An Interview With Captain Paranoia

Captain Paranoia is perched on my shoulder. He has been listening to the government, watching the news and reading the tabloids. He has agreed to an interview.

Plastic Mancunian: Hello, my evil little nemesis. Please introduce yourself.

Captain Paranoia: I’m Captain Paranoia – the only person who tells you the truth. You know that every word I say is true and that terrifies you. And so it should. Will anybody read this interview? I don’t think so – you usually write total crap.

Plastic Mancunian: Thanks for that. You’ve been watching lots of TV, reading lots of news and listening to the message from our government. How do you feel?

Captain Paranoia: You’re screwed.

Plastic Mancunian: Why?

Captain Paranoia: You’re clearly a moron. You’re sitting here talking to me and eating a cheese sandwich with a can of beer and you have no idea that you are screwed? No wonder everybody hates you.

Plastic Mancunian: What’s wrong with eating a cheese sandwich and drinking beer?

Captain Paranoia: You’re a BINGE drinker. The government says so – and the Daily Mail. And cheese is so bad for you they may as well redefine it as “POISON”.

Plastic Mancunian: Really? What should I be eating then?

Captain Paranoia: I’ve seen your fridge and your cupboards and you’re doomed. You cans of food are so full of E numbers that they may as well be labelled “POISON” too.

Plastic Mancunian: What’s an E number?

Captain Paranoia: Something that will turn you into a mutant. Hang on, you’ve must have eaten loads because you look like a mutant already. Everyone thinks so.

Plastic Mancunian: I’ll go to the shop and buy some more food then. What do you recommend?

Captain Paranoia: Not driving to the shop. You’ll be killing the planet with your oversized carbon footprint. I’ve seen you – travelling to China and other places in an aircraft and ruining the planet for the kids. You don’t care about future generations, do you? You are causing the planet to heat up. It’s all your fault. And that old banger of a car of yours is so bad for the environment it is killing pets every time you drive.

Plastic Mancunian: I’ll walk then.

Captain Paranoia: I wouldn’t do that. You’ll be mugged. Have you seen the crime statistics for this area? You live in one of the worst places in Britain. You may as well walk around with a neon sign saying “Mug me! I’m an idiot.”

Plastic Mancunian: The police will protect me.

Captain Paranoia: Naïve as well as stupid, eh? There won’t be any police because of the government cuts. The place will be filled with desperate anarchists, all with one plan – to mug you.

Plastic Mancunian: Well if it’s that bad, I’d better take protection.

Captain Paranoia: And then get arrested and jailed for assault no doubt. That’s if you don’t end up in hospital, in which case you will probably catch some dreadful virus. Swine flu’s still around, you know. And it’s not an epidemic – it’s a PANDEMIC. It will follow you wherever you go.

Plastic Mancunian: Maybe I should leave Britain – go somewhere else.

Captain Paranoia: You’ll have to fly there. So you clearly don’t care about the environment. Besides, if the bugs don’t get you before you leave the UK, the terrorists will. Or maybe you will be arrested at the airport because you look like a weirdo. Let’s hope so, eh?

Plastic Mancunian: You really don’t like me, do you?

Captain Paranoia: Nobody loves you more than I do and I HATE you. Having said that, I like you enough to tell you how it is, because you are too stupid to read the papers and watch the news. If, by lucky chance, you manage to get on a plane out of England, you will probably end up in a war torn state ruled by an evil dictator.

Plastic Mancunian: Nonsense. Anyway, I want to talk to you about statistics. What do you make of the statistics that we hear on the news?

Captain Paranoia: They prove that you are screwed. D’UH!!!!!

Plastic Mancunian: How?

Captain Paranoia: What a moron. The government is warning you that you are five times more likely to lose all of your teeth if you drink more than four cups of tea a day.

Plastic Mancunian: I drink six cups of tea on a good day.

Captain Paranoia: Then you’ll lose all of your teeth by the time you’re fifty – if you make it that far.

Plastic Mancunian: What are the chances of me losing my teeth if I drink less than four cups of tea a day?

Captain Paranoia: I dunno – maybe 1 in 500,000.

Plastic Mancunian: So if I drink more than four cups, my chances of losing all of my teeth are what? 1 in 100,000?

Captain Paranoia: Not necessarily.

Plastic Mancunian: Surely this is abuse of statistics. The chances of me winning the lottery jackpot are one in 14 million, approximately. They tell me that I can improve my chances of winning by, say, buying ten tickets. “Yes Mr PM. If you buy ten tickets then you are ten times more likely to win the lottery jackpot.” What they DON’T tell me is that I have just spent £10 but my chances of winning the jackpot are still 1 in a million. Of course I could win the other prizes, but that’s not the point. The point is that the government and newspapers mislead us using phrases like “you are 500 times more likely to explode if you drink more than two pints in a day”. The chances of me exploding are infinitesimal, making the chances of me exploding if I drink more than two pints in one go STILL infinitesimal.

Captain Paranoia: You’re talking bollocks as usual.

Plastic Mancunian: Well thanks for that. Can I post the interview on my blog?

Captain Paranoia: Absolutely not! Nobody will read it and if somebody does, by accident, I don’t want to be associated with you. Now bugger off!

Thank goodness I don’t listen to Captain Paranoia.

Don’t believe everything you read in the papers.

Or on this blog.

Ditch Captain Paranoia and make this your mantra.

A "Clear The Air" Summit

Jasper ate my newspaper yesterday (there is a photo of him doing so here) and this is the latest in a number of incidents involving all three of my cats that have caused friction between us.

My cats are fabulous creatures but they are really trying my patience at the moment, not least because Mrs PM is wholly committed to their cause and, as a result, I get the blame for every disagreement I have with my feline masters.

Jasper munching through the “Money” section of the Sunday Times was the last straw. I waited until Mrs PM had popped out of the house and called a meeting. I considered long and hard about the best place for this summit and decided that the ideal location was my own imagination.

I handed over a list of my gripes – and here they are. Unfortunately, the cats can’t read so I had to stand over them and dictate as they stared at me:

Jasper eats my newspapers. This is not a one-off occurrence. He has also eaten my “Classic Rock” magazine, something that is unforgivable.

Spike wakes me up at the crack of dawn every single day, howling outside the bedroom for breakfast and scratching the door.

Poppy runs out of the house every single time I run downstairs. Mrs PM shouts at me as if I’m to blame for Poppy’s cowardice.

Jasper is too fat. Despite his diet (which is working) he still insists on lurking, seeking any opportunity to eat any scrap he can.

Spike is still violent. He will sit on my knee, purring and allowing me stroke him and then, totally unprovoked, will suddenly turn into a vicious blur of fur, teeth and claws and rip my hand to shreds.

Poppy pesters me for food, usually while a big game is on, and when I go out to feed her, she waits for me to put the food down on the floor before shrieking (because a drop of water has plopped out of the tap) and then disappearing through the cat flap like a black bolt of lightning.

Jasper and Spike are in the early stages of civil war, the prize being dominance of the house. Occasionally we will hear them wrestling in the middle of the night and, being a light sleeper, it is me who has to creep downstairs to see if we have a burglar.

Jasper is a big cat. Our burglar alarm is calibrated for small cats. Jasper has set off the burglar alarm several times simply by turning over on the settee. The neighbours are starting to complain.

One or all of the cats eats vegetation and ends up throwing up on our carpets. I have on one occasion stumbled out of the bedroom in the middle of the night and placed my bare foot in a pile of cat vomit – it is a most unpleasant experience I can tell you.

We have a wooden floor. Mrs PM and I have painstakingly sanded and varnished these floorboards and admired them with pride. Now there is a patch about four inches in diameter where a nameless cat has ripped the wood to shreds.

Talking about scratching, all three cats frequently sharpen their claws on the furniture and carpets.

Spike and Poppy both take their food out of the dish and eat it on the floor, leaving dirty marks all over the place. Jasper isn’t guilty of this crime; he vacuums every last scrap.

Spike eats my lunch and any other food we leave lying around at every opportunity. I left a ham sandwich unattended on the chair and Spike somehow managed to pull the ham out and eat it. We left the butter dish on a table and Spike ate a huge chunk of it. I have caught Spike inside the dishwasher licking plates. We almost locked him in there by mistake.

I was actually very surprised to discover that, in return, they all have grievances with me:

Trips to the vet are the major concern. I am seen as the bad guy because Mrs PM is traumatized beyond words. It is I who has to catch them and force them into their cages.

I don’t feed them often enough. I should be at their beck and call. Spike is particularly irritated by this.

I don’t give them enough food. Jasper has a particular problem with this.

Apparently I am too noisy. I “charge about like a demented elephant” according to Poppy.

When a cat sits on my knee I should stay there; I shouldn’t move, fidget or twitch. I should feel privileged that I am being used as a bed. And if Spike wants to sink his claws and fangs into my skin he has every right to do so.

The cats want access to the bedroom at all times. It is particularly warm and comfortable in there at night time. We are hot water bottles for the cats so banning them is a real kick in the teeth.

I do not appreciate their presents. Live mice, a half-eaten bird, even a pile of grassy puke are all gifts that should be appreciated. I am seen as ungrateful.

I don’t look where I’m going in the dark. Cats can see perfectly well, so why can’t I? The fact that they are black is totally irrelevant.

I do not pamper them enough. Mrs PM is seen as acceptable and adequate, whereas I am deemed to be pathetic and useless.

We go away on holiday far too often; our neighbours are seen as even worse slaves than Mrs PM and I.

They all think I am an arse.

Well we had a frank but fruitless discussion and the high level talks collapsed in chaos. Poppy howled at the door to be let out, Jasper munched the remaining sections of the Sunday Times as we chatted and Spike attacked my feet (and now I can barely walk). All three of them treated me with utter (and in their words “deserved”) contempt.

When Mrs PM returned, I told her about the meeting and suggested that we should work together to come to an agreement. After she had called for a psychiatrist, she basically told me that she agreed with the cats.

So I am outnumbered and my ego has been dealt yet another severe blow; I thought I was the King of my own Castle, yet here I am at the very bottom of food chain.

But fear not, fine readers; rest assured that the war will continue. This was just one battle lost. I will return.

I have to go now; Spike is hungry again, Jasper is eating the Sports section and Poppy has broken the land speed record to escape from another shadow.

Coming my Lords and Lady ...