Bring On The Dancing Girls

Regular readers will know that I love music. Some readers may even now that I in the past I have attempted to actually move my body in time to music, usually surrounded by people laughing at my uncoordinated efforts to keep time.

At the weekend I will find myself at a party where at some point in the evening I shall be asked to dance to a song I despise by the love of my life, Mrs PM.

Refusal is not an option so I will have to humiliate myself to the sound of whatever tripe the DJ decides to torment me with.

I hate dancing – that is the truth.

It wasn’t always like this.

When I was young and stupid, I thought I was the world’s greatest dancer.  I thought that “He’s the Greatest Dancer” was written about me.

In fact, I was more like a “Discotheque Wreck"!

I was born after the days when a man had to humiliate himself by asking a woman to share the floor with him in, holding her as they swept around the floor dancing a foxtrot or a waltz.

And I say thank God for that!

I was hopeless as an adolescent and young adult when it came to women. I was one of those spotty little twerps whose nervousness was almost a visible entity in its own right.

And I was ugly and thin with mad hair that was enough to scare away any females – even female baboons. My chat up lines consisted of the words:

“EURGGH!! MEURGGGH! Can I ERRR have a snog?”

This usually ended up with a minor bit of female contact – her hand slapping the glasses off my face!

When I was eighteen I found three things that I thought would help me on my quest; night clubs, beer and dancing. Sadly, as safe as they may seem individually, when combined on a Saturday night with an idiot like me, chaos ensued!

My dad always told me about how he would just ask a girl to dance. It involved walking up to a lady and asking her if you could put your arms around her and actually move your feet in a certain way in time to the music!

That terrified me!

The difference was in the late 1970’s and early 1980’s that people didn’t do that anymore. A man just danced on his own until a woman approached and fell for his wonderful techniques. At least that’s what I thought.

Usually I would go to a night club, with my best clothes on, having bluffed my way past the meathead bouncer on the door, and wait on the edge of the dance floor looking at the women dancing around their handbags each of them yearning for the good looking guys (which I wasn’t) and hoping they would be swept away like a princess being rescued by a prince.

I considered myself to be that prince – every single time I went to a club.

Would I woo here with my charms? Would she swoon at my good looks? In my mind’s eye I saw her almost collapsing in sheer delight as I stepped onto the dance floor like John Travolta before showing the entire night club how a man should really dance to “Night Fever”.

The truth is, in order to pluck up the courage to march on the floor, I had to drink a lot of beer. My addled brain then convinced me that I was Danny Zuko in “Greased Lightning" and, as my mates watched in absolute uproar on the sides of the dance floor, I would strut my funky stuff in front of every vaguely good-looking woman in that small well-lit area of humiliation.

It was worse than that. I was utterly convinced that all women were drooling over my body as I danced in front of them. I was so stupid that I even played hard to get by swinging my shoulder and turning away from a woman as she stared in utter disbelief at the acne-ridden drunk chimp wobbling next to her.

On other occasions I found myself almost alone in a pissed stupor, gyrating in a deeply disturbing way with a gurning phizzog that I thought said  “Bring on the dancing girls” but in reality had a similar effect to a skunk spraying the entire dance floor with its rancid stench.

It was only when a female friend at university told me how I really looked that I began to reassess my dancing skills.

“You look like a scarecrow who has just wet himself,” she told me cruelly. “No woman will dance with that! Even me – and I’m your friend!”

It was like a slap in the face.

Thankfully, she kind of taught me how to dance and over the next few years, I improved massively! Sadly, I was still a mess but at least I was vaguely in time and didn’t lurch around ogling all women in the vicinity like a colossal pervert.

I actually started to enjoy the music and voluntarily walked up without being pissed and on a lot of occasions with actual female friends who were willing to enjoy the music with me without fear of me turning into some kind of leering drunken animal.

In fact, I have even found myself dancing and surrounded by six very attractive women. The sad thing was, they were all friends who wouldn’t let me off the dance floor because the song playing was “Man! I Feel Like a Woman" and they found my total embarrassment absolutely hilarious.

Sadly, I have never evolved and the simple basic moves I used way back in my twenties are still the moves I would use now – and probably will use when Mrs PM drags me onto the dance floor on Saturday night.

And people still laugh at me!

"Who's that goon?"

I hasten to add, that all the night clubs I have mentioned above are your normal everyday disco type place that play dance music.

When I have ended up in a rock club, the story is completely different.

Regular readers will have gathered that I am a bit of a metalhead and when a favourite rock song appeared in such a venue (and I am not talking about token rock songs like “Living on a Prayer”, I am talking about air guitar shredders), I leapt onto the dance floor like a man possessed and shredded my air guitar as if I am Kirk Hammett, Ritchie Blackmore, Joe Satriani and John Petrucci all rolled into one.

The difference in this case was that there were few if any women on the dance floor and I was surrounded by similar drunk headbangers and one hundred percent engrossed in the music.

I don’t do that now – in fact I haven’t done it for a while. There have been occasions though – and here they are, including my impression of Slash!

"OH OH OH OH SWEET CHILD O' MINE!!"

Let’s hope they play “Paradise City” by  Guns’n’Roses on Saturday.

That’ll teach Mrs PM to drag me on the dance floor!

Top Ten ABBA Songs

I have had my musical taste questioned many times but the most recent attack came from a work colleague who suggested that my favourite music genre is basically just ripping off ABBA, which of course it isn’t.

This all stems from the discovery that one of my current favourite artists, Steven Wilson, produced an album of cover versions, one of which was an ABBA song.

Regular reader may know that in the past, I may have mentioned that I kind of grew up with ABBA. When I was a young impressionable kid just about to become a teenager ABBA were the biggest pop band in the world. And I have to admit that I was a fan – and I guess part of me still is. Nobody can deny that their music was influential (just not on progressive rock and progressive metal) but in the world of pop music, it was up there with the best.

And I had a massive teenage crush on Agnetha Fältskog (which hormone-filled lad didn’t at that age?).

My musical taste is fairly wide and ABBA reside proudly on my iPod alongside many more bands that some might say are an acquired taste.

Without further ado, therefore, I present my top ten ABBA songs, knowing full well that everybody likes them (even those cynical work colleagues who deny it).

10. That’s Me

My best mate as a teenager was also a fan and owned the ABBA album Arrival which featured this song. He used to play it all the time and for a while became firmly entrenched in my head as a pleasant earworm. And on the rare occasions I have heard it since, it has once again taken up residence, taking me back to the mid-1970’s with a smile.

9. Lay All You Love On Me

Towards the end of their career, ABBA embraced a more electronic sound, as was the trend at the time. It appeared in the charts in the period between my leaving school and starting university. By this stage my musical taste had changed significantly, flipping between heavy metal and electropop. My fascination with ABBA was over, but this song appeared and took me back to those years when I liked the band and fitted in with my tastes at that time.



8. Knowing Me Knowing You

As mentioned earlier, my best mate loved the album Arrival and this was by far his favourite song on the record. It’s a great song but I can’t help thinking about Alan Partridge when I hear the chorus. If you haven’t heard of him, he’s a spoof presenter/reporter (and arguably the worst in the world) with a show called Knowing Me Knowing You and whenever he appears he yells “AHA!” at the top of his voice.

7. I’m a Marionette

I didn’t normally take much notice of B-sides and it wasn’t often that they were better than the A-side. My sister bought The Name of the Game and this was on the B-side. I remember she played her single while I was there and then turned it over to give the flip side a spin. “That’s a much better song,” I said. She disagreed and never played it again. I actually took it to my room and popped it on my current mix tape at the time. It’s a bit of a darker song, with a nice guitar piece in the middle, which probably explains why I preferred it.



6. Mamma Mia

As a rule, I prefer the rockier ABBA songs and Mamma Mia was one of the first I heard after they had won the Eurovision Song Contest. I have to confess that I have never seen the dreadful musical to which this song gives its name because to me it is an abomination to take ABBA’s music and turn it into a sleazy story peppered with their songs. I know it’s incredibly popular but there is no way I would waste my money or time on it. What a terrible, terrible idea. Anyway, rant over – the song is good!

5. Waterloo

This is the song that started it all. I hate the Eurovision Song Contest now but in the past, I actually used to watch it avidly (well until about 1978 anyway). ABBA won the competition with this song way back in 1974 and this was their big introduction to the rest of Europe and the world, in fact. It remains my second favourite ever winner – behind the more controversial Hard Rock Hallelujah by Lordi (which I will spare you). Mind you, just take a look at those costumes in the video,



4. S.O.S

This is another earworm for me, a song that burrows into my head and stays there for a while, to the point where I find myself humming it. In fact, as I type I am humming the chorus. It’s a great little song.

3. Voulez-Vous

I’m a little puzzled as to why this song wasn’t a bigger hit, as it was certainly better than most of their other high chart entries. It’s a great dance song and at the time of its release it usually had the effect of filling the dance floor. It coincides with the time I first started venturing out into the world of the night club and remained a favourite of quite a few that I frequented around that time.

2. Eagle

Eagle is a beautiful and epic song. In fact, of all the songs they have released, this is the closest to being progressive, with a fantastic orchestral keyboard sound and a great little guitar solo (around the 3:10 minute mark). It’s a very uplifting song and always puts me in a great mood. I guess I need to start listening to it at work.



1. So Long

As a lover of rock music, I had to pick what I consider ABBA’s rockiest song as my favourite. You would expect nothing less, I guess, dear reader. Again, this was one of the first songs I heard after Waterloo and, strangely it was never released as a single in the UK. It’s not beyond the realms of possibility that you have not heard it, dear reader. I also apologise for being a bit of a letch; Agnetha is particularly lovely in this video – it’s probably what started it all off, to be fair.

And finally …

I hope you liked my selection , dear reader.

I am sure you are a closet ABBA fan.

Feel free to let me know your favourites – particularly if you are the work colleague who inspired this post (you know who you are!).

A Rant About Music

It’s still January, it’s still bloody freezing outside, it is still dark when I go to work and dark when I come home. January and February are the worst months of the year and I spend almost every day feeling pissed off and grumpy.

Yes - it's another rant, I'm afraid.

Little things make my situation worse, tiny little things that ordinarily wouldn’t bother me, things that I would just push to one side and ignore. In January these little things become a major force and infuriate me.

One such thing infuriated me this morning.

I was on my way to work and I decided to change the CD in my car. I had been listening to the new album by AC/DC and I fancied a change. Sadly, when I ejected the CD, I dropped it on the floor and I had stupidly not prepared a new CD to replace it. The car stereo defaulted to the radio, which normally wouldn’t be too bad because my radio station of choice is a local rock station.

And then I found myself listening to a diabolical R’n’B hip hop crossover dirge that almost certainly featured the now obligatory pointless egotistical rap by an artist with a stupid name like $ycho, Snoop Hen or Eminemineminemiem.

I howled in frustration; I couldn’t stop the car and I needed to concentrate because it was dark and cold and the road was full of arses, trying to cut me up. My temper rose to almost boiling point.

Mrs PM had used the car and changed the radio station so I was listening to an inane, moronic DJ with the intelligence of a slug, playing the songs that corporate arses had ordered him to play. In my rage, I couldn’t figure out how to get back to my beloved rock station so I searched the airwaves and found my ears and brain polluted by utter drivel from loads of genres – songs that are played over and over and over and over again. There were new songs, old boring repetitive songs, one hit wonders, and all manner of novelty crap.

They were shit then and they are shit now.

I find it incredible that we as free-thinking humans allow ourselves to be spoon fed by the so-called gods of music who tell us what to listen to, what to like and the styles of music we have to endure. Like mindless zombies we listen to it.

“But the music is great,” I hear you cry. “You are just an ageing dinosaur. These songs are good.”

Some of the songs that receive too much airplay have been good, dear reader – the odd one. However, we are force fed utter dross most of the time because the hidden powers behind what you hear on the radio have a playlist which is absolutely full of the latest “in-bands” who have somehow managed to gain a foothold because they are pretty boys or lovely young ladies.

I am talking about manufactured boy bands, yet another bloody rap artist, a warbling woman who happens to have a great body and can dance along to her terrible song but has little talent.

Even when I stumble across a radio station playing “oldies”, it’s still the same old songs that we have heard all the time and were bored to death by, way back in the 60’s, 70’s or 80’s.

And this subjugation has permeated into everything from adverts to weddings and parties.

Every single party or wedding I ever go to that has a dance floor, either plays modern radio-friendly garbage or old songs that are totally crap but I know all the words to because I have heard them about three million times in my life.

“OH MY GOD! NOT “I’VE HAD THE TIME OF MY LIFE” AGAIN!! SOMEBODY KILL ME NOW!”

Sometimes when I have had to endure dancing to a stupid song like “Tonight’s Gonna Be A Good Night!” for the 2000th time, I sit there with frustration building up inside, fuelled by alcohol, and say to myself:

“Right – let’s get some bloody rock music!” I say and march over to the DJ defiantly. The DJ has usually said something earlier, like “If you have any requests, please come up.”

The conversation goes one of three ways:

PM: Please – I beg you – can you play something decent? Have you got any rock music?

DJ: HA HA HA HA HA HA HA! Sit down, you devil-worshipping dinosaur.

PM: No, seriously – you must have something.

DJ: No – nobody likes it.

PM: I like it.

PM: Don’t care – now piss off!

or

PM: Please – I beg you – can you play something decent? Have you got any rock music?

DJ: No rock music but I’ve got some oldies. How about “Saturday Night” by Whigfield?

PM: AAAAAAARRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHH!!

or

PM: Please – I beg you – can you play something decent? Have you got any rock music?

DJ: Sure – I’ll see what I can do.

The last conversation sounds promising, doesn’t it? Well it’s not! What the DJ means is:

“I’ll play one of three token rock songs: “Don’t Stop Believin’” by Journey, “Livin’ On a Prayer” by Bon Jovi or “Sex On Fire” by The Kings of Leon.

AAAAAAARRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHH!!

I hate “Livin’ On A Prayer” because it has become the only acceptable rock song in a DJ’s collection and I have heard it about 100 million times. I quite liked it the first time but now it sends me into spasms of indignation.

I blame people like Simon Cowell and Louie Walsh – and probably many other old rich so-called music moguls – who manufacture pretty boys and girls and flood the radio stations with boring inane crap.

I want to start a revolution – as others are. Let’s boycott the radio and start hunting around the internet for fantastic music that will not get airplay.

I am not just focussing on rock music here – there is music out there that is new fresh and brilliant but never gets played because the image doesn’t fit with the gods of music who decide what we should all be listening to.

I’d like to highlight a song that describes the plight of modern music controlled by the music moguls which predicts the demise of future music.



Several lines stand out:

The music of rebellion makes you wanna rage 
But it's made my millionaires who are nearly twice your age

and

One of the wonders of the world is going down 
It’s going down I know
It’s one of the blunders of the world
That no one care enough

Personally, I think there is hope.

Dear reader, you and I have the power to seek out new tunes, new music – to boldly go where no music mogul has gone before (sorry for the Star Trek cliché but I believe it fits).

I have started already in the music galaxy that is called Progressive Rock and have already discovered two bands – one of them from Poland, a country that Simon Cowell and his ilk will totally ignore.

Whatever music style you love, the internet is your friend.

If I were a DJ I would rebel and spend my entire day scouring the internet for something new, refreshing and amazing – and I would play the songs but not over and over again so that people simply got sick of it. I would prefer people to go out and buy this music from independent record companies or buy the music directly from the band/artist in question.

I would make my radio show the greatest programme on the entire planet. I would welcome all and any music sent to me by like-minded people.

Are you sick of the same old bollox on the radio?

Are you fed up of the same old inane DJ’s who play oldies over and over again and sacrifice new exciting music in order to play “I Just Called To Say I Loved You” for the billionth time?

Are you absolutely pissed off with Simon Cowell and his bloody X Factor?

Or am I really a musical dinosaur?

Come on dear reader - let’s do this! Let’s rebel.

I’ll start the ball rolling – here is a great song by band you will never have heard of:



And it’s an utter crime that I intend to put right in my own small way.

Rant over - for now!!

31 Days of Blogging - Day 9

Day 9 – Adam and the Ants - Ant Music



“So unplug the jukebox and do yourself a favour – that music’s lost its taste so try another flavour.”

Christmas 1980 and as an eighteen year old I had discovered beer. Of course, I had been partaking in the wicked substance at the tender age of sixteen but because I looked like a ten year old, I found it difficult to get served in pubs.

I ended up carrying my birth certificate around with me to prove my age – which was very embarrassing. S, my good looking mate, looked about thirty as did the other guys we used to hang round with.

Saturday night was pub night and now I had something else to spend my money on, other than music. I had once managed to get myself horribly drunk (read about it here) and I almost became teetotal. However, thankfully, I started to take it easy and by managed to venture to a couple of pubs in Walsall town centre and arrive home feeling the good effects of alcohol.

I also did something about my hair. It had been like a white afro – a huge amount of hair that added about six inches to my height and width. I decided to have it styled and after that major operation I actually looked normal. My hair was the shortest it had been since 1970.

Having a good looking mate like S was a bonus because he lost his shyness after a couple of beers and would randomly talk to women in the pubs. This was particularly good around Christmas because invariably he would ask them for a Christmas kiss – and usually get one. I was just a hanger on and I got the odd snog too – which was a massive bonus.

I discovered that drunk women wear beer goggles.

We also discovered clubs too. Walsall had one night club called “Max’s” and I ventured in there whenever I could afford it – which was tricky on the little money I earned working in a newsagent. Sometimes my dad would help me out by slipping me a few quid, with the words:

“Don’t tell your mum. She’ll go mad if she thinks I’m paying for you to have beer.”

New Years’ Eve 1980 was magnificent. My dad treated me to enough cash to “have a good time” and me S and the lads found ourselves a pub that stayed open into the wee small hours. The bonus was that it was full of young women and we had a great time. I distinctly recall wandering home through Walsall town centre at around half past one in the morning asking every good looking girl I passed for a New Year kiss – and actually getting lots.

Beer goggles again.

Getting a girlfriend was still impossible (they saw me in a different light when they were sober – no beer goggles you see) but to be honest with all the work I had to do for my A levels and exams, it was difficult to juggle everything; a girlfriend would have been impossible. I had to make do with the odd night down the pub.

Of course, S had a girlfriend to occupy his time and I used that time to work. When we did pop out to the pub, we used to always put Ant Music on the jukebox and sing the chorus out loud - until we were shushed by the regulars – who suggested that the landlord really did “unplug the jukebox”.

Looking back, it was a strange experience still being at school and finding ourselves old enough to go to the pub. Sometimes, we would risk popping to the pub on Friday lunchtimes during school, removing our blazers and ties because officially the local pub had a policy not to sell beer to sixth form students.

The landlord must have known though – as well as the teachers (who must surely have smelled alcohol).

Coincidentally the local newsagent did a roaring trade in chewing gum and extra strong mints.

Blogging Block

The computer is on, the Word document is open and a blank screen sits in front of me.

A voice inside my head says: “Well go on then – type something.”

I answer that voice: “I don’t know what to type.”

Another voice speaks – it is Captain Paranoia:


“Ha ha ha! You have no stupid ideas for your stupid blog – it’s over! The Plastic Mancunian is no more. HA HA HA HA!”

I reply: “It’s just writer’s block – bugger off!”

I am a realist striving to be an optimist so I won’t be beaten by a touch of blogging block. I’ve written all sorts of nonsense on this blog – why can’t I do it again?

Something will happen.

All I need is some inspiration. I close my eyes – and rack my brain. It is devoid of ideas.

Where did they all go? I claim on this very blog to have a superb and weird imagination. There must be SOMETHING in that vast creepy universe that I can write about.

Something…

Anything…

Nothing!

Nothing at all!

Bugger! Is Captain Paranoia right? Is my alternative persona fatally wounded?

Will the Plastic Mancunian disappear into the ether?

Not if I can help it. I click on Windows Media Player and hit a random tune to see if that gets the creative juices flowing.

Supertramp – Sister Moonshine

Mmm – shall I write about my favourite Supertramp songs?

Bugger! I've done that!

Next song; Dream Theater – Under a Glass Moon.

Mmm – shall I write about my favourite Dream Theater songs?

No – not many people out there know about Dream Theater and I may find myself ranting about the state of music again – and I’ve done that.

Then I remember a book I bought called “The Writers Block” – a small cuboid book packed full of ideas to inspire writers (which I guess I am – a plastic writer perhaps).  I open it at a random page:

Spark word: Waiting

Bugger – I’m waiting for inspiration; that’s a frustrating spark if ever I heard one.

Crap – I’m stuck.

Captain Paranoia resurfaces:


“You may as well give up now…and delete the blog while you’re on.”

Maybe he’s right. Maybe I am struggling because I have run out of ideas.

I’ve written 344 posts and I can’t write one more – about anything!

Anything!

Writer’s block – my imagination won’t talk to me. What have I done to it?

Next song: The Buzzcocks – Ever Fallen In Love

I remember that song – from my youth. I liked that song – it brings back memories. Good memories.

A spark.

A massive spark.

Memories and music.

That’s it! That’s what I’ll do – I’ll trawl my music collection and select songs from my collection. It is vast – there are too many songs.

How about a song a day?

How about 31 songs – a song a day for an entire month – and stories about my life at that time?

Too much for one post – but what a great idea.

Captain Paranoia – get back in you hole. I can now write 31 posts – maybe for January.

Count them Captain Paranoia - 31 posts!!!

Captain Paranoia: “Doesn’t help you for December though – idiot.”

Yes it does. I can write a post about writer's block.

NOW GO AWAY!!!!

Inspiration can be found from the most unlikely sources. If you suffer from writer's block – write about that – and listen to some music - ideas will come.

Inspiration is out there for everyone. It’s just a matter of finding it. Thanks to the Buzzcocks ...

I start typing:

The computer is on, the Word document is open and a blank screen sits in front of me... 

Comedy Rock

Some people say that rock music is offensive nonsense. Others claim that it is a loud dirge with meaningless lyrics and hoarse unintelligible vocals.

I don’t care what people say – I still love it.

And, contrary to popular belief, rock music can be funny. Here, for you amusement , are a few examples of funny rock music.

Note – some a little naughty and puerile and that’s why they appeal to an immature arse like myself.

(1) Big Balls – AC/DC

You can guess by the title that this song is totally full of innuendo in a “Carry On” kind of way; a rather strange addition to the excellent AC/DC catalogue – but fun nonetheless.

(2) Learning To Fly – The Foo Fighters

This isn’t really a comedy song but the video is really funny. If you haven’t seen it, it’s worth a look. It features Jack Black and Kyle Gass (aka Tenacious D – more from them later) and gives the band a chance to dress up a bit.

(3) Break Like The Wind – Spinal Tap

The lyrics to “Break Like The Wind” are fantastic. This song is a rock cliché from the start to the finish and features the guitar talent of Jeff Beck, Joe Satriani and Slash reaching a massive crescendo that seems never to finish. As funny as it is – it is also a great song.

“We are the thumbs on a stranger’s hands”

(4) Master Exploder - Tenacious D

This is taken from “Tenacious D – The Pick of Destiny” featuring Jack Black and Kyle Gass. It is the high spot of the film for me because not only is it a great song, the comedy around it is fabulous, particularly the expressions on Jack Black’s face as he sings.

A word of warning – the clip has bad language and some scenes that may be a little unsuitable for anybody who might easily be offended.

(5) Death To All But Metal – Steel Panther

Talking of being offensive – this is totally offensive but absolutely hilarious. I present the “radio edit” for those of a sensitive nature. Thankfully the offensive words have been replaced by weird noises. I saw the uncut video on late night TV and I was stunned at the appalling language. The good thing is that Steel Panther are a comedy band but also extremely disgusting. I saw them live and it was hilarious. If you dare to dig out the uncut video, watch the ending:

“Death to all butt metal”

“No – I said Death to all but metal”

“That’s what I said – Death to all butt metal”

(6) The Offspring – The Worst Hangover Ever

If you have ever been drunk this will make you laugh. We’ve all been there. I certainly have.

(7) Love and Death and an American Guitar – Jim Steinman

I’m not sure whether this is supposed to be funny – but it makes me laugh. It comes from Jim Steinman, the brains behind Meat Loaf’s “Bat Out of Hell”. Weird but I love the ending.

(8) The Majesty of Rock – Spinal Tap

Another classic from Spinal Tap – with very funny lyrics.

“When we die do we haunt the sky? Do we lurk in the murk of the seas?

What then? Are we born again, just to sit asking questions like these?”

(9) Tribute – Tenacious D

I love this video – if you haven’t seen it you really should. Jack Black and Kyle Gass are hilarious. And the devil is played by Dave Grohl of the Foo Fighters. Wonderfully funny.

(10) An Englishman on Holiday – Thunder

My final offering is from Thunder and tells the tale of English thugs on holiday in Spain. Of course, the message is clear, but it is told in a funny way.

“We like to sing and shout out “Here We Go!” ‘cos they’re the only words that we all know.”

Marvellous.

Night Clubs - Chinese Style

I’m too old for night clubs. I am a perfect example of a Discotheque Wreck.

For one thing, most of the youngsters who frequents such places would be horrified to see somebody my age trying to look cool on a dance floor – I know I would have been in my twenties. I couldn’t dance then and I’m even worse now.

To be honest, I don’t really want to go to these places anyway. There are lots of reasons for this but the chief amongst them are:

Night clubs are far too loud. These days I like to have a conversation when I socialise with people. This is absolutely impossible in a night club. The music is cranked up to a volume so loud that it invades your thoughts and renders you useless. If you try to have a conversation with another person in a night club, you end up bellowing down their ear to make yourself heard. It might make give you the opportunity to get close to a woman you fancy, but your cool words and well-rehearsed chat up line will quite literally fall on deaf ears. Add to that the spray of spittle as somebody screams at you, you realise that the experience is not a pleasant one.

I used to wonder why my throat was raw the following morning and also why my ears felt like there was a crazed bell ringer inside. It was because we screamed at each other and, more often than not, could not understand what the hell was being said anyway.

Night clubs play shit music. I have always thought this. With the exception of places like Rockworld all night clubs play dreadful music that I loathe. To me it all sounds exactly the same:

BOOF! DOOF! BOOF! DOOF! BOOF! BOOF! BOOF!
BOOF! DOOF! BOOF! DOOF! BOOF! BOOF! BOOF!
BOOF! DOOF! BOOF! DOOF! BOOF! BOOF! BOOF!
BOOF! DOOF! BOOF! DOOF! BOOF! BOOF! BOOF!
BOOF! DOOF! BOOF! DOOF! BOOF! BOOF! BOOF!
BOOF! DOOF! BOOF! DOOF! BOOF! BOOF! BOOF!
BOOF! DOOF! BOOF! DOOF! BOOF! BOOF! BOOF!

repeated ad nauseam.

Night clubs are too expensive. As a student we used to get tanked up in the pubs before embarking on a trip to a night club. We usually had to pay a colossal entrance fee to get into the place before wobbling over to the bar to pay an exorbitant price for our beverage of choice. And the beer was like camel urine so why the hell did we even bother to drink it?

Night clubs have bouncers. I have lost count of the number of times I have had arguments with these well-dressed meatheads. It is not difficult to prove that they are as dumb as a particularly stupid sheep. Those that can articulate can only say two words: “NO JEANS!” Most of them just grunt.

You should stop going to night clubs in your thirties in my opinion.

If you want to cling onto your youth, a night club is not the place to be. “Getting down with the kids” is embarrassing and a pointless as it is stupid for people my age.

One of the worst sights I have ever seen is a young man, about twenty years old, snogging with a woman who must have been about sixty in a Manchester night club. It was quite literally “Grab a Granny” night and I decided then that I would give up going to night clubs when I reached a suitable age.

I have largely stuck to that principle, apart from the odd foray into Icelandic night clubs.

Nevertheless, when I visited Kunming recently, a young work colleague suggested that we head off to a lively area and have a couple of beers in a night club.

I was about to refuse and head back to the hotel when I reconsidered. My curiosity got the better of me. I have ventured into night clubs on my travels before and I was intrigued by the prospect of seeing how Chinese youth let their hair down.

“You are an old git!” screamed my conscience and of course it was correct. But I was also a foreigner in a Chinese city and that, too, would make me stand out from the crowd.

So I thought: ”Sod it” and agreed to join my youthful colleagues, two English guys and two Chinese guys.

The area we were taken to was called Kundu. When we climbed out of the taxi, I was absolutely astonished. It was midnight and the place was one of the liveliest areas I have ever seen. The streets were packed with youngsters prepared to have a great time. The place was full of bars and clubs blaring out all manner of dreadful music at an ear-shattering volume.

I allowed myself to be lead into a night club that was packed to the rafters. One of my colleagues tried to get to the bar while I watched the crowd. It was a sight to behold but not too different from a night club anywhere else in the world.

I decided to film a short video on my camera. Here it is:



The volume doesn’t do it justice; the music was hellishly loud. When I had finished the video, a hand appeared in front of my face. I looked at the owner and it was a young Chinese guy, beaming from ear to ear. I smiled at him and he leaned over to bellow something in my ear.

“HOW DO YOU DO?” he shouted.

“I’m very well, thanks,” I replied. “How are you?”

He then gave me a high five and his friends laughed, not in an unfriendly way I have to say. It was a moment of fun.

Sadly, the place was too busy and an executive decision was made by my younger associates to try somewhere else.

Pretty soon I was in another night club – and this was even better. I had a perfect view of the DJ’s who were well into the swing of things. I took another video:



It was so funny. Unfortunately this night club really was expensive; they tried to charge us £5 for a bottle of beer in a city where the average price was around £1.

As we left, I tried to shoot another small video of the clientele, only to be screamed at by an irate waitress who told me in no uncertain terms that I wasn’t allowed to take photos in the club. I didn’t understand a word she screamed but her gestures told me everything I needed to know.

Eventually, we found a slightly less crowded club with more reasonably priced beer and we managed to sit down, sup a pint of Chinese lager and scream at each other over the dreadful music.

We didn’t last much longer. A tough working week took its toll and we left for our hotel.

I was shattered when I got back into my room and I realised then that I was definitely too old for the night club game. The music was far too loud, the beer far too expensive and the clientele far too young for an old fool like me.

Despite this, I actually quite enjoyed my short exposure to Chinese night clubs. For once, I didn’t stand out for being too old - I was simply a curious foreigner.

And there wasn’t a bouncer in sight to tell me that my jeans weren’t allowed.

The Hoarder

I am a hoarder.

There I’ve said it. I didn’t need to go on the Jeremy Kyle to tell a bunch of strangers who like car crash TV. I didn’t tell the world that I have come to terms with my problem because of some weird personality trait dictating that I should wash my dirty clothes in public.

Instead, I confessed it in a blog to a handful of readers, a lot of whom I have never met, most of whom probably think that I am some kind of eccentric oddball.

I feel much better now.

Mrs PM knows that I am a hoarder and she hates it. She is transient by nature and devotes all of her attention to whatever takes her interest during that fleeting period.

Take music for example. At the moment, she is devoted to The Black Eyed Peas and Lady Ga Ga and she will continue to be so until she gets bored of them. And then she will ditch them. Not only will she ditch them, she will also dispose of any evidence that she was remotely interested in them. The CD’s will find their way onto Ebay and into the hearts of any crazy fool dumb enough to buy them. To Mrs PM, she has lived for the moment and that moment will be well and truly over – so she will obliterate them from her life with absolute maximum prejudice.

This is her mantra: “It is so over!”

You may have heard me quote that mantra before when I have had to deal with her desire to throw out my clothes.

They say that opposites attract; in the case of hoarding we are poles apart.

As far as I am concerned, if a band enters my radar and I love them, I will buy the CD and I will keep it – forever. It has earned its place in my affections and therefore deserves a place in my life and in my cupboard. I will never, ever get rid of it.

I also have the same attitude to other things too. My collection of books, rock magazines, clothes, gadgets, university notes, football programmes, DVD’s – anything that I like.

Mrs PM hates it.

I have already told you about how, when we got together, she annihilated my wardrobe, throwing out all of my shirts and leaving me without clothes.

“You need to buy new clothes,” she said.

“How? I haven’t got any clothes to wear to actually go and buy anything. Do you want me to walk around the Trafford Centre in my underpants?”

“Not THOSE underpants – they’re SO over.”

Thankfully, she allowed me to wear some unfashionable jeans and a T-shirt in order to buy a whole new set of clothes.

I allowed her to get away with it, simply because we were in the honeymoon period and I wanted to impress her. She clearly didn’t feel the same way I did. I was a formless blob of plasticine to mould into the man she desired.

Of course, needless to say, I rebelled, as I usually do and revisited my hoarding past. It was a dirty hidden secret that I relished.

And this is where the problems began.

You see it is really difficult to hoard without keeping it a secret. My collection of CD’s outgrew the shelving that accommodated them. My wardrobe was only a finite size and every new shirt that I bought had to be crammed into an ever decreasing amount of free space. I bought yet more books and, like the CD’s the number grew too large to store on a bookshelf.

Mrs PM discovered my dirty little secret. She was pretty good about it.

“Let’s have a massive clear out. You can start with your wardrobe then you can move on to those paperbacks. And when you’ve finished with that lot we can look at you CD’s.”

“You ARE joking!” I retorted.

“No!” she replied.

Thus our power struggle began.

I know where my tendency to hoard comes from; my mother. She is the world champion at hoarding. Why does she hoard?

I have a theory about that.

My parents were both born just before World War II and this, as you can imagine, was a very difficult time in terms of acquiring basic necessities. Even after the war was over, the British government continued to ration supplies. People ran out of everything and consequently began to stockpile even the most fundamental bits and pieces.

As a child I remember all four of my grandparents telling me that I shouldn’t waste anything. If there was a use for it then it should be kept. My mum told me the same. It was a mentality born out of rationing. Few things were available so when something passed your way, you kept it.

I remember when my ex-wife’s grandmother died at the age of ninety six. She had lived a fabulously long life, surviving two world wars and more than her fair share of hardship. When the time came to clear out her house, she had hoarded all sorts of things; she had boxes of brown paper bags; bags full of paper clips, elastic bands, pens, pencils, notebooks, thimbles, cotton, plugs, fuses, cutlery, plates, books, newspaper, cotton, plasters, plastic containers, toothpicks, matches, kitchen foil, string – you name it, she had it.

And she wasn’t alone. When my mum’s parents died, we found money in boxes scattered in hiding places throughout the house, under steps, behind skirting boards. My grandfather trusted nobody and hoarded all sorts of junk. He built his own shed and it was literally overflowing with nails, screws, tacks, tools and all sorts of hardware. He could have opened a shop. His wife, my grandmother, was similar. Like my ex-wife’s grandmother, she kept bags and boxes of everything that we take for granted.

The mantra was “You never know when you might need some string” or in fact anything that could conceivably be useful.

Unfortunately my mother shares this mantra and her small house is overflowing with junk. I spend a lot of time telling her that she can and should get rid of some of her stuff but she repeats her mother’s mantra and looks at me as if I am a particularly stupid primeval swamp creature.

One day, I visited her and she said “I’ve bought a new fridge.”

“Fabulous,” I said. “I think you needed one. That old one was falling apart and it was too big for your kitchen.”

I walked into the kitchen to look at the new fridge and saw it standing there, nice and shiny and absolutely full of food. Next to it was the battered old fridge.

“Didn’t they take it away?” I asked.

“No – I’m keeping it.”

I opened it and, sure enough, it too was full of food.

I was speechless. “You’ve got enough food here to feed the British Army and have some left over for the Americans.”

“You never know when it might come in useful,” she said.

This happened two years ago. My mother is also the most stubborn woman who has ever lived and she still owns two fridges full of food.

I am desperate to go there with the world’s biggest skip and have a massive spring clean – but she is prepared. She won’t let me in the house unless I sign a declaration in blood stating that I will not remove a single thing from within her walls.

It’s ridiculous.

Mrs PM thinks that I have inherited this hoarding gene.

She is wrong. I do hoard but the things I keep really are necessary for my life and my sanity. I refuse to discard any CD’s and the vast majority of my books, as well as many other things.

Take my scruffy old leather jacket, for example. It is a masterpiece. I have worn it for every single rock concert that I have been to since 1985. It is twenty five years old and still going strong (though Mrs PM will allow me to wear it if I am with her). That jacket has character and is part of my history.

Here it is:



It’s a beauty isn’t it? It’s seen some of the biggest bands on the planet: Rush, Deep Purple, Alice Cooper, Queen, Bruce Springsteen, Deep Purple, The Foo Fighters, Metallica, Judas Priest, Guns’n’Roses… the list is endless. How could I possibly get rid of it?

Mrs PM thinks I want to keep it because, like my mother, I am stubborn.

Despite cementing my feet to the ground and refusing to budge, Mrs PM has worn me down over less important stuff and I have ended up having a massive clear out over the years.

However, I am wise to her motives.

Her “clearouts” are getting more and more frequent and she is trying to shame me into giving things away to charity, accusing me of being a heartless self-centred oaf when I refuse. I have started to give in and, with tears in my eyes, sorted out massive piles of stuff, filling bags and lugging them to the local Oxfam shop.

What she doesn’t know, however, is that I have quite literally started to hoard junk. I keep magazines, newspapers, flyers and all sorts of old tat. That way, when she wants a clearout (which are now becoming so frequent now that they are every two weeks), I simply throw away the junk that I have hoarded and have no emotional attachment to. I fill bags full of crap that I really do not want and then the stuff I really do want to keep is saved to live another day.

My fiendish plan is working. Please don’t tell her. I couldn’t bear to part with my beloved leather jacket.

The King of Pop - Top Ten Michael Jackson Songs

It’s just over a year since Michael Jackson died, so I was wondering whether it is safe to talk about him yet. There are a lot of people out there who believe that he was some kind of messiah and won’t hear a word said against him.

Do you want my opinion?

I think that Michael Jackson was an absolute nutter ... and at the same time a genius.

I don’t want to dwell on his controversial life because I don’t know the detail – it is largely speculation anyway. I do know that he transmuted from a normal black guy into a weird caricature of his former self.

Ultimately I felt sorry for him – I still do. Why? Because he was such a talented artist, deserving the title “The King of Pop”. He could write, sing and was a terrific dancer.

This post is a sort of tribute to the best thing about Michael Jackson – his music. Like everybody my age or thereabouts, Michael’s songs pepper my life, the words and notes reminding me of key episodes in existence – particularly the early material.

I therefore present to you, dear reader, my favourite Michael Jackson songs, which may surprise those who think I am a blinkered heavy metal heathen with tunnel vision and dreadful taste in music.

I actually do like a fair few songs by the King of Pop.

(10) Bad – My wedding was a superb day but also an uncomfortable day. I was the centre of attention and way out of my comfort zone. Through the whole day, I was pursued, along with my ex-wife, by relatives, friends, strangers and a very dogged and determined video cameraman. Everywhere I turned there was a video lens poking in my face; at one point I tried to move away and hide at the edge of the dance floor, which was as stupid as it was pointless because lots of people wanted me to dance. The song blaring in the background at this point was “Bad” and when I look at the video now and see a very young Plastic Mancunian (aged 25) I can only laugh at my embarrassment and I can say without a shadow of a doubt that I wasn’t “Bad” at all – just lost like a fish out of water.

(9) Leave Me Alone – There is something about this song that I really like and it is not just the funny self-deprecating video. At the time, the press was full of all sorts of bizarre stories about Michael Jackson and I applauded him for appearing to take on his critics, even if perhaps there was an element of truth in the weird accusations.

(8) Don’t Stop ‘til You Get Enough – Before I fell in love with heavy metal and rock music, I was a fan of seventies disco music (please don’t laugh – I am baring my soul here). My sister was a huge fan of “Off The Wall” and bought the album mainly to compete with my loud headbanging music – we had competitions with music played at increasing volumes in our respective rooms. We must have driven our parents nuts. However, when she played “Off The Wall” I used to turn the volume in my room down just to listen to “Don’t Stop ‘til You Get Enough” because it reminded me of the music I liked a few years earlier. Please don’t tell my sister.

(7) Billie Jean – My university was dominated by superb pop music. I spent a lot of the time prowling around pubs and clubs in search of a girlfriend and became enthralled by the most popular music around. Michael Jackson’s “Thriller” was ubiquitous and top of the pile in terms of air play was “Billie Jean”. Every single night club and dance floor was serenaded by the cries of “Billie Jean’s not my lover” and, keen to attract the attention of fair maidens, I tried foolishly to moonwalk while singing the lyrics. Instead of looking like the King of Pop I was more like the King of Plop, resembling a total arse as I drunkenly wobbled around with a twisted impression of Michael Jackson that, I imagine, made women run a mile.

(6) The Way You Make Me Feel – I simply love this song and have made a complete arse of myself dancing to it on many occasions. It is a great pop song that makes my pathetic dancing feet twitch even today. You can imagine what I must look like these days trying to strut my funky stuff to this – that’s right – I look like a middle-aged bag of angry badgers. I must confess, though, that I love the woman in the video. Nice.

(5) Thriller - I will never forget the day I first saw the video for Thriller. We had been to the pub on a Friday night and had returned with fists full of fish and chips. As usual we congregated around the TV hoping to kill some time watching crap TV. We turned on Channel Four just in time to see the first showing of Thriller. For the first two minutes of the video we howled with laughter at Michael Jackson saying “you know I’m not like other guys”. We were merciless – “Yes we know that!” What wags we were. And then we all, as one, dropped our half-eaten chips on the floor, in total shock as the King of Pop turned into a monstrous werewolf. We paused only long enough to laugh when the werewolf knocked over a tree and watched the rest of the video in total silence, plucking our chips off the floor and eating them like popcorn. At the end of the video we applauded citing the video as the greatest music video we had ever seen. In fact, it still sends shivers down my spine today – the song’s pretty good too.

(4) Dirty Diana – Occasionally, Michael Jackson has produced a minor gem and in my opinion, “Dirty Diana” is just that because, not only is it a great pop song, it is tinged with menace and has a mean guitar to give it a harder and rockier edge. I have been known to play my air guitar to this song, again making myself look like a total pillock in front of friends and strangers, all of whom have subsequently denied all knowledge of knowing me.

(3) Can You Feel It – Can you feel it indeed. This song still gives me goosebumps, reminding me of when dance music was actually quite good and not the utter bilge it devolved into. Michael Jackson and his brothers produced a classic here and it still stands the test of time. And yes – you’ve guessed it – I have caused much amusement wobbling drunkenly in vague time to this song – too many times to mention.

(2) Beat It – Like “Dirty Diana”, this is a fabulous pop song with a terrific harder edge and featuring a wonderful bit of guitar work from Eddie Van Halen. During my early years at university, I played air guitar to this in my room, in the pub, in night clubs and on the street. Actually that last one isn’t true. “Beat It” represents my finest memories at university and whenever I hear it, my mind is transported back to those fabulous times, when I was a young buffoon fumbling his way through life (as opposed to the old buffoon I am now).

(1) Earth Song – Casting aside the messianic images in the video, and ignoring the fact that Michael Jackson at this point was becoming a bit of joke, I regard “Earth Song” as a musical masterpiece. When I first heard it I was dumbstruck. It is simply beautiful and is one of those few songs that brings tears to my eyes. This was the last great song he performed.

Well folks, that’s it. I hope you agree with my choices.

Farewell Michael – sorry its a year late.

I am certain that I will be embarrassing those around me, trying to emulate your fantastic dancing skills in future . Try not to laugh – I can’t help being a talentless, malcoordinated bucket of arse.

Painful Music

Regular readers will know that I am very opinionated when it comes to music. I know what I like and I immerse myself in that music blotting out everything else as I embark upon a voyage to harmonious heaven.

Sceptics will say:

“Harmonious heaven? Absolute bollocks! You like heavy metal!! Don’t you mean Hell???”

I don’t want to sing the praises of rock again but I absolutely love classic rock, progressive rock and heavy metal.

However, my taste is quite varied in reality; I like classical music, I like old school dance music, 80’s style electronic pop music, some rock and roll, blues, a touch of Neil Diamond and even old stuff performed by the likes of Frank Sinatra and Sammy Davis Junior. I love the Rolling Stones, the Beach Boys, the Beatles and early Elvis Presley. I love a lot of stuff by Simon and Garfunkel and I think bands like ELO and Supertramp are fantastic.

Basically, if I like it, I will buy it, enjoy it and allow it to possess me, no matter what the style.

However, since I met Mrs PM, my patience and my willingness to embrace other modern genres has almost been annihilated.

You see, Mrs PM and I are seven years apart in terms of age but light years apart in musical taste. She hates my music and I hate most of hers.

Since we got together over ten years ago, our only major disagreement is what gets played in the car when we are driving somewhere – or watching music channels – or listening to the radio – or deciding what music to play when we have friends around – or deciding which musically themed bars to go to.

It is a major source of frustration to me that her taste and mine is so different.

It is a major source of frustration to Mrs PM that my taste and hers is so different.

I say: “I wish you liked just one of my favourite bands”

She says: “I wish you would see sense and stop listening to that shit music.”

Whenever she introduces me to a new friend of hers, her third sentence is “Dave likes heavy metal. His taste is really abysmal.”

One of the problems I have with Mrs PM’s choice in music is that her taste is so transient. She will buy a CD and become captivated by it for approximately six months. And then she will discard it and say: “It’s over! I’m sick of it!”

She commits what I regard as a heinous crime: she sells her CD’s when they are “over” for her

I know; it’s shocking isn’t it?

I have never, ever, ever, ever sold any music that I have bought – even if I only like one song on the album.

Music is for keeps – not just for Christmas.

If you sell a CD what happens if you are suddenly possessed by nostalgia and need to listen to something from the 70’s?

Mrs PM disagrees; she accuses me of hoarding music and when she decides to have a clearout she asks me a question that shocks me to the very marrow of my bones:

“Shall I put some of your old CD’s on EBAY?”

That is a crime in my view.

“NO! NO! NO! NO! NEVER EVER EVER SELL MY CD’S!” I scream in incredulous shock.

She merely shrugs her shoulders and says: “I only asked.”

I ONLY ASKED? I ONLY ASKED?????

It's like asking me to sever my own finger.

She thinks I never listen to old music, forgetting that I have a 40 Gigabyte mp3 jukebox with 5482 songs on it ranging from Beethoven to Black Sabbath, Abba to AC/DC and Kate Bush to Metallica.

And it is only 75% full.

I listen to it on “shuffle” so I constantly get a massive variety of music from the very first album I bought to the very last one. Admittedly, the bulk of music (probably about 70%) is rock but the rest is a smorgasbord of fabulous tunes from other genres.

So why are our tastes so different and how do we cope?

From the earliest days of our relationship I was gently promoted my favourite bands. In the honeymoon period, she listened to it with a sweet smile. I knew the honeymoon period was over when she suddenly said:

“ENOUGH!! I AM SICK OF YOUR MUSIC! IT IS SHIT!!”

And then the onslaught began. Mrs PM, my sweet, kind lady went on the attack, subjecting me to her dreadful music in all of its diabolical glory.

Over the years I have had to put up with that dreadful dance music that just goes something like this:

BOOF! DOOF! BOOF! DOOF! BOOF! BOOF! BOOF!
BOOF! DOOF! BOOF! DOOF! BOOF! BOOF! BOOF!
BOOF! DOOF! BOOF! DOOF! BOOF! BOOF! BOOF!
BOOF! DOOF! BOOF! DOOF! BOOF! BOOF! BOOF!
BOOF! DOOF! BOOF! DOOF! BOOF! BOOF! BOOF!
BOOF! DOOF! BOOF! DOOF! BOOF! BOOF! BOOF!
BOOF! DOOF! BOOF! DOOF! BOOF! BOOF! BOOF!

I have to endure wailing women and bleating men; Britney Spears, Christina Aguilera, Lady Ga Ga, Black Eyed Peas, Justin Timberlake, The Sugarbabes, LL Cool J, Destiny’s Child, Beyoncé, Jay Z, Girls Aloud, Jennifer Lopez, Basshunter, Rihanna, The Pussycat Dolls, Mariah Carey and all sorts of artists that feel the need to inject rap into the middle of a song. I have to endure hip hop, garage and all that bollocks they play on Galaxy Radio. She plays triple CD’s from the “Ministry of Sound”, which incidentally I would like to brand “Ministry of Shit”. I have to suffer R’n’B which is so BORING and one dimensional it puts me into a coma just contemplating it.

Thank heavens she doesn’t like boy bands like Take That and Westlife – I think if she did I would possibly go insane.

There’s lots of other stuff she likes that I simply cannot categorise apart from in the bucket labelled “CRAP!”

Mrs PM will never go into a bar that plays rock music but she drags me into bars and pubs that play new bilge at an ear-splitting volume, and while I am screaming to make myself heard, she will nod her head in time to the music and mouth “I LUURRVVEE THIS SONG!”

And I put up with it!!

Anyway, I am pleased to say that there is a slight overlap. Here’s a graphical representation of how our tastes compare:

Mind you, I have actually tried to listen to her music and incredibly some of it has broken through the barrier. Here are one or two that Mrs PM has introduced to me over the years and that I actually like (quite a lot in fact - but don't tell Mrs PM):

Fatboy Slim – Weapon of Choice
Gwen Stefani – What You Waiting For?
Robyn – With Every Heartbeat
Morcheeba – The Sea
Moby – Porcelain
Rogue Traders – Voodoo Child
Dido – Here With Me
Outkast – Hey Ya!
The Ting Tings – That’s Not My Name
Madonna – Ray Of Light
Massive Attack - Teardrop
Goldfrapp – Strict Machine
Bodyrockers – I Like the Way You Move

There are a few others, but I guess you get the drift. Sadly, with Mrs PM’s transient nature, most of them are now out of favour anyway.

Amazingly however, Mrs PM actually vaguely likes one of my favourite bands – Nine Inch Nails – just the odd song but it’s a start.

And finally, my dear, if you are reading this, here’s a fabulous song that I think you might like:

Follow this link

Strangely I think of Simon Cowell and his minions when I hear it.

Enjoy.