The Influencer

This is my 1000th post. 

I have a soundtrack song that skirts around the topic of this post. It is called #Addicted by my current favourite band Riverside, so listen along while you read (only if you want to of course). 

I want everybody to be like me. I want you all to listen to the same music as me, read the same books as me and base your fashion choices on my own. I want you all to have the same beliefs as me and basically use my ideas as a philosophy for your future choices. 

I want to influence you all. 

Okay, let me tell you one thing about the words I wrote above: they are complete and utter bollocks.

My own belief is that everybody should be as individual as they can be. People are unique in this world and that’s exactly what makes humanity so brilliant on the whole. You never know what you are going to get when you meet a new person.

Having said that, it is perfectly fine to get ideas from people to enhance your own life. I do this all the time. However, I am not a good role model at all. 

When it comes to fashion, I am totally inept. I have written about this before and if it wasn’t for Mrs PM I would wander around the streets of Manchester dressed like a sack of potatoes with legs, arms and a head. When I go shopping for clothes I am utterly clueless about what to buy. When Mrs PM and I first got together, one of the first things she did was to tell me (in no uncertain terms) what was wrong with my clothing choices. 

My musical taste, while it skirts around various genres, is a little bit niche. I like popular music like rock and pop of course but the music that I really love has been described to me as “an acquired taste”. I have also been described as a “musical dinosaur” and I didn’t like that one little bit (as you can probably tell since I mentioned it in the first place). 

The books I read are also very niche. I love anything really weird (the weirder the better), which means that I gravitate towards science fiction, horror and anything that is just – well – strange. The same goes for TV and movies. 

Why would anybody be influenced by that?

About a year before I retired, I started looking at potential hobbies to keep myself busy and one of the suggestions made me laugh out loud. That idea was: 

“Become an influencer”

What? At my age? Have you ever met me?

I have seen influencers in action in the flesh. I have seen people (mainly women) photographing themselves when they have bought new clothes, pouting in a way that would attract any fish with large lips. I have heard others (mainly men) bleating on about sports products and things to make them look like the latest Adonis and showing off their muscles in a way that makes them resemble a very poor man’s Arnold Schwarzenegger. 

The idea of being an Influencer is that you end up with an army of followers who hang on to your every word, your every image (no matter how bizarre) and all of your lifestyle choices, which includes things like the restaurants and bars that you got to, the meals you have every day and all of your amazing ideas, no matter how crazy they are. When you have this following, you reap the rewards with advertising and in extreme cases, companies giving you things to try in the hope that you will praise them allowing the company to get sales indirectly from you. 

I don’t want any of that. 

I would hate to see a Plastic Mancunian clone following me to a restaurant dressed exactly like me and telling me how influential I am. 

I am not influential at all. I use this blog to basically tell people what a weirdo I am, how incompetent I am and what an idiot I can be. And I welcome people laughing at my antics. 

But to follow me and try to be like me?

You have to be kidding. 

Equally I have no desire to obsessively base my lifestyle choices on a person I’ve only ever seen pictures of, who is really nothing but a gigantic show-off. For example I love rock music but I have never had the desire to pursue the hedonistic and debauched life style of some of my past favourite artists. 

You can rest assured that on the list of potential retirement hobbies that I have compiled, “become an influencer” is not on there at all. Mind you, I am a self-confessed weirdo so perhaps there are older people out there who may be tempted to listen to my advice, wear the same clothes that Mrs PM tries to get me to wear, read the same weird books and listen to the same weird music. However, I like to think that anybody who is my age is so set in their ways that the very thought of being influenced by me is as hilarious as the concept of Plastic Mancunian himself trying to become an influencer. 

Influencers just want fame and money for doing bugger all and I would never want to be one.

I say make your own choices. Don’t follow people – just be yourself. 

Life is too precious to live it vicariously. 

Skinny Jeans

So there I was in the changing rooms in a men’s clothing establishment about to try on a pair of jeans. This is something I have done  many times before, usually with great success because I am average in every way – average waist and average regular trouser length.

I don’t want to scare you all by getting into too much detail but suffice it to say I had to take off my shoes and trousers in order to try on the new pair (try not to picture me in my shreddies, dear reader – you can’t unsee an image like that).  After all, it would be pointless trying to haul a pair of jeans over another pair wouldn’t it?

Not even I am stupid enough to do that.

The exercise was supposed to be straightforward; I pull on the new jeans, check that they fit my slightly expanding waistline, check that they are not too long or too short and see if they actually look good on me, rather than making me look like an abnormal alien creature.

It all sounded too simple – until I actually attempted to get the things on. Being an old coot, I didn’t really check them well enough. There seemed to be an extra dimension – a “fit”.

I had heard of things like “boot cut”, “loose”, “straight”, “tapered”, “slim” and “skinny” and I knew my limits.

Sadly, a malicious, evil and possibly incompetent buffoon had mixed up the jean “fits”. I can imagine the evil sneaking satanic swine swapping the trousers, putting the “boot cut” on the “tapered” section, the “slim” on the “tapered” section and sniggering as his victim took the wrong pair.

The jeans themselves had no warning of what was to come – no sign that said “wear these jeans at your own risk”.

I had picked up what I thought were “tapered” jeans. There was no sign to tell me otherwise – only the price tag, the waist size and the leg length.

I thought I would slide my leg in easily.I was wrong – horribly wrong.

My pushed my foot in expecting an easy slide to the hole at the end of the leg and it got stuck so suddenly that I stumbled and almost overbalanced, hurtling forward towards the curtain before I managed to reach for the wall.

Imagine if I had lost my balance completely and fallen out of the room in my underpants?  No – please don’t do that.

I was so relieved that I managed to lose a little more common sense.  I know that new jeans can be a little stiff but I was determined to win. Part of me thought that my leg had grown so thick in my old age that even tapered jeans were a struggle to peel on.

Reason gave way to more stupidity. I was overcome by a sense of competitiveness that is unusual for me; I would pull these jeans on if it killed me, if nothing else to prove that I wasn’t just getting bigger in my old age. The denim would slacken as I wore them, I figured. I didn’t consider that I would look ridiculous in tapered jeans that were too tight.

I had to sit down.

I have fairly big calves anyway (I do a lot of walking) and once I had got my foot past further in, I had to apply immense force to peel these bastards onto my leg.

“Stop it,” screamed an inner voice. “They don’t fit.”

I ignored this inner voice of reason and persevered, groaning as I hauled the leg of the jean over my knee and upper thigh.

“Are you okay in there?” came a voice from outside.

“Yeah,” I said thinking that I sounded nonchalant.

I tried the next leg and the struggle was possibly worse. I found myself standing there with a pair of jeans halfway up my upper thighs. With more crazy resolve, I pulled the jeans the rest of the way, somehow managing to slide them over my arse.

I looked at myself in the mirror; I was bright red and sweating like a pig that had just run a marathon.

I managed to fasten the trousers at the front and button them up – but it was hard, dear reader. I could feel my circulation being cut off and I won’t even describe the feeling around my nether regions.

I turned around and I looked like a sack of potatoes perched precariously on two thin branches.

At least they weren’t those low slung jeans that don’t cover your underpants; that would have been far worse.

There was enough room to walk around a little in the cubicle and I tried, dear reader, I tried. These bloody jeans actually squeaked as I moved and I let out at least two involuntary high-pitched squeaks of my own.

The pain of walking around in these satanic jeans focussed my mind.

“What the bloody hell are you doing?” I asked myself.

With much relief, I sat down to take the things off but in a moment of manic madness I realised I had forgotten to unfasten them.

How I didn’t squeal is a miracle to me. I had to stand up again.

It took me ten minutes to peel the bastards off – it felt like they had been superglued to my legs.

Eventually I got them off and with much relief I put my old ones back on again. I left the changing room, still red with the effort of extricating myself from their clutches and, as I handed them back to the man looking after the changing room, he smiled knowingly.

“A bit too skinny for you?” he asked.

“Skinny?” I asked. “I got them from the tapered section.”

He looked at me as if I had gone mad. “Can’t you tell?” he asked sniggering.

I was so embarrassed that I left the shop in shame.

As I wandered around trying to recover from the humiliation and assault by a pair of skinny jeans, I noticed that a few young lads walking around the shopping centre were wearing them.

These things had nearly castrated me and here were young 20 year old males with skinny legs walking around in jeans that were around four times too small for them.

And I swear, dear reader; every one of them squeaked!

The Pros and Cons of Growing Old

It’s taken me a while to admit it but, at the age of 55, I am a middle-aged man. In just over four years’ time I will achieve the aim of having been on this planet for 60 years. And at that time, I guess I might also have to admit to being an old man.

I don’t really have a problem with that. A couple of good friends of mine have recently turned 60 and seem to be embracing this new era in their lives with gusto. They are excited about the prospect of retiring and one of them is absolutely delighted with the news that she is about to become a grandparent.

It seems that growing old is great, but not all people agree.

Anyway, to balance the two views, I thought I would prepare a list of the pros and cons of growing old based on a little research and my own philosophy on life.

CONS

(1) Your body starts to let you down.

My eyesight has always been terrible. I used to be short-sighted but now I have to wear varifocals because I am struggling to read. Nobody warned me about that. Also, I have to look forward to illness, deafness and bits of my body that were firm starting to succumb to the effects of gravity and drooping like a water starved flower.

(2) You are not as good looking as you used to be.

Every time I look into the mirror I am convinced that I am becoming uglier. I was hideous to start with and now, with greying hair and wrinkles appearing, I look worn out. Mind you, older people probably think I look fine because their eyesight is getting worse.

(3) Fashion for the elderly is absolutely awful.

The other week I was shopping for a new shirt and wandered into Marks and Spencer. Why, I don’t know – perhaps my ageing brain told me to because I am almost an old git. I looked around the department labelled “Men’s Fashion” (the word “fashion” used in its loosest possible way) and immediately walked out again. The clothes were awful. The only people browsing were old men wearing similar clothes. What person decided that once you get old you should wear clothing that is so dreadful it actually ages you even more?

(4) You start to feel out of touch with young people.

These days I find myself ranting at young people who have no knowledge of the things I used to love when I was their age. They love it and wind me up even more (apparently I am really funny when I rant). When I ask them about their passions and loves they bamboozle me with music, TV programmes, games and all manner of things that I have never heard of. When it comes to youth culture I am totally clueless.

(5) You start going to more funerals than weddings.

Old people are always talking about people who are seriously ill or have died. The cloud of death seems to hover over them and becomes a major topic of conversation. I am a hypochondriac and when I hear that old Bill from up the road has died I have to seriously stop myself from browsing the internet to find out about what killed him. When I am old, all talk about diseases of the aged will be banned.

(6) You start to forget things.

I used to pride myself on having a fantastic memory. Nowadays, it is worse. I am not that bad but I do find myself forgetting simple things. It is infuriating.

(7) You start to slow down.

When I was younger I used to run everywhere, bound up and down the stairs and play sports for fun. These days, I look at young people jumping around, running about and hurling themselves into energetic pastimes with envious eyes. I simply cannot keep up.

PROS

(1) You will be free to do what you like.

I can’t wait until retirement  and I am already making plans. At this moment in time I have no idea what I will do to occupy my time but I don’t care. I will find something. I can write a book, learn a new language, join a club, travel – anything really. By the time I retire I shall have a grand plan and be as rampant as a man in his sixties can be.

(2) You care less about what people think of you.

I used to be a sensitive soul but over the years, I have become immune to people who have insulted me or taken the piss. I usually make fun of myself such is my contempt for my own sensitivity. If someone were to say to me “Why are you going home early? You’re turning into a boring old fart!” I would say “Yes I am – and I am bloody proud of it!”

(3) You are wise.

Older people have had a lot of experience and can generally help and advise anybody. I do this all the time with my two lads and many other young people I know and work with. I have been asked to join a quiz team because of the amount of trivia I have stored in my brain.

(4) You are able to watch your kids grow up.

I have two great boys and am lucky enough to have watched them grow into young adults with minds and personalities of their own. I regard them both as mates as well as sons and we get along famously. I look forward to seeing them have their own families (though I’m not ready to be a grandparent myself yet).

(5) You may be better off.

I quite like the idea about getting pensioner discounts because I am an old git. Sadly I have to wait another few more years before I can enjoy free travel, discount cinema tickets etc.. Also, given how long I have been running the irritating rat race, I would hope that I will be reasonably well off in my twilight years. Thankfully Mrs PM is younger than me by a few years so we should be okay and she can look after my decrepit old body (don’t tell her I said that).

(6) Your experience can stand you in good stead.

Whatever I choose to do when I finally retire, I fully intend to start writing down my thoughts and life experiences more prolifically. Whether the Plastic Mancunian will survive and become a medium for my rants is yet to be decided – but I shall scribble things down for my kids and family to read in the years after I have finally shuffled off this mortal coil. Even now, I like to tell youngsters about things I have experienced – and it’s fun.

(7) You can be as grumpy as you want.

The phrase “grumpy old git” is there to be embraced. I have been practicing for years and am very good at it. “What are you moaning about now?” is a question I am asked a lot. There is so much – just picking up a newspaper can set me off even now. What do you imagine I shall be like it 20 years?

AND FINALLY …

As I said earlier, I have a few years to prepare for being an old man and I hope to embrace the pros listed above while minimising the cons.

I think I can do that … if I’m not too tired and can remember.

Painful Shoes

Ladies – let me show you two clips! Men – please look away for a few seconds.

The first clip is of poor Jen when she sees the shoes of her dreams:

The second clip is when she takes the shoes off:

I’ve seen this madness first hand. Let me take you back in time a few years. I was in Funchal, Madeira with Mrs PM and we were debating where to go in the evening. I told her that I had seen a couple of bars and restaurants further along the promenade.

“How far?” said Mrs PM.

“Not far at all,” I replied.

I thought nothing of it and we set off. After about ten minutes, Mrs PM stopped and asked

“How much further?” 

“About another ten minutes,” I replied.

“You could have bloody told me,” she snapped. “These shoes are killing me”

I looked at her incredulously as her face darkened slightly.

“Why are you wearing them then? Why on earth did you buy them?” I asked.

I think I would have been in less trouble had I spilled a beer over her head.

She looked around with a face like thunder. For a second I thought she was looking for a large object to hit me with but then she just grabbed my hand.

“We’re going here,” she said dragging me into a dingy bar, where she explained to me, as if I were a five year old simpleton, about the basic relationship between women and their shoes.

I nodded thoughtfully as she stood on my soapbox and told me why women buy uncomfortable shoes. Apparently all women are guilty of this madness. Just like Jen in the videos above, women fall in love with shoes and wear them no matter how uncomfortable they are. The idea is that they don’t have to walk too far, just be able to stand up and look beautiful in them.
For men, shoes need to be functional and comfortable and I can honestly say, with my hand on my heart, that I have never bought uncomfortable footwear.

Since then I have noticed this mad trait in women myself, where, in a moment of madness, they buy shoes that are beautiful yet look as if they will rip the poor creature’s feet apart of cripple them for life.

Some of the heels on these shoes are huge!

I was once speaking to a woman at a bar as we were waiting to be served and she started grimacing.

“Are you okay” I asked.

“Just a second,” she said before removing both of her shoes.

“Oh GOD, that’s better,” she said picking them up.

She had shrunk about four inches. The heels were enormous. I wanted to ask her how she had managed to hobble the short distance from her table to the bar but was too scared in case she whacked me her footwear.

I’ve also known women take a huge bag with them on a night out.

“What’s in the bag?” I’ve asked.

“Just my shoes,” they would say.

These are sensible women who wear comfortable shoes to walk to the restaurant or bar and then, when they get there, swap them for a pair of horrific but compellingly beautiful high-heeled foot scrunchers. After hobbling around for the entire evening, the shoes would then be swapped back at the end of the night.

Worse, I’ve seen women do this but then rush up to the dance floor in a night club with the worst shoes possible and bop away as if they were wearing slippers before hobbling back to their table.

I once heard somebody say “All women, without exception, are mad!”

I think this is untrue but when it comes to shoes, a lot of women lose their minds.

Meanwhile, back in that bar in Funchal, Mrs PM told me that women like to dress to impress and there is nothing more impressive than the way high heeled shoes alter the posture of a woman and make her look taller.

But I have news for you, guys – they’re not doing it to impress men – on the contrary – it is to impress other women.

You see for women, fashion is all about competing with other women.

They don’t care about us.

Is this instinct or madness?

I know for a fact that I wouldn’t even consider buying a pair of shoes if I could only walk a hundred yards in them. And this is true of almost all men I know who have met.

It doesn’t make any sense to me and to be honest this is a backwards step in my quest to understand the fairer sex, despite Mrs PM’s explanation.

Here are a few other examples of crazy shoes.

And Mrs PM, if you are reading this and considering buying any of them and you want to wear them, you will just have to get a taxi (though I think you might struggle to even walk the short distance to that).

I know one thing for sure – I am not carrying you.

David Bowie

This is my 600^th post and it was going to sing the praises of being British. However, I have shelved that idea due to the sad news I heard today: the death of one of my musical heroes, David Bowie,

A few years ago, I posted my favourite David Bowie songs (which you can read here) and to be honest, I am a huge fan of the really early stuff, from Space Oddity all the way up to Scary Monsters at the start of the 1980’s, where for me at least his music drifted away to the fringe of my musical taste,

Don’t get me wrong, there were a few gems there but I still stand by my assertion that his greatest triumphs were in the 1970’s. At that time, my musical taste fluctuated between pop music, dance music, rock music and heavy metal, but somehow the music of David Bowie transcended the entire spectrum, not fitting into a genre of its own but complementing everything else.

I have always loved his music – I think I always will. Every time one of his songs pops onto my iPod, I smile and sing along with it.

It’s difficult to believe that he has died; it’s almost as if I thought he would live forever. The truth is that he will live forever through his music.

I’ll leave you with a couple of wonderful David Bowie songs that didn’t quite make the top ten post listed above but are deeply embedded in the roots of my favourite music.

Lady Grinning Soul

Queen Bitch

Fashion

Cat People (Putting Out Fire)

Heroes

I think this song is the most apt. David Bowie was a hero to me.

Rest in Peace David  - and thanks for all the music.

What's Hot and What's Not

Statements like green is the new black make my blood boil. It is a ludicrous thing to say and highlights the worst façades of the fashion industry and other culprits who try to sell their wares to gullible fools and pseudo intellectuals at ridiculously inflated prices.

Magazines like the Style section of The Sunday Times are full of this kind of nonsense, offering, say, a pair of silver shoes at a ridiculous £400 just because they are currently in vogue and drive normally sane people insane because, apparently, they are the new black in the world of footwear.

Needless to say that Style usually goes straight into the recycling without its pages being turned – that is unless Mrs PM gets it first.

Mrs PM is a very sensible person and even she tuts and sighs as she reads the pages of this dreadful waste of ink and paper.

“Why do you read it?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” she says. “I usually only skim it and look at the Going Up, Going Down section."

She elaborated telling me that this little note at the side of one of the many pages of garbage, is effectively a filler which indicates what is currently cool and trendy, and what is currently on its way out.

I was slightly curious so I grabbed the most recent copy and had a look.

Here’s what I found.

At the bottom of the pile, rolling out of fashion faster than a mad dog on a ski slope, is The Shareable Coat.

What the flump is a Shareable Coat?

Surely all coats are shareable. I know that I have lent a coat to my lads who are now the same size as me, and also, like the gentleman that I am, draped it over the shoulders of Mrs PM and other female friends when it gets a little chilly. Isn’t that sharing a coat?

No. A Shareable Coat is a big scarf-like thing that two BFFs can share together (apparently BFF means Best Friend Forever but I reckon it stands for Bloody Foolish Females in this case).

You've got too much of the coat!

“What else is on its way out?” I hear you cry.

Well brankles or mankles (bloke ankles/man ankles) are hurtling down the fashion parade. Basically this involves men (or as I prefer to call them dickheads) rolling up their trousers or actually buying trouser that are too short in some cases to expose their manly calves and ankles.  I’m sure that women go crazy for such idiocy.

Really? Is this a good look????

What else? Oh yes – extreme aged steak. A steak is usually hung out for 30 days or so but in this case, the meat is left out for much longer, the longest I managed to find was 459 days.

459 days!

I would have made a pair of shoes out of it.

Do you want to hear the hot stuff? The stuff that is soaring so much that it is sizzling?

First, vinyl booties, which are thigh high multi-coloured skin tight boots that must be incredibly weird to wear. Apparently they simply MUST be Dior vinyl boots (that figures!!).

Before I go on, let me just clarify that these are for women so the chances of me ever wearing them are zero. To be honest, I can’t see Mrs PM wearing them either.

I'll bet it takes about two hours to put them on!

Also rising like a phoenix are canelés, something else I have never heard of. They are French cakes that have been around since the 18th century but, for some reason, are undergoing a resurgence of popularity.

Actually, I could probably eat one of these.

Finally, the most disgusting foodstuff known to man (apart from rhubarb) is right up there claiming a high spot on the hot list. I am talking about Oyster Happy Hours when you can apparently purchase cut price globs of disgusting rubbery seafood in shells and slide them down your gullet with your friends.

YEEEEEEUUUUUUUCCCCHHHHHH!!!!!

There are more items on this list but I can’t bring myself to write about them. One thing they all have in common is that they are almost exclusively consumed or used by slaves to the God of Style, a faceless entity that makes people wishing to be seen as cool make arse out of themselves by either looking ridiculous wearing or eating them.

It makes me laugh, more out of pity than humour.

Like pseudo intellectuals, these style chasers will pretend to love this stuff and will pay a fortune to have it. It’s no surprise to me that London is the centre for this overpriced hogwash, not the whole city, just the cool places, where it’s good to be seen and you can slurp you oysters before trying to chew on a battered old steak and diving into a container of canelés, all the time huddled in a shareable coat with your BFF while admiring the local dickhead mankles.

What a load of crap it all is.

Sadly, dear reader we are all slaves to the God of Style, simply because we have no choice about the style of clothes to wear (unless you want to buy all your clothes from jumble sales) although we do have a choice about what we eat.

Thank goodness we can pick and choose our own food. Give me a decent steak in a reasonably priced restaurant any time.

And please – no bloody oysters.

Do you want to know what I think is hot and what’s not?

Hot – The Plastic Mancunian!

Not hot – The God of Style. He’s like a modern artist and all of his followers are pseudo-intellectuals with more money than sense.

(Note to self: Please no more rants about modern art).

I Just Don't Get It

Regular readers will know that I have a soapbox that I get out occasionally to air my views and rant about things that I find disturbing, objectionable or just simply wrong. However, for this post, I don’t want to get my soapbox out. I want to understand. And I am hoping that there are readers out there who will help me.

I will try not to rant, I promise.

There are certain things in life that I just don’t get. I am fifty years old and I reckon I have a reasonably sensible and well-balanced view on the world. Nevertheless, I find myself looking at certain aspects of life on this planet and shake my head in disbelief at why they are so popular or why they even exist at all.

Am I stupid? Don’t answer that question.

I am going to offer you, dear reader, ten things that make me wonder whether the human race is devolving rather than evolving. And if you are one of those people who champion the things I am about to discuss, please, please, PLEASE tell me why I shouldn’t get on my soapbox and start bellowing about them in future posts.

I will try to be brief.

Sex Addiction

I am a man and I know that over the years I have thought about sex an awful lot – almost constantly in fact. Men do that – they can’t help it. Yet I have to chuckle when certain celebrities have had to undergo therapy for a condition called sex addiction simply because they are so famous that they cannot control the voice of their little fella when his brain alerts him to a woman who has breasts, legs and a pretty face.

Most men look at women and their little fella offers an opinion about whether she is worthy as a mate. To the majority of men, such thoughts are lost in an ocean of other external stimulae and warrant only a verbal exclamation, particularly those men who have a woman already.

“She’s nice,” you hear guys say. The more outspoken ones will suggest a more lurid scenario and single guys may even act on their urges, driven by the need to procreate, by actually trying to chat them up. Yet we find celebrities who simply cannot control their urges and whose little fella is the boss, complaining after having been caught out, that they suffer from sex addiction and, in order to save face, go into therapy to explain why they can’t keep their little fella in his place.

Do me a favour! I think it is an excuse to make people feel sorry for them after been unfaithful. Obviously a celebrity will attract members of the opposite sex.

Just keep your pecker in his cage!

Train Spotting

Why on earth would anybody have an urge to stand on a rainy railway platform with a little book and a pen and mark off the numbers of locomotives as they trundle past? Why would they do it for hours on end? I wouldn’t mind if each locomotive was unique – they aren’t. Most of them are the bloody same!

“Wow – I saw a train!”

How bloody interesting!

Cult of Celebrity

Why are people interested in celebrity gossip, particularly when the so-called celebrity in question is famous for nothing more than being outrageous on television. If you ask me, this obsession with celebrities who deserve no more than a passing thought is damaging people.

You see it whenever a reality show appears on television.  An absolute nobody is instantly turned into an overnight celebrity because they did something disgraceful and acquired an army of fans who are so shallow that they live vicariously through these sad attention seekers.

I just don’t get it. I can’t understand why I should be bothered about a young idiot who gets drunk and makes an arse of himself on a programme like Geordie Shore.

Scientology

I have been tempted to write a post about the cult of Scientology and I may still do this in future. I was once
almost enrolled in this cult as a young impressionable student (read about it here). When you look into Scientology you can forgive yourself for thinking “WHAT THE PHARRRRKKK?” 

Famous celebrities like Tom Cruise have paid a fortune to rise up the hierarchy and it is all based on the imagination of science fiction writer L.Ron Hubbard a controversial character at best. 

Why would anyone with wealth even consider joining this cult? You may as well just set fire to your cash.

Modern Jazz

Modern Jazz musicians are extremely good at playing their chosen musical instruments. The problem for me is that when they get together to play a song, while they all play their own self-indulgent parts brilliantly, it appears as if they are all playing totally different tunes. 

The result is a total dirge.

Readers of my last post will recall that I love progressive rock. However, one of my favourite champions of the genre, Steven Wilson, has introduced a touch of jazz into his latest solo albums (mainly because his band, like me, can’t stand jazz). 

I don’t play those songs – they are not my cup of tea at all.

Contemporary Art

Regular readers will know about my hatred for modern art. I simply do not get it. I do not understand how random slops of paint on a canvas with the title “My Alien Colostomy Bag” can drive anybody to say anything other than “Let’s burn this piece of excrement!”

The best justification I heard for the bizarre way in which art has migrated straight down the toilet made me rant mercilessly for days.

I said: “Why doesn’t anybody paint pictures any longer instead of gluing bits of metal together and calling it something like “Living Vomit”?"

The lady in question said: “It’s been done – that’s so last century!”

Rant? You would not believe how that poor woman suffered for her art.

Tattoos

When I recently saw a photo of David Beckham my first thought was “What the pharrk has he done to his body?”.

Why would anybody deface their own body with tattoos? They are so permanent and, certainly in the UK on a canvas of pale white skin like mine, they look awful. It’s like a form of modern art (see above). Are you going to tell me that anybody who has covered body in shocking blue colours isn’t going to examine their sagging skin when they are older and say “I wish I hadn’t had a picture of a dragon eating a huge banana scrawled on my belly!”

Why? 

Poetry

I love it when people use their imagination to put words on paper in a way that is beautiful and thought provoking.; yet poetry can be utterly ridiculous. I’m not talking about song lyrics, rhymes and funny limerick style pieces – I’m talking about the artistic pretentious rubbish where people put together  random words and the reader has to make sense out of it. In many ways it’s like modern art – appealing to pseudo intellectuals and nobody else. 

Here’s a poem, written by me, that is shit! Some people may read this and say "genius” – please don’t tell them I ate a dictionary, spat out words in random order and put them together to produce this utter mess:

I contemplated the torso of a despondent galactic masterpiece

And my heart thanked my voracious sight.

I hastened my swiftness, disoriented by my awareness

Yet somehow did not submit to fright.

I call it The Loquacious Figment.

And I say to you now, dear reader – if you think it is brilliant then I have to break it to you that you are indeed a pseudo intellectual and I look forward to your explanation of why it is so good as well as the philosophical quotes that support your argument.

Rest assured that this is a one off and I won't be filling this blog with crap poetry.

Outrageous Fashion

Why? Who on earth wears clothes that, at best, can be described as utterly ridiculous? And why are these people willing to pay a bloody fortune for it?

Justin Bieber

Where do I begin with this … this … (careful Dave!) pop star? It seems to me that a fair percentage of the female population have taken leave of their senses and been mesmerised by this young lad. I wouldn’t mind if he were modest about his success. 

He’s not.

He’s one of the most arrogant egotistical celebrities out there. What does he call his fans? Beliebers? I am not a violent person but the more I hear about his escapades, the more I want to give him a hearty slap.

And his music is shit too!

And finally…

Please understand, dear reader, that when it comes to certain topics, I am totally thick. If anybody can explain why any of the ten things above are worthy of my attention in anyway, I will be most grateful.

And I apologise – my soapbox did make an appearance (or ten)!

The World's Most Difficult Question (Part Two)

Way back in the summer of 2008 I wrote a post about the world’s most difficult question. That question was:

“How do I look in this?”

I answered incorrectly – totally and utterly incorrectly. My answer was so wrong that I still bear the scars. You can read about it here.

There are no questions more difficult than that – or so I thought.

A week or two ago, Mrs PM shocked me with a question that was even worse.

Picture the scene. It is a Friday night and, for once, I am not on call, which means that Mrs PM and I can venture to Didsbury Village for a pint or two. I am relaxed and chatting with her and enjoying watching the other patrons, laughing and unwinding after a week work.

Mrs PM turns to me and asks what has now become the world’s most difficult question.

“What do you think of those three young women over there?”

I thought she was joking.

“What women?” I asked.

“Those three women – DON’T LOOK!”

But I did look, dear reader, and saw three young, attractive and very fashionable young ladies, chatting away and looking around at the other people in the pub. One of them looked me straight in the eye and I quickly turned back to Mrs PM who was glaring at me.

“I told you NOT to look.”

“I had to look,” I replied. “I haven’t got eyes in the back of my head you know. And even if I DID have eyes in the back of my head, I wouldn’t be able to see anything through the bloody mop that lives on my skull.”

“Well, now that they KNOW we’re talking about them, you may as well tell me what you think of them,” she replied, refusing to let the subject go.

I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know what she expected me to say.

Was this a test?

I had made matters worse by openly turning around to stare at three young women who would undoubtedly wander over and say:

“What the bloody hell are you staring you dirty old git?”

I swallowed and smiled, waiting for the inevitable tap on the shoulder.

“Well?” said Mrs PM.

“Are they coming over?” I asked.

“Why would they do that?” she asked.

“No reason,” I replied, feeling mildly relieved.

“Anyway, what shall we do tomorrow?” I asked trying to change the subject.

“What’s wrong with you?” she asked. “Can’t you answer a simple question?”

“Why do you want to know?” I countered.

“I want to know what you think of the clothes they’re wearing,” she asked. “Do you like them?”

“OOOOOHHHHH!!!!!” I said, feeling slightly relieved. “I thought … er never mind what I thought.”

The bottom line was that Mrs PM was considering buying a couple of items of clothing that the three ladies were wearing and she wanted my opinion, as a man, about whether they would suit her. That in itself is a difficult enough subject to contemplate but much better to negotiate than to comment on the appearance of a woman within ogling distance.

I had once stupidly been savaged by a very angry Mrs PM in a noisy pub for blurting arguably the most stupid and potentially fatal comment that has ever managed to make it from my brain to the outside world.

If I have told you about this before, I apologise. If not, enjoy my stupidity.

We were in another crowded and very noisy pub in Didsbury and I hated it. The music was loud and I could barely hear myself think. What’s more, the music was utterly dreadful.

“I HATE IT HERE,” I shouted at Mrs PM as she was chatting with friends. “IT’S TOO NOISY!”

“I LOVE IT,” she replied – and so did our friends. That’s when it happened. That’s when my brain expelled a totally idiotic thought in the general direction of my loud gob. The beer I had consumed shutdown my mental firewall and let the thought escape – straight into Mrs PM’s ear via my stupid mouth.

“THERE IS ONE GOOD THING ABOUT THIS PLACE!” I shouted.

“WHAT'S THAT?” she replied.

“THE WOMEN!”

I was dragged out of there before I could say “What’s the matter?” and I spent the next two weeks apologising. My claims of “It was a joke!” fell on deaf ears.

Back to the difficult question about the three women – this time, I managed to survive the incident unscathed. I managed to say the following (with my thoughts in red –thoughts that thankfully I didn’t utter).

“I like the colour coordination of the (shapely) blond and her dress really suits her (curvaceous) figure. The short skirt is possibly a little too short (though she has very nice legs) and the top is nice (but given the size of her chest she should DEFINITELY DEFINITELY show MUCH MORE cleavage). I like the outfit of the third (very, very, very pretty) girl and I think the boots she is wearing make her look taller (and MUCH MUCH sexier).”

I got away with it (unlike the previous difficult question).

I’m getting good at this.

Hang on a minute – Mrs PM reads this blog doesn’t she?

OH SHIT!!!!!!

Female Fashion (And Other Impossible Subjects)

I want to return to a favourite topic of mine: women.

Regular readers will know that I love women; I love watching them and talking to them. They fascinate me with their beauty, personality and charm.

My problem is that I simply do not understand them. The women in my life have tried to explain to me how their minds work but, just as I think I have grasped the mechanism that makes them tick, they astound me with behaviour that contradicts everything I thought I had learned.

If you didn’t already know, dear reader, I am forty seven years old and I STILL cannot fathom the machinations of the female psyche.

I would like to discuss an imponderable topic in the world of women: fashion.

I am a man and I know what I like when it comes to women. Physical appearance is important but I am also very fond of intelligent, strong and funny women. Most men are the same. Men are initially attracted to the looks but will only form a lasting relationship if she has intelligence and depth.

I couldn’t, for example, fall for a woman who looked like Megan Fox if she had the IQ of a dung beetle.

Yet sometimes, even the most intelligent women on the planet can fall foul of expectations driven by fashion and beauty magazines. I don’t understand it. I have overheard beautiful women chatting about their problems in this area and my perception is that their IQ drops several points when discussing clothes, makeup and the shape and size of their bodies.

Now that may sound chauvinistic and insulting but that’s the way it appears to me.

Am I wrong?

It’s as if some women simply switch off part of their brains when it comes to decisions in this area and sometimes make terrible choices based on their assessment of what men want, what other women want and what the fashion and beauty industry tells them they ought to want.

To balance things out, men are equally guilty of switching off their brains and allowing their penis to take control of their bodies but that it something for another post.

Women love buying clothes. As a man, I only buy clothes when the rags I am wearing have so many holes that I appear naked when viewed from a distance. Mrs PM steps in way before that happens thankfully, otherwise Manchester would be a city in turmoil: I would become the Mancunian equivalent of the Loch Ness Monster.

There are several things that puzzle me when it comes to female clothing.

Firstly, can somebody explain to me what is going on when it comes to sizes?

When I go into a shop to buy a pair of trousers, I have a rough idea of the size of my waist (34 inches), the size of my leg (30 or 31 inches) and can stroll over to the trouser rack and be pretty sure that the 34 inch regular length trousers will fit me. Similarly, I can stroll to the shirts and deduce that the 16 inch collared shirts will not strangle me and that the 38 inch chest jacket will almost certainly be a perfect fit.

Women have a major problem in this area. They have to go for a size 8,10,12,14,16,18,20 in absolutely every item they want with the exception of shoes.

What the hell is a “size 12”?

12 what exactly?

Inches? Feet? Broom handles? Elephants?

You may mock those latter two units of size but some of the variations in items of clothing vary so much from shop to shop that a size 12 in one shop may be tiny enough to fit a baby chimpanzee while in another shop a size 12 could accommodate a rhinoceros.

What is going on? Can somebody explain this to me?

Correct me if I am wrong but most human beings are completely different shapes and sizes. Thankfully men do not wear all in one outfits like dresses (although some do I suppose). Women are different shapes both at the top half of their bodies and the lower regions.

So how can a dress be a size 12?

This is a constant source of frustration for Mrs PM, for example, and she is definitely not alone.

She can, say, fit into a size 14 top and a size 12 skirt but struggles with dresses because the size 12 may suffocate her while the size 14 can look like a Bedouin tent. I’ve known her to try on a size 14 dress and then beg for me to call search and rescue because she can’t find her way out of it.

I can only surmise that the sizing scale for women’s clothes was conceived by a sadistic madman who did so for a drunken bet.

Fashion magazines haven’t helped matters. I think that shops vary their sizes to make women believe that they are smaller than they are in order to appeal to their vanity or perception of how others see them. A large lady will be delighted if she can go to a shop and squeeze into a size 14 and I imagine will boast to her friends that she is slim enough to do so, even though in that particular shop, a size 14 would fit a horse.

I cannot think of a reason why a shop would design a size 14 that would barely fit a stick insect – perhaps somebody can enlighten me.

One thing is for sure, from my experience of shopping with both W and Mrs PM, the clothes for women that are on sale in your average shopping centre are designed for women who appear only in fashion magazines, i.e. are average height and are built like scarecrows.

All of which leads me nicely on to my next topic – the portrayal of women in fashion magazines and similar female oriented rags.

Quite frankly I am astounded. Lots of models for these magazines are very pretty but, and let’s be fair to them here, are thinner than my garden rake. And these women are portrayed as the quintessential image of womankind and therefore a target for young impressionable women and girls. I have seen pictures of women who look as if they do not eat and impressionable girls are led to believe that all women should look like this.

I have read about the “quest for size zero”, which I believe is encouraging women to diet beyond the realms that nature intended in order to become the perfect woman.

However, I have a revelation for you: it is utter bollocks and complete horseshit.

I have a message for any ladies out there who strive for size zero under the misguided belief that men (or indeed other sensible women) may find them attractive:

Don’t do it! Be yourself!

Obviously, don't eat so much that you resemble a beached whale. You can still be curvy and attractive without having to pander to the requirements of fashion gurus.

Most men prefer women who are sizes 12 to 16. I love cuddling a woman who, as my dad used to say, “has a bit of meat on her”.

Take Beyoncé for example. I believe she is a size 12 (UK size that is) and she looks fabulous. She is curvy in all the right places.

Louise Redknapp attempted to diet to fit herself into a size zero dress as part of an investigative documentary. Here are the before and after photos. I know which I prefer.

There is a lot of pressure on women and it comes from the cult of celebrity and fashion media and quite frankly it stinks. I am beginning to understand why it is so difficult for women to shop for clothes and also why they have so much difficulty trying to fit the image the faceless so-called gurus and self-obsessed arseholes try to force them into.

My advice, for what it is worth, is to adopt the mantra that I and most normal men live by: be yourself and be normal.

I don’t care too much about my appearance (that much is obvious)!

The only thing that irritates me is my hair (but only because people laugh at it). I strive to be a normal bloke, wearing clothes that I like (not those that fashion gurus tell me I should wear) and I try to maintain an average shaped body. Yes, my stomach is expanding and yes, my body looks nothing like that of Brad Pitt. But I am not a freak (despite my self-deprecating posts saying otherwise). I eat a balanced diet but I don't feel bad about eating chocolate and crisps (although I don't eat them to excess).

I could have spent hours at the gym trying to sculpt my body into the shape of Arnold Schwarzenengger but it would have been pointless. My life wouldn’t have improved and I would have ended up a fat bloater by now.


Women should not strive to be as thin as a rake – adopt the middle ground. Don’t overeat and become too fat but equally don't starve yourself – just be who you are. Men love a cuddle but they don’t like to hug a bag of sticks made of skin.

Crikey – I’m beginning to sound like an agony aunt aren’t I?

I apologise for that – I can only give you the benefit of my thoughts, opinions and desires.

As for the actual clothes that women buy – I simply cannot have an opinion other than it should show off all the greatest assets of the woman’s body.

However, I have one more question: why would a woman wear a skirt?

I am not complaining because a woman with fantastic legs can send my pulse racing like a formula one racing car on speed – and that’s probably why they do it – well not for me personally (I think most women would prefer to cover themselves up in a suit of armour when faced by the prospect of meeting me).

The weather in Great Britain is nothing if not unpredictable and towards the end of September the temperatures plummet. Yet you can guarantee that there will be young women wandering around wearing short skirts exposing their legs to the bitterly cold winds.

In winter, I am very pleased that I wear thick jeans to protect my legs from the cold. Yet what do even sensible women wear? Skirts with only tights for protection against the elements.

And then they complain about being cold.

Why?

Am I missing something here?

I’m sure that there are guys who wear skirts – David Beckham famously popped out in a sarong but he was probably enjoying life in a warm place like Madrid or Los Angeles. Also, he is so famous that he could get away with anything (and frequently does).

Of course, there are my fellow island-dwellers, the Scots, who claim to be so hard that they wear big woolly skirts (or as they prefer to call them “kilts”), sporting absolutely nothing underneath the protect their tallywhackers.

No wonder they like the term “Braveheart”. You’d have to be brave to wear a bloody kilt, especially in the middle of a Scottish winter.

Anyway, I’d better stop now before Mad Jack McMad crosses the border to kick seven shades of crap out of me.


I might try interviewing Mrs PM to see if she can shed any light on women and fashion. On second thoughts, perhaps not – she might drag me out shopping illustrate her answers.

Am I An Alien?

I think that I might be an alien.

I was browsing the internet, you know, that amazing source of all human knowledge, when I came across an article that listed the traits, suggested by “experts”, that you, as a human being, should look out for when trying to spot an alien visitor to the shores of our wonderful world.

Initially I laughed, mainly because I thought it was a joke. However, the more I read, the more worried I became. I began to question myself.

You can judge for yourself. Here’s what the “experts” said you should look out for when mixing with friends and co-workers. Obviously if you spot these traits in family members then in all likelihood that means you are too are an alien because you are related to them.

(1) Aliens wear weird clothes.

As I told you in my previous post, I am not a willing follower of fashion at all and if it weren’t for Mrs PM then I am unsure exactly what clothes I would wear. Fashion, in my humble opinion, is a personal thing; if somebody wants to dress in strange attire then they should be allowed to do so without anybody mocking them in any way whatsoever. Everybody everywhere tells me what to wear. When I go to work, I have to wear either a shirt or polo shirt and smart trousers (apart from Friday when I can wear jeans). When a customer appears I have to wear a suit and a tie. I’ve always questioned why this is. At weddings I also have to wear a suit, as I do at funerals and similar gatherings. Why can’t I wear a bright green T-shirt with red polka dots and a fluorescent yellow kilt at a wedding? I would love to do it, just to see the reaction.

VERDICT: Alien

(2) Aliens have strange eating habits.

The suggestion by the experts is that aliens may eat in a bizarre way. For example:

An alien might eat fish and chips out of a newspaper. A lot of British people do this and by the time you’ve finished the chips, your hands are as black as coal.

Aliens might be tempted to dip a sandwich in a cup of coffee before eating it.

Curious aliens may eat a tablespoon of ginger powder thinking it tastes like ginger snap biscuits. Of course, the direct consequence of that is that they will run around like a lunatic screaming “MY MOUTH IS ON FIRE!!!!” for approximately three days.

Stupid aliens may ask a kebab shop proprietor if they can try a chilli while waiting to be served. Of course, when they eat the chilli they will undoubtedly mutate into a gibbering wreck, begging the laughing kebab salesman for something (anything) to take the pain away, while the other customers fall about on the floor laughing at the red-eyed banshee screaming for water.

Drunk aliens may take huge bites out of a chunk of cheese on a pub crawl thinking that beer and cheddar are a wonderful combination.

Sweet toothed aliens may eat sugar directly from the sugar bag

On their 21st birthdays, aliens might pour a bottle of vodka into an electric kettle and then drink it neat from the spout in front of their laughing friends.

As children, aliens might pour pop onto a table at a wedding and then lick it off.

I’ve done all of the above at various points in my life.

VERDICT: Alien.

(3) Aliens have a peculiar sense of humour.

Oh dear! I have a weird imagination and therefore it follows that I have a crazy sense of humour. I laugh at stupid things. I laugh at things that are deemed “unfunny” by the faceless elite.

In the past, for example, I have howled with laughter at the Queen’s Speech on Christmas Day in front of family members who are royalists. It didn’t go down too well. I still regard the Queen’s Speech as a joke to this day and refuse to watch it if I can get away with it.

A few years ago, I was watching Her Majesty’s address in front of a my ex-wife’s aunt who loves the Queen. Things didn’t start too well when auntie said “I love hearing what she’s got to say” and I replied:

“She will say “My subjects are poor and I’m rich – rich beyond my wildest dreams; rich, Rich RICH!!!! I’m loaded! I’m so rich I could buy Barbados! What a minute – I think I might already OWN Barbados!” "

Auntie glared at me and I lost control. I had a fit of hysterical laughter and family members stared at me in disbelief with thoughts of medieval torture in their minds. When the Queen started speaking I thought I was going to burst. And then she said

“1992 is not a year on which I shall look back with undiluted pleasure. In the words of one of my more sympathetic correspondents, it has turned out to be an Annus Horribilis.”

That was the straw that broke the camel’s back. Our beloved monarch really had had a bad year, with her sons separating from their wives and Windsor Castle catching fire – but all I heard was the Latin phrase Annus Horribilis. I almost wet my trousers; I almost spilled wine over my shirt. I certainly upset auntie and other family members. In the end, I sat there giggling inanely for the rest of the day as the phrase Annus Horribilis taunted me from within.

VERDICT: Alien.

(4) Aliens keep a handwritten or electronic diary.

I have never kept a diary, probably because it would be full of crap. However, since 2008 I have written all sorts of nonsense on this very blog. Now the question is, do you think this blog provides lots of information that an extra-terrestrial intelligence could use to judge the human race? I think it could. And I hope, as a result of this blog, an alien hunter comes down and captures some of the celebrities I’ve mentioned (like Simon Cowell, Jeremy Kyle, Paris Hilton etc.) for an alien zoo.

In fact, perhaps this blog is a set of secret instructions for aliens. Perhaps I really am an alien spy and posts about cats, bad hair, rock music, celebrities I hate, ranting, my lack of understanding of the female sex (well over half of the human race) etc. are being used for an alien invasion of the planet.

VERDICT: Alien.

(5) Aliens misuse everyday items.

The example given is an alien may “paint his nails with tippex” or something idiotic like that. Here are some examples of items I have possibly misused:

Using a Madonna CD as a Frisbee.

Using a screwdriver to unblock the toilet.

Using a kettle as a drinking implement (as mentioned above).

VERDICT: Alien.

(6) Aliens constantly ask questions about customs and habits.

I’ve often wondered why certain people do certain things.

Why do people stand on a cold lonely platform in the middle of winter, armed with a notepad and pen so that they can write down the numbers on trains? And what do they do with the numbers at the end of the day?

Why do people dress up in silly costumes with bells around their ankles and dance a stupid dance clacking sticks together, calling their absurd practice “Morris Dancing”? Most people ridicule them yet they persist and carry on making arses of themselves in public.

Why do people go to churches on Sunday morning and spend hours waking up the whole of Britain by ringing the bells endlessly? I don’t want to get up at the crack of dawn on Sunday.

Why do Jehovah’s witnesses refuse to listen to me when I say to them “I am a Roman Catholic and there is no way, absolutely no way that you will convert me to your religion?”. I’ve given up trying to reason with them now and I actually enjoy discussing religion with them. And to be honest, it is rewarding in its own way. I just don’t get them though and I simply can’t understand why they refuse to be told that there is no way I will ever become a Jehovah’s Witness.

Why do people spend Saturday evenings watching shows like “Strictly Come Dancing” and “I’m A Celebrity - Get Me Out Of Here!”. The cult of celebrity and reality television is a constant source puzzlement to me. I simply can’t understand why a huge percentage of the population of Great Britain settles down to watch this bilge when they could be doing something more constructive like trying to find a life.

Why do people confuse characters in TV shows with the actors who portray them? Seriously, there are people in the world who have done things like send Malcolm McDowell hate mail because the character he played in Star Trek: Generations was responsible for killing Captain Kirk. Note to these people – these characters are ACTORS who are just PRETENDING. The show is NOT real.

VERDICT: Alien.

(7) Aliens often talk to themselves.

Does singing count? I’ve posted before about my unfortunate habit of breaking into song in the most opportune moments (read about it here ).

Moreover, I do tend to speak out loud when thinking about solutions to problems at work: “What in the name of all that is holy is wrong with this code?”

On a number of occasions I will suddenly bellow “YOU ABSOLUTE MORON!!!!” when I realise that I have made a very stupid mistake. I’ve had to reassure work colleagues that I am not talking about them on more than one occasion. Thankfully, these days, people are used to me.

VERDICT: Alien.

(8) Aliens display a change of mood or physical reaction when in the presence of technology.

Being a bit of a geek, I do love to be in the presence of new gadgets and new technology. I would say that 90% of the time, my mood is positive and I am like a child with a new toy, shielding the gadget from anybody else who wants to touch it. I am also one of those idiots who pick up a gadget and naturally assume that I can make it do what it needs to do, without the need to use the manual to decode the functions. That’s a bit weird and I’ve never understood why I do it. It’s possibly because I work with technology and therefore consider myself to be one with the gadget, as if it will somehow present the operating instructions directly into my brain. Like I said – I’m a bloody idiot.

VERDICT: Alien.

(9) Aliens are secretive about their personal life-style and home.

Well, considering the fact that I publish honest nonsense about my thoughts and actions on this very blog, I can hardly be considered secretive. There is, however, a school of thought that considers people like me to have a hidden agenda because I choose to be anonymous on the internet, shielding my inane drivel behind a Gene Simmons style mask of black and white.

My original idea behind the blog was to remain anonymous and keep my identity secret but an ill-chosen challenge to work colleagues put paid to that (read about it here).

I was mortified and disappointed because the idea of writing anonymously had massive appeal. As a result, the style of the blog changed. Nevertheless, nowadays, I actually point people I know in the direction of my blog and my original desire to remain totally anonymous has diminished. And because I am fairly honest about the things I write about I consider myself to be the opposite of secretive.

VERDICT: Maybe not alien.

(10) Aliens are always off work sick.

Phew! I am not a person for taking sick days. In fact I’m the opposite – I’m more likely to go into work ill and then return home when it is clear that I am unfit for work.

The last time I was genuinely off ill was two years ago when I caught a heavy cold and spent two days in bed feeling really sorry for myself. And for any women reading – it was NOT man flu. I was genuinely ill – honestly.

VERDICT: Not alien.

CONCLUSION

As I was writing this post I began to have serious doubts about my beginnings. The first eight characteristics can be viewed as devastating evidence of my unearthly origin. However, thankfully, the last two traits go some way to prove that I am almost certainly not an alien.

I’m slightly disappointed to be honest. When I look at myself in the mirror first thing in the morning I see a blurred reflection staring back at me and for a second I sometimes think – “Wait a minute – that is definitely NOT human!”

And then I think of all the other so-called humans on this planet and reconsider. I mean, take a look at this picture of Posh Spice and tell me she’s human.

So what do you think? Am I an alien? Moreover - are you?

We Are The Goon Squad And We're Coming To Town!

Mrs PM uses a phrase that is almost guaranteed to make my teeth itch. The phrase is:

It’s SO over!

She uses it to inform me that my ideas, dress sense, musical taste, etc. are no longer in vogue. When I play a Def Leppard song she will say “Why are you listening to 80’s rock music? It’s SO over!”

When I wear my crusty old leather jacket she will say. “It’s about time you threw that away. That design is SO over!”

The time she uses it most is when we go out and I decide to wear a favourite shirt that I bought a year or two ago (one that she hasn’t hidden or thrown away). I can read her mind when I come downstairs and present myself to her.

Me: What do you think?

Mrs PM: Why don’t you wear that black shirt I bought you last week?

Me: I want to wear this one. I like this shirt.

Mrs PM: But it’s SO over!

You can guarantee that the shirt will somehow find it's way into a remote part of the house - if it's lucky!!

What Mrs PM forgets, is that I am definitely not a dedicated follower of fashion. In fact, I am the complete opposite; a fashion barbarian.

I stopped actively taking in interest in clothes when I was in my mid 20’s. Sadly, the women in my life have not allowed me to pursue this course of action and have vetoed the vast majority of garments I have attempted to buy.

I remember, when I was 18, dressing up in what I thought were spectacular clothes that would have me fighting off all the young women of Walsall as they threw themselves at my amazing body. As I was about to leave the house, my younger sister said, “You’re not going out looking like THAT are you?” Needless to say, the only think thrown at me that night were drinks (as usual). What I failed to realise when I was a teenager was that no matter how trendy the outfit, I still looked like a bucket of arse on legs.

Nowadays, Mrs PM will always find time to accompany me on shopping trips if I intend to buy any item of clothing, fearing that I will buy something bland or featureless.

Mrs PM: Where are you going?

Me: I’m off to the shops. I need a pair of trousers and a couple of shirts.

Mrs PM: I’m coming with you.

Me: I thought you had to go to work.

Mrs PM: I’ll call them and tell them I can’t make it. This is far more important.

Me: But what if you get the sack?

Mrs PM: There are always other jobs.

Actually, that’s an exaggeration (though not much of one).

When Mrs PM and I moved into our first house together. I unpacked my suitcases and installed all of my clothes into the wardrobe. Within minutes, Mrs PM had made it her mission to change the way I looked. I’m sure that I was downstairs for just two minutes when I heard what I thought was a tornado in the bedroom. I went upstairs and found Mrs PM, hurling my shirts out of the wardrobe in a flurry of wind and expletives.

“What on earth were you thinking when you bought this?” she howled holding up a shirt with a look of purest malevolence.

“I bought that in 1988,” I said gulping nervously. “I love that shirt.”

“This is 1998,” she said slowly as if talking to a five year old. “THIS SHIRT IS SO OVER!”

In the next two weeks, I spent a fortune replacing the majority of my clothes, with Mrs PM standing over me like a tyrant as I tried on shirt after terrible shirt in the fitting room.

“DO NOT BUY THAT!” she would say as I held up what I thought was a fabulous T-shirt for her approval.

I often wonder whether, if left to my own devices, I would truly buy a wardrobe full of dreadful clothes.

I'm sure that I would never mutate into an eccentric weirdo wearing only wore tweed jackets and corduroy shirts. All I've ever wanted is to wear decent everyday garments that are slightly different from everybody else. I don't want to be out for an evening’s entertainment and wearing almost identical apparel to every other man in Manchester. Unfortunately, any plans I harbour in this direction have been thwarted by Mrs PM; she insists that I become a clone of sorts, dragging me to high street chains and forcing me to buy clothes that the other sheep were buying.

If you want to see a sad sight on a Saturday afternoon, just visit a shop like Burtons. You will undoubtedly see a couple come in and you will recognise them immediately. He will have a sad look of resignation on his face; his eyes will be screaming “I don’t want to be here”.

The poor man will pick up a shirt and his partner will glare at him and replace it with another that she has chosen. He will reluctantly try it on in the fitting room, while she prowls around the shop like a hungry predator, selecting other items for him before standing guard outside the fitting rooms like a benevolent dictator. Some time later the couple will leave; she will have a look of satisfaction on her face; he will wonder how he has managed to spend £350 on several items of clothing that he doesn’t even like.

I am that man. Mrs PM is that woman. And there are thousands if not millions of similar couples in Great Britain.

I may have implied that if given the freedom by Mrs PM to buy what I want, that I would look for something unique and outrageous. You would be wrong.

Why? Because I have always questioned the sanity of so-called “fashion gurus”. Like contemporary artists, they have somehow managed to persuade the rest of us that their bizarre designs are “must have” fashion items – and then they charge a fortune for them. And we, like idiots, actually pay the crazy amounts of cash they charge. Worse, they parade their peculiar designs on famous people in the hope that the rest of the sheep will follow suit.

Who decides what next year’s fashion should be? A faceless elite who laugh all the way to the bank having pulled the wool over our eyes.

And why on earth do we, like lost sheep, go out and buy these bloody things? I know why I do – partly to please Mrs PM and partly because there is no other choice – unless I choose to go to an “old man’s” shop.

These people redefine the word "eccentric" and have somehow managed to introduce a whole new language of bullshit, using phrases like “blue is the new black”, “that is so last season” and “you look FIERCE”.

Whenever I watch a fashion report on the TV, I laugh my head off. We are presented with models looking like stick insects, marching down a catwalk in front of a captive, brainwashed audience, wearing clothes that can only be described as ridiculous.

The models are not appealing at all; most men I know prefer a woman to hold onto; somebody with a bit of meat on them (as my dad used to say), not a size zero woman who is so skinny that she is almost invisible.

If you are a woman and you believe that size zero is a great target I have one piece of advice; stay a size 10 or 12. Most men love women who they can cuddle up to.

Bizarre fashions are not just restricted to women. Male models are forced to prance up and down a catwalk wearing clothes that most men would run a mile from.

If you were to put these bizarre garments on an ordinary girl or an ordinary bloke and then send them out onto your average High Street, they would be laughing stocks. People would fall over in fits of hysterical laughter.

Yet people (those with more money than sense) are quite content to spend magnificently huge amounts of money on such items and make complete fools of themselves on red carpets all over the world. A corollary of that is that ordinary people want to copy them. You may find a superstar like David Beckham, content to shave off his hair and wear a skirt but the sad thing is that other men who are mere mortals will look absolutely ridiculous.

You will never, ever, ever, ever find me wearing anything outlandish and, given the choice, I wouldn’t succumb to the latest fashion craze that most men are forced to endure by their ladies. With the greatest respect to myself, I look like the product of the union of an albino baboon and a walrus so any "decent" item of clothing makes me look like an ape in fancy dress.

Imagine what I would look like wearing anything that an icon like David Beckham would wow the crowd at a party with?

I would look like an orang-utan wearing a tent.

Take a look at some of the following items. Can you imagine a middle-aged, crazy-haired arse like me walking down to the pub wearing anything like them?






I would look like a sentient sack of sewage and, of course, I would totally refuse to wear them.

I pray that similar items do NOT become fashion because I’m sure that Mrs PM will drag me around the shops despite my protestations.

The fashion police, as misguided as they are, would almost certainly hurl me in jail for crimes against the human eye. Can you imagine fashion prison? All the inmates would probably end up wearing something by Vivienne Westwood, the woman who gave us this:


Can you imagine me wearing these? Hello! HELLO!! Are you alright? Should I call a doctor?