The Profanity Filter

A couple of years ago I wrote a post about email catastrophes. You can read it here.

I want to draw your attention to the profanity filter I mentioned in that post. The profanity filter is the procedure embedded in the email software that removes any messages that contain swear words.

I sometimes swear. I can’t help it. I find myself punctuating sentences occasionally with words that may offend people but have the effect of totally emphasising the point, adding humour or expressing my distaste for the subject at hand.

I started writing a post about the upcoming election in the UK (YES -  ANOTHER BLOODY ELECTION!!!!) but I had already promised myself that I wouldn’t upset anybody (including me!) with politics and threw it into the cyber bin.

However, the post was full of expletives and insults that would probably have offended people. Ditching it was a good thing. Nevertheless, if I had decided to keep it and send it to my work email address, the message would never have made it into my inbox thanks to the profanity filter.

And this got me thinking – always a dangerous thing!

I have a fantastic idea for a change of career. I want to be the person responsible for programming the profanity filter.

When I think of work emails, the message must run through a chunk of software that analyses every word looking for expletives. In order to identify an expletive, it must check each word against a list of known expletives.

I want to write that list, research that list and add new words whenever they come out.

Can you imagine how much fun that would be? 

It would probably only be a part time job, one day a year – but what a day that would be. New swear words pop into existence every now again, so I would have to hunt them down with the help of Mr Google.

Furthermore, I would also extend it. 

And - just for fun - I could add stupid words just to confuse people!

My job involves a lot of foreign customers, and we send out and receive emails in a variety of different languages. I would love to research the expletives that the Spanish use, for example. I would love to hunt down Polish profanities and add them to the list of disallowed words.

The job satisfaction would be immense – and testing it would be a scream.

All of this leads me onto another little story.

Many years ago at work, before the profanity filter existed on emails, a certain employee noticed that quite a few people were swearing at work on a regular basis. She wasn’t very happy. We had to listen to her because she was our project manager.

I tried to explain that sometimes people swear to diffuse or express their frustration but she wouldn’t listen. I didn’t like to offend her – she is a very nice person – so I suggested that we have an office swear box.

“I will personally look after it,” I said, “and we will have a scale of swear words, charging a small amount for the “safe” ones, rising to more painful fines for the more offensive words.”

She loved that idea, particularly when I suggested that the money would be given to charity at the end of the month.

Even my work colleagues embraced the idea. And I was targetted as potentially the worst offender, because at the time (as I am now in fact) I was a grumpy old git, frustrated by work and life and prone to rants full of expletives.

To get the ball rolling, I had to create a scale of offense.

Without thinking things through, I wrote an email to the entire team with a list of swear words and the cost of using each, ranging from 10p for something inoffensive like bloody rising up to £2 for the worst word of all (you know what word that is). In the interests of good taste, I will not reproduce the email here.

I sent the email to my team.

And promptly got a bunch of replies back, stating that without any shadow of a doubt, the mail I had sent was THE MOST OFFENSIVE email they had ever seen.

The profanity filter we have governing our mails today would have overloaded and melted the email server software had it encountered such a disgraceful message.

Consequently, I was the first contributor to the swear box. I was outvoted. I was forced to pay the fine for each word that I had used and that contribution actually hurt my wallet. But, in the spirit of comradery, I submitted and transferred the cash from my wallet to the swear box to get things going.

I was well and truly hoisted by my own petard!

Worse, one joker decided to print the email off and put it on his desk so that he could police us all. He was fined the equivalent amount because, we argued, that somebody could have intercepted it at the printer. He paid up, but I was thankful that nobody had picked it up at the printer because I’m sure it would have found its way to HR – and it had my name plastered all over it.

However, over the next few weeks, people did contribute to the swear box when they forgot themselves and the project manager was happy. In fact, she was caught out a few times when people heard her swearing under her breath.

It lasted for a couple of months and my contributions were in fact few and far between. The main contributor was a young lad who swore that he would not swear (if you’ll pardon the pun).

We finally got rid of it, when a manager from another area of the building walked in.

“I’m so fucking pissed off with those bastards!” he said.

This caused lots of merriment.

“Put your money in the swear box,” I said. “We don’t allow swearing here.”

“I’m not putting any fucking money in a fucking swear box!” he said before marching out again.

At that point we gave up on the idea but it actually worked – the amount of swearing was significantly reduced.

Looking back at this post, it would have cost me £5.10 had I read it aloud in the office at that time.

I’ll put some money in my own personal swear box here on my desk. Fear not – the money will go to my favourite charity – ME!

I will enjoy the beer I can purchase with it and I promise not to swear in the pub.

You Got Mail - D'OH!!!!

I received an email similar to this at work the other day:

Hiya my little Peach Drop,

Are we doing anything on Saturday? Debbie and Sebbie want to go out for a drink.

Let me know.

Lots of love

Cuteybeauty xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The terms of endearment and other names have been changed to protect the innocent and the guilty.

The one person I won’t protect on this one occasion is Mrs PM.

Because she wrote it.

Now while I don’t mind her using pet names in a personal email to me and me alone, I do object when she accidentally adds a group of work colleagues to the distribution list.

I replied with the following email.

Three things:

(1) Yes we are free on Saturday to meet Deb and Sebastian for drinks (does he KNOW you call him Sebbie?).

(2) Did you mean to copy in your entire IT department? 

(3) DID YOU MEAN TO COPY IN YOUR ENTIRE IT DEPARTMENT??????

Yes, I know points (2) and (3) are the same point but it is such an important point that I felt it needed to be made twice. Now your entire IT department knows that you call me “my little Peach Drop” and that I call you “CuteyBeauty”. 

Do you think you will hear the last of this?

Mrs PM replied with something like:

OH SHIT!!!!!!!!

However, her reply never got to me because it fell foul of our profanity filter, a kind of firewall against swearing in emails. The profanity filter is a little like a jobsworth employee who feels that the company will fall apart if it doesn’t throw any emails containing dodgy words into the bin.

Our profanity filter is very keen, so keen in fact that it throws out words that contain dodgy words within them or words that have a meaning that can be either a swear word or not, depending on the context. Words like:

Entity
Scunthorpe
Arsenal
Balls
Dick

If a person joined my company called Richard but preferred to be known as Dick in his emails he would never get any. You can complain to the IT department by sending an email like:

Dear IT,

Can you please configure the profanity filter so that my emails to Dick Scunthorpe and Ed Balls are not thrown out?

Thanks

Plastic Mancunian

The problem is that it will never get past the profanity filter because it contains the bloody words you want to complain about.

Suffice it to say that Mrs PM’s email didn’t get to me. All this goes to show is that email is a dangerous thing, particularly if you don’t proof read it before you send it or carefully check the recipients of the email. Once you have pressed that SEND button, it is too late.

One work colleague sent a personal email to his girlfriend but forgot to remove the formal signature added automatically at the end. It sounded something like:

Hi love,

Can you buy some chicken on the way home? 

Kindest Regards,
Anthony Wallaby
Project Manager

Her reply was something like:

Dear Anthony,

I will procure some chicken for you. Can you obtain a signed purchase order? 

Best regards,
Fiona McNulty
Head of Chicken Procurement

One other trap you can fall into is to accidentally click on the wrong name when sending an email. I once saw an email pop up in my inbox saying something like:

Hi all,

It’s Dan’s stag party on Saturday and I have booked a kissogram for him. She’s a police woman and will “arrest” him in The Hogshead pub at 9pm. Make sure you’re there for it – should be a scream. It’ll cost £5 a head.

P.S. Dan hates kissograms so keep it quiet.

Cheers

Bob

I replied:

Hi Bob,

Did you mean to include Dan on the distribution list?

Cheers

Dave

If Dan had been called Dick, perhaps Bob would have got away with it.

Hey Pedro

The Place: 

Marbella

The Time: 

Midnight

The Characters: 

An idiot who calls himself The Plastic Mancunian (PM)

A lovely lady whom this idiot calls Mrs PM

A Spaniard who is a horse drawn carriage driver who I shall call El Conductor

Several Spanish friends of El Conductor

The Scene:

PM and Mrs PM are walking back to their hotel. They are approaching El Conductor and his friends.

Act One:

PM: Look – it’s those horse drawn carriages.

Mrs PM: Nice aren’t they?

El Conductor points to the horse, says something in Spanish with the word caballo in it – Spanish for “horse”

PM: No gracias.

El Conductor points to the horse again.

PM: Just ignore him. We’ll walk past and he won’t ask us again.

El Conductor: Hey Pedro!

PM: The cheeky bugger! What does he mean? “Hey Pedro”? Just keep on walking. 

El Conductor: Hey! Hey! Hey! Pedro!!

PM: What the hell is he calling me Pedro for? Bloody cheek! Let’s just carry on. Ignore him.

El Conductor: HEY! PEDRO! HEY! HEY!!!!

PM (getting annoyed now): I tell you what, these guys just won’t take no for a bloody answer will they? And why the hell is he calling me Pedro? Does he think that I'll turn round? Is he taking the piss?

El Conductor: HEY! HEY! HEEEEEEYYYYY!!! PEDDRRROOOO!!!!!!

PM: I’m starting to get really annoyed now. I haven’t met a single Spanish person here that has been unfriendly or irritating and this guy is ruining it all. What's his beef with me? And why the HELL is he calling me Pedro? We just have to carry on walking – just don’t look around! It will encourage him.

El Conductor: HEY!!!!! PEDRO!!! PEDRO!!!! PEDRO!!!!!! 

El Conductor speaks some Spanish very quickly, Spanish that PM don’t understand.

PM: Right – that’s it. Enough's enough! Are you listening to me? Why aren’t you answering?

PM looks around for Mrs PM. She is not next to him. She is standing next to El Conductor with her hands on her hips and that face that says PM has just made a mistake.  

A penny drops.

The idiot who is PM has walked past El Conductor and his friends totally unaware that he should have turned right. Mrs PM knew this and waited for the buffoon to realise: 

(a) He is going completely the wrong way.
(b) He has left his beloved lady behind and didn’t realise it.
(c) He has walked at least 25 yards talking to himself like a mad fool.
(d) El Conductor was simply calling the buffoon Pedro because he didn’t know the fool’s name.
(e) Everyone is laughing at the idiot.

PM: Oh shit!!!

El Conductor (laughing – to Mrs PM): Señora – no te quiere! (He doesn’t love you).

All the Spaniards laugh.

Mrs PM: Yo se!!  (I know),

All the Spaniards laugh again.

PM walks back looking like a dejected pratt!

PM: I’m sorry.

Mrs PM: You will be – you idiot. And you have a go at me for not having a sense of direction.

PM: I know.

Mrs PM: And you walk off and leave me behind.

PM: I know.

El Conductor: Adios señora. Adios Pedro.

PM: Adios señor. Lo siento. (I'm sorry)

Mrs PM: You should be saying “Lo siento” to ME!

PM: What’s the phrase I’m looking for? Tengo mucho huevo en mi cara.

Mrs PM laughs. The idiot has a lot of egg on his face.

Thank God there was no Act Two.

Things That Make Me Cringe

Some things really make me cringe. I wince and want to curl up in a ball and scream. Such things make me want to run away, in some cases, making me feel quite ill in the process.

I thought, for a bit of fun, I would share them with you. However, when I started the list, it grew and grew and grew, which leads me to conclude that it is surprisingly easy to make me cringe.

I have therefore cut down the list, dear reader, for your benefit (and mine if I'm honest). Here it is:

Men with long hair who are bald.

Old men who wear thongs.

Piers Morgan

Fat people who wear tight clothes.

Young men who snog pensioners

Two intertwined forks (they make my teeth itch)

Jeremy Kyle

Piers Morgan

Men who urinate on the toilet seat

People who don’t flush the toilet

Vanessa Feltz

Old women with enormous breasts who insist on sunbathing topless

Fingernails on a blackboard

Piers Morgan

Spiders

Rolf Harris singing “Stairway to Heaven”



Every single “Just For Men” advert I have ever seen.

Watching operations on TV – even if they are not real.

Boy bands who call themselves “musicians”

People who clack spoons and forks on their teeth

People who crack their knuckles

The Bon Jovi lyric where he sings about “French kissing the morning”

People who think they can sing and clearly can’t.

Women who wear so much make-up they look like clowns

Large insects with hundreds of legs

A dentist drilling a tooth

That bloody Nokia ring tone that gives me mobile phone twitch.

Katie Price

David Cameron

Gordon Brown smiling

People who shout with food in their mouths

People who clap when the aircraft lands

Broken limbs

Piers Morgan

David Brent’s antics in “The Office”

Reading something embarrassing – particularly if I wrote it

Women asking me deeply personal questions

People who say “nucular” instead of nuclear

That fracking “Go Compare” Advert on TV



British people who shout at foreigners because they think it makes them understand English.

Male nudists

Chewing gum stuck in somebody’s hair

Bad singers

Anything to do with touching eyes, bloodshot eyes, eyes popping out of sockets etc.

Old women who wear revealing dresses

Watching needles going into people’s arms

Whenever Boris Johnson opens his mouth

Footballers who are injured in their groin area

That fracking “BOGOF” advert



People throwing up

Bald men who comb their hair over

Slugs and snails

Cat vomit

Men with long fingernails

People touching my PC monitor at work

Stepping into cat vomit

People who slap their mouths

The Christmas Coca Cola “Holidays are coming” advert.

Piers Morgan

That’s just the tip of the iceberg. I will save the rest for a future post - perhaps.

And now, over to you, dear reader.

What makes you cringe?

Let's Talk ABout Sex

Actually, let’s NOT talk about sex.

Let’s talk about people who like to talk about sex.

When I’m having a conversation with other men, the subject of sex rarely crops up. The only time guys talk about sex is when a lovely woman happens to wander into the vicinity and even then we barely scratch the surface. A typical conversation may go something like this:

FIRST GUY: Look at her. She’s tasty.

SECOND GUY: Phwoarr! I’d give her one.

FIRST GUY: Me too.

And that’s about it. The conversation may vary slightly, depending on whether the woman is in the room and/or in earshot or perhaps if we are talking about a lovely creature like Beyoncé or Megan Fox – but it doesn’t get much deeper than that.

On the odd occasion, when a guy has had a date or something like that, the conversation may get a little deeper:

FIRST GUY: So what was she like?

SECOND GUY: Fabulous.

FIRST GUY: Did you shag her?

SECOND GUY: Yeah – I gave her a right good seeing to.

FIRST GUY: You didn’t shag her did you?

SECOND GUY: No!

And that really is it.

Women, on the other hand, always want to talk about sex, which I find really odd. Men are driven by sex and want it all the time, yet don’t like talking about it at all. Women don’t seem to want sex all the time yet they want to talk about the intimate details of every second of their encounters with men.

Let me give you an example.

When Mrs PM and I first moved in together, one of her friends came round for tea. I knew her but not very well. Faced with an evening of girl talk, I decided, out of a morbid sense of curiosity, to stay in rather than go out. There was a football match on TV and I assumed that the two girls would eat their food and leave me in peace to watch the game while they retired to the dining room to discuss flowers, chocolate, bunny rabbits and cats.

In order to protect the girl’s identity (and myself if ever she reads this), I will call her “Lozenge”.

When Lozenge arrived, Mrs PM was in the kitchen putting the final touches to her fabulous lasagne leaving me to chat to her newly arrived friend. We had a nice little chat about life, the universe and everything, everything that is apart from sex. The subject wasn’t broached. The subject did not rear its head. The subject stayed in the shadows exactly where it belonged.

A few minutes later, Mrs PM summoned us into the dining room where a bottle of wine was uncorked and a lovely dish of lasagne was presented to us with salad and a few other trimmings.

As I prepared to eat, the subject suddenly changed. Within seconds, the subject of sex came stampeding out of the shadows like a demented beast and threw itself into the conversation like a demolition ball crashing into a house.

“I’m having a few problems with Bodger,” said Lozenge. “In the bedroom.”

Bodger was her boyfriend (not his real name obviously), and I had met him a couple of times. He seemed like a nice chap, the kind of chap who would never have initiated a conversation with me about the bedroom – unless he was decorating it of course.

“Ooh!” said Mrs PM, excited by the immediate change of subject. “Do tell.”

My brain screamed at me, ordering me to tell them to change the subject and talk about it later. Unfortunately my mouth was full lasagne and all I managed to do was choke, splutter and dribble like a mutant baby, with lasagne dripping down my chin.

“Are you alright? “ asked Lozenge, suddenly concerned.

“Yes,” I lied. “It was a bit hot that’s all.”

I was happy. My spluttering faux pas appeared to have worked. By choking and dribbling I had diverted the topic of conversation. Sadly, my euphoria was slain within seconds. Mrs PM diverted conversation back.

“So what about Bodger in the bedroom?” asked Mrs PM completely oblivious to my embarrassment.

“Well,” continued Lozenge. “He’s got this problem.”

I coughed again and a large chunk of lasagne exploded from my mouth and onto the table.

”Are you sure you’re OK?” asked Lozenge.

I nodded. “Yes, I’m really sorry about that. This lasagne is lovely though, don’t you think? You’ve excelled yourself this time, dearest. Do you cook a lot Lozenge? What’s your finest culinary creation?”

“Shut up,” said Mrs PM scowling. “What about Bodger?”

This time I could do nothing. Lozenge started talking giving, giving graphic details of what happened in the bedroom, including all the gory details of who put what where and for how long. I heard details of everything – every act, every motion, every word uttered in the throes of passion, every problem, every deviation; every single second was described in intimate and graphic detail.

I tried to interrupt but my protestations were brushed aside by both the girls. Mrs PM asked all sorts of probing questions that, quite frankly made me wince with embarrassment.

But do you know the worst thing of all?

I was told everything about Bodger from his physical prowess to all of his anatomical details. Lozenge described his fetishes, his preferences and all of the embarrassing spoken details.

My lasagne ended up down my shirt as I choked, missed my mouth, dribbled and spluttered. I don’t think any of it found its way to my stomach.

I was a mess.

After ten minutes of sex talk, I had had enough..

“ENOUGH!” I said staring at the two women. “I KNOW Bodger but I don’t want to know all of intimate details. Ladies, do me a favour. Change the subject and resume this when I am not in the room.”

Lozenge stared at me.

“What’s the matter? Are you embarrassed?” she said.

“Too bloody right I am,” I said. “Men don’t talk about sex often – and when they do they DO NOT give a blow by blow, second by second account of everything that goes on.”

They laughed. Both of them.

“Well you should talk about sex,” said Lozenge. Mrs PM agreed.

Both ladies then told me in no uncertain terms how insensitive men were and I had to suffer a tirade of verbal abuse on behalf of my gender.

After a couple of minutes of this, I cracked.

“I’ve had enough. I’m going to be a man and watch the bloody football.”

As I left the room, my head held high, I was mocked mercilessly amidst derisive laughter.

It just got worse. As I watched my football match with a can of beer, I could hear the two of them giggling like children; I knew they were taking the piss.

Eventually, Lozenge left, but before she did she came up to me and hugged me goodbye.

And I swear that before she left, she eyed me up and down like an inspector scrutinising dodgy goods. And my brain went to red alert.

“Do you talk about us?” I asked Mrs PM.

“What do you mean?” she replied.

“You know – do you talk about the bedroom?”

“No – not really.”

“What do you mean “not really”? You DO, don’t you?”

“Of course not,” she said giggling.

That said it all. She did and she probably still does. For a while afterwards, I couldn’t look any of her friends in the eye – I simply couldn’t. I walked around like an embarrassed arsehole for months, wondering what Mrs PM had told her friends. Every time one of them smiled at me I felt that they knew something intimate about me.

Poor Bodger had had his secrets betrayed to me by Lozenge and I had only met her a couple of times. I can also imagine that Lozenge had relayed my secrets to Bodger, spilled by Mrs PM over a glass of wine.

The next time I saw Bodger, my face must have betrayed me; I had conversations with him but steered the subject towards manly pursuits like sport, cars, fighting and hunting. He must have thought I was a complete arse.

It’s not the first time this has happened and when in the company of Mrs PM and her friends I have to switch off and think “LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA” as they descend into the depths of depravity and spill the beans over their antics in the bedroom. Or I simply leave the room carrying my plate of food with me – which gets me into trouble sometimes – particularly when I am in a restaurant.

Some of her friends simply do not care and now I know why some of them laugh at me when they see me (or at least that’s what my paranoia tells me).

In conclusion, I would just like to say one thing:

Let’s NOT talk about sex. NOT EVER!!

What Could Be Worse?

WARNING: For readers who don't like vomit and poo – STOP READING NOW!

For the rest of you …

What could be worse than pouring milk in your tea and taking a huge gulp only to discover that the milk is way past its sell by date?

What could be worse than digging in the garden, reaching into the soil and putting your fingers in a huge lump of extremely malodorous cat shit?

What could be worse than the above cat shit getting stuck in your fingernails?

What could be worse than stepping down from a chair in bare feet and landing on an upturned plug?

What could be worse than accidentally tripping up a woman carrying four dozen eggs?

What could be worse then finding a huge pile of cat vomit in the middle of your carpet?

What could be worse than failing to notice the huge pile of cat vomit in the middle of your carpet (because you may have left your glasses upstairs) and then stepping into the warm sickly substance?

What could be worse than dropping your toothbrush down the toilet and having to reach in to retrieve it?

What could be worse than being such a skinflint that you actually use the same toothbrush afterwards?

What could be worse than stepping in a huge slimy dog turd, not noticing it, and then walking it through your new girlfriend’s parents’ house the very first time you met them?

What could be worse than dropping your mobile phone down the toilet?

What could be worse than wearing a dress to see the Rocky Horror Show and then allowing your mate to send it to somebody at work so that most of the company can laugh at you?

What could be worse than trying to chat up a handsome man and then dropping your drink all over your lovely new dress?

What could be worse than taking a bite out of a sandwich and then seeing a big green piece of mould right next to the bite mark?

What could be worse than having your beloved mullet cut off because you misunderstood the hairdresser’s question?

What could be worse than using one tea bag per day to make at least five cups of tea because you are a skinflint?

What could be worse than fancying a girl so much that you drink a colossal amount of ale just to pluck up the courage to talk to her and then totally humiliating yourself while insulting her in the process?

What could be worse than screaming like a girl when you see a large spider in a foreign country?

What could be worse than buying a brand new £300 mp3 player, only to use the wrong charger to charge it the first time, completely destroying it?

What could be worse than carrying a tray of beers to a table in a pub and then dropping it on the table, pouring fresh beer on all of your mates?

What could be worse than throwing up on your mate’s lap on a bus ride home?

What could be worse than holding your young baby over your head and being rewarded for making him giggle with a torrent of vomit over your face?

What could be worse than locking yourself out of you flat wearing nothing but a small dressing gown that barely hides your arse, let alone anything else?

What could be worse than being woken up by a huge fat cat leaping down from the wardrobe and landing on that part of your stomach that causes the most air to be expelled?

What could be worse than screaming like a girl when a huge fat cat leaps from a wardrobe onto your stomach?

What could be worse than a man screaming like a girl when a mild earthquake hits Manchester in the middle of the night?

What could be worse than waking up on the concourse of Victoria Station in London next to a steaming pile of vomit?

What could be worse than putting blue food dye in a mate’s beer on his stag do?

What could be worse than throwing up all over a table in an Indian restaurant having consumed copious amounts of beer, some of which was tainted with blue food dye, leaving a huge pile of steaming blue vomit for the rest of restaurant to marvel at?

What could be worse than falling into a river because you took a short cut on a cross country run?

What could be worse than having diarrhoea in a place where the only toilet around for the next three days is totally blocked?

What could be worse than waking up to find a dismembered thrush scattered around your house?

What could be worse than warning your children not to spray sun tan cream in their face because it is dangerous and then promptly spraying sun tan cream into your own face?

What could be worse than waking up and discovering a rat has eaten all of your toilet paper?

What could be worse than a rat eating all of your toilet paper when you have diarrhoea on a boat with the only usuable toilet being the worst toilet in the world?

What could be worse than throwing a glass of coke over a mate, claiming that you did it because “there was wasp in your ear”?

What could be worse than staying at a mate’s house and, in desperation, throwing up all over his freshly washed plates?

What could be worse than putting the wrong type of petrol in your car while you have three mates watching you?

What could be worse that laughing at the guy who put the wrong type of petrol in his car and then doing it yourself sometime later?

What could be worse than having a cat drop a live mouse on you “as a gift” while you were reading in bed?

What could be worse than reversing your car off the drive and hitting a parked car on the other side of the road?

What could be worse than failing to notice that you hit a parked car on the other side of the road, moving forward and then reversing into the same parked car AGAIN!

What could be worse than a woman walking into the toilet while you are perched on the throne in all your glory?

What could be worse than vomiting all over a fruit machine that was being played by a complete stranger?

What could be worse than accidentally spilling hot coffee all over your crotch while in front of customers and then having to walk around for the rest of the day looking as if you have had an accident?

What could be worse than standing admiring a brand new light grey carpet, stepping back and accidentally knocking over a glass of blackcurrant cordial all over it?

What could be worse than suggesting that you throw blackcurrant cordial over the rest of the new carpet to your wife “in order to make the stain symmetrical”?

What could be worse than watching several gallons of home made beer flooding on your kitchen floor when you accidentally tip over the barrel?

What could be worse than standing in front of a urinal just as the water pipe above decides to spring a leak and spray water all over your crotch?

What could be worse than waking up at a strange house with a colossal hangover after a party and then stupidly confessing to the owner of the house that you had thrown up all over his TV the night before?

What could be worse than being given a lift home after a party and then throwing up all over yourself?

What could be worse than finding yourself three miles from home on a Saturday afternoon, covered in vomit, having been thrown out of a car that is also full of your vomit?

What's worse than being sea sick on a ferry and throwing up in the wind, scattering it all over the place (including on other passengers)?

What could be worse than telling the Plastic Mancunian about bad things that have happened to you over the years, only to find them mentioned in a puerile blog post about bad things that have happened to people?

What could be worse than being the Plastic Mancunian and confessing that some of the things above actually happened to you?

Bad Beard Day

A while ago I posted about the trauma that my hair has caused me since the day the first hair broke skin on my head (read about it here). Today I am posting about my failed efforts to grow a beard.

I do not have a beard. Why not? Because I look like a complete and utter arse; because I scare other human beings; because my cats would throw themselves on the gas fire in terror; because Mrs PM would probably drug me and shave it off. I think you get the picture – I would be a weird beard!!

I remember being supremely proud when I spotted the first hair sprouting out my chin at the tender age of fifteen. I felt like running outside and screaming “I can grow a beard; I’m a man!”

The fact that the said hair was about one millimetre long and so blond that it was only visible with a high powered microscope didn’t deter me. I was proud of that little hair. Eventually, it grew a little longer and other hairs followed on my chin and upper lip. They were still invisible to the naked eye but I knew they were there; I could feel them bursting forth. To others they were undetectable; to me they were like Giant Redwood trees.

I let them grow. I was a late developer and my voice was so high pitched it could shatter glass but at least I had a beard (or a patch of bum fluff as my dad called it). As my voice deepened, my facial hair became more noticeable and I had to take the plunge. My dad told me that I looked ridiculous; I had several very soft blond hairs protruding from my face by now. It was time for my first shave.

My dad was very helpful. He watched me as I applied the shaving foam and picked up my first razor (called something like “Gillette Bum Fluff Removal Kit”). He smiled as I lacerated my chin; he patted me on the shoulder with paternal pride as the blood gushed out of my face. I saw a tear in his eye as he handed me bits of toilet roll to stem the flow. He applauded me as I left the bathroom looking like a reject from “The Mummy”.

Thankfully my facial hair was unlike the huge blond forest on my head; it grew very slowly. I only had to shave once in a blue moon and was thankful that the scars managed to heal before I attacked my face with the next razor.

By the time I started university I was shaving regularly (once a month). My fellow students envied me. An Indian friend of mine, already losing his hair at the tender age of nineteen, had to shave every two hours and had a permanent five o’clock shadow. I would have loved a five o’clock shadow.

Then came that fatal day when I decided to experiment with my facial hair. I decided to grow a beard. I felt like a rebel as I missed my shaving day not once but twice. My beard (and I use the word “beard” in its loosest form) was pathetic. I went to the pub with my mates and the subject was discussed.

“Dave, what’s that on your face?”

“Dave, the bottom half of your face looks weird. Are you wearing make up?”

“Beard? What beard?”

Fuelled by alcohol and feeling let down by my friends I decided to return to my room and shave the beard off in the morning. However, being drunk, I foolishly thought “No time like the present”. I shaved and went to bed.

I awoke the next morning and my pillow looked like a bloodbath. I panicked for a full three minutes before the memory of my return from the pub stumbled into my thumping head. Oh no, I thought. I hadn’t had I? Oh yes I bloody well had! With rising panic I looked in the mirror and almost screamed in terror. The lower half of my face was totally lacerated; I had hacked off each and every hair and about a pound of flesh with it. The cuts were separated by dried shaving foam – I hadn’t even washed the bloody soap off (and believe me; it WAS bloody).

My friends were sympathetic and suggested (behind the giggles) that I audition for a part in the latest zombie film.

I began to shave regularly again when the wounds were healed but in my final year at university I decided to go out with a bang; I would graduate with a beard. This time, I ignored my friends and stopped shaving. My beard came on beautifully (or so I thought in my stupidity). It itched like buggery but I was proud of it. I stroked it and fondled it. I was now a proper man. My friends encouraged me.

And then I overheard a conversation.

“Doesn’t Dave look like an arsehole?”

“Yeah! And he thinks that wispy bit of fluff on his face is a beard!”

“Let’s see how long we can keep this up. He actually thinks he looks great!”

And then the final insult:

“Do you want to know what the funniest thing about his beard? It’s GINGER!”

They laughed uproariously. I hated them! I shaved it off immediately (sober this time). And do you want to know the thing that hurt most? I walked into the room afterwards and not one of them noticed that I had shaved – even when I pointed it out.

Common sense prevailed for the next six or so years. I bought myself an electric shaver and removed the foliage from my face daily. Then, in a moment of madness, I stopped shaving. The excuse I used was laziness. However, part of me was curious to discover what my beard would look like after all this time.

It grew fairly quickly; it was very thin on my cheeks and bushy underneath on my neck. I looked ridiculous and my ex-wife begged me to get rid of it. A new set of mates (those who hadn’t seen the previous effort) ridiculed me mercilessly.

“Dave, we’re your mates. Trust us! You look like a stupid geek!”

That was enough! Another beard bit the dust. And so it was for another eight years.

Since then I have grown only one more beard. In 1999, Mrs PM and I were working in Hong Kong and had the chance to spend two weeks touring China. We didn’t fancy hauling heavy suitcases around such a huge country so we decided to travel light. That meant sacrificing many things, including a razor.

After a week my ginger beard had returned. We travelled around tourist areas but at times we ended up in towns where the local Chinese people had rarely, if ever, seen westerners. My blond hair caused fascination – but my beard drew a huge amount of attention. The local Chinese people pointed at me and actually laughed – a whole nation of people thought that a blond pale man with a light ginger beard was hilarious. In bars and restaurants, people stared at me as if I were an alien. I almost bought a razor but resisted. We arrived back in Hong Kong and the guys I worked with (who also had never seen me with a beard) howled when they saw me. Another beard bit the dust soon after.

Thankfully common sense has now prevailed and I have chosen never ever to grow another beard (intentionally that is). If I had a beard now, every day would be a bad beard day. At least, with the aid of a razor, I have total control over my facial hair and my beard will never again see the light of day. Besides, the thought of being drugged and having my face lacerated by Mrs PM fills me with dread.

Embarrassing Moments - Restaurants

Eating out in a restaurant is a truly enjoyable experience, and an activity that I participate in as often as I can. But such is my life that there have been moments of pure embarrassment. I have two tales of woe for you today and in both cases I was a complete arse.

When I started out on my adult life at university I had led a very sheltered life. My parents were not keen on eating in sophisticated restaurants. Furthermore they weren’t keen on eating in any restaurants whatsoever. So when I arrived at an Indian restaurant as a naïve nineteen year old, I had no clue what I was letting myself in for.

Of course, as is traditional in British culture, Indian restaurants are a challenge to all young men who have been enjoying a night out. It is a ritual we all go through several times in our lives; we quaff a gutload of beer and then challenge each other to eat the ripest and hottest curry on the planet.

On this, my first visit to an Indian restaurant, beer had flowed all night and all of us were rather boisterous having imbibed several pints of ale. My memory of the night is hazy but I do recall sitting down and looking at a menu full of exotic Indian dishes, none of which I had heard of. I didn't know a Bhuna from a Rogan Josh. I had eaten curry before as my dad used to cook it regularly. I quite enjoyed it. What I didn’t know was that my dad’s curries were rather mild.

“What shall I have?” I asked innocently.

“Try a Madras,” said one of my so-called friends.

By the time my meal had arrived I was ravenous. Several pints of ale had stimulated my gastric juices to the point where I was willing to eat the tablecloth. So when I was presented with a dish of Chicken Madras I attacked it with gusto.

I think the delay was around two seconds.

“AAAARRRRGGGGHHH!” I cried and was so shocked by the burning sensation that I somehow (don’t ask me how) managed to snort Madras sauce up my nose. My entire nasal cavity and mouth were on fire. I felt as if I had snorted lava. Of course being under the influence of alcohol, a substance that increases reactions exponentially, I mutated into a desperate dervish, whirling around and howling like a crazed cat. I was blinded by tears of agony and stumbled around gasping for breath. I may have been breathing fire.

My so-called friends shrieked with laughter as I miraculously managed to totter to the nearest waiter pleading for water to relieve my anguish. The other restaurant patrons were hardened curry eaters and screamed with laughter (they were also drunk). Even the waiter was laughing as he handed over a jug of ice cold water. I think I drank the whole lot in one go.

Next day I suffered. Boy did I suffer. I had a hangover and I could taste and smell the Madras all day, giving me a constant reminder of my traumatic experience. I didn't realise just how much curry burned. When comedians joke about putting toilet paper in the fridge they are not kidding. I wanted to fill the toilet bowl with liquid nitrogen.

It took a while for me to pluck up the courage to eat Indian cuisine again.

Some years later I was in Amsterdam on business with a friend and colleague called Paul. Both us were willing to try something fresh and exotic so we opted for an Ethiopian restaurant. Ethiopian food proved to be quite unique and also quite spicy. By this time, thankfully, my palate for piquant food had evolved and I relished the dish. A wonderful Ethiopian waitress brought our food; she was wonderful, with dark brown and smooth skin, wearing a white blouse with a black lace tie and black skirt. She was delightful as were the other lovely waitresses – all dressed in an identical uniform.

About half way through the meal, I was aware that something was missing; I needed a refill for my empty beer glass.

“Fancy a beer?” I said to Paul. Before he could answer, I waved my hand in the air at the nearest waitress.

“No,” said Paul looking around.

Ignoring him I continued to wave and eventually attracted the attention of the waitress.

“Don’t!” pleaded Paul looking suddenly rather perturbed

“It’s okay,” I said. “You don’t have to have one.”

He shook his head in exasperation as the waitress approached the table.

“Can I have a beer?” I said. “What do you want, Paul?”

Paul said nothing. he simply put his head in his hands.

“You want a beer?” said the sweet waitress. “I can get one for you if you like.”

“Yes please,” I said.

She walked to the bar spoke to the barman and pointed to me.

“You idiot!” said Paul.

“I’ve only had one,” I said. “I’ll be alright.”

It was then that I noticed something odd. The waitress walked over to a table and sat down. I also noticed something else. She wasn’t wearing a tie and her blouse was a different style from the other waitresses.

She was a customer just like me.

Another real waitress bought my beer as my face reddened enough to set fire to the tablecloth.

I had to swallow my pride. I stood up and walked over to the poor woman who I had cajoled into going to the bar on my behalf.

”I’m so so sorry,” I squarked. “I mistook you for a waitress. I … I … I ….”

“It’s alright,” she smiled as her fellow diners sniggered at my expense.

I bought her a drink to prove that I wasn’t an ignorant arse (just a stupid buffoon). Paul, being a good friend and colleague spent the remainder of the evening telling me what a moron I was. He delighted in telling the tale to complete strangers in bars and of course, my work colleagues upon our return to Manchester. Thanks, Paul!

Sadly, I haven’t learned from these mistakes. There are other incidents that make me want to crawl into a hole and seek sympathy from woodland creatures. I will save those for another post.
In the meantime, Mrs PM is taking me out for a pleasant meal tomorrow night as a belated birthday celebration. Let’s hope she realizes what she is letting herself in for. There’s plenty of scope for embarrassment in the old dog yet.

The Things You Do For Love

I am going to do something I promised myself I wouldn’t do: show you a photo of the Plastic Mancunian.

I had decided not to do allow my ugly mug on this blog in case it scared the children. However, in this case I feel it is necessary to highlight the subject matter of the post.

It all started two or three years ago when Mrs PM decided to augment her self-taught amateur photography skills by joining a local evening class. Off she would go every Wednesday, armed with her digital SLR camera and a bucket of enthusiasm. She would return with a huge smile on her face and stories about the people on the course, the topics being covered and some of the new techniques she had learned. I would dutifully walk around with her as she wondered around taking photos of absolutely anything. And she was good – very good.

And then came that fateful day.

She returned home looking perplexed.

“What’s the matter?” I said.

“I have to take photos in the studio at the college.” she replied. “It has to be of a person with the theme Style With Attitude. I’m stuck.”

Being the devoted partner that I am we discussed how she could achieve this. Being into rock music in a big way, I suggested that as a theme. I picked up last month’s copy of “Classic Rock” magazine and said

“Take a look through this. Rock musicians have style and enough attitude to terrify an army of robots. You’ve got all sorts in there.”

In fact there was a picture of Gene Simmons from Kiss in his glory days of the seventies, full of make-up and showing the entire world how long his tongue was.

“What about him?” I said.

“Brilliant!” she replied.

And then it happened.

“Will you do it?” she squeaked.

“Absolutely not.” I replied. “There is absolutely no way that I am putting on makeup. There is absolutely no way that I am sitting in a studio looking like an arse. There is absolutely no way that I am allowing you to take photos of me covered in black and white paint to show your friends.”

I was resolute. I was determined. My mind was made up. I would not do it.

Ten minutes later we were discussing how to apply the makeup to my face.

I don’t know what it is about females but they have this way of persuading men to do whatever they want. I don’t even recall saying “Okay – I’ll allow you to make a complete arse of me.”

As the fateful day approached, I discovered three things.

First, there was a former work colleague of mine, Martin, on her course. My attempt to keep this little project a secret would therefore be blown out of the water.

Second, I naively thought that if she had the studio for three hours we could apply the make up there, take the photos and then I could remove the makeup and go. Wrong again. She needed the full three hours to set up the lighting, familiarize herself with the equipment and take hundreds of photos, most of which would be discarded. I would have to have the makeup applied at home and get to the studio in full view of everybody.

Third, the studio session was booked for Wednesday night, which meant that the college would be full of students, and worse, my former work colleague would be there.

On the day, I left work early and arrived home in trepidation. Mrs PM sat there for almost an hour painting my face. I could hear the cats sniggering – treacherous felines that they are.

After she had finished, she was so proud that I couldn’t express my true feelings. I stared at myself in the mirror and almost passed out with embarrassment. When I put on the black wig, I almost frightened myself to death.

Thankfully, Mrs PM wouldn’t let me put on my glasses in case it smudged the makeup so on the journey to the college so I was oblivious to the stares I was getting. Mrs PM kept sniggering all the way there (a full fifteen minute journey) because people were openly laughing at me.

When we arrived at the college, Mrs PM led me through the crowded foyer and up three flights of stairs. We arrived at the studio and found the door locked. Mrs PM said

“Wait there – I need to get the key. I won’t be long.”

She left me standing there in a crowded corridor for ten minutes, with seemingly hundreds of people walking past and trying not to laugh. Some people actually spoke to me.

“Where’s the fancy dress party?”

“Are you the Joker?”

“Are you ill?”

“Very good. Is it Hallowe’en?”

After an eternity, she returned and said “Martin’s here. He wants to see you in your makeup.”

“Martin can f**k off” I snarled.

I discovered that we were actually sharing the studio with another female student whose idea of style with attitude was to photograph her friend in a variety of delightful poses. All that separated the two girls from Mrs PM and the monster was a black curtain. The other student peered around the curtain and said “Hiya” to Mrs PM before saying “Bloody Hell!” the instant she saw me. I must have scared her half to death.

For the next three hours. Mrs PM barked instructions at me, making me snarl, pose, headbang, grimace, leap up and down. The other two girls in the studio were laughing not so much at my face but at the way Mrs PM was saying “Snarl at me, baby. SNARL!! YOU’RE ANGRY – SHOW IT!!!”

At the end I grabbed Mrs PM’s bag of makeup remover and ran to the disabled toilets to remove the gunk from my face. There was no way I was going to let Martin see me like this.

Guys, have ever tried to remove makeup? It is impossible. I spent about half an hour scrubbing my face with goo. The black and white makeup blurred into a putrid grey colour that made me look like death warmed up. Mrs PM knocked on the door – “Are you OK in there?”

“Yes,” I grimaced, scrubbing my face with the toilet brush in desperation.

Finally I managed to get it all off – or so I thought.

I returned to Mrs PMs class and shook hands with Martin (who I hadn’t seen for a while). By this time, Mrs PM had shown the entire class the photos and they had been well received. Martin laughed, but only when I closed my eyes – I had left black makeup on my eyelids. Also my face was red raw where my attempts to get rid of the makeup had actually removed flesh.

Of course, now everybody has seen the photos. In fact, one of the photos was blown up to three feet square and hung up in the canteen. How embarrassing. The good news is that you cannot really tell that it is me in the photos. My hair is short and blond and I wear glasses. People have remarked “Is that really you?”

That’s another reason why I have decided to post the photos. Here are a couple of them (including the one that was blown up):








For those of you who have never seen Gene Simmons in his full glory, here he is:


Can you spot the difference?

Mrs PM has now given up the course but still takes lots of photographs – of other things thankfully.

I’m pleased with that – I have only just recovered. I’m sure there’s still makeup somewhere on my face.

Embarrassing Moments - Music

I love music. I love music so much that when I am listening to a favourite song I tend to drift into a tiny world of my own. This is absolutely fine when I am alone in the house because I can crank up the volume and engulf myself in sonorous rapture.

My favourite genre is rock music and heavy metal, although I do like less aggressive music also. When listening to a fast loud rock anthem I punch the air in delight, play the air guitar if I can and sing along. This is a big problem; especially if I am driving a car.

About a year ago I was driving to work as usual when an absolute classic rock anthem exploded onto my car stereo.

“Oh YES!” I cried in my mobile haven and immediately joined in with the song. I was captured by the pounding drums, mesmerized by the wailing guitars, enthralled by the screaming vocals. As I drove along I moved my head in time with the music, screamed as the vocalist reached his crescendo, howled with the guitars and, when I pulled up at a traffic light, hauled out my air guitar and joined in with the guitarist while waiting for the lights to change colour.

It was then I realized that the occupants of the car in front had turned around to watch the show. In the back seat of that car, there were two young girls who were openly laughing and pointing. And being stupid, for a second I couldn’t understand the source of their merriment. So I turned around myself, thinking that there was something funny going on outside the car or behind me. When I spotted nothing out of the ordinary, the cogs finally rotated and my brain got itself into gear; they were laughing at me! Trapped in my car, with the lights still on red, I could do nothing. I accepted my embarrassment and waved at the girls. They waved back and continued to laugh so much that their car was shaking.

I wouldn’t mind if this was a one off. Once I arrived at work and one of my colleagues came up to me and said “I was driving in front of you. Are you OK?”

“Of course,” I said. “Why do you ask?”

“Well you looked as if you were in pain,” he replied.

I realised then that I had been listening to a Judas Priest CD and my “pain” was probably me howling along with Rob Halford.

The embarrassment is not limited to just cars, though.

I loathe shopping, particularly grocery shopping in a supermarket. I hate it so much that I need a distraction. I use my mp3 player. I have a wonderful pair of headphones that mask out every decibel of external noise thus providing me with a totally untainted reproduction of all my music. I love them – but they conspire against me.

On one occasion, I was busily pushing a shopping trolley around my local Tesco while listening to Rammstein in my mp3 player. If you don’t know Rammstein, they are a German rock band who are very loud and very heavy; and they sing in German. And I know most of the words.

One of my favourite songs appeared as I approached the frozen food section and while I perused the various offerings, I was oblivious to my immediate environment. You can guess what happened.

It started with a hum.

Then a little muttering.

Then I broke into song.

There I was, rummaging through frozen vegetables in Tesco in South Manchester, singing (possibly at the top of my voice) - IN GERMAN:

Ich brauche Öl für Gasolin
explosiv wie Kerosin
mit viel Oktan und frei von Blei
einen Kraftstoff wie Benzin

I realized what was happening when I picked up my choice (frozen peas I think) and saw five or six people staring at me as if I had just arrived from Mars. I pulled off my headphones and, turning red, switched off my mp3 player and ran from the store in shame – no I didn’t really. I stupidly apologized and carried on shopping. I don’t know why I apologized actually – maybe for assaulting their eardrums.

I know I cannot sing; I once recorded myself singing a Rush song and instantly removed it. I sounded like a cat trying to sing Nessun Dorma while being strangled.

So why do I humiliate myself by singing in public? Of course I don’t mean to but I can’t help it. I need therapy, I think. I think I’ll go to see a specialist - but I must remember to leave my mp3 player at home.