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.

Food Fascists

(Take a deep breath Dave …)

If I had made a New Year’s resolution to give up being a grumpy old git who ranted for England, then I would have failed miserably.

I strive for happiness, dear reader, I truly do, but fate and the petty minded idiocy of people turns on the red mist machine and I find myself trapped in an incredulous rant.

I say again – maybe it is the cold winter months in Britain that aggravate the situation – but I’m not so sure.

“What has pushed your buttons this time?” I hear you cry.

The answer is; an email at work.

I won’t reproduce the email but the gist of it is:

It has been suggested that we get some vending machines but there are some people who think it will encourage unhealthy eating. So instead of getting them, we are going to put it to the vote. Please reply with “Yes” if you want a vending machine or “No” if you don’t.

Where do I begin with why this pissed me off so much?

First of all, let me just say that as far as vending machines are concerned, I can take them or leave them. I usually take enough food with me to work to get me through the day; usually a couple of sandwiches, a couple of apples, a banana, some cherry tomatoes and perhaps a couple of plums, nectarines or peaches.

Also, it is a tradition at work that when you celebrate a birthday, you bring in some treats for your co-workers, usually in the form of chocolates, cakes or whatever takes your fancy.

So why I am I so bloody annoyed about this email?

I'll tell you why. It's because there are a few people in my company who think that they can control those others who want a vending machine because of the stupid belief that a vending machine will encourage you to eat crisps, sweets, chocolates etc. and ultimately become a bloated monster unable to crowbar your blubbery body through the door.

What right have these people got to dictate what other people eat?

Why the flump should they care about a bloody vending machine?

Should we ban people from bringing treats in on their birthday for the co-workers to enjoy?

If the folks on my table want to eat crisps, doughnuts, cakes, bacon sandwiches or sweets then that is entirely up to them.

The worst thing, the thing that really winds me up, is that these people do not even know what is being sold in the bloody vending machine. It could be tea, coffee, soup or sandwiches. Vending machines sell a variety of wares.

“Oh – it’s a vending machine so it’s crisps, pop, sweets and blubber in a box. It will turn us all into fat bastards!”

I blame the "State of Fear".

My own television tells me of an obesity epidemic in Britain with people growing fatter every second of the day and making us the laughing stock of Europe. They show pictures of fat people walking around towns and cities, their bits wobbling menacingly towards the camera with the hidden message: “It’s an illness and one day you, dear everyday Brit, will succumb and spend the whole day eating burgers, cakes and chocolate until your trousers give up in shock and your blubber escapes for the whole world to see.”

And not content with targetting fat adults, it seems that they want to step up a gear with horrific statistics about children being obese. And, yes, they show fat kids wobbling to school just to illustrate the point.

The people who say things like “We don’t want vending machines because it will turn you all into hippopotami.” have just been brainwashed by the fear of a state of obesity.

Are we all school children for flump’s sake?

Can’t we make our own decisions about whether we want to stuff our faces with crisps from a vending machine? Or a bloody supermarket?

The truth is that if you are the kind of person who’s massive bulk is due to eating cakes, crisps and chips then you will bring all manner of unhealthy food into work anyway. Surely it is up to the person concerned what he bloody well eats.

I mean, what next?

Should fat people be banned from supermarkets in case they buy high calorie food?

Should supermarkets stop selling chocolate, doughnuts and cakes to people because they are unhealthy?

Should we close all fish and chip shops in the UK?

It makes me sick that people preach to me about how I should live my life, what I should eat and what I should drink, just because of their own silly views, their own perception of what the news and media are saying about obesity and (this is the thing that really annoys me) their own desire to control me in some subtle way,

I am not going to stuff my face and become a bloater; my kids haven’t and didn’t and most people eat what they bloody well like anyway, whether it be a supremely healthy diet or a normal balanced diet with the odd cake as a naughty treat.

I say to you people:

“Sod off! If I want a bag of crisps from a vending machine I will buy one. I will not come and ask your permission and I will call you a fool if you accuse me of eating in an unhealthy way.”

Guess which way I voted, dear reader?

Yes, that’s right. I voted for a vending machine.

Just to piss off these subtle dictators.

And when we get one I will enjoy every bag of crisps I buy from it (however occasional they are).

Rant over.

The Decrepit Old Git

Everybody keeps reminding me of my age.

Even I remind myself of my age by doing stupid things.

While I am quite content to be over fifty, there are times when I want to slap people who feel the need to constantly remind me that I am not getting any younger – and that includes myself.

For example, an insurance company (which shall remain nameless) has employed a much-loved British national treasure to try to sell insurance to over fifties. I am, of course, talking about Michael Parkinson, a man who has interviewed many famous people and has a place in the hearts of many older people who look back on his shows with fondness.

In the advert, he uses his past triumphs as an introduction into the most patronising and guilt-inducing pile of verbal diarrhoea that it has been my misfortune to hear, in order to get you to buy insurance – to leave money for your loved ones after you have popped your clogs. His condescending blurb goes something like this:

“I’ve met a gazillion truly remarkable and fantastic people in my lifetime,” he says, “and my brain is full of unbelievably magnificent memories.“

At this point you think, “Bloody show off!”

He continues.

“But if you, a mere peasant, want to leave your family much more than just happy memories of your existence on this rock that circles the sun, perhaps you can buy this insurance policy. It doesn’t ask for a medical so even if you are a decrepit old walrus on your last legs, you will be accepted. It will enable you, a mere pauper compared to me, the guaranteed lump sum so that your equally poor family can pay for YOUR funeral – or possibly even swell their pathetic bank accounts because you will almost certainly not have saved enough money.”

And the final insult?

“You will get a free welcome gift.” 

The gifts are a little telly, a tiny camcorder, the cheapest Satnav on the market or £50 to spend in a famous chain of shops specialising in clothes and gizmos for old people.

Actually, that’s not quite the final insult:

“You get a FREE Parker Pen – just for enquiring.”

And the last kick in the teeth? This plan is aimed at ME – because it is the OVER 50 PLAN.

Such adverts are shown during daytime TV right alongside other adverts offering to get me compensation for being a clumsy great oaf.

Other similar adverts suggest that being over 50 means that I have to go on holidays with old aged pensioners being ferried around a weird country in a coach.

Or I can get over 50’s fashion. I may not be the most fashion conscious person in the world, but at my age, don’t these people think that I don’t know what to wear?

Cheap car insurance – “because after driving around for so long, surely I must be a good driver by now!”

And at work, I am constantly reminded that “stepping on my soapbox and ranting” is a typical trait of an old man “because people get grumpier as they get older”.

I am my own worst enemy.

Having younger friends doesn’t help me. When I am asked to burn the candle at both ends and come out on a night out with youngsters, which involves consuming excessive amounts of alcohol or just plain stupid alcoholic concoctions with ridiculous names, I actually hear myself saying “Nah! I’m too old for that kind of shit!”

I mean who wants to drink a Jaeger Bomb? Don’t answer that question.

I am content with sitting in a pub for a couple of pints and then going home between 9 and 10, not staying out until 3am “downing shots” and drinking myself into a coma.

There might be the odd exception but generally I don’t do anything that is likely to hurt. Two nights out on the trot are a definite no no!

And then there is the forgetfulness. I used to have a great memory – I still do, but I find myself walking into a room with no idea what I walked in there for. I look around like a bewildered goon and actually speak the words: “Now what did I come in here for?”

My failing memory let me down again today, this time at the supermarket. In the past I have chastised Mrs PM for forgetting important stuff like a bunch of bananas. Now to you, a bunch of bananas may not be important but to me, a banana for breakfast is the law.

So please, dear reader, help me to understand why today, I forgot to buy bananas. I have never forgotten to buy bananas.

And tell me why I actually remembered that I had forgotten my bananas (if that makes sense!) when I was almost home?

Another thing a younger work colleague said to me today:

“People become more conservative when they get older, Dave, so by next election you will be voting for Boris Johnson; before long you will be goose-stepping up the office with a funny moustache saying ALL HAIL THE GREAT PLASTIC MANCUNIAN!”

That I don’t believe; I hate Boris Johnson.

But this is the nature of what I have to deal with from my work colleagues who constantly remind me of my age.

I was recently received a long service award – a lovely designer watch that I chose myself.

Was I congratulated? Well – yes – but then the banter started.

“You know, Dave, I was still at school when you started working here.”

“How long have you worked here? I wasn’t even born!”

Well, dear reader, enough is enough!

I am over fifty – so get over it. I am happy and I don’t need anybody to keep reminding me.

Michael Parkinson, you should be ashamed of yourself trying to make people feel guilty about kicking the bucket with insufficient funds get the nicest mahogany coffin that will only get chomped by worms anyway.
I don’t want a Parker pen “just for enquiring!”

And I’ll tell you something else (and I am talking to The Plastic Mancunian himself here!):

STOP TELLING PEOPLE YOU ARE A DECREPIT OLD GIT!

It’s bad enough without being your own worst enemy.

Now then, what did I come into this room for?

Grumpy Old Man On Board

On my way home from work, I pulled up behind a car at a red traffic light and started to rant to myself, thus shattering yet another successful stint of being a mild-mannered Plastic Mancunian instead of the raging grumpy old git that I have become in my old age.

So why was I ranting?

Had the driver in the car in front driven like a maniac? No!

Had the driver of the car in front violated a traffic law? No!

Had the driver in front been an inconsiderate arse and pressed the road rage button in my brain? No!

Had the driver done something stupid? Well – depending on your viewpoint – yes!

I squinted at the rear windscreen and saw a sticker. The sticker was a small yellow diamond with tiny writing on it and a picture of a baby’s dummy (or pacifier if you live across the pond).

This was the sticker:

I’m sorry but this sticker has annoyed me ever since I started driving. 

Why? 

It seems innocuous enough, doesn’t it? Why should it make me pull out my soapbox and make me rant to myself mercilessly? 

Because it is totally and utterly pointless and assumes that random drivers are psychopaths. The problem  is that, while there may be psychopaths on the road, a stupid and pointless sticker is hardly likely to make him stop and think “I won’t smash into the back of THAT car! I'll choose ANOTHER one without a baby on board.”

First of all, the sticker itself has writing on it that is so small that you have to drive almost up the backside of the car before you can read it. 

Furthermore, if I really did have a crazy urge to smash into the back of the car in front, do you really think that when I was a yard away from it and looking forward to destroying both of our cars in a thoughtless act of road violence, seriously injuring or maybe killing both occupants (including myself) and, that a tiny sticker would make me think twice because there was an infant in the car?

There is only one sticker that makes me rant more – and it is this one:

I may be determined to destroy your car and my car even with a child of unknown gender but will definitely back off if it is a little girl.

It’s ridiculous! I just don’t get the reason for making the stickers so small. If anything they are more likely to make a driver think “What does that say” and drive closer than he would normally. I have driven my car with two young children in it and if anybody had dared to buy me a Baby on Board sticker I would have hurled it into the nearest bin.

That pointless sticker wasn’t the only one that irritated me. As I drove on, I turned away from the Baby on Board car, which was a good thing, but then I found myself behind another car with an equally ridiculous sticker in his back windscreen.

I was on a roll now. I ranted to driver in front, even though I knew that he couldn’t hear me.

“What do you mean Jesus I Trust In You? Are you expecting Jesus to drive up behind you and say “Thanks”? Are you just being smug and think that you are better than me because I am not religious enough to boast about my bond with the Son of God? Do you think anybody cares?”

Personally, I don’t have any car stickers because I simply don’t see the point of them. Some of them are vaguely funny but once you’ve got the joke why bother?

Here are a few examples of what I mean:

Yes, they bring a smile – once! See what I mean? They too are pointless –utterly pointless.

I’d rather have a nodding dog – and I hate those too. At least some of them are cute. Thankfully, they are few and far between these days:

And do you remember furry dice? What was the point of those? Do people actually buy them now? It seems they do:

I think a lot of people go overboard when it comes to pointless car accessories. I mean who in their right mind would buy headlight lashes?

Thankfully I have both taste and common sense. I don’t have a nodding dog and no stupid stickers will ever find their way in or on my car. 

The only thing I need is a music machine of some kind so that I can allow myself to drift into song instead of ranting at Baby On Board stickers.

To any readers who think they serve a purpose – they do not. The chances of them preventing a psychopath from ramming your car are miniscule. 

And they annoy people like me!

Mind you, if you like seeing grumpy old gits like me rant to themselves in a car, maybe you can get a perverse kind of pleasure from it.

I think I like my own sticker at the head of this post, actually. Maybe I will print it off and glue it to the back of my rear windscreen. It will certainly be accurate.

What do you think?

Despicable Dave

I am going to be very regarded as very brave – or very stupid.

Why? Because I am going to hurl two posts into the blogosphere about myself.

This is the first and it describes the negative version of the Plastic Mancunian – aka Despicable Dave. I will try to address the balance with my next post – the positive version.

The idea was inspired by a song I heard recently where singer referred to his own negative version. I started thinking about how complex humans are and how our daily lives are a constant internal battle between our various personalities and flaws as they strive to reach the pinnacle and take over our bodies for a period of time.

As with other people I am a smorgasbord of weirdness; but rather than trying to identify and describe all of my weird traits, I thought I would focus on the good bits and the bad bits.

Here are the bad bits and, as you might expect if asked “What are your strengths and weaknesses?” at an interview, I will try to turn them into positives – maybe.

Paranoia

As regular readers may have guessed, I can be the personification of Marvin the Paranoid Android. I have attempted to make light of this negative trait by personifying my paranoia as an imaginary nemesis called Captain Paranoia, a nasty person who is a constant thorn in my side, telling me how useless, ugly, thick, despicable and hated I am. The sad thing is that while I may have given the impression that I ignore him, the truth is that I don’t – and he is responsible for some of my worst decisions, my lack of bravery and giving strength to my shyness (see later).

The good news is that with age, I genuinely care less, so Captain Paranoia’s voice is weaker and I do ignore him more and more.

Nevertheless, he still catches me me out sometimes and I kick myself for my weakness.

Shyness

I may have given regular readers the impression that I have taken my shyness by the scruff of its neck, shaken it about a bit, and kicked it into the middle of next week.

The truth is that deep down I am still painfully shy and every day is a battle to force myself to be brave. I have techniques that do genuinely work when I feel courageous; the problem is that more often than not I will walk away rather than talking to a stranger and, when faced with the prospect of, say, walking into a pub full of strangers, the “fight or flight” reflex turns into “flight” – and I run away.

I am deeply aware that had I been a rampant extrovert, who could waltz into a room full of strangers and charm each and every one of them, my life would have taken a very different path.

In retrospect, I can’t imagine what that would have been like. Shyness has made me what I am today – and it’s not all bad. I am quite content despite this flaw in my personality, perhaps because over the years having extrovert friends and a little bravery have steered me somewhere in that general direction.

Also, my job, as much as I curse it sometimes, has helped me considerably – an ally against shyness.

Who would have though it?

Grumpiness

While I thrive on my ability to have a good rant and entertain the troops, I am aware that this self-indulgent desire to put the world to rights is not everybody’s cup of tea.

I ignore that and carry on regardless. People who know me well are often entertained – at first. Yet sometimes I don’t know when to stop and start to become annoying. Mrs PM has pointed this out on a couple of occasions.

I know that sometimes I can be a stubborn arsehole and when I am stubborn AND grumpy I can be infuriating, particularly when the target of my wrath is a subject that somebody who is listening feels strongly about, and when I get carried away, one or two people have started disagreeing and I have noticed that the grumpy rant becomes an embryonic argument.

I like to get things off my chest; I wear my heart on my sleeve and while a grumpy rant may be therapeutic (and it really is, dear reader), I sometimes need to step back from the precipice and turn it into a joke.

And I do – usually at my own expense – which helps matters considerably.

Procrastination

A year or two ago I declared war on procrastination. I am losing the war. For a while I actually started to arrange my days so that I could somehow schedule the writing of a novel.

I failed.

I know why I failed – writing fiction is hard – extremely hard. I can sit here at my desktop and write utter gibberish to post on a pathetic blog but trying to invent a story that is captivating, interesting and compelling with colourful characters, a wonderful plot with subtle twists and turns, that finishes leaving the reader wanting more, is very difficult.

I tried sitting there and writing it – but then I found myself doing other stuff like surfing the internet, listening to music – even doing the washing and ironing or hoovering to avoid the pain of trying to get some fiction on paper.

Sadly, the tendrils of procrastination have invaded other parts of my life too and I have on occasion simply ignored things that I have set myself to do – like writing a blog post.

I know I can beat this; at work I am very meticulous, planning everything I do, setting myself targets and generally achieving them.

So why can’t I do this at home?

The war continues.

Indecision

A standing joke between Mrs PM and me is that I am a Libran and therefore totally indecisive.

To a certain extent she is right and sometimes for her, a woman who is impulsive and slightly impatient, giving thought to decisions can be infuriating.

Whether it really is a negative trait is something I debate about. I am very careful and will generally not leap into something without first considering the pros and cons of it. The problem arises when I take too long to come to a decision.

Usually, however, the decision I make is the right one but that is little consolation if it has taken me over a week to reach a satisfactory conclusion.

I can’t ever see myself improving either, because I simply cannot just do something that appears to be right at first glance, without considering the possible outcomes.

Any More?

The answer is, of course, a resounding YES.

As humans, none of us are perfect. Some people think they are but they are wrong. We all have a bad side and I think that if you accept that negativity then you can go some way to improving yourself.

I have listed five of my negative traits but there are many more. I’m sure that if you asked my friends and family, or spent an hour discussing my bad points with Mrs PM, you would have enough notes to be able to write a book what a despicable person I am.

The truth is I am not despicable at all. My next post will hopefully provide some balance because, when I think about it, I am quite happy and content with myself – despite my flaws.

So there!

Over to you dear reader.

What are your negative traits? 

Are you prepared to admit to them in a comment on a blog written by a mad arsehole who lives in Manchester? 

I hope so – go on – be a devil!

I Think Therefore I Rant

On December 31st 2009, at approximately 23:58, I stared into the eyes of my beloved Mrs PM and said to her:

“My New Year’s Resolution is clear to me: I will not rant in 2010.”

Actually, to be honest, it was probably blurted out at high volume with a lot of slurring and a couple of I love you’s thrown in for good measure and punctuated by the odd belch and hiccup.

However it came out, the sentiment was there.

I was having a great time and I was sick and tired of climbing onto my soapbox. I had convinced myself that I could refrain from blowing my top I was absolutely certain that I would manage to spend 365 days in blissful harmony with the world around me, surrounded by whistling birds, butterflies flitting past my head. I would smile all the time, knowing that I had subdued my grumpiness.

I would adopt the great mantra sung by the legendary Louis Armstrong:

I see trees of green, red roses too
I see them bloom for me and you
And I think to myself what a wonderful world.

I see skies of blue and clouds of white
The bright blessed day, the dark sacred night
And I think to myself what a wonderful world.

The colors of the rainbow so pretty in the sky
Are also on the faces of people going by
I see friends shaking hands saying how do you do
They're really saying I love you.

I hear babies cry, I watch them grow
They'll learn much more than I'll never know
And I think to myself what a wonderful world
Yes I think to myself what a wonderful world.

My high hopes lasted approximately 365 minutes.

On New Year’s Day, I switched on my TV, watched the news and with seconds my soapbox was out, I had mounted it, and I was lecturing Mrs PM on everything that was wrong with the world.

I tried, dear reader; honestly I tried.

All of this proves that I have a problem; I am convinced that I am surrounded by petty minded imbeciles, bureaucratic morons, stubborn buffoons who refuse to budge and half-wits at every turn.

Some people may say that I am a half-wit and I would agree that sometimes I can be. But as I get older, the world to me seems to be descending into absolute farce at every conceivable opportunity in every single walk of life, from politics to sport, from music to entertainment, from work to travel.

There is breath-taking arrogance throughout the world; evil exists everywhere; stupidity is rife.

Everywhere I turn there is somebody or something determined to make my life difficult or determined to push the button that ignites the flame that converts me from a mild mannered human being into a psychotic ranting animal.

And I’m fed up of it.

Take today, for example.

My work colleagues absolutely love to push the rant button and do so at every opportunity. Most of the time, I breathe deeply and let their taunts ride over me. Occasionally, though, they catch me unawares and I lose control of my senses and rant like a madman. Today’s rant was an absolute belter and half the office stopped work to enjoy my blustering tirade. I entertained the office for a good ten minutes and had most of them falling on the floor with laughter.

You see, dear reader, although I rant, I do so in a light-hearted way that makes people laugh, hence the reason why they are so keen to do it.

WORK COLLEAGUE 1: There’s an email just come in from HR – another belter. Let’s wind Dave up.

WORK COLLEAGUE 2: Crikey – he’ll blow his top. Quick get the popcorn out.

WORK COLLEAGUE 1: Hey Dave. Have you seen the latest missive from HR?

PM (sighing): What now.

WORK COLLEAGUE 1: There are new rules about washing your hands.

PM: WHAT????????????

And so it begins.

Normally I don’t particularly have a problem with HR at all but my work colleagues love to illustrate the most bizarre edicts that come out of the human resources office.

One thing I have a problem with is the name: “Human Resources”.

What on earth happened to “Personnel”? The name “Human Resources” makes me feel like I am a number and not a free man. I am a “resource” to be thrown at a job instead of the expert that will get the job done with maximum efficiency. I feel violated – it’s like I don’t matter at all.

I don’t want to pick on HR at all because ultimately they are victims as well. There is a dark cloud looming, dear reader, and I would love to know who or what is responsible for it. It is like something out of a horror novel – an almost physical entity that touches life as we used to know it and mutates it into absurdity.

Anybody who doubts me, please answer these questions:

What is so special about a person who happens to have won Big Brother? What talent do they possess? The person was unknown when he went into the house and while he was in there did nothing other than try to be controversial, failing miserably. Why on earth should anybody care about anything they ever do? Why are tabloids obsessed with these people?

Talking of tabloids, why do they insult my intelligence with stories about people who I don’t care about and are not worthy of even a passing thought? Why do they build people up and then shoot them down in an instant? Why do they invent terrible nicknames for people, for example, Wayne Rooney becomes Roo or Wazza and we are treated to “intelligent” attention grabbing headlines that substitute the word Roo for You – for example I Only Have Eyes For Roo and Roo Blew It and Rool Britannia – I HATE them. And why do tabloids just print lies? How can they get away with it? Am I alone?

And what about politicians? We have a general election here in England, a party gets elected and then fails to deliver their promises. How can they get away with lying? They should be held to account and punished. Imagine if it were my workplace? If I lied about something so important I would be sacked.

And then you have footballing cheats. Brazilian Kaka sent off because an Ivory Coast player ran into him and then pretended that he been pole-axed by a sniper’s bullet. And what of the goal that Frank Lampard scored against the Germans that was clearly over the line yet ignored despite the video evidence? And what about the goal scored by Carlos Tevez against Mexico that was clearly offside and seen by the entire crowd, all the players and officials and the teams, including Tevez himself and the linesman who didn’t see it? Did the referee watching the screen change his mind? Did he bugger! And what have FIFA got to say? No video technology and no video referee! The arrogance is breath-taking!

And then we have Katie Price and all other famous people who have an army of fans simply because we are privy to watching their exploits on reality TV shows. I take my hat off to Katie Price, Paris Hilton etc. because somehow they have managed to convince armies of fans that there is a point – I just cannot see why they are so fascinating. Am I alone?

Do people take their brains out when watching Saturday night prime time entertainment shows? How can people sit and watch shows like “The X Factor” without throwing a lump hammer through the television? The bulk of these people have no talent whatsoever – how and why do they and people like Simon Cowell get away with convincing us otherwise? It is beyond belief.

Talking of music, whatever happened to good decent music? From the bowels of X Factor we get “Jedward”, two totally talentless twins who destroyed everything they attempted to sing. Don’t take my word for it – watch this:



Even Simon Cowell hated it. What on earth is going on? Is Louis Walsh insane? Britain was obsessed with these talentless kids – they have balls but no talent whatsoever. How can they shine on prime time TV and how can they get a record deal? The world’s gone MAD!!

Still with the music scene – why should a rock singer tell me what to think? Bono makes me cringe every time he opens his mouth to speak. Great singer, great voice – STICK TO SINGING! A mate of mine went to see U2 once – they were his favourite band. When asked if he would see them again he said: “No! I didn’t want to pay all of that money to be bollocked by Bono!!”

I want to eat meat. I like meat. Meat is good for me and it tastes great. I do not want to be told by a vegetarian that I am some kind of homicidal maniac just because I like bacon. Vegetarians have their views – I respect that. But please do not tell me what to do! It is perfectly natural for human beings to eat meat – get over it. Am I the only carnivore in the world who thinks like this?

I could go on but I fear that this post will turn into a book so I will stop for the time being. I do worry though because such nonsense infuriates me, despite my best efforts to stay calm. I am getting better, honestly, but things catch my attention, catch me off guard and light the blue touch paper.

The world is insane.

And I’m not the only one who thinks so.

Here are a few choice rants from a friend of mine at work who, like me, despairs at the state of the world.

He was the inspiration for a blog post from 2008 called Radio Grump FM.

He despaired so much that I had to immortalise some of his frenzied and explosive outbursts for the world to see. I think they are funny – perhaps you agree. If you don’t agree, it doesn’t matter. But I am not alone.

A bit of background before I share his wisdom with you. He is a software engineer, like me, who has a particular gripe with Microsoft.

Enjoy:

(1) Just how thick are these people? I think somebody opened up their heads when they were kids, scooped out their brains and then filled them full of shit!!

(2) I can’t believe they wrote Microsoft Word and then didn’t bloody test it. Maybe it was just tested by a blind man in a dark cellar.

(3) You like Lorraine Kelly? Well that’s 4000 million years of evolution pissed up against the wall!!!

(4) (When woken up by a massive thunderstorm) I looked out of the window and I’ve never seen rain and wind like it. I was beginning to wonder whether I should go out and find Jesus and let him into my life.

(5) You want me to carry on testing this afternoon? Hopefully by then I will have found a spoon to gouge out my eyeballs.

(6) If somebody came up to me and said “I can’t do that because my moon’s rising in Uranus” I’d just punch them!

(7) Yes, there's something controversial about the MacBook Air - It's overpriced SHIT!

(8) Money may not buy you happiness but it will buy you a much better class of misery.

(9) Talking is the only thing that keeps me sane. If I didn't talk I'd have to stand up, pull my zip down and piss on the keyboard.

(10) I think I'll have to phone the bus company lost property service. "Has anyone found a will to live? I had it when I was on the bus this morning but since being at work I've discovered it missing".

(11) I'm going so mental looking at this that I'm thinking of impaling my eyeballs with this Bic biro.

(12) Whoever came up with that idea can't even be fecking sentient.

(13) Is there such a thing as a book called "Idiots Guide To Java" or is that intrinsic to the language?

(14) You can learn to nail you knackers to the table from the internet if you want but that doesn't mean to say it's a good idea.

(15) I'd better get on with some other work before I kill somebody.

(16) This system works on a wing and a prayer – which is not good if you’re an atheist.

(17) Who let these people loose on the human race?

(18) Fecking wankers – the lot of ‘em! I wouldn’t trust them with an Etch-a-Sketch!

(19) These people have definitely been reading Dilbert too much and using it as a manual.

(20) Teaming is not a bloody word, you arses!!

Anyway, I’ve had enough of this nonsense.

Maybe if we all took stock and looked at the idiocy and arrogance in the world we could collectively do something about it. Until then any attempts by me to contain my furious frustration will be totally futile.

Please feel free to let me know what infuriates you. Have you got a soapbox? If so, what makes you stand on it and rant to the world?

I can see a book coming out of this. Maybe I should divert my frustration into something creative.

The problem is that people wouldn’t take any notice of it – until I become World Leader that is.

Then they’ll be sorry!

Grumpiness Is Good For You

Normally I totally ignore crap that I hear on the news or read in the paper about how something is good or bad for you. Over the years, most of my guilty pleasures have been put aside in favour of health (both physical and mental).

You find something enjoyable (like a massive burger with tons of mayo) and the experts inform you that you will keel over if you eat them all the time. Another pleasure, beer, is much maligned also. I used to be able to drink my 21 units a week with a smile on my face – now, they (those faceless buggers who are trying to rule my life with fear) tell me that I am a binge drinker if I have three pints in one evening.

I love to watch a little bit of TV – but even that is bad for my mind.

What’s worse, the number of mixed messages we get from “experts” is contradictory and changes from second to second. Take the much maligned egg:

In the 70’s - "Eat as many as you can – go to work on an egg"

In the 80’s and 90’s – “AARRRGGHH!!! CHOLESTEROL!!! SALMONELLA!!! STOP EATING EGGS!”

Now? Eggs are a good source of protein!!

So, am I supposed to eat eggs or not?

Anyway, back to the plot - I stumbled across this link on the BBC website:

Feeling Grumpy Is Good For You

I must admit that I didn’t read the full article because the headline told me all that I needed to know. I would react in a similar way if I read headlines like:

“Eat More Cheese! You Are Guaranteed To Live To Be 150!”

“Experts Say That We Are Not Drinking Enough Beer!”

“Rock Music Is Therapeutic And Good For The Soul - Particularly If Very Loud!"

Sadly, we never see such headlines but “Feeling Grumpy Is Good For You” is the closest I have seen.

Before I go on, let me reassure you, dear reader, that I am a happy person with a positive outlook on life. I wake up everyday and I feel good to be alive. I want to live a long and happy life and see and experience just about everything that is good in the world.

However, I am a grumpy old git.

I’ve often wondered why I feel so happy even when I am in the middle of an enormous rant about something I’ve seen on the news. It has puzzled me that I can stand on my soapbox and pontificate about everything that is wrong in the world with a huge grin on my face and a feeling of euphoria in my heart. My mind is cleared of all the cobwebs; ranting is a spring clean for the brain. Being grumpy is therapeutic. I’ve known this for years.

Now I know it’s true – and nobody will convince me otherwise.

Many things make me happy but being a grumpy old man is one of the more pleasurable aspects. Until now, I honestly thought that I was a walking paradox; I appear to be totally angry and depressed yet I am absolutely delighted. I used to think that I had a split brain, the two halves balancing each other out as I ranted.

As well as giving myself immense pleasure by putting the world to rights, others, bizarrely, also enjoy my grumpy monologues. Certain people wind me up on purpose, knowing exactly which buttons to push to get me started:

Ill-deserved knighthoods

Politicians lying through their teeth

Strictly Come Dancing

Office politics

The state of music in the world today

Premiership footballers

The X Factor

Chirpy morning TV presenters

Radio DJs

The list is endless.

I can enter into a world where I am King and everybody else is my subject and must listen even if they don’t want too. Some people chuckle; others roll their eyes and say “he’s off again”. Some people even ignore me.

I don’t care. Ranting soothes my soul. Grumpiness makes me feel happy. I know that sounds absurd but it is absolutely true.

Mrs PM occasionally chuckles when “I go off on one”. She will sit there and smile as I preach about the state of the world and how I would rectify the situation if I had the omnipotence I secretly desire. Sometimes I go too far and my tirade of abuse is cut short when she says something like “Shut up – for the sake of my SANITY if nothing else!!!”

And now the BBC has confirmed something that I have known deep down for years; being grumpy is good for you. It focuses the mind and sharpens my razor tongue. And I am happier as a result.

When Mrs PM reprimands me for being a grumpy old git I can now turn to here and say, with my hand on my heart:

“Grumpiness is good for me – the BBC told me so. I shall continue to rant and I shall continue to moan. The TV will not get a reprieve. You should try it some time.”

I will spread the word. I will tell people that instead of bottling up their frustrations they should let it all out and rant away. There is nothing wrong with being grumpy.

Moan to your friends. Here a few topics that push my buttons – I’ve posted about some of them already:

Starbucks opening a new coffee shop five minutes walk away from another one.

The ever increasing price of petrol.

People yelling into their mobile phones saying things like “I’m on a bus – I’ll be there in thirty minutes. I’ll call you in ten minutes just to let you know where I am.”

The one-sided scare-mongering science that makes us believe the world is going to end if we don’t switch off our lights in time.

Dreadful romantic comedies that all have the same plot.

So-called celebrities who preach to their fans – the biggest offender being Bono.

The cult of celebrity and the pointlessness of people like Paris Hilton who are famous for absolutely nothing.

Overpaid, cheating prima-donna footballers.

The ego of every single contestant on the Apprentice. One particular comment a year or two ago quite literally made me spill a cup of tea over my crotch: “I am the best salesperson in Europe” – NO YOU BLOODY WELL ARE NOT!!!!!!!

Vegetarians who preach to me about eating meat. I don’t mind vegetarians but don’t give me a hard time just because I eat pork.

Overpriced restaurants serving crap food.

Contemporary art

Business bullshit: “What do you mean STEP UP TO THE PLATE? WHAT BLOODY PLATE?”

Christmas commercials in October.

People who ask stupid questions.

Talentless celebrities who expect special treatment “just because they are Britney Spears”

Over the top political correctness – she is female therefore she is a chairwoman NOT a CHAIRPERSON

Dreadful TV commercials particularly involving celebrities saying “because you’re worth it”

Novels that are supposedly literary masterpieces but in reality are as boring as hell and are only top of the bestsellers list because nobody understands the dreary monotonous story.

Ridiculous fashion and the fact that an elite bunch of idiots are telling Mrs PM that I should wear ridiculous clothes – “It’s the fashion Dave – your clothes are SO OVER!!”

Father’s Day, Mother’s Day, Valentine’s Day and any other day when I have to waste money on cards just because some faceless elite are trying to rob me of my hard earned cash.

Over the top TV commercials for new pop stars “Winky Booger’s new album – the most anticipated recording of 2009. Winky opened his soul to the world.” Winky’s music is CRAP!

People who tell me that I look unhealthy because I haven’t spent my life sunbathing.

Over-zealous Health and Safety.

That’s plenty to keep you going, if you are anything like me. In fact, it has almost certainly given me a couple of ideas for future blog posts.

See what I mean?

I want to take a leaf out of Gordon Gecko’s book. I want to inspire you all.

The Plastic Mancunian says:

Grumpiness Is Good

Happy ranting – you know it makes sense.

Radio Grump FM

At work the other day, a fellow grumpy old man and I were discussing how miserable the world has become. For an instant we both forgot that we were supposed to be being productive, as demanded by our so-called superiors, and ranted about the state of the world and the general feeling of misery. Before I knew it I was ranting about how much Carol Kirkwood’s morning chirpiness annoys me (read about it here) and we both agreed that modern DJ’s should have to pass an IQ test, a humour test and play decent music instead of talking crap.

Another guy who was eaves-dropping suddenly said:

“You two should bloody well start a radio station of your own. Call it Radio Grump FM”.

Everybody laughed at the joke, except me. Why? Because I think that it’s a bloody good idea – and so does my fellow grumpy old man.

Pretty soon we were discussing how we would put the world to rights on our very own radio station.

Gone would be mindless inane chitter-chatter. Instead we would discuss how we would rid the world of everything and everyone that made us grumpy in the first place. Both of us have a list of people we would like to exile to Siberia (if the Russians would allow us to soil their land with people like Jamie Oliver, Vanessa Feltz and Jeremy Kyle) and we both have firm ideas about how we would rid the world of red tape, stupid rules, bad music, awful television, irritating jobsworths and ideas that immediately lower the IQ’s of those who have to partake in them.

But most of all we would love to talk about them to the entire United Kingdom for a start and then, when our country embraces us as national heroes, we would set about conquering the world. I know for a fact that the whole world is irritated by the same ridiculous nonsense that we have to put up with here.

The whole country would be on a high listening to us because, as we solved the world’s problems, we would play decent music on a regular basis.

There would be no rap, hip hop, boy bands, girl bands, dance music, r’n’b, pop music and definitely no reality TV singers. Instead we would play uplifting loud rock music that you could crank up in your car and make a complete arse of yourself to.

Imagine the pleasure of hearing how we would put Tim Westwood in a padded cell and force him to listen to Metallica until he stopped talking with a stupid accent? Imagine your delight as we described a world where it was a crime to be Simon Cowell or Piers Morgan? Imagine our plans to put Victoria Beckham and Paris Hilton on trial in order to make them justify why they think are celebrities worthy of a nanosecond of our attention?

And just imagine what we would dream up for the likes of George W Bush and all those greedy, arrogant and incompetent bankers who have made such a big mess of the world? Imagine putting all the world leaders in the Big Brother house for two years and forcing them to listen to each others awful speeches and lies?

Imagine a world without call centres?

I’ve already selected the first ten songs I would play:

1. The Pretender – The Foo Fighters


2. Knights Of Cydonia – Muse


3. The Immigrant Song – Led Zeppelin


4. American Idiot – Green Day


5. Revolution – Judas Priest


6. Revolution Calling – Queensryche


7. Brutal Planet – Alice Cooper


8. The Fight Song – Marilyn Manson


9. Links 2 3 4 - Rammstein


10. Stick It Out – Rush
    

I think its a winner - who's with me?

Of course, I do realise there are people out there who don’t think like me. So in order to allow a reminder of how it used to be, I would allow Carol Kirkwood to read the weather – as long as she was angry about it.

Grumpiness - The New Black

I regard myself as an upbeat person, somebody who thrives on being positive. I strive to be happy in my life. I endeavour to face the day with a smile, laugh as often as I can and try to make those around me happy.

So why does everybody accuse me of being a grumpy old sod?

Those closest to me tell me that I am getting worse with age. In my twenties I rarely moaned at anything. Now in my forties, those closest to me inform me in no uncertain terms that I am becoming like Victor Meldrew, arguably the grumpiest comedy character ever to set foot on our TV screens.

When accused of being a grump, I usually retort: “Utter rubbish! I am positivity personified.”

Sadly, however, the evidence against me is devastating and I can’t argue with it.

Let’s take a normal working day.

In the morning I wake up at around 7 o’clock to listen to the news. I used to wake up to a music show where the resident “humorous” DJs try to cheer up their audience with “witty” anecdotes and observations. That’s a bad start. How can you be positive about two imbeciles who would rather talk utter bilge than play decent music. Mrs PM has forced me to change radio stations simply because I spend ten minutes swearing at the radio. A typical outburst is “For *&$*’s sake, shut the $£&* up and play some %$&*ing music!!!!”

The DJ’s have now put me in a bad mood. I am tired and I want to go back to the sanctuary of sleep and I have been wrenched from blissful dreams by two people whose combined IQ would make earthworm seem like a professor of quantum physics. Come on, I mean tell me. Why do radio stations employ the most annoying people on the planet to present their shows? These people are their own biggest fans and love the sound of their own voices. These brainless twerps are not even funny. I wouldn’t mind if they were. All we hear is the sound of their high pitched moronic drivel and then, most annoying of all, the sound of their laughter at their own dim-witted jokes.

So, having started the day on a low, I march to the bathroom to prepare for the day. I have to shave and shower. When I look at myself in the mirror I see a monster with mad hair and sunken bloodshot eyes. Under normal circumstances it would take a makeover expert six hours to make the creature in the mirror appear to be even vaguely human. I have around fifteen minutes. You can imagine I have not done a very good job by the time I return to the bedroom to get dressed.

Later it is time to enjoy “BBC Breakfast”. I sit there munching a bowl of cereal while watching stiff presenters, who are again trying to be funny in their own stiff way and failing miserably. At least they are speaking with a degree of intelligence instead of babbling like the DJs. But why do they insist on trying to be funny? Is it to cheer us up? It doesn’t bloody work. I want to hear the news. Don’t try to be funny shortly after you have just told me that yet another bank has collapsed and that I may end up living in poverty in a year’s time. I grumble during the news but worse is to come. Usually on BBC Breakfast at around a quarter to eight, we get the weather forecast. I look out of the window and see that it is raining again. And there standing in the Blue Peter garden is Carol Kirkwood, a chirpy Scottish weathergirl who has taken far too many happy pills

“Helloooo!!!” she will shout. “It’s gonna be raining here in Inglind, Scotlind, Wales and Irelind and it’s great. It’s wonderful.”

“It’s ENGLAND, SCOTLAND AND IRELAND – not bloody INGLIND, SCOTLIND and bloody IRELIND” I scream. “And STOP GRINNING!”

Who needs this kind of stuff first thing on a cold winter’s morning?



I’m not picking on Carol Kirkwood – I just want her to feel as miserable as I do. If I see her later in the day I am quite happy with her presentation skills.

And then of course it is onto work. Now it only usually takes me around fifteen minutes to drive there but by the time I arrive I have encountered enough buffoons to fill Wembley Stadium. I have to negotiate the school run; drivers who let other cars in when I am behind them; drivers who do not let me in; cyclists who drive at 2mph in the centre of the road; bus drivers who drive at 2mph; lorry drivers who inexplicably stop on a main road and block traffic for as long as possible; traffic lights that stay red for ten minutes, wait until a queue of two hundred cars builds up and then switch to green for ten seconds, allowing one daydreaming driver to kangaroo through before turning red for another ten minutes; people who beep their horns for no reason; motorcyclists who avoid traffic queues by driving down the centre of the road overtaking all of the congested cars and looking very smug about it and finally, the worst of all, pedestrians who walk straight out in front of the car safe in the knowledge that you will slam your brakes on so as not to be arrested for running them over. And then these people have the balls to swear at me for narrowly missing them.

By the time I arrive at work I am fuming. I arrive at my desk and I have a crisis to deal with before I can even switch on my desktop. When I finally do that I discover that I have a thousand urgent emails to deal with. I walk to the kitchen to get a cup of tea and encounter a boss or manager who says something like “have you done this yet? Have you done that yet? What are you doing drinking tea when you should be working?”

I get back to my desk and listen to smug Manchester United fans boasting about the latest conquest and the workload piles up. I hear people laughing at the fact that Walsall aren’t in the Premiership and the workload piles up. I hear managers and other people say things like “We need to think outside the box” and I want to pour my boiling hot tea over their crotches and the workload piles up. Somebody comes up to me and says “Can you give me an accurate estimate?” What in the name of all that is sane is an “accurate estimate”? A bloody estimate is a guess so how can it be bloody well accurate???? The workload piles up.

At lunchtime I read the BBC website and rant at the news. Others start talking about reality TV shows like Big Brother causing me to take out my soapbox and embark upon a fifteen minute rant about how awful television is these days.

Somebody comes up to me during my lunch break and says “Are you on your lunch? I just have a question about this report.”

“No,” I reply. “I’m not on my lunch – why do you think I am halfway through this giant bloody sandwich? Is the fact that I am spitting chunks of semi-chewed cheese over your shirt a hint?”

During lunch the workload has piled up and another two hundred emails have arrived, each one more urgent than the last one. I doggedly attack the work and finally decide to leave late in the afternoon just as Mr “Think Outside The Box” says “Oh, can you just do this little piece of work before you go?”

Two hours later, I sneak out of the office and hit the rush hour traffic where I encounter the school run, cyclists, motorcyclists, slow-moving buses and lorries, brain-dead pedestrians, psychotic traffic lights and other manner of road using imbeciles to put me in a fantastic mood when I arrive home late.

And then I have to face Mrs PM who says “What kind of day have you had?”

Of course I want to lie and say “Fantastic!”

But I don’t. I launch into the biggest rant of all. I have a super duper deluxe high tensile soapbox for such occasions.

At the end of the rant, Mrs PM is no longer speaking to me so I have to make amends by cooking the evening meal. I positively despise cooking.

By the time I have settled down to relax, Mrs PM announces that she wants to watch Big Brother. What choice do I have but to go to bed and fall asleep reading.

Next thing I know, the alarm goes off and I am woken up by two moronic DJs laughing at their own unfunny jokes – and the cycle goes on.

Oh dear!

The above words are not just devastating, they have the constructive impact of a thermonuclear device.

Facing my own grumpiness and posting about it is quite therapeutic though (I am desperately searching for positivity now) and although this is one of my longer posts I have typed it at record speed barely lifting my fingers from the keyboard to draw breathe.

The older I get, the more I feel I need to change the world. It’s not too late (see? Positive again) and by standing on a turbo-charged soapbox I can, in my own little way, change the impact of grumpiness into a force for good.

If it gets rid of moronic DJs I will be happy.