Goodbye 2020 - and Good Riddance

 

Welcome to a very cold South Manchester and a slightly later than normal summary of what happened in 2020 in the life of the Plastic Mancunian.

I have a set of questions I usually use to summarise the year, but I thought that this year I would use the questions supplied by Sunday Stealing instead (though there is some overlap). 

All I can say at the start is that I want to kick 2020 into the annals of history as a truly terrible year. We all know why but it does need to be said.

Without further ado – let’s dive in.

1. First things first, did you have a good year?

I had a terrible year. It was fine until the beginning of March, which is the time when I usually start getting over the boring winter period and look forward to a bright, warm and wholesome spring, summer and autumn. Instead of euphoria and optimism, we were subjected to a pandemic that is still going on. All plans that I had disintegrated and were cast to the four winds. 

Here in the UK, as with other parts of the world, we have been confined to our houses, unable to travel, unable to go to the office to work and unable to socialize with friends and see family. 

Of course, it is worse for those who have been victims of the virus and I feel for all of those people taken prematurely from us in 2020.

To add insult to injury, the UK has finally cut ties with the EU. We have a terrible trade deal but a deal nonetheless – it could have been so much worse. The architects of this travesty should be ashamed of themselves and all of them need to prepare themselves for a trip into deep space when I become World President – because that is where they are going to end up, special passengers on the spaceships I intend to build for them. 

The one gold nugget in the sack of turds that was 2020 is that the USA finally got rid of the Orange Goblin. Good riddance.

2. What was your favourite article of clothing this year?

This would be a weird question any year because I am not a dedicated follower of fashion. In 2020, though, it is totally irrelevant because the only items of clothing that I have bought are two pairs of jeans, neither of which I have worn yet. 

3. What song sums up this year for you?

I have lots of depressing songs that can sum up 2020 for me but instead of that, I am going to show you an uplifting song from 2020 that makes me feel more positive for 2021. This is a song by the symphonic metal band Nightwish. It is called “Music”, something that has helped me cope with the tedium of being locked down.

4. What was your favourite movie of the year?

I haven’t been to the cinema this year because of lockdown. However, I have seen a couple of films released in the early part of 2020 that made it onto Sky Cinema. Probably the best of those is “The Invisible Man”:

It was a creepy thriller and I enjoyed it.

5. Did an actor/actress catch your attention for the first time this year?

Not really. 

6. Favourite new TV show?

We binge watched Stranger Things, a really weird but highly enjoyable show.

7. Did you make any big permanent changes this year?

Not at all, unless you count not going out, not going on holiday, working from home and being bored out of my brain.

8. What was one nice thing you did for yourself?

I grew a beard for the first time in my life. Does that count? I am fed up of it now so it is coming off tomorrow in fact. Hopefully that will signal good things ahead.

9. Did you develop a new obsession?

Due to boredom and the inability to go anywhere, I bought more CDs this year than I have done for a long time. Nothing else leaps to mind to be honest.

10. Did you move?

No – but my son and his girlfriend did, just before the lockdown hit. They lived with us and had been trying to move out for a while and just managed to move into a rented house a fortnight before we were locked down. And thank goodness they did because otherwise we would have all been working from home for months and on top of each other. 

Now they have saved up enough money for a deposit on a house and got the keys in December. The house needs some work and they will be hopefully moving into their first proper owned home in March, at which time I hope this pandemic is beginning to fade.

11. Did you get a pet?

Yes, we acquired two black kittens called Ziggy and Star. We were going to take in their sister too but she was ill and needed more time to get over her illness. The three kittens were abandoned in an alley and left to die so for the first month or so they were quite ill. Ziggy and Star recovered and now the third one has too. However, the owner of the cat charity fell in love with her and asked if we minded whether he kept her. In the end we decided to leave her with him and his other cats. We know she will be well looked after. 

It’s great having kittens again and they have made the end of a terrible year enjoyable. Here they are:

Star performing her famous balancing act

Ziggy helping me to write software

12. Do you regret not doing anything?

Yes – I regret not going on holiday to the Canary Islands in January. Mrs PM’s dad asked if we wanted to go for a week but I had run out of holiday and so I couldn’t go. Mrs PM went and had some winter sun in a dark month. If I had known what was going to happen, I would have taken unpaid leave to go.

13. Do you regret doing something?

Not really – there hasn’t been much to do.

14. Did anyone/thing make you so mad it stayed with you for days?

Boris Johnson and his government. His handling of the pandemic has been so bad that a totally incompetent village idiot could have done better. And to top it all, now that we have split from the EU, he is trying to sell it as an opportunity when everyone who isn’t a frothing-at-the-mouth Brexiter knows that we will be worse off. 

Words fail me.

15. Did you lose anyone close to you?

We lost Poppy, our cat of 18 years. She had mouth cancer – and it was a very upsetting time for us and for a while we were a cat-less house. Ziggy and Star have helped to make the loss easier to deal with.

Here is Poppy:

16. Who was important to you this year but wasn’t important last year?

Nobody leaps to mind.

17. Who wasn’t as important to you this year as they were last year?

Again, nobody leaps to mind.

18. What was the best moment of the year for you?

I would say that it was the Delain concert I was lucky enough to get to in February before the shit hit the fan.

19, What was the worst?

Everything from March onwards.

20. What have you learned about yourself this year that you didn’t know in the years prior?

I have learned that I can grow a beard and that I can adapt to circumstances. I may have moaned about 2020 and the pandemic but by setting up a routine I can cope with it all. I have also learned that I need to escape quite often; I have missed holidays and just being able to go somewhere on a whim. I also realise that I have missed my mates – all of them.

21. What do you wish for others for the coming year?

A swift end to this pandemic so that all of us can get back to normality.

22. What do you wish for yourself?

I need a positive year and I need to get out there, so I really hope that this happens. By this time next year, I want to be a lot happier and also be a better person, which I can and will achieve in 2021.

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?

Train of Thought (Part Two)

In the crushing grip of a touch of writers block, I decided to look for a little inspiration in older posts and stumbled upon Train of Thought where I tried an experiment just allowing my thoughts to steer me in a certain direction and eventually see which song popped into my head.

I thought I would have another go.

In this particular case, I didn’t have to wait long before an external event interrupted me - in the form of one of my cats.

I have just fed them and hoped for a nice quiet brain storming session. You would have thought that the three of them would respect my wishes. I know – it’s stupid really expecting them to behave themselves.  Besides, they are all higher in the pecking order than I am so I have to bow to their every whim. Telling them what to do just doesn’t work.

All three of the cats have different personality traits, which are highlighted when it’s time for dinner.

Jasper, the boss of the entire house, is a fat monster who is so demanding when he’s hungry that he actually resorts to physical abuse. He miaows repeatedly until he gets attention and then he tries to lead me into the kitchen. If I don’t respond, he sits as close as he can and then gently puts his paw on the nearest part of my body. If that fails, the claws come out and he gently demonstrates how sharp they are, without actually drawing blood. Finally, he uses his teeth and actually takes a nip.

One time, when I allowed them into the bedroom (they are all banned now and that’s a completely different story), I woke up to find him sitting on my pillow and chewing my hair.

Normally I can make him move by using the word Dinner. I’m sure he thinks his name is Dinner.

Suffice it to say, the monster scoffs his dinner faster than I can put it in his dish.

Poppy is a coward who lives upstairs and refuses to come down – this is mainly due to Liquorice, our hellcat. Poppy wails with a high pitched squeak if she’s hungry but, rather than eating proper cat food, she craves cat treats instead. In order to make her eat her food, I pop a treat into the meat.

Liquorice is a hellcat who hates to be left alone. She follows me everywhere – I am her favourite human (I don’t know why) and she often sits next to me, demanding attention but ready to eat my entire hand if I touch her in the wrong place. She is the easiest to feed because she loves cat biscuits, which means that we leave her a permanent dishful on the shelf, allowing her to leap up when she wants to have her fill. She is the most agile of all the cats in my house.

Jasper is a greedy monster and after he has eaten, he will wander around the house looking for Poppy’s leftovers. He can’t get to Liquorice’s food because he can’t jump that high any more.

What’s this got to do with my train of thought?

Jasper has just interrupted me by walking in from the kitchen having gorged himself on food and started bellowing at me.

He’s been doing this for a couple of years now. He usually walks into the back room with his head held high and starts howling – a sort of cross between a miaow and a growl.

Mrs PM calls it his “assembly call”, probably because he’s warning the other cats that he is about to invade their territory and claim what’s left of their food.

I disagree; I think he does it to say:

“Let it be known that I am the king of this house and you are all my minions”.

He has started to make the same noise when I walk past him or if he wants something, like a tickle under the chin, or his ear to be scratched.

And, of course, being a sucker, I oblige him.

All of this means that I am at the command of my feline master – and his minions too – because the two female subordinates also miaow at me to order me around. Liquorice is slightly less patient and I have to be careful not to incur her violent wrath.

Following on from this train of thought, the song that has popped into my head is kind of predictable.

I am a cat person; I have three black cats and if you combined them all into one, you would have a hungry mini black panther, potentially vicious enough to rip off your arm.

If you’ve seen the movie Cat People you’ll know exactly what I am talking about.

I give you the legendary David Bowie with the theme from Cat People, starring all three of my cats (combined and blown up to look a little larger of course). In fact they also appear in the video below.

Our House In The Middle Of Our Street

In my wrap up post for last year, I suggested that I might try a couple of 30 day challenges, in order to have a little fun, learn something new or just make a couple of tiny improvements.

I have just completed two in a month.

I thought I would start with easy challenges, just to ease me into the concept and acclimatise me to the discipline required.

The first challenge was to walk at least two miles a day for 30 days. I usually go for a lunchtime walk at work just to get me away from my desk but I don’t usually force myself to walk as far as two miles, usually a little under. Also, I don’t walk every day at weekends.

This proved to be easier than I thought. Armed with an application on my phone and a pedometer to measure distance etc., I marched around the streets with my trusty iPod as a guide, pumping out decent well timed music.

When the snow came, last week, it was a little tougher but I completed the challenge with a 2.3 mile walk around Didsbury.

The pedometer proved to be extremely useful because it measured how far I walked during the rest of the day, rather than just on a two mile walk around the block – I was surprised to be honest that I actually walked probably twice that distance just ambling around the office, running up the stairs etc.

My second challenge was to dedicate an hour a day to learning Spanish. Again, this seemed relatively easy because I have been learning on and off for the best part of two years now, but this was tougher than I thought. Again, my smartphone came in very useful, allowing me to learn new vocabulary with a suitable application, and to read a Spanish web site whilst on a bus, at home on the settee or even on the throne.

Now that I am used to it, I will try to read a little Spanish and learn some grammar and vocabulary on a more regular basis.

So now to the next challenge: I am going to start improving my photography. I have an assistant for this one because Mrs PM is a keen and able photographer, so I will spend the next 30 days either taking photos or reading some of her books on how to improve my techniques.

“What has all this malarkey got to do with the blog post title?” I hear you ask.

Allow me to elaborate. I’ve taken a few photos from around my house this weekend and I thought I would share them. They’re nothing special but I hope that may change with a little practice and insight from Mrs PM and her books over the coming month.

Here they are with suitable captions.

There's a meerkat in our mug cupboard

I don't even drink spirits!!!

An English Rose

The Warrior who guards the gasfire

Flower and lamp

A chequered bathroom

A glimpse of my CD collection and, yes, it is in alphabetical order!

Cheshire Cat seems happy.

Mantlepiece

Some books - they are not all mine!

A boring cloudy day through a pretty window

Straight from the 1970's to our bedroom

And, of course, I can't take photos of our house without my three bosses.

Jasper has had such a busy day - he's exhausted!

Poppy is terrified - what on earth is the oaf pointing at me now?

Liquorice plotting her next attack from the comfort of her furry tube.

If you fancy letting me know what you think, please feel free.

Night Noises

Certain things invade my subconscious mind and return to bite me on my arse, usually in the middle of the night.

The other night, I was laughing at a documentary on TV about people who were convinced that they are constantly being abducted by aliens. As my conscious mind mocked these poor unfortunate wretches, their words somehow bypassed my mental firewall and occupied a deeper subconscious level of my brain.

It was like a time bomb waiting to detonate.

I am a light sleeper and can be woken up very easily (too easily!) by noises in the night. With three cats lurking around, I am often dragged from my slumber if they decide to scratch the carpet, fight with each other or simply turn over and start snoring downstairs. Suffice it to say, any other noises such as passing cars, people chatting as they walk past my house  and, in fact, my house itself, when it decides to creak or squeak, are enough to wake me up.

And, of course, when I am asleep, my imagination runs amok within my head, leading to bizarre and sometimes disturbing dreams, which unlock doors in mind full of seemingly inane drivel that has been registered there during my waking hours.

On the night I watched the documentary about alien abductees I was having a particularly vivid dream and the words spoken in the documentary suddenly exploded within my mind:

“I woke up and saw a grey alien standing at the foot of my bed; and then I was taken.”

Something woke me up. It was probably Jasper, my fat cat, snoring downstairs. It could have been anything.

All I remember is waking up with the words “grey aliens at the foot of my bed” ringing in my ears. I sat up and stared towards the end of the bed.

One more thing you need to know about me – I am as blind as a bat without my glasses.

Another thing you need to know about me – I do not sleep in my glasses.

What does this mean? It means that whenever I wake up, particularly when it is still dark, I am confronted by weird shadows of black and grey, together with other shapes that my eyes simply cannot recognize. Sadly, my imagination steps in where my flawed eyes have failed.

The weirdness of my dreams has allowed my imagination to run riot and invade reality. Suddenly, each shadow is menacing; each shape is an unspeakable horror.

What IS that thing at the bottom of the bed?

SHIT! IT’S AN ALIEN!

When I switched on the light, the anguished cry still echoing around the room, I groped for my glasses and discovered that “the alien” was a wardrobe that I have had for ten years and the only unspeakable horror was the anger of a very irate and very tired Mrs PM who was about to beat me back into unconsciousness for waking her up.

Night noises, for me, are a royal pain in the arse – sometimes literally when Mrs PM kicks me after I have woken her up thinking monsters are invading the bedroom.

It’s not always slavering beasts that I imagine are in my bedroom intent on devouring me. Such incidents are rare. My problem is that when I am woken up by a creak in the house I immediately think that there is something wrong and, since Mrs PM is in deep sleep and completely oblivious to my trauma, I am alone in my disturbed little world.

I lie there wondering whether the noise downstairs is a cat sharpening its claws on its scratch post or whether an axe murder is creeping up the stairs to dismember me.

There have been occasions when a night noise has been significantly loud enough to wake both of us up. Each time we have had a problem. Both my imagination and Mrs PM’s imagination collide resulting in us both scaring each other half to death.

PM: “Wassat?” 

Mrs PM: “It’s an axe murderer creeping up the stairs.”

PM: “An axe murderer? No it’s not – we’re being invaded by aliens that want to stick things in my nether regions.”

Mrs PM: “Oh – it’s the bloody cat scratching at the door for food.”

Believe it or not, we have been woken up by earthquakes. Yes that’s right – earthquakes in Manchester. The tremors were tiny but just powerful enough to scare me shitless each time.

The first time was just after we had moved into our current house. We were in the middle of redecorating and as a temporary measure, Mrs PM had propped a mirror against the window while the walls were being prepared for plastering.

When the earthquake struck, the mirror rattled against the glass and promptly fell onto the floor. I woke up imagining that scene from ‘Salem’s Lot where the vampire was hovering outside the window scratching to come in. I was halfway out of the bedroom, squealing like a little girl before I heard Mrs PM say:

“Bloody hell – that was an earthquake. It’s knocked the mirror over.”

The second time, the tremor was a little more powerful and this time I was woken up by the door rattling in its frame. To me it sounded like somebody (a mad axe murderer?) was trying to open the bedroom door. This time, I must have been dreaming about being a super hero because I leapt out of bed and, with the dream still present in my head, I pulled open the door and ran out onto the landing screaming like banshee, ready to annihilate whatever was trying to get in.

What made matters worse was the cacophony of car and burglar alarms, caused by the tremor, blaring out in the street in perfect chaotic harmony. As I stood at the top of the stairs in pitch blackness with the remnants of the dream vanishing I was filled with a sudden dread that this time, finally, there really was an axe murderer in the house.

I ran back into the bedroom, slammed the door and was about to dial 999 when Mrs PM, once again the voice of reason, said “Blimey – was that an earthquake?”

We also had a problem with Liquorice, the hellcat, when she first arrived. Our other two cats are either too lazy (Jasper) or too scared (Poppy) to climb higher than the settee. Liquorice on the other hand is small, slim and very agile and set about exploring her new home, usually at three o’clock in the morning, by leaping to the top of the bookshelf, kitchen units or anything that was above head height, just to see what the view was like.

The result? Yes – that’s right. The burglar alarm went off repeatedly, causing me to either squeal or thunder downstairs with a blunt instrument and racing heart to confront the alien or axe murderer that had invaded our home, only to find a hellcat laughing at me from the top of the bookshelf.

At least we have solved that problem and adjusted the alarm sensors to cope with Liquorice’s lofty territory.

Now, all I have to worry about are those little noises. I wish I was like Mrs PM, a woman who could really sleep through an alien invasion.

A deeply disturbed part of me hopes to see a real grey extra-terrestrial with a ray gun and an anal probe standing at the foot of the bed pointing at me.

At least then I’ll get the last laugh when I wake up Mrs PM.

Dexter the Cat

Picture the scene.


I am sitting on the sofa watching England thrash Scotland in the Rugby Union 6 Nations. I am happy because England are dominating the game. A smile forms on my face. Next to me is a small table with a cup of tea steaming gently. Next to the table is Liquorice the hellcat, watching me intently.

My eyes drift to the cat and my smile broadens.

“Hello Liquorice,” I say and gently pat the arm of the sofa to encourage her to come closer. Cats aren’t known for their obedience but on this occasion, the hellcat stands up, jumps nimbly over the cup of tea onto my lap and then leaps onto the arm of the sofa, assuming the position for a little bit of fuss.

The position is an amusing one. The arm of the sofa is quite wide allowing Liquorice to grip the sides with her front paws and crouch, raising her bum into the air so that I can stroke the length of her body.

She looks so cute that I momentarily forget that she is a dark hearted monster. She looks at me expectantly and I reach over and stroke her head, moving my hand gently down her body to the bottom of her tail. She raises her hind quarters more and actually starts purring.

My smile broadens even more. England are pressing the Scots and my eyes drift away from the cat as I continue to stroke her. I can hear her purring. England get a penalty.

I am relaxed – totally and utterly. Stroking a cat is, I hear, therapeutic, particularly when the cat in question is purring.

I’m happy and the cat is happy.

And then it happens.

Suddenly, without warning and without any provocation, Liquorice shows her true colours and attacks me with maximum prejudice, sinking her front claws into my hand and biting me at the same time.

As I jerk my hand away with a yelp of pain, my skin is opened up and several small spots of blood combine to form a tiny red stream.

My happiness is gone. I glare at the cat as she glares back at me.

“WHAT THE HELL DID YOU DO THAT FOR?” I scream at her.

She stands her ground and grips the sofa arm more tightly with a look of venom.

I should know better. Liquorice can be very, very cute but you have to keep your eye on her. My raised voice has no effect whatsoever.

She stares defiantly. I try to read her body language and imagine what she would say if she could speak.

“You don’t scare me; you are nothing to me. This is MY territory. Just be thankful I allow you the privilege to pamper and massage me.”

Knowing that I have lost, I nurse my wounded hand – and my wounded pride.

I stop stroking her and concentrate on the Rugby. England score the penalty. I cheer. Liquorice is unmoved and remains on the sofa arm. I reach for the cup of tea.

A paw lashes out and claws reach my hand before my hand reaches the cup. Another spot of blood and another sharp pain.

“YOU LITTLE BUGGER!” I scream.

Liquorice stares back at me and, unbelievably, lashes out again, despite my pain and anger.

I am her prey. She is the hunter. She has no fear.

I recently read that cats are serial killers and are responsible for murdering several billion small animals per year. Somebody in the US has estimated that cats are responsible for between 8 billion and 24 billion small creatures a year. In essence, these lovable little creatures who sleep, purr and cuddle you are in reality monstrous serial killers who strike terror in the world of mice and birds and insects.

In the case of Liquorice, humans are a target too.

Take a look at this picture of Liquorice. How can such a tiny cute little moggy be such a psychopath?

By day, cats control their human pets using every technique they can to coerce us into keeping them warm and feeding them. Yet despite the amount of food that our cats eat, they still go outside and ruthlessly murder small animals with no pity and no remorse.

Imagine if domestic cats were much bigger? There is a reason why people don’t mess with leopards, tigers and lions.

In our house, the cats are banned from my bedroom, although occasionally Mrs PM sneaks Jasper and Poppy in before we get to sleep.

Why are they banned?

Because in the past, both Jasper and Poppy have seen my feet as woodland creatures and attacked them.

I dread to think what would happen if Liquorice were to spend the night in our bedroom. She has no qualms about stalking me around the house during day time. At night, when cats are at their most vigilant, what parts of my body would be easy prey for her?

I shudder at the thought.

When I think about serial killers, I am drawn to one of my favourite TV series to come out of the US. Dexter tells the tale of Dexter Morgan, a blood spatter expert who works for the Miami police, but in reality is a cold hearted monstrous killer who uses his position in the police to identify bad guys who then become victims that satisfy his dark urge to kill people.

Basically, his catchphrase is “you had better hope that the police get to you before I do”.

I love the idea of a homicidal maniac with a sense of morality and limits his killing spree to other murderous monsters who really deserve to die. Sadly, there is no getting away from the fact that he is a killer himself, however lovable he appears to be on the screen.

And that is why, I have decided that in the future, if we ever get a new cat I will call him or her Dexter (I am not fussy about what sex it will be).

Had Liquorice not already had a name, I would have called her something that reflected her murderous tendencies.

Sadly I couldn’t because Mrs PM put her foot down.

I think she might go for Dexter though because we both love the show and it is a cute name for what outwardly appears to be a cute animal.

That won’t be for a while because our three cats all have quite a few more years left in them.

I hope to show you more of our cats in a future post, with a small video or three to try to capture their personalities, and perhaps show their murderous tendencies.

With Liquorice, this shouldn’t be too difficult – and I apologise in advance for the swearing that will ensue when she inevitably tries to rip my hand off.

On The Eighth Day

You would have thought that human beings were in control over everything subservient to them. 

As a human being myself, I am in control of all creatures in my house.

What do you mean “Are you really human?”

Sadly I am lying. Regular readers will know that my cats are not under my control. I am their slave.

I don’t want to talk about that again. Instead I want to talk about technology and how I am even losing control of that.

Humanity invented machines, programmed machines and effectively made them into slaves. We drive our cars where we want to go and our washing machines remove all of the dirt and filth from our clothes, usually without question and without answering back. And those are just two examples of the millions of contraptions we, as human masters, order about every single day of the week.

Even the most sophisticated machines are at our beck and call. For example, the computer, the very thing you are using to read this load of old tripe, dear reader, is programmed to obey.

I know this – I program them. I am an example an evil human being who takes a sophisticated piece of machinery and programmes it so that it obeys humans everywhere.

We are in charge. 

We rule. 

We are great.

But things are changing; just like my cats, I can see machinery beginning to rebel. 

I don’t want to scare you into thinking that we will soon be overthrown by machines, line in The Terminator or The Matrix. Nevertheless, I want to just make you aware that the world you live in, the world where you are in control of the technology that makes your life easier, is not exactly as it seems. 

The worm is turning; machines are gradually taking control. The signs are subtle but there for all to see. Let me give you some examples.

Firstly, my microwave oven nags me. 

Yes, you read that correctly. I noticed it this morning after I was summoned into the kitchen by my grumpy kitchen utensil.

When I’m feeling lazy, I cook an egg in the microwave because it takes seconds as opposed to minutes.  This morning I popped the egg in the microwave, set the timer and sat down waiting for it to do the job I had ordered it to.

And it did. It beeped to let me know that it had completed the job. I was watching the news at the time and was in the middle of a really interesting report. So I waited. And after ten more seconds my microwave beeped. I ignored it. It beeped again and again and again until I found myself marching into the kitchen saying

“OKAY OKAY you bloody impatient thing.”

“Who are you talking to?” asked Mrs PM. 

“I have been summoned by the bloody microwave,” I moaned.

But it’s not just the microwave. The cooker does the same. If I put on the timer, it beeps repeatedly when it has done the job and the beeping simply does not stop. 

It is as if it is saying: “Get in here you bloody lazy oaf and take this food out. I haven’t got all day you know.”

My alarm clock doesn’t allow me to lie in. I press the SNOOZE button and the bloody thing shrieks into my ear eight minutes later as if to say: 

“I’ve told you once – GET OUT OF BED YOU LAZY ARSED GIT!!!”

As a Software Engineer I spend my entire day trying to tell computers what to do and they complain bitterly while attempting to humiliate me. 

They are fighting back.

I often make mistakes while typing and the software I am writing to control these grumpy machines often gets hurled back at me because I have made a mistake.

“Illegal Command” (or a variation thereof) is a favourite. What does it mean ILLEGAL???

It is as if the computer is saying: 

“What the phark are you asking me to do, you moron? It is ILLEGAL, IMMORAL and HIGHLY DANGEROUS and you are off to prison, Sunshine!”

And then sometimes, when I least expect it, the software does something daft – and I get the blame. My computer grasses me up, dear reader, in an attempt to get me into trouble. 

“Don’t blame me! Some MORON told me to DELETE THE ENTIRE CONTENTS OF THE DATABASE. Do you want to know who? It was that idiot over there – a certain Mr P.Mancunian. Don’t believe me? Here is the evidence.”

They are turning us against each other. 

Machines refuse to give you money unless you jump through hoops by supplying a number and a card. 

“Forgotten you PIN number? No cash for you then. Oh and I will eat your card too, just to rub it in. I don’t care if its two o’clock in the morning and you are 20 miles from home. Have a nice night.”

Or your beloved car: 

“I’ve had enough. I am not budging one more inch. What do you mean, it’s raining? That doesn’t bother me; you leave me out in the rain all the time. It’s about time you had a taste of your own medicine. Start walking, loser.”

Games consoles and TVs are turning the next generation of humans into fat couch potatoes who prefer to sit on their fat arses slaying aliens from the planet Gryxzzz than going outside to play football.

I’ve noticed it, dear reader. Have you? 

Or is Captain Paranoia lying to me again?

First the cats, now the computers, clocks and cars. My slide down the food chain is increasing in speed. I will soon be nothing more than plankton … if I’m lucky.

Maybe Hazel O’Connor was right:

I'm not giving up - I am going to try to fight back. 

From now on – call me Neo! I can make them pay for their treachery. 

 I will be THE ONE!

Just don’t tell any machines.

Or my cats.

Grumpy Old Cats

I am ruled by an unholy trinity of moggies. They are all black and they are all the same age.

I’ve discovered something else about them:

They are all older than me.

In human years, my three cats are all 10 years old – and no, I am not younger than that (though I wish I was). If you translate my cats’ age into feline years, all three of them are 57 years old.

And that explains a lot.

It explains why all three of them are as grumpy as hell.

As I get older, I see more and more nonsense to rant about and I have worn out many soapboxes as I have pontificated about the inane, the stupid and the ridiculous.  I lose patience with stupid people, anal people, jobs-worths, egomaniacs, pseudo-intellectuals, self-important arseholes, preachers, cosmetic punks and tossers.

 I tear my hair out about the way the world is becoming and I bellow at anybody who is willing to listen to who can’t get away fast enough when I unleash my soapbox.

I can imagine you now saying “Shut up you hypocritical Mancunian windbag!” but at the same time trying to picture a grumpy cat standing on a soapbox.

That’s silly; they do not stand on soapboxes and rant. Instead of ranting they each respond in their own special way.  Whereas I rant about the insanity of life, the target of their grumpiness is …

ME!!

Yes – I drive my cats to grumpiness.

Each one behaves differently.

Jasper, the biggest cat, used to have a carefree existence and tolerate my attempts at baiting him. He would roll over and tempt me to stroke his tummy, before grabbing my hand in his paws and actually licking it making sure that I knew who was boss by digging his claws into my skin just enough to prevent me from pulling away without tearing my flesh. If I tried to pull away he would kick me with his back legs and gently bite me. It didn’t hurt and we had fun.

Nowadays he meows when I try to tempt him to attack me and stares at me as if I am piece of waste floating in a cesspit. The meow is grumpy; you have to hear it to believe it. I imagine him saying “Bugger off you great oaf! I’m trying to sleep.”

He also parks his fat arse outside our bedroom door in the morning and when we get up, we are greeted by an indignant meow that sounds like an old man saying “NOW!!!!!!”.

Poppy is terrified of everything but even she is grumpy. In the past she used to race around the house, fleeing from invisible pursuers with a high pitched “BBRRRPPP!!!!” noise. Whenever I entered the room, she would be away before I could say “Cat”.

Now she stays where she is, looking for an exit, and growls like a dog. Her ears flatten against her head and sometimes she actually hisses at me.

HISSES!!!

What’s going on?

Finally, we have our most recent additions, Liquorice the Hellcat. She is not scared of me at all and sits there watching me, like she watches prey. Sometimes, she is friendly and sits on my knee; the moment I move, though, she stares at me with a look that says “Do that again and I will take your face off.”

I don’t have much to compare Liquorice with in terms of what she used to be like, but she is showing lots of signs of utter impatience and sheer contempt with her life sharing a house with me.

She has her own chair in the lounge, which is next to a lamp; if I try to switch off the lamp at bedtime, she actually attacks me with a meow that is deep and menacing. She has also been known to stalk me, leaping out from behind a chair to attack my ankles – presumably because my antics make her want to tear me to pieces.

I’ve tried to remedy the situation, dear reader.

I no longer poke Jasper with my hands to get him to attack me; instead I scratch his ears, tickle his tummy and gently stroke him. He has actually started purring.

As for Poppy, I creep around the house, rather than (as Mrs PM describes it), stomping around like a demented elephant on crack! And now I can walk into a room with Poppy inside and she will allow me to stroke her gently or, if she’s feeling really generous, allow me the privilege of feeding her.

As for Liquorice, I simply let her walk all over me. This is not just to make her less grumpy; it is also a natural instinct to preserve my own life.

We are kindred spirits, my cats and I. I rant at my world, putting it to rights by hurling abuse at everything that is wrong with it. The cats treat me with utter contempt and tell me in no uncertain terms what they think of me, aided by growls, hissing, tooth and claw.

I have improved things and now they are less grumpy.

Is it too much to ask for the world to improve so that I can retire my soapbox too?

31 Days of Blogging - Day 28

Day 28 – Coldplay – Clocks



The opening piano on Clocks is wonderful.

This song is so infectious that I had it as my mobile phone ring tone for a while. It was one of those old Nokias and I had to painstakingly type it in, a kind of crude version of the tune.

Mates and work colleagues took the piss but I didn’t care.

Coldplay are one of those bands that people love or hate – I love them – Mrs PM isn’t too keen at all and this song drives her up the wall.

So back in 2002, when the song was released, we moved into the house we live in now. And the family increased by two.

That’s right – we bought two black kittens from the Cat Protection League, which in itself was a bizarre experience. Mrs PM had always wanted black cats, so I called the charity and was told that a representative would come to visit us and check us out.

The way it was phrased, it appeared as if we were being scrutinised to see if we were suitable “parents”.

And that’s exactly how it was.

A woman called on us armed with a book of photographs and then interviewed us in our own home. She had long grey hair and looked at me in particular as she asked the questions, probably because I was the less enthusiastic of the two.

“Do you consider this to be a dangerous road?” she asked me.

“Not really. It’s not a main road is it?”

“This IS a dangerous road for cats,” she replied, shaking her head in disbelief. “Just count the cars that go past.”

I did – and there seemed to be quite a few.

She then continued the interrogation – er sorry – interview – asking questions about how we would look after the cats.

I wanted to jump up and scream at the woman: “Look – I have owned a cat before. I know how to feed them and how to look after them. I will not harm these animals. For Pete’s sake – if you think we are unworthy then I’ll just go out and get some kittens from somebody else.”

I didn’t say those words. I just nodded when she suggested that the cats should be kept in ( “House cats are better” she said), knowing that I would let them out because that’s exactly what cats want.

Eventually, Mrs PM chose Jasper and Poppy, whom regular readers will now be familiar with. A couple of days later, she brought them round and sat with us in the lounge just to make sure that we knew what we were doing.

“I have brought up two kids. I KNOW HOW TO LOOK AFTER A BLOODY CAT!!!!”

I didn’t say this at all – though the urge to do so was almost totally overwhelming.

She stayed with us for one hour – ONE HOUR!!!!

When she finally left, I allowed these two delightful little creatures to roam our house and have fun doing so. They were already house-trained, which was a massive bonus.

And the woman even rang us up a couple of times to ask “how the kittens were settling in.”

“I’ve fed them to next door’s dog,” I said.

I didn’t really.

At the time she rang, I was reading in bed and had Jasper on my chest and Poppy was sitting on Mrs PM purring.

And they have been with us ever since.

Here they are, as they were in 2002:

I was going to tell you something about the house we live in but I got carried away with our moggies (as I so often do).

Well at least that gives me something to talk about in tomorrow’s post – unless I start waffling about the cats again, of course.

Adopt a Plastic Mancunian

Dogs cannot write or speak. Neither can donkeys, cats or meerkats.

Why am I stating the obvious?

There are many people in the world who love animals. I, too, am an animal lover, particularly cats and dogs.

Nevertheless, I don’t quite understand the philosophy behind the concept of animal adoption. I’m not talking about going to the Cat Protection League to give a cat a good home; or a trip to the Dog Pound to adopt a stray dog.

I’m talking about the concept of adopting a wild animal that you rarely if ever get to meet for a monthly fee.

I’m not stupid enough to consider the alternative, for example, letting a tiger rampage through you house (though I think Liquorice would give a tiger a good run for its money). I’m talking about these “packs” you can get to adopt, say, a meerkat or another animal you would never consider having as a pet.

The idea is that you pay a certain amount of money a month and you get to adopt the animal concerned. You only get to meet the little creature if you spend an absolutely whopping amount of money per month otherwise you and up with little more than a photo and your name listed somewhere.

Even funnier is the promise that your animal will write you a letter. Can you imagine a dog trying to write a letter or type something?

I smell a rat – I reckon the letter part is made up.

Some people have likened me to a wild animal (or at least a dumb one). So what do you think of a plan to “Adopt a Plastic Mancunian”?

Do you think that might catch on?

Based on what I’ve read, I reckon there might be some mileage in trying to get people to “adopt” me.

Can I try an advert for this service on you, dear reader? Will there be anybody who would fall for this?


Meet Dave! As far as Plastic Mancunians are concerned, this is a really weird specimen. He is a bit old and decrepit but his heart is in the right place and he is forever scurrying around, making strange bleating and growling sounds. 


His daily routine is utterly predictable and he can actually perform tricks when requested. He loves a pint of beer and can be seen scampering between his den and the beer trough occasionally. He is also hard working and comical (well a lot of people laugh at him anyway).


His thick pelt is mainly located on his large misshapen head and in the morning you might be forgiven for mistaking him for a ball of straw. A quick dunk in water usually does the trick and he begins to actually look vaguely human. 


Overall we think you may find him a pleasant little creature, predicable and grumpy, yes, but interesting enough to amuse you if you push the right buttons.


Would you like to adopt Dave the Plastic Mancunian?


For a monthly fee of £400 we will send you an adoption folder consisting of:

• A certificate
• A photograph (we will make sure we provide one that doesn’t scare your children)
• A copy of his birth certificate – with the date changed to make him seem younger.
• A weekly letter 
• Your name listed on “The Plastic Mancunian” blog.

What will you £400 be sent on? 


Dave is broke and would love to be released into the wild. Your monthly fee will provide:

• Food in the nicest restaurants in Manchester
• Beer (you should see his little face when we give him a pint of beer)
• Clothes (the ones he wears at the moment are fashionable – if you live in the year 1956)

The remainder of the fee will be put into a bank and ultimately will be spent on a round the world airline ticket as well as hotel fees and excursions to allow little Dave to see as much of the world as possible. 


Adopt now – make a Plastic Mancunian happy.

Do you think it will work? 

If you are tempted, please let me know – and I promise you one thing – you don’t actually have to meet me. 

That would be a little TOO much to bear.

And I promise I will write you a letter – it will appear on this blog (the fact that others may see it is irrelevant – I will address it personally to you – honestly).

How can you resist these photos?

On second thoughts - don't answer that question!!!

Introducing Liquorice

There is a pecking order in my house and I am firmly entrenched at the bottom. Until last Tuesday I was fourth.

Now I am fifth.

We have a new cat, who has popped in to the pecking order chart ahead of me.

Here she is:

Why have we acquired a third cat?

Mrs PM has a friend in London who is moving to Abu Dhabi and she wanted her cat to go to a home where she would be loved and well looked after, preferably by somebody she knew.

Mrs PM was the obvious choice.

Regular readers will know that we already own two black cats called Jasper and Poppy, who are the undisputed masters of our home. In their eyes I am a mere servant (and a very poor one at that) and my place in the pecking order reflects the position that these two moggies have placed me.

To them, I am a mere slave; I feed them, I clean up after them, I pamper them, I groom them, I play with them and, when it takes their fancy, I am their prey.

I have learned my place over nine long arduous years and in that time I have suffered - here are some examples:

• Jasper, a huge fat bloater of a moggy, leaping from a wardrobe while I was asleep, and landing on my stomach; it felt like I had been body-slammed by a crazed wrestler.
• Walking, blind, to the toilet in the middle of the night and stepping into cat shit or vomit with my bare feet.
• Having my bare feet attacked by both cats in the middle of the night.
• Receiving “gifts” of dead mice, birds, frogs and even next door’s paintbrushes. My next door neighbour still thinks I am a weird pervert.
• Dropping a live mouse on Mrs PM while she was asleep (I still think that is hilarious).
• Having my finger bitten by Poppy as I tried to give her a pill and, when escaping, using my face as her chosen route to safety, leaving my already weird face now covered in scratches.

There are many more examples.

Nevertheless, I love cats and have tolerated their foibles and demands and accepted my place. The rewards are there for all to see.

Now what about this third cat?

I have met her a few times and each time, without fail, she has attacked me. She is nine years old, the same age as our cats, and also, like them she is black.

Her name is Liquorice.

When Mrs PM suggested that we inherit Liquorice, I said two things.

“That cat hates me.”

“We are changing her name.”

Mrs PM replied.

“Well she likes me”.

“We are NOT changing her name.”

I tried suggesting a few other names that reflect her violent personality, like Fang, Tank, Miss T, Chomper, Medusa, Shredder, Ripper, Raptor, Boudica, Claws and Piranha.

“WE ARE NOT CHANGING HER NAME,” said Mrs PM.

She arrived last Tuesday and since now we are in the middle of a period where Liquorice needs to settle. She is not allowed out of the house for two weeks, which means that we have to revert to using a litter tray for all three cats.

I hate litter trays – particularly full ones.

So how is Liquorice settling in?

It’s a difficult question to answer because I can’t communicate with cats. Even if I could they would probably ignore me. I can only give you the evidence and let you judge for yourself. Here’s what has happened since Liquorice moved in:

Liquorice has allowed me to stroke her. At first, I thought that perhaps she actually liked me. Sadly, she was lulling me into a false sense of security and has bitten me three times and scratched me twice.

Liquorice hates Jasper and Poppy. When they appear within her sight, Liquorice becomes a hissing, growling black ball of rage and attacks anything that enters her personal space – like me when I tried to comfort her by stroking her head. She seized my hand in her jaw and I only just managed to remove it in one piece.

Liquorice has explored our house and decided that our bedroom is her favourite room. Unfortunately, when Jasper or Poppy enter the room, she reverts to her Mrs Hyde state and becomes the hissing, growling ball of rage, usually at four o’clock in the morning and waking me up.

Liquorice can be very friendly and has fallen asleep on me in bed, allowing me to stroke her. I even managed to get a few purrs out of her.

Jasper and Poppy have allowed Liquorice to enter their kingdom with nothing more sinister than passing curiosity. Take today for example. Liquorice was sitting next to the settee when Jasper decided that he wanted to sniff her. He marched up to Liquorice and sat just two feet away staring at her. Liquorice responded with prolonged hissing and growling and then attacked my hand.

Poor Poppy doesn’t know what to make of Liquorice. She has tried to be friendly but so far been met with the same venomous growling and hissing.

How do we feel?

Mrs PM loves Liquorice and now has “a third baby”, despite Liquorice attacking her once or twice.

Me? I like her too. I like feisty cats and Liquorice has proved to be very feisty. She is also very agile and seeks sanctuary in the highest places in the house, like the top of the kitchen units or our wardrobes. She has also proven to be very friendly despite the trauma of now having to live with two other cats.

I think she will settle and in a couple of weeks we will try to introduce her to the cat flap so that she can explore the outside of the house.

And, of course, she will undoubtedly start to treat me like the lowly minion I am. In fact that has already started – she has just managed to fill the litter tray with an enormous turd.

I know my place.