The Old Washer Man

Today I want to talk about something I hate. I guess most people who read this post will agree with me.

I’m talking about washing clothes and all the pain that involves.

As an equal partner in a relationship, I am keen not to inflict the pain of washing on Mrs PM, although if she were to volunteer to take on the responsibility of all aspects of keeping our clothes clean, I would gladly hand it over and make her sign her name in blood to ensure that I never have to do it again.

Alas, that is not to be and on a regular basis I am called upon to attack this tedious task with fake enthusiasm.

Some male readers will have no clue what I am talking about.

One guy I used to know claimed that the laundry basket was a miracle of modern science.

“Why?” asked a particularly ferocious woman who worked with us.

“Every day I put my dirty clothes in the laundry basket and, hey presto, a few days later they are magically transformed ; I open my wardrobe and there they are, lovely and clean and pressed.”

I thought the woman was going to explode in rage.

Each stage of washing clothes is a pain in the arse, to put it bluntly; even something as mundane as putting them in the washing machine.

When I first started washing my clothes as a student, I had many mishaps, like the brand new jeans I bought that turned my best white shirt into various shades of blue. I wouldn’t have minded but it wasn’t a uniform distribution of colour; my crisp white shirt had huge blotches of blue of varying intensity making it impossible to wear without looking like a mad goon.

And this has happened repeatedly.

On another occasion, a rogue red sock somehow found its way into a basket full of white clothes and rampaged through them in the washing machine, freely distributing its red colour randomly amongst the perfect white cloth. When I opened the washing machine it looked like all of my whites had been murdered in a horrific bloodbath.

All of this means that I have to painstakingly sort all of the clothes out into piles to make sure that nothing is ruined by murderous colours.

And that brings me to the next point – sorting through shreddies. This is not a pleasant experience even when the shreddies are your own. Underwear is nasty – but my dirty socks are dangerous creatures that need to be handled with care.

The biological suit I had to buy cost me a fortune.

When the washing machine has done its job, unloading it is a pain. The washing machine can mutate your clothes. I’ve already mentioned inadvertently dying your best whites – but sometimes the machine has another couple of surprises. A slight error can cause your clothes to shrink to the point where they are too small for a cat, or to grow so that the only creature they would fit is a deformed troll. Again, washing machines tend to favour new and expensive clothes for this unscheduled punishment.

Living in the UK makes drying clothes difficult because you never know when it will rain. In the summer you can hang out the washing and then the next minute, a thunderstorm will appear and completely soak you newly washed laundry with dirty rain.

If it doesn’t rain, Mother Nature has other ways of ruining your efforts; birds can still crap all over your nice clean shirt, or, if you haven’t pegged up the washing properly, your beautiful clean clothes can end up in the dirt, or resting on a nice fresh pile of cat shit.

And the final operation is ironing, something that I hate with a passion. In the past, I have burned shirts and burned myself. Ironing is a punishment that I am convinced Satan will impose upon me if I end up meeting him in the afterlife.

“You are sentenced to iron my shreddies for the rest of eternity!”


“NOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!”

Anyway, I’d like to finish on a lighter note as I am sure that I have invoked horrific laundry related episodes in your life. I apologise for that, dear reader.

Back in 1976, a song entered the UK charts that was so dreadful it was hilarious. I am convinced to this day it was totally tongue in cheek.

It has the greatest laundry lyrics in the world ever:

She was sharing her spin dryer with a guy in a tie-dye

When she saw my reflection in the chrome

I knew that she'd seen me 'cause she dropped her bikini

The one that I got her in Rome.

Little does she know that I know that she knows

That I know she's two-timin' me

Little does she know that I know that she knows

That I know she's cheatin' on me

When she finished her laundry she was all in a quandary

And made for the street like a hare

Her escape was so urgent, she forgot her detergent

And dropped all her clean underwear

The song is called “Little Does She Know” by the Kursaal Flyers.



There is something the singer can console himself with – at least his two-timing girlfriend did her own laundry.

Signs Of Age

I am aware that I am not getting any younger and I realise that I can’t do anything about Father Time’s obsession with transforming me into a shrivelled old prune.

I know that many people cannot accept their fate and the inevitable consequences of living for decades. Some people go to extraordinary lengths to do battle with the inexorable slide into old age and look even more ridiculous as a result.

I have chosen to embrace the mutation into a withered old wreck. After all, I can’t fight it – why bother?

Many people say that I look young for my age and while that is true, the signs are there for all to see (if you are brave enough to get close enough to me that is).

Let’s look at the evidence.

Baggy Face: My face is beginning to droop like a sack of sludge with a couple of holes. I have compared my face with that of a younger more vibrant version of myself and it is quite shocking to see the difference. My cheeks look like I have stuffed cotton wool into them and I somehow seem to have acquired more skin. I would say that my skin is growing but I know that isn’t true. If I didn’t know any better, I would say that my face is slowly melting. I am beginning to look like John McCain with a wig:

Grey Hair: My lovely blond locks have darkened to a dirty brown and the pigment is marching towards boring old grey. I could persuade it to reverse I suppose by applying liberal amounts of a product like “Just For Men” that is supposed to turn an old fart into a dark haired Adonis (but in reality makes them look ridiculous). I will let my hair change colour and, I guess, ultimately I will look like a grey owl:


Actually that may not be the case: people with blond hair tend to turn white. So maybe I will end up looking like a white owl:



Moobs: I can’t deny it - I have small moobs (or moobies if you prefer). Purely in the name of research, I have just, stupidly been cupping them in my hands as Mrs PM walked in and now I feel like a right berk!

“What the hell are you doing?” she has just asked.

“Research for a blog post!”

Now Mrs PM thinks I am even more of a weirdo and I have some explaining to do (“Read the post” doesn’t seem to have worked).

Thankfully my moobs really are tiny and only visible if I am stupid enough to wear a tight T-Shirt. But they are there, dear reader. I can see them and soon they will announce themselves to the world despite my attempts to hide them. I will have to start investing in baggy T shirts.

Double chin: Under a certain light I can see that I have a fledgling second chin. I can’t possibly see the use for an extra chin and I imagine if it gets any bigger it will make shaving a right pain in the arse. I fear that unless I deflate it somehow it might become the first of many. My chin is spawning, dear reader!

Hair sprouting everywhere: Regular readers will know that I have a problem with my hair. It is an unmanageable mess at the best of times. Now, the rest of my body has decided to join in, thrusting hair out of all sorts of weird orifices.

Why on earth would I want monster clumps of hair hanging out of my nose?

What possible purpose can they achieve?

Worse, when I go to get my hair cut, the poor woman who battles my monstrous locks now has to shave my ears.

MY EARS for Pete's sake.

Why at the age of forty does Mother Nature decide to cover my ears with hair? I’m turning into a yeti:


Eyesight: I’ve always been as blind as a bat and now my eyes have decided to kick me in the teeth by making me long-sighted as well as short-sighted. I have to wear varifocals now which means that I have to peer through the bottom of the lenses when reading. Why would Mother Nature do that to me? It’s bad enough having to wear glasses since the age of eight without them suddenly becoming useless at the age of forty five.

Mother Nature certainly has a sick sense of humour.

Wrinkles: My fair complexion is fine and from a distance my face looks as smooth as a baby’s backside. Get closer and you begin to see the flaws. Crevices, fissures and ravines are beginning to appear. And they are getting worse. Mrs PM keeps telling me to stop frowning because my forehead has deepening cracks. It could be worse but I know that it won’t get any better. If my hair decides to throw in the towel I could end up looking like one giant wrinkle.

It is inevitable that I will probably end up looking like this any one of these three guys:

As I said, I’m not Benjamin Button and neither is anybody else, so why would growing old worry anybody? I don't like it but it is inevitable, dear reader. I will live with it and get some blogging mileage out of it too.

I know that I am not suddenly going to become a heart throb with features so handsome that women swoon when they see me - in fact, women have NEVER swooned over me so why would growing old be any different?

Mind you, I guess it is possible that older women might find me attractive, simply because they will be as blind as I am.

Besides, who would want to become younger? Crikey – we would have to go through puberty again and the thought of that makes me cringe – it was bad enough the first time.

And yes, dear reader, I HAVE gone through puberty (despite what you may think).

A Touch Of Grey

Well they’ve done it again: those guys from “Just For Men” have produced yet another miracle that has left me speechless with shock.

The good news is that they seem to be acknowledging the fact that grey hair does not necessarily turn a man into an ugly old codger who is repulsive to women.

The bad news is that they are still exploiting the deep innermost fears that most men have in their middle age.

I was eating a bag of crisps when I saw the commercial for the first time today and now my telly screen is covered with half-chewed potato product. Why? Because once again I ranted with a mouthful of crisps and poor Mrs PM had to endure my tirade.

“Who do these people think we are?” I yelled. “When a man becomes grey, does he bloody well lose his marbles?”

She actually agreed with me that this particular commercial was ridiculous, before making me put away my soapbox and clean the telly.

I would embed the advert into this blog to show you how utterly dreadful it is. However, I simply can’t bring myself to do it. I just can’t – it is so awful. If you are desperate, you can find it on YouTube.

Picture the scene.

A man is sitting on a psychiatrist’s chair. His hair is almost grey but there is evidence that the war against nature has not completely been lost. The narrator says:

“Sooner or later you and your grey hair will face an identity crisis”.

Now for me, the words “identity crisis” say “midlife crisis” and any man feeling inadequate will be punctured by those words.

The man in the advert morphs into two versions of himself; one has a full head of jet black hair, the other has a full head of grey hair that is pretty close to being white.

Sitting in the chair facing him is a sexy female psychiatrist who is staring at the morphed men with a professional air, and not in the least bit surprised that there are now two men in front of her.

The grey-haired version of our hero says “My hair says experience”

The black-haired version of our hero sneers and says “My hair says energy”.

At this point I said “Bleeuuurrghhhh!!!”

As with all “Just For Men” commercials, the miracle cure was then introduced:

“Touch of Grey – Best Of Both”

We then see the original semi-grey man, combing some goo into his hair and our narrator says:

“…combs away a little grey without getting rid of it all. Never too much; just right”

We then see the two men re-morph into a single man with black hair but just a little grey here and there and he says the following (please make sure that you don’t have a mouthful of food when you read this – your computer screen will never forgive you):

“Now I look like I know what I’m doing – and can still do it.”

And what of the professional female psychiatrist? Instead of running from the room, screaming about men splitting into two people and then rebonding, she turns into a fawning bimbette, obviously in awe of the mutant who has appeared in front of her.

Am I the only one who despises these kinds of advert? I’ve ranted about them before but they are getting worse. They are preying on our fears, guys. They are trying to make believe that you can mutate into a successful good looking man who only has to wink at a women to ensnare her.

It will not work. Instead of looking like a grey-haired man you will look like a muppet. Don’t believe them. If you are in the middle of a midlife crisis this is NOT what you need.

We are being exploited again, guys. There IS no elixir that will make you irresistible to women or turn you into a successful businessman.

Don’t forget – if you have wrinkles and grey hair, you will look normal. If you have wrinkles and jet black hair you will look like a goon.

Worse still, if you think that “Touch of Grey” is middle ground, then consider this scenario:

What if you run out of the goo before you have completed the job? You will end up with one side of your head black and the other side grey. You will look like this:







You be a complete arse and have to shave the whole lot off, which will age you even more and kick your self-esteem in the nuts.

Don’t go there – I implore you. Please, just grow old gracefully.