The Anarchist

I have a flaw.

Actually, I have many flaws but there is one in particular that sometimes annoys me but most of the time makes me feel truly alive and gives me a buzz unlike any other.

I am a bit of an anarchist.

The targets of my anarchist streak are those who have been granted a tiny bit of power and have tried to abuse it in order to control me.

A good way to illustrate this is the saga of “Dave versus the Night Club Bouncer”. Thankfully, I rarely visit such establishments these days but in the past I have many encounters with certain meatheads who have been given a little power and feel it necessary to abuse innocent people like me.

Okay , I’ve not always been innocent but at the start of the encounter I have usually been in a happy frame of mind and therefore tolerant of their power trip. It almost as if the fake tuxedo has turned them into an unreasonable henchman, whose ego has been inflated by a tiny bit of authority that they simply do not possess in their normal lives.

I can tolerate bouncers who are friendly and are genuinely there to stop trouble. What I hate and detest are those who, for some reason, do not like the look of me or cannot take any sarcastic banter from me when they question my suitability to enter their establishment.

A bouncer would, of course, beat the shit out of me if my behaviour were worthy of being forcibly removed from the premises; I have never let it get that far. My purpose has always been to point out to anybody in the vicinity (usually other punters waiting to get into the night club) how stupid the rules are and how the bouncer is in fact on a power trip, having been granted a miniscule amount of authority.

That’s really what my anarchist streak is fighting against – people who have been granted a small amount of power and abuse it in order to control me when they have no right to do so.

One bouncer, for example, once told me that I was overdressed.

Can you believe that?

How can you be overdressed for a shitty little night club?

This meatheaded moron was standing outside a nightclub dressed in a tuxedo and refused to allow me in because I was wearing a shirt and trousers instead of a T-shirt and jeans.

“Look, mate,” I said in a reasonable fashion. “I’ve just met my mates for a pint and on the spur of the moment we thought we’d pop to this club because we heard it was great. Come on – look at me? Do I look as if I’m going to cause trouble? I’ll just sit at the bar and chat with my friends.”

“You’re overdressed!” was his curt reply.

“Really? And why are you wearing a tuxedo? Aren’t you overdressed?”

“It’s not about me; I let in normal people. You are not normal; you are overdressed.”

“I tell you what – it’s the first time I’ve been refused entry because I’m overdressed. You’ve just let in three women wearing fantastic dresses and shoes but you won’t let me in because I have a shirt and trousers?”

“You’re overdressed.”

“And you, my friend, are an idiot. Look at me. I’m a scrawny bespectacled spotty little kid who is more likely to run away from a fight than start one. What possible harm could I cause sitting in a dark corner with my mates?”

“You’re overdressed.”

Once the meathead realised that other people in the queue were laughing at him, his reaction changed. The look on his face evolved from one of  blind stupidity to an air of aggressive thuggery as he slowly realised that his power was being threatened by a clever little anarchistic geek wearing glasses.

The only way he could reinforce his power was to use violence. That way he could control the rest of the queue out of fear.

Fortunately for me, he was a moron and the synapses of his acorn brain were slow to realise this, giving me and my mates ample time to make ourselves scarce before he turned into a raging meathead.

It’s not just bouncers that rile me.

One encounter I had was with local councillor in a car park. I had gone on a shopping trip and parked my car in a “Pay and Display” car park. The idea is that you park your car and pay for a ticket in advance. I guessed that my shopping trip would last three hours so I purchased a ticket for that length of time.

I overestimated the time. I managed to buy what I needed in just under an hour.

I arrived back at my car just as another guy was parking next to me. I was in a generous mood and as the guy was about to buy his ticket, I said:

“Hi mate. Listen, I’ve still got two hours left on this ticket. You can have it for nothing. It will save you wasting your money.”

Unfortunately, I was overhead by a rather posh and pompous arse who marched over and intervened.

“Excuse me,” he bellowed at me in a voice reminiscent of a teacher I hated at school. “Do you realise that I am a councillor for this town? You cannot give away a ticket like that. “

He turned to the guy to whom I had offered the ticket. “You need to buy your OWN ticket.”

He turned back to me with a look of authority that soured my mood. I had been happy and now the anarchist inside rose up like a demon.

I was livid.

“Er – excuse me,” I said in a voice that I hadn’t heard since being an obnoxious little teenager. “I wasn’t talking to you.”

I turned back to the other guy. “Do you still want the ticket? It’s free.”

“DID YOU HEAR WHAT I SAID?” bellowed the pompous arse.

“Yes,” I replied. “Talk to somebody who gives a toss.”

The other guy considered his position and was slightly intimidated by this jumped up little Hitler.

“It’s okay; I’ll get a new ticket," he said with a smile.

“Thank you,” said the councillor, enjoying his victory.

I was enraged. I launched into a tirade about overpriced car parks and pocket dictators, questioning his authority and his opinion about his inflated authority.

“The whole point of having rules is to follow them,” he replied in a condescending voice. “If everybody flouts the rules then there will be total anarchy.”

“In this case, the rules are created by greedy idiots,” I said. “Being a councillor doesn’t give you the right to tell me what to do or try to quash my generosity. You have ruined the day for two people. “

I shook the ticket at him.

“Oh – and by the way, it doesn’t say “not transferrable”. So you're wrong. And rest assured that if this situation arises again I will GLADLY give my ticket away to whoever I bloody well want to."

I asked for his name but he refused to give it to me.

I left the car park with mixed emotions. I was angry that my good deed for the day had been ruined by a pompous idiot on a power trip, but I was delighted with myself for standing up to his dubious authority.

Although this councillor was undoubtedly a more intelligent man than your average meathead, he was the same at a basic primeval level, i.e. he had been given a little power and was trying to use it to control me.

In my opinion we should all allow the anarchist within us to breathe a little fresh air. I want everybody to join me and stand up to these petty minded fools who use the tiny bit of power they have been granted to enforce their will on the general public.

Say no to councillors.

Tell bouncers they are idiots.

Go into the “10 items or less” queue with 12 items.

Sneak sweets into cinemas who stipulate “only food bought in the cinema can be consumed”.

There is more to follow on this touchy subject but in the meantime I simply want to ask:

Who’s with me?

Too Casual

Temperatures in Manchester are soaring.

My daily two mile lunchtime walks have become rather uncomfortable recently. Each lunchtime I stroll around the local area at a fairly fast pace, fuelled by decent equally paced music, in order to escape the stress of the office and give myself a smidgeon of exercise. Usually I arrive back at my desk refreshed and raring to go again.

With the recent heatwave, however, a brisk walk around the block in temperatures approaching 30 °C, I have arrived at my desk with sweat pouring down my neck, my shirt sticking to my back like glue and a slightly reddened and extremely sweaty face.

Nothing annoys me more than having to sit in an office in the traditional stuffy office uniform while the world outside bakes in beautiful weather.

Let’s face it, in the UK it is so rare to have consistently high temperatures that we are all possessed by a mad urge to leap out into the sun whenever we get the chance.

Yesterday, still reeling from my afternoon walk, I arrived home and wanted to make the most of the weather. I peeled my sodden clothes from my body, fumigated my shoes and hurled my underpants and socks into the linen basket, hoping that the sweat wouldn’t somehow animate them and allow them to run riot in my house.

After a quick cold shower, I waited for Mrs PM to return from work.

As soon as the door opened, I presented myself to her, dressed in a polo shirt and crisp clean shorts, attire that I rarely get a chance to wear in Manchester and usually only wear in Spain or more exotic locations.

“Let’s hit Manchester,” I suggested.

“Good idea,” she agreed and also changed out of her own office uniform.

Last month Metrolink opened a new spur from Manchester City Centre to East Didsbury and now it is extremely easy to catch a tram into the city centre, rather than having to catch a bus that takes ages. The bus is usually so slow that we have avoided the city centre but now the new tram system has opened it up to us.

A twenty minute tram journey and a short walk found us in the sunshine outside a bar in Spinningfields, sipping cold beer and basking in the sunshine alongside lots of other happy people enjoying the fabulous weather.

I felt like I was sitting in a city in southern Europe rather than a stereotypically grim city in northern England.

We decided to enjoy another beer in another bar before finding a restaurant.

Mrs PM suggested a bar that for their benefit shall remain nameless, even though I am tempted to name and shame them.

We strolled up to the bar entrance and noticed that two security men were standing outside, eyeing me suspiciously. As I approached one of them looked me up and down and shook his head.

“What’s the problem?” I asked.

“You’re dressed a little too casually,” he replied.

I stared at him incredulously. It has been many years since I have had to deal with this kind of ridiculous policy. In the past I have usually had considerably more beer and this has given me enough courage to dive into an argument with meathead bouncers, risking a good beating for showing the world how stupid they are.

This time, however, I was genuinely shocked into silence and, having only had two beers, didn’t have the alcohol fuelled courage to stand up to this man and his preposterous regulations.

Mrs PM seemed to accept his decision and walked away, gently pulling my arm to encourage me to go with her. She also knows how much I despise these petty policies and presumably didn’t want to have to wait around while I argued the toss with yet another symbol of overt oppression.

“What does he mean dressed a little too casually?” I finally spluttered, making sure that I was in earshot of my oppressor.

“I’m wearing a lovely polo shirt that cost as much as his bloody shirt and proper trouser-styled shorts. What the hell does he bloody well mean?”

I was annoyed. I was even more annoyed because Mrs PM, who would no doubt have managed to get into the bar with a skirt that was shorter than my shorts. My anger was fuelled even more by the fact that even at that late hour I was hot and flustered by the heat. I was still hot and had I been wearing trousers, I would have had to peel the things off my skin.

We found a pub that was quite content to let me cross the threshold with my slightly too casual  look and I ended up spending the entire time in that bar moaning about bouncers, dress policies and sexual discrimination.

“If this had been Spain," I ranted, "I could have entered that bar with my head held high and not been thwarted by a stupid dress policy policed by MEATHEADS. And another thing – you’re skirt is shorter than my shorts and you can see more of your legs than you can my knobbly-kneed sparrow legs. That’s sexual discrimination, that is. I’ve a good mind to go back and show the world what a bloody idiot that MEATHEAD is. I’ve got a good mind to complain to the manager of that place. I’ve got a good mind …”

“Oh for God’s sake shut up!” said Mrs PM finally.

“OK,” I said, still fuming. I contented myself with watching the highlights of the Ashes to calm me down a little.

Afterwards we strolled to Chinatown and enjoyed a Chinese banquet in a lovely restaurant with one important policy – they did not mind me wearing shorts.

Today, I am happier about it and have now added that bar to the list of places to avoid. Sadly, Mrs PM likes the place so I am certain I will have to swallow my pride in the future and quaff some of their ale.

The good news is that today, the temperature is soaring and the outlook is fine. We are even going to have a barbecue tomorrow with Mrs PM’s mum (yes, that's right – a BARBECUE in Manchester!!)

Mrs PM's mum and her other half will be welcome through my door – even if they are both wearing shorts.

The Penguin

Those of you with a nervous disposition should stop reading now.

Those brave fools who have chosen to continue, be warned: there is a photograph of me at the end of this post.

Why have I chosen to do this now, after a couple of year’s blogging?

Mrs PM thinks that the image you are about to see is “nice” and has encouraged me to share it with the world. I think she must have an ulterior motive.

Personally, I have a problem with the picture. It’s nothing to do with the fact that it might leave any readers distressed. The problem is that I look like James Bond – not the real James Bond, obviously.

Imagine if you will Daniel Craig’s version of James Bond, otherwise known as “James Blond”, a very good looking man (so Mrs PM says) with a lot of sex appeal and a “magnificent body”. I wouldn't know!

Consider what would happen if this James Bond caught a nasty virus that mutated his hair into an uncontrollable mop of straw.

Imagine him ageing twenty years and letting his superlative body transform into a blubbery mess.

Add into the mix a flock of rabid parrots bent on savaging his handsome countenance, followed by botched reconstructive surgery performed by an inebriated Z-list cosmetic surgeon who is high on crack.

Add a pair of spectacles stolen from Harry Hill.

Finally, imagine 007 giving up his vodka martinis in favour of several gallons of Monster Gut Wobbling Brown Ale and Guinness.

You now have “The Penguin”, i.e. me.

Why am I calling myself “The Penguin” (as opposed to an orang-utan in a suit)? Allow me to explain.

I’ve never understood why I certain functions demand that guests dress up like a dog’s dinner. In short, I have a problem with “dress codes”.

As a young buffoon in his twenties, I used to hate dressing up in order to enjoy a night club experience with my friends.

“Why can’t I just wear jeans?” I used to wail.

“Because the bouncers won’t allow you into The Ritz, you moron,” my friends would reply.

In the 80’s, we used to go to The Ritz, a cheesy night club where foolish young dolts like myself would end up on the odd Saturday night, the aim being to we could drink ourselves stupid, dance into the wee small hours and at the same time trying to attract the attentions of any female drunk enough to take an interest in us. Beer goggles were the order of the day and some of us had a modicum of success (even me). There were numerous other similar establishments whose doors were manned by Neanderthals with the IQ of a retarded slug. These creatures were known as bouncers and had one single instruction: “No jeans!”.

Most of them dressed in tuxedos and bow ties and, to me at least, looked like gorillas. None of them had necks and were blessed with the charm of an angry grizzly bear. Diplomacy was absent (most had never heard of the word let alone being able to spell it).

Being a bit of an anarchist, I used to challenge these people by purposely wearing jeans.

Meathead: You can’t come in.

PM: Why not?

Meathead: No jeans.

PM: Why can’t I wear jeans?

Meathead: No jeans.

PM: Hello! Is there anybody in that colossal bloody skull of yours? Why can’t I come into your establishment with jeans?

Meathead: No jeans.

PM: Do you think that jeans turn me into a hooligan who is going to destroy this crappy night club?

Meathead: No jeans.

PM: So if I go home and change into my best trousers and shirt and then return here, will you let me in?

Meathead: Yes

PM: Why?

Meathead: No jeans.

On one occasion, I actually went home, changed into clothes that satisfied the dress code and then returned. And the meathead bouncer refused to let me in, because I had had the nerve to question his mantra in the first place.

Looking back, I was an idiot because I could have ended up on the receiving end of a savage beating. My problem was that I simply wanted to challenge these idiotic rules; I was an anarchist and I hated bullies – I still do in fact.

Weddings and funerals had the same effect. There is an unwritten rule that all those attending weddings must wear suits and ties (apart from the ladies of course). I have complied simply because I respected the decisions of the bride and groom and didn’t want to offend them. When I got married way back in 1988, I actually suggested to my ex-wife that we defy tradition and turn up with jeans, trainers and T-shirts. You can imagine her response – suffice it to say that I almost ended up dumped before the wedding took place.

Funerals too are similar. Not only must you wear a suit, out of respect; you must also wear black. I hate funerals because they are such awfully depressing events. I can to a certain extent understand that we are mourning the loss of a loved one, but surely a funeral could be seen as a great way to celebrate the fabulous life of the person. Why wear black? Wouldn’t it be better to talk about how wonderful the dear departed was and enjoy great stories and memories? Of course, people will be sad but it would be nice to recall happier events and make the occasion a colourful one.

Maybe I am just weird in that respect, though I have heard of funeral attendees being urged not to wear black and to try to make the event a celebration of the person’s life. These days, particularly at football matches, when a famous icon dies, like Sir Bobby Robson for example, we no longer have a minute’s silence before football matches; instead we have a minute’s applause. I welcome such sentiments and I would love my funeral to be an event that involved laughter as well as the inevitable tears. Maybe some of my crazy blog posts could be read out by friends.
Another aspect of dress code that annoys me is the written rule that employees of companies must wear suits.

Why must we wear suits?

I am a software engineer, somebody who sits in front of a PC all day trying to persuade computers to behave themselves. I sometimes have exposure to customers but the majority of the time I am working like an angry beaver, swearing at my screen and pummelling my keyboard like a man possessed, cursing my own incompetence and questioning the parenthood of the software.

I feel comfortable in jeans and a T-shirt, as do most of my fellow employees; why should I have to wear a shirt and tie? Most of the time, I have absolutely nobody to impress. It is craziness personified. Recently, thankfully, my company has relaxed the dress code – but not sufficiently in my opinion. We are allowed to “dress down” on Fridays, paying a suitable sum to charity. However, there is a “dress down” dress code, which means that, for example, I cannot wear a football shirt and, strictly speaking, I am not allowed to wear a T shirt with the logo of a rock band on front, for example. Why not? It is utter madness. Sadly it is typical of the corporate nonsense that surrounds us all.

Am I alone with these anarchistic views?

Anyway, back to the Penguin.

In the past couple of years I have been invited to a couple of events that require “black tie”. The first was a New Year’s Eve ball and when Mrs PM mentioned it to me, I said (like a total idiot):

“I’ve got a black tie, I think. If not I’ll pop out and buy one.”

After Mrs PM had stopped laughing, she explained to me, as if I were a five year old child, that “black tie” meant a tuxedo, bow tie, frilly shirt, cufflinks, cummerbund and trousers with silk braids.

“What the hell is a cummerbund?” I asked.

“One of those pleated black sashes that blokes wear around their waists.”

I had never heard of one and I simply do not see the point of them - unless it disguises beer guts.

I wanted to just wear a normal suit but Mrs PM forced me to dress up like a fat penguin for the first time. Rather than buying a suit, I rented one, convinced that this would be a one off.
It took me ages to get ready for this ball; I was so slow that Mrs PM beat me by a good hour and sat there tutting as I struggled with my bloody cummerbund and bow tie.

Unfortunately, I have been invited to several more of these balls since, the last one being on our recent cruise. This particular formal night was worse because had I refused to wear black tie for the formal evening I would probably have been forced to eat burgers on the deck because the dining rooms were instructed to only allow penguins.

Rather than renting a tuxedo for such formal evenings, I have invested in a penguin suit complete with all the trimmings and can now dress up like a slob in a tuxedo whenever I want to. I’m not happy about it but it is cost effective and Mrs PM insists that we continue to attend these formal events.

Consequently, my anarchistic tendencies are much less powerful these days, thanks to Mrs PM savaging any attempts at non-conformity and revolution by threatening to reshape my head with a cricket bat. I abhor violence so I tend to submit to her wishes.

Anyway, below is a picture of me, wearing a tuxedo on the cruise and once again I apologise to those of a nervous disposition. If you have nightmares you can blame Mrs PM.


Assuming you have returned from the toilet and are still reading, I can tell you that, while I do look like a fat and decrepit version of 007 in the picture, I did try to make a stand by wearing an Iron Maiden T-shirt under my shirt until Mrs PM spotted Eddie’s insane face staring out and made me take it off.

Foiled once more by my missus! I would have got away with it had it not been for that pesky Mrs PM.

Thankfully she didn’t spot my Deep Purple underpants – so the moral victory is mine.

Bring on Batman – the Penguin is ready for anarchy!!