Mr Polite

I’m running out of ways to say “I’m sorry!”

I’m also running out of ways to say “Thank you!”

You see, as a British person, I am cursed with over-politeness, an ailment that has conditioned me to say “Thank you!” even when no thanks are normally necessary and “I’m sorry!” when I do not need to apologise.

My condition is so far gone that I end up looking for the translations of “Thank you” and “I’m sorry” into the native language of any country I visit.

I can say “I’m sorry” and “Thank you” in 352 different languages.

Just last week, I was in Nice and I found myself saying “Je suis désolé” to an absolutely clumsy bonehead who walked out of a shop without looking and barged straight into me, stamping on my foot in the process.
I wanted to say:

“You clumsy blind dickhead! Why don’t you watch where you’re bloody well going?”

But my brain forced me to say:

“Excusez-moi, monsieur. Je suis désolé!”

as if the entire episode had been my fault. I was the injured party having had my big toe crushed by a whopping great hoof clad I a brightly coloured French designer shoe, while having an elbow rammed into my midriff.

The man simply ignored me.

My worst fear is following a person down a really long corridor with approximately one hundred closed doors. If he is just a couple of yards in front of me, he will end up holding each door open for me and I will have to say “Thank you” in a variety of ways, so as not to appear to have a limited vocabulary as well as being impolite. And of course, living in Britain there is a very high chance that the person concerned will be British too, which means that he has to think of numerous ways to say “That’s OK!”.

Can you picture that scene, dear reader?

1st door

“Thank you!”  “You’re welcome!”

2nd door

“Thanks!”    “That’s okay!”

3rd door

“Cheers!”   “No problem!”

4th door

“Ta mate!”   “No worries!”

. . .
. . .

85th door …

(OH MY GOD - NOT ANOTHER DOOR!!) “You’re so kind!”
(FOR CRYING OUT LOUD!!)  “Any time!”

By the time we both reach door 100 we will inwardly want to kill each other while at the same time smiling politely and rifling through our mental thesauruses desperate to find yet another way to continue this pathetic charade.

It seems to me that when you are born in Britain, you suddenly lose all common sense when it comes to politeness.

Why is that?

Surely, politeness needs to be meant, and British people are so good at portraying a front of courtesy that I don’t trust any of them – myself included.

I know for a fact that inwardly each person is churning when they apologise for something – especially out of politeness when it was not even their fault.

BRIT1: I’m sorry!

BRIT 2: No, I must insist that it is my fault.

BRIT1: You are so kind but I have to apologise for it.

BRIT2: You are so gracious – and that’s wonderful but it truly is my                  fault.

What is truly meant is:

BRIT1: You clumsy great oaf! What do you think you are doing?

BRIT2: If I weren’t in a public place I would punch you in the face for                that you dickhead!

We are even polite when it comes to paying for meals – as illustrated in this clip:

While we are sometimes genuinely sincere, there are occasions when we may not actually mean what we say. Here are a few examples. You can generally judge by listening to what we say and looking at our faces for tell-tale signs that we may be disguising our true feelings behind a façade of courtesy:

What we say:
Yes, the wine is fine!
What we probably mean: 
This wine is horse piss!

What we say:                     
With all due respect …
What we probably mean: 
You’re a bloody idiot …

What we say:                     
Keep in touch!
What we probably mean:  
Don’t keep in touch!

What we say:                    
Call any time
What we probably mean: 
For God’s sake ring me before you call!

What we say:                    
It’s all my fault!
What we probably mean:  
It’s your fault you absolute arse!

What we say:                     
Oh are you sure you’ll get this round of beers? I don’t mind getting it.
What we probably mean:   
Get your hand in your pocket and BUY THE BEERS! IT'S YOUR BLOODY ROUND YOU TIGHT-FISTED GIT!

What we say:                     
That sounds like a good idea.
What we probably mean:  
Are you insane? It’s a bloody stupid idea.

What we say:                       
I’m so sorry!
What we probably mean:  
I'm not sorry at all!! You’re a clumsy great oaf!

Actually, I’ve just realised that if you are not British, you may read this post and no longer trust me or any other Englishman ever again when he is genuinely being sincere and polite. What you need to do, as suggested above, is to judge the situation from body language.

For example, when Monsieur Oaf did his best to merge his elbow with my chest while at the same time trying to flatten my foot, my voice (through gritted teeth) said “I’m sorry, that was totally my fault” while my entire body screamed said “I ought to punch your lights out for trying to kill me and not even acknowledging my presence you totally ignorant arse.”

If he had apologised I would, of course, have bought him a glass of wine and smiled sincerely.

I will conclude by saying:

Thank you so much, dear reader, for taking the time to read this post.

I am genuinely sorry if I caused any offence.

And you can tell from my body language that I am telling the truth.

Pants On Fire

Last night I told Mrs PM about a dream I had.

She is always regaling me with her wild nocturnal fantasies about epic crusades through bizarre worlds created by her subconscious mind; I thought I would return the favour. Here’s how the conversation went.

PM: I had a dream last night.

Mrs PM: Liar!

PM: What? What makes you think I’m lying?

Mrs PM: I can tell. You’re wearing your lying face AND you’re talking with your lying voice.

PM: How DARE you! I am not lying.

Mrs PM rolls her eyes

Mrs PM: Go on then – tell me about your “dream”!

PM: I dreamt that I was having a fight with the Grim Reaper in our house. There was nothing I could use to defend myself so I opened the cupboard under the stairs and grabbed the nearest thing: the hoover.

Mrs PM: Now I KNOW you’re lying – you don’t know where the hoover lives because you never use the bloody thing.

PM ignores that comment

PM: Anyway, I started hitting him with it – and before you know it – I was Dyson with Death! HA HA HA!!! Get it?

Mrs PM: Anybody who thinks you are funny needs to seriously get a life.

The insults aside, Mrs PM knew that I was not telling the truth. I can catch her out but such occasions are very rare. I am a liar – but a very poor liar.

I can tell all manner of porkies on this blog, dear reader, and frequently do.

Actually, that’s not being fair to myself; I don’t lie exactly, I just exaggerate sometimes.

You can’t see me or hear me, dear reader, so you are none the wiser.

The little exchange with Mrs PM got me thinking about lying. How can Mrs PM tell that I am telling a fib? She claims that my face is taken over by, what she calls, the imp. Apparently I yield to the mischievous little goblin within and my face becomes an open book. And then I speak and my voice changes, thus confirming my deceit.

I have decided to do some research on this and there are, supposedly, several tell-tale signs that the person you are talking to is a monstrous fibber. Here are some of them:

(1) Avoiding eye contact – when a person tells a lie they will not look directly into your eye. I’ve tried this; I stared at myself in a mirror and said to my reflection: “I am the sexiest man alive and every woman in the world wants to have my babies”. That must be the truth because I stared right into my reflection’s eyes and uttered this incredible statement. Guess what? I didn’t flinch. It must be true then – I really AM sex on a stick.

(2) Adding unnecessary detail – a liar will waffle on about their lie, dredging their imagination for all manner of drivel to convince the person they are talking to that the bullshit being generated is in fact true. I tried this too. I said to my reflection: “I met Megan Fox, Jennifer Aniston, Madonna, Lady Ga Ga, Beyoncé and all of Girls Aloud and they begged me for a date because, in their opinion, I am the most handsome specimen of manliness on the planet.” I then added all sorts of other nonsense about wild nights with Hollywood sex kittens and my reflection didn’t flinch. Crikey – I need to reconsider my career.

(3) Bad body language – liars will touch their mouths to subconsciously prevent the lie from escaping their lips and also shift uncomfortably from foot to foot. Again I watched my reflection as I said “All of the top supermodels in America have chartered a jet to Manchester with the sole purpose of persuading me, the Plastic Mancunian, to marry them. They spent the entire flight fighting with each other over who gets to ask me first.” Guess what? I didn’t cover my mouth and I didn’t move. It must therefore be true.

I decided that I needed a second opinion and tried these above facts out on another guinea pig: Mrs PM. I started to tell her the three lies above but I had barely uttered the first sentence when she interrupted with: “Lying voice and lying face. You are a LIAR!”

Alas, she didn’t believe me.

I am still unconvinced, dear reader so I am going to tell you about another dream I had. See if you can tell whether I am lying or not:

I walked into an undertaker’s shop and one of the coffins came to life. It started to attack me so I ran away. Unfortunately the coffin was relentless and pursued me for miles. I somehow managed to get home and lock the thing outside. The coffin wasn’t deterred and hurled itself through the lounge window to get to me. Horrified, I ran upstairs, figuring that a coffin wouldn’t be able to climb the stairs. I was wrong. In a blind panic I ran into the bathroom. The coffin was determined and threw itself into the bathroom, smashing down the door in the process and trapping me. I was caught in a blind panic and in desperation I opened the bathroom cabinet and launched everything I could at the coffin; shampoo, toothpaste, bathroom cleaner etc. It was only when I threw the Benylin that the coffin stopped.

Okay – I admit it – I just used this post to justify telling two pathetic jokes.

I am deeply and sincerely sorry, dear reader.

Honestly.

The Flirt

When I was young free and single I often wondered why women used to punch me in the face.

Now, however, I know why: I think I may be a flirt.

Being a flirt is big trouble particularly if, like me, you have a face like that of an exceptionally ugly baboon (though some would say that I am more like the rear end).

I have always envied those handsome guys who can walk up to a woman, flash their most striking smile and capture her heart without saying a word. I’m more likely to make her flee the vicinity as fast as she can, screaming at the monster who has just leered at her.

Life has been difficult for me with women: I’ve had to overcome shyness, having crazy hair and a face that could scare elephants. As a young man, when I approached women and smiled, they usually passed out in pure terror. It was soul-destroying.

Yet despite this, I’ve managed to at least become friends with members of the fairer sex and have been in two long term relationships since my early 20’s.

Before that, however, when a woman talked to me, I assumed that she fancied me. This would inevitably lead me to subconsciously start flirting with her and, fuelled by her kindness or by too much alcohol, I would overstep the mark. Some women simply walked away, others refused to speak to me again. I imagine that being groped by a drunken orang-utan isn’t the most pleasant experience. Others turned to violence and battered me with the nearest blunt object.

I could never get the balance right and I never understood why. You see, I never thought I was a flirt, even when a woman was pounding my face with a cricket bat screaming “STOP FLIRTING WITH ME YOU GROTESQUE GORILLA”.

And of course the beatings have made my situation worse. Every time a woman kicked my face in, I acquired a higher degree of repulsiveness – it was as if I was being hit repeatedly with an ugly stick. My face mutated into a something horrific; I would catch a sight of myself in the mirror the next morning and frighten myself half to death before I realised that the reflection was me having been savaged by an irate victim of my flirtatious nature.

Over the years, I have become older (obviously) and wiser (less obvious). Having a steady girlfriend helped, of course, and since then I have reacted to women in a different way. I still try to make them laugh and ask probing questions in an attempt to understand them but I certainly don’t overstep the mark. Thankfully the beatings have effectively been reduced to zero and until fairly recently I believed this was due to my devotion to my partner. You see I didn’t think I was a flirt.

That all changed a few years ago when I was told by a female friend that I am definitely a flirt. We were talking about astrology and I said “I’m a Libran. I’m supposed to be indecisive and balanced.”

“Librans are also flirts,” she said. “And you flirt all the time.”

“Me? A flirt?” I said incredulously. “I am the opposite of a flirt.”

She then told me that I had basically flirted with her a number of times over the years I had known her. I was speechless and horrified.

“When? When exactly did I flirt with you? Name one single occasion!”

She told me that she had lost count. I was mortified.

“You don’t do it so much now,” she said quickly, trying to make me feel better. It didn’t work. I recalled those awful slaps and beatings that I had received as a young goon and it all began to make a weird kind of sense.

But am I a flirt? What are the signs of flirting for a man like me? Does my body language change? Here are a couple of ways that a man might flirt:

(1) Eye contact - staring into the eyes of a woman while having a conversation. I am shy but when I get to know a person I tend to do this, particularly with women.

(2) Touching – looking back, this is probably the reason I was frequently beaten up by women. I’ve always had the tendency to put my arm around female friends, touch them briefly on the shoulder or arm. This is not intentional; this is who I am. Even today after a few beers I will put my arm around mates, both female and male.

(3) Show that I am an alpha male – I am definitely not an alpha male; however, I have noticed this behaviour in others, particularly in pubs or social occasions when there are women involved. If a man fancies a women he will subconsciously make himself seem to be bigger and stronger than he is. I can’t see me ever being guilty of that – maybe I’m wrong.

(4) Complements – I see nothing wrong with complementing a woman but on occasion I have gone way over the top. For example I once said: “I’m not coming on to you but you are absolutely gorgeous.” I had had a couple of beers and she was a friend of a friend and about half my age. She thanked me politely and then turned away, much to the amusement of my mates. I have to say in my defence that it was a genuine complement and I definitely was not trying to chat her up. Had I been fully compis mentis I wouldn’t have said a word.

So am I really a flirt? I could try asking a female friend I suppose: “Am I flirting with you?”

The only problem is that she might say “YES YOU ARE!” and then slap my face.

So how about you, dear reader? Do you flirt? Have you been the target of a baboon-like flirt?

As for me, I’ve now decided to stop that nonsense; the self-examination I mean. If I flirt then so be it. I’ve just got to make sure that I wear full protection when I am out with female friends.