work in my case, because Mrs PM really is lovely (mind you – I think she wears her Beer Goggles permanently).

Anyway, having solved the world’s problems with your Beer Brain, charmed everybody with your Beer Ego and used your Beer Goggles to grab yourself a date with a member of the opposite sex, it is now time to go home.

The amount of beer it takes to activate the Beer Brain, Beer Ego and Beer Goggles does take its toll and here, dear reader, is where the final evolutionary miracle occurs. You have two choices:

(1) The Homing Device – this is a built in six sense that somehow manages to inform your addled brain that you have, perhaps, consumed just a little bit too much alcohol. This fabulous mental device guides you in the direction of the exit, fending off all cries of “You can’t go yet, Dave,” with a dismissive wave of the hand and a heartfelt “OMGUWINUM”. This ingenious evolutionary part of your brain can direct you out of the pub or club and start you off on your way home. Mind you, it isn’t totally dependable, in which case a second ingenious evolutionary advancement comes into play:

(2) The Beer Scooter – The problem with the Beer Scooter is that nobody knows exactly how it works. The Beer Scooter is a miracle. Why?

(a) The Beer Scooter obtains fuel automatically (usually in the form of a large Donner Kebab).

(b) The Beer Scooter gets you home, no matter how much cash you have left after your night out on the town. Some sceptics say that taxis or The Nutty Bus are involved – but I don’t buy it.

(c) The Beer Scooter not only gets you to your front door; it gets you in the house, undressed and into bed. Some advanced humans sometimes even find that the Beer Scooter has provided water to help minimise the inevitable cost of your depraved evening.

So there you have it, dear reader; my theory of evolution due to alcohol and in the past, I have taken advantage of all these evolutionary enhancements. Sadly, they have dulled with age – even my Beer Goggles have stopped working.

Alas, so has my Beer Scooter, though I have found a half-eaten Donner Kebab in the fridge on occasion so perhaps it still works - a bit.

Actually, thinking about it, why on earth would anybody put a half-eaten Donner Kebab in the fridge? If anything is going to induce a violent reaction when you have a hangover it’s going to be a cold half-chewed scraggy lump of unidentifiable meat wrapped in cardboard and covered in “all the dressings – especially the monster strength chilli sauce”.

Perhaps we are regressing back to being apes after all.

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.

Visiting Vikings

I found myself surrounded by four stunningly beautiful blond Icelandic girls dancing in the throes of musical ecstasy. And before you say “OK Dave, what happened when you woke up?” I can tell you with my hand on my heart that I wasn’t dreaming. I will reveal all later in the post.

As you may have guessed from a few minor clues in my tweets and the previous blog post, I whisked Mrs PM away on a weekend to Reykjavik as a present for her fortieth birthday.

Mrs PM has always wanted to visit Iceland and, as is typical of her, she had to pick the year that a volcano erupted leading to the closure of most of European airspace for almost a week.

Eyjafjallajökull, bored sitting there twiddling it’s rocks, suddenly decided that it had had enough and proceeded to blow its top and announce its presence not only to Iceland, but also to the entire world.

“Look at me! I am Eyjafjallajökull! You may not be able to say my name but here I am anyway – and I’m bloody livid.”

I watched the news thinking: isn’t that just typical? In my last post I hinted about a phenomenon called the “Lisa effect” (Lisa is Mrs PM’s name for those who didn’t read the post). My beloved is scatterbrained (by her own admission) and bad luck and trouble do sometimes have a tendency to follow her around. I will expand on this phenomenon in future posts but for now, dear reader, just take my word for it.

Thankfully, the volcano must have calmed down a little because we were able to go on holiday in May and also our trip to see the land that spawned the volcano became reality on Friday last week.

When it came to packing, I foolishly decided that Reykjavik in the summer would be just a little cooler than Manchester in August. The BBC weather forecast confirmed my thoughts indicating temperatures of 14 degrees during the day for the duration of the trip. I packed a couple of T-shirts, a couple of shirts and a thin leather jacket. Mrs PM packed her autumn/winter coat.

We arrived late on Friday afternoon and it soon became clear that Iceland was expensive. We caught a bus to the centre of Reykjavik at the cool cost of 4500 Icelandic Krona (ISK) which translates to around £30 for a return trip. A taxi would have cost 8000 ISK or £50 each way.

We were keen to get out and see as much of the city as quickly as possible. Having dumped our bag we made our way to the city centre, approximately twenty minutes walk from the hotel and explored to get our bearings.

The temperature was a little cool I thought and I felt the cold wind biting through my thin leather jacket and shirt. I began to regret not bringing a warmer jacket.
We explored the city for a little while, hopping into a bar when the temperature became just a little too chilly. I bought two pints of Icelandic beer and handed over 1600 ISK: beer was £5 a pint which is roughly twice the price of beer in the UK.

We found a nice little restaurant called Caruso where we enjoyed a lovely meal followed by a visit to one or two bars before retiring for the night. Ominously, Mrs PM said “We have a big day tomorrow; we need a good night’s sleep.”
On Saturday morning at 9am, I peered out of the hotel window and saw a totally blue sky with sunshine to match. I assumed that the temperature would match and dressed in a T-shirt and thin jacket. I was partly right; the temperature was definitely warmer and we enjoyed a stroll around the city centre again watching insane people finishing off a marathon.

Saturday was a big day in Reykjavik. Not only was there a marathon, it was also the Reykjavik Culture festival. The crowds were out in force, applauding lots of very brave athletes as they finished their massive run around the streets of the city. I’ve flippantly referred to them as “insane” but they all put me to shame. There were all sorts of people: old people, young people, fat people, thin people, tall people, short people and some weird people.

We saw one guy with half of his leg missing who had run the marathon with prosthesis, which is a massive achievement. I was in awe of the guy.
At lunchtime, we returned to our hotel to catch a bus to the Blue Lagoon, a geothermal spa that is one of the most popular tourist attractions in Iceland. In the weeks leading up to the trip, Mrs PM had told me that visitors enjoy bathing in warm waters that are rich in minerals and that they cake themselves in mud before washing it all off.

My weird imagination ran amok. I envisaged myself covered from head to foot in dirty brown mud, looking more “The Creature from the Black Lagoon” than a human being. I had told Mrs PM in no uncertain terms that there was absolutely no way I was going anywhere near to any mud at all. I was totally wrong on so many counts.

Before entering the water, it was mandatory to have a shower to adhere to the strict hygiene requirements. And just in case I had any doubts about how to take a shower, a diagram of a man indicated exactly where I had to pay particular attention, including my nether regions, if you get my meaning.

Suitably washed and clean, I wandered down to the water and heard Mrs PM calling me from in the water. The outside temperature was now quite nippy and I gingerly stepped in expecting it to be slightly warm. In fact, at an average of 40 degrees, it was a bit of a shock to the system. I gasped as I plunged in; it was like climbing into a very warm bath. The water was milky and opaque and very pleasant. Mrs PM and I drifted around in the water, encountering the occasional hot spot where the temperature rose a couple of degrees. Sulphurous steam billowed across certain parts of the pool with a slightly offensive odour.

Mrs PM led me to some buckets and asked if I wanted to put some mud on my face. To my surprise, the mud was in fact white and called silica mud and others were smearing it on their face and shoulders. Mrs PM scooped up a handful from a bucket and covered here face in it. I thought, what the hell, and did the same. After around ten minutes, the mud had hardened. I laughed at Mrs PM’s appearance without realising that I looked the same – a berk with a white mud mask.



“Fancy a sauna?” asked Mrs PM.

I had never had a sauna so I followed her into a steam filled room. It was bloody hot I can tell you. An older guy walked in and sat down. Trying to make conversation I said “Hot isn’t it?”

“No shit, Sherlock,” he replied. He didn’t really. “No – this is mild?” were his true words.

Mild? Crikey – I was melting. After ten minutes I had had enough and plunged back into the relatively cooler white waters of the spa.
Before we left, we enjoyed a cold beer while still in the water. It was a wonderful contrast and very relaxing.

The one annoying thing that marred our trip was the loss of our camera. Mrs PM wanted to photos of us in mud masks, which I must admit would have been funny to post here. But the camera had gone missing while we were getting changed (we’re not sure who had it at the time). It was a sad ending to a truly wonderful experience.

Back in Reykjavik, Mrs PM had plans. When I look back on the events of Saturday night, I can’t help but think that Mrs PM was trying to prove that she was still able to party at the age of forty. She warned me that she wanted to fully enjoy a night out in one of the party capitals of the world. I, on the other hand, recalled a similar night out in Hong Kong a couple of years ago (you can read about it here). The memory of how I felt the next day dictated how we would approach this particular evening; have a rest, eat and go out later.

It sort of worked. The Reykjavik Cultural Festival put paid to that. Curious about the event, we left earlier than planned and headed for the centre of town down the lively shopping street called Laugavegur. Hundreds of people were making their way down the street, some drinking beer from cans and bottles, including a very well dressed lady. The street had been closed to traffic and the atmosphere was energetic, with people smiling and laughing and clearly under the influence of alcohol. Within the space of about a hundred yards we saw three separate musical acts performing in the street; a dance band, an Indie band and finally, at the rear of a rock bar called Dillons, a strange band led by a large gentleman playing a trombone. It was an excuse for the first beer of the night, so I persuaded Mrs PM to watch this last band, citing my own ability to play the trombone as an excuse.

The beer was nice but the cold weather made it uncomfortable. The wind at this point was very strong, turning Laugavegur into a freezing wind tunnel. Wearing just a shirt and a thin leather jacket, the wind tore away any thermal protection that I had and I shivered in the cold. The locals were all wearing woolly hats, thick gloves, scarves and winter coats; I must have looked like a complete idiot to these people.

After Dillons, we ate in a crowded restaurant and attacked the night again. Determined to stay out as late as possible, Mrs PM led me to an Irish bar, called The Celtic Cross. As I was being served a massive explosion erupted outside, signaling the firework display that would end the evening (it was midnight at this point). Thankfully from the window, I was able to see most of the display in the warmth of the pub. Mrs PM on the other hand joined the throngs outside; it was far too cold for me.

A drunken Icelander raised his beer to me and shouted something in his mother tongue. I didn’t have a beer at this point so I just raised an empty hand. He staggered over to me and said something else, staring at me as if I had wobbled into the bar from another planet. It was quite clear that I was a tourist so he raised his hand. I understood – I gave him a high five and he rewarded me with a cheer before leaving the bar.

The firework display was spectacular – one of the best I have seen. Mrs PM returned to the bar and we managed to get a seat, which was just as well because suddenly the place filled up with revellers. I have never seen a bar fill so quickly with people.

We visited a couple of other places and the music playing was bizarre, songs that I hadn’t heard for decades like (Si Si) Je Suis Un Rockstar by Bill Wyman and Live is Life by Opus. We heard the latter song twice in different bars – it must be a big favourite in Iceland because people began to sing – sadly including Mrs PM.

One bar we went to, called Kofi Tómasar Frænda (Uncle Tom’s Cabin) was a café by day, a bar by evening and then a night club – the smallest club I have ever seen. As we watched, the tables were gradually taken away leaving a big space for dancing.

The next bar was actually a night club and as we approached I had a sick feeling inside. Yes – Mrs PM wanted “a boogie” which meant that the place would be playing the worst music in the world. The place was called B5 and eventually we got in. It was packed to the rafters with young Icelanders. I started to feel old.

As I sipped my beer and grimaced internally at the dreadful dance music, Mrs PM excused herself to go to the toilet, leaving me standing there on my own. It gave me the opportunity to people watch – and I enjoyed it immensely. The average age of the place was, I reckoned, between 25 and 30. Mrs PM and I probably raised the upper range to 30 to be fair. The women were a young guy’s dream; tall, nubile with blonde hair cascading over their shoulders and wearing extremely sexy outfits.

Now before you chastise me for being a dirty old man, let me say in my defence that I am a man and I can’t help it. I watched them, fascinated by their youth and good looks. They responded by showing how oblivious they were to my existence.


Mrs PM took an age to go to the toilet, which was hardly surprising given the number of people in the place. More people were coming in and something had to give. Before I knew it, I was being squeezed into a tiny corner by the crowd and, in particular, the four very attractive women I mentioned at the start of the post. They gradually became aware of my presence but continued to dance around me as if I were a statue. Perhaps they thought I was an old uncle or something like that.

When Mrs PM fought her way back through the crowd, she approached and saw me surrounded by these lovely ladies. She managed to get to me and laughed.

“You look like you were enjoying yourself,” she said. Before I could answer, she added, “And you looked terrified.”

To be honest, I was a little wary because of the closeness of these strangers but I certainly enjoyed my minor flirt with youth.

We left soon after and entered possibly the most crowded pub in the world. It was called “The English Pub” and we were probably the only English people in there. It was so crowded that it took me a full ten minutes to fight my way to the toilet while Mrs PM fought her way to the bar. An impatient woman behind Mrs PM was so frustrated at her lack of progress that she reached over Mrs PM’s shoulders and hauled people out of the way, propelling Mrs PM straight to the bar. I made it back from the toilet just in time to see Mrs PM knock over my pint of ale – an act that made me wince, given the prices here - and, of course I had to fight my way BACK to the bar. Before we left this overcrowded drinking pit, I managed to attract the attention of an Icelander who promptly gave me a huge hug. Shame it was a bloke.

By now it was almost three o’clock in the morning and my tired old bones were urging me to go to bed. Mrs PM had other ideas and dragged me to Reykjavik’s most popular night club – a place called Nasa. Thankfully, the entrance fee was a whopping 2500 ISK (roughly £15) and common sense prevailed.

We had one for the road at a final bar and wandered back through the crowds to our hotel. People were drunk and boisterous and still queuing up to get into the numerous bars and clubs. What surprised me most was the lack of police. In Manchester on a Saturday night, the police are out in force to maintain order amongst the drunken rabble. In Reykjavik, there wasn’t even a hint of trouble. On the contrary, people were laughing and dancing (probably to keep warm).

Remembering my experience in Hong Kong, I drank approximately two gallons of water before retiring for the night.

I awoke the next day feeling slightly hung over but we managed to get out and spend our last day exploring the city for one final time.

The final evening was spent in a traditional Icelandic restaurant where I tried something new for the first time; mink whale. It tasted like steak.

We’re back in one piece now and despite the rain in Manchester, at least I am warm.

I would recommend Reykjavik to you, dear reader, with no hesitation whatsoever. However, here are a few words of advice based on things I learned from the trip:

(1) Take your wallet – you will need it and you will need to keep feeding it.

(2) Don’t go out to paint the town red until midnight at the earliest.

(3) Make sure that you dress for winter. The days are fine but the wind at night will slice you in two.

(4) Never ever tell your missus that the waitress in the café is absolutely gorgeous – unless you don’t mind being walloped in public (I have to say she was stunning – long blonde hair, very pretty and well worth the pain).

(5) I should really stop going to night clubs full of gorgeous blonde women. I’m not 25 any more - I am simply a discotheque wreck. Mind you – it was very nice.

Next time I will take earplugs to protect me from the dreadful music.

The Christmas Party Hangover

Mrs PM and I have made what could be a big mistake.

Every year our respective companies organise a Christmas party. Last year, they were a week apart. Unfortunately, this year they are within a day of each other. When the dates for each event were specified, my immediate thought was:

“Oh no! Two parties in on consecutive days – we have to miss one of them.”

Mrs PM’s reaction was:

“Don’t be such a wuss! We’ll go to BOTH!”

This coming Friday, my company is heading off to Old Trafford, the stadium were Manchester United play, to partake in an event called “One Night In Bangkok”, which takes place in a huge marquee in the car park next to the ground.

Mrs PM’s mob are heading off to Liverpool to the “Hard Days Night Hotel”, which, as you can probably guess, pays homage to the Beatles. The date? Saturday night; and because it is in Liverpool, we have to drive over there and stay the night.

So the question is, am I wuss or not?

Well, the truth is that in my 20s and 30s I probably would have relished the opportunity. Sadly, my ageing body now refuses to acknowledge the capacity for ale I enjoyed in my youth. I now suffer from “the two day hangover”.

I would guess that a few readers who stumble across the drivel I write aren’t familiar with the sensation of consuming alcohol and the after effects of the debauchery that ensues when one imbibes too much. For those readers, allow me to illustrate how a night out at a typical works Christmas party may pan out.

At approximately 5:30 (two hours before the party starts), I vow not to overdo it. I recall last years embarrassment – actually, that’s not actually true. The photographs jog my memory and the merciless mocking from my workmates etches the unfortunate events in into my brain.

I tell Mrs PM that I will not drink too much. She laughs and says “You said that last year. We’ll see.”

The taxi arrives at 7pm and off we go. The conversation goes something like this:

Mrs PM: I LOVE Christmas. I LOVE Christmas parties.

Me: I am definitely not drinking too much tonight.

Mrs PM: Must we go through this again? Remember last year? Remember the free red wine? Remember Neil making sure that we were on a table with at least four non-drinkers so that we could have MORE free wine?

Me: Yes – but I will definitely NOT overdo it.

We arrive at the party and within seconds one of my mates has thrust a pint of finest bitter into my hands with a “Get THAT down you!”

The pint is quite refreshing and it’s not long before hints are being dropped: “Get the beer in then, Dave!”

Off I go to the bar and, as I order the beer, I repeat the mantra in my brain: “Must not overdo it! MUST NOT OVERDO IT!”

A few moments later we arrive at our table; waiting for us are ten bottles of wine. I look around and see that there are six drinkers and four non-drinkers. Oh no – not again!

Time passes and the people on our table fully immerse themselves in the atmosphere. I am forced (by Mrs PM) to wear a silly hat that looks even more ridiculous with my incredibly bad hair. People blow up party balloons and fire them off at targets (usually managers) with a huge loud “WEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!”. A plastic frog lands in my glass of red wine (how many have I had now?). I pull a cracker with Mrs PM and she wins the prize (again)! As a forfeit I have to read out the terrible joke:

What's big, grey and wears glass slippers? Cinderelephant.

I try to recall how much wine I have had but my brain feels like it is mutating into a giant marshmallow. I look at my glass of wine and it is full. Did I fill it or was it somebody else? Have I had any at all? Maybe one glass, possibly two?

The main course appears and we all dig into our first turkey of the Christmas period (at the end of Christmas we will all transform into turkeys I’m sure of it. Apart from vegetarians who will probably become stuffed peppers).

I take a sip of red wine. And another. And another.

At some point, the beer takes its toll and I have to go to the toilet. As I am walking, I start to work out how much I have had. One glass of wine and two pints. Or is it two glasses of wine and three pints? Alarm bells start to ring. Have I had too much already? In the toilet, I stare at myself in the mirror and then start a conversation with my reflection:

Me: How much have you had? And why don’t you take off that stupid hat?

Reflection: Well you can focus on me and you have definitely made it to the toilet without falling over or wobbling. You’re OK!

Me: OK

A man walks out of a trap and stares at me as if I am a complete idiot.

Back at the table, dessert has arrived. Christmas bloody pudding covered in brandy sauce – a dessert concocted in the bowels of Hades.

“Not Christmas Pudding again. I’m sure I ordered mince pie!”

“I LOVE Christmas pudding,” says Mrs PM. “And this is the first of many portions for you this year!”

Reluctantly and stupidly I eat my Christmas Pudding. It is like eating tar!

My mouth is glued shut and my jaws ache trying to chew this disgusting stodge. I need some liquid – lots of liquid. What’s that? A FULL glass of red wine? I could have sworn that it was almost empty. Oh well!

The wine does the job and dissolves the tar.

The DJ, a man who has eaten two days worth of happy pills, announces that the entertainment is about to begin.

“Ladies and gentlemen! It’s time for the PARTY TO BEGIN! Let’s start with that old party classic – YMCA!”

Oh no! I frantically look around as the cold hand of fear clutches my soul. And there she is, making her way across the huge room towards me. I hear the words:

“COME ON DAVE! IT’S TRADITIONAL!”

Cazzy is coming to drag me onto the dance floor for our annual YMCA dance (maybe I will tell you the story of why this is traditional one day). I try to hide under the table but before I know it, I am being pulled by a determined woman towards the flashing lights of the dance floor. I am clutching a glass of wine and drink it to ease my forthcoming humiliation. And there’s nobody on the dance floor – it will just be me and Cazzy – AGAIN!

Behind me, my workmates leap up armed with cameras, to record the event and once more I find myself singing and dancing and posing for photos.

Young man, there's no need to feel down.

I said, young man, pick yourself off the ground.

I said, young man, 'cause you're in a new town

There's no need to be unhappy.


Young man, there's a place you can go.

I said, young man, when you're short on your dough.

You can stay there, and I'm sure you will find

Many ways to have a good time.


It's fun to stay at the y-m-c-a.

It's fun to stay at the y-m-c-a.



Suddenly I realise that I’m enjoying myself. I don’t know why I hide from Cazzy every year! With YMCA still ringing in my ears, and now with a few colleagues dancing away with us, we listen to all the Christmas songs from Wizzard, Slade, Band Aid etc. that are dusted off every year.

I am hot now and need to cool down. I return to my table and find a pint of beer there. Good! I’ve had enough of red wine. Oh – there’s a glass of red wine next to it and it’s full – and it’s mine.

“MUST NOT OVERDO IT! MUST NOT OVERDO IT! OH SOD IT!!!”

The remainder of the evening becomes a blur. Many photos are taken of me eating mince pie while doing the Macarena; I am videoed singing “Man I Feel Like A Woman” by Shania Twain, my jacket and tie are off and I am bounding up to the dance floor for every cheesy pop song that I despise.

At the end of the night I am in a taxi, convinced that I am as sober as a judge. At home I rest my weary head on my pillow and catch the train to Dreamland. The slight buzzing sensation in my head is nothing to worry about.

WRONG!

The next morning I open my eyes and realise that I am being beaten up. My head is pounding. I can’t see the assailant at all and I wonder why the invisible man is trying to hammer nails into my skull.

And then it starts to come back. The mantra “mustn’t overdo it” is a distant memory. I close my eyes again but the beating doesn’t go away. My tongue is glued to the roof of my mouth by the remains of Christmas Pudding (something that could be used to surface motorways).
I am desperately thirsty and pluck up the courage to go downstairs for much needed water. I see my suit cast to the four winds – didn’t I hang it up last night?

I struggle downstairs, my head pounding like a pneumatic drill.

Mrs PM is in the kitchen as fresh as a daisy.

“You look like shit,” she laughs. “You overdid it, didn’t you?”

“Why are you so fresh?” I ask.

“I took it easy,” she replies.

I look at my reflection in the mirror. My hair is sticking up in every conceivable direction; my eyes are bloodshot; my tongue looks and feels like a carpet in a demolished house; the bags under my eyes are so big you could pack a turkey in each.

As I sip from a glass of ice cold water, Mrs PM reminds me of what occurred the night before. I start to cringe as I recall dancing like a demented gorilla to songs like “The Birdy Song”. Once more there is video evidence of me pretending to be a Kevin Rowland and belting out an awful version of “Come On Eileen”.

Mrs PM reminds me that I fell over during “New York, New York”. Apparently there’s a photo of me sitting on the floor like a complete arse and grinning inanely.

But thankfully, Mrs PM reminds me of other people; the man who was sent to bed in the hotel for being too drunk; another who did a break dance with his tie wrapped around his head like Rambo; others who spilled red wine down their pristine white shirts;

I’m thankful that I only fell over once. I’m grateful that I didn’t insult anybody.

So, this year, I really DO have to take it easy. Last year, my hangover was bearable but lasted two whole days – the first day recovering from the after effects of over-indulgence (headaches, indigestion etc.), the second day due to lack of sleep from the first night.

I will report on this busy weekend sometime next week.

And I must remember the mantra – I MUST NOT OVERDO IT!