I Wonder Why ...

There are a lot of things that puzzle me in and beyond this world and I sometimes wonder whether I am far weirder than I originally thought I was. I have been known to sit with my mouth agape with a look of total astonishment on my face about things I read about and see on the TV. 

However, it is worse than that. There are more traditional things that are etched into history, culture and general behaviour that truly astonish me. I thought I might just discuss some of these in a couple of blog posts, starting with this one.

Why do close female friends complement each other, yet close male friends rip each other to shreds mercilessly? 

Whenever Mrs PM goes out with her friends, she says things like “OOH! I love your dress”, “Your new hairstyle is wonderful” and “You look radiant today”.

The male equivalents are “So what possessed you wear that shirt? Are you taking drugs again?”, “It looks like you had a fight with a combine harvester and lost. I hope you’re taking the barber to court” and “You look a bit soppy today. Are you hung over?”

The thing is that men laugh at such insults even when they are the target. For example, I was recently in a pub with four other lads in Chester and I said “When I started drinking, I used to have lager and a dash of lime in it.” I was going to explain that I did that because I didn’t like the taste of beer at the time and the lime made it drinkable. I was going to go on to explain that I stopped drinking it because it was expensive and I grew to like the taste of beer. 

I didn’t get very far at all. As soon as I said “lime” I was ruthlessly mocked – by all four of them. I just had to sit there and take the abuse. Mind you, the abuse was funny so I was laughing along too. 

When did that start to happen? And why? 

Why do some people get so angry online?

I’ve had the odd reaction to innocent posts in the past from “keyboard warriors” and “trolls” mainly in comments. When I had a go at Shakespeare in a humorous post, one or two people had a real go at me, calling me names and unleashing their rage at me. 

I allowed one or two posts to slip through but rejected the rest of them because they were quite bad. I have a thick skin so I can take it. I have faith in people and although they disagreed with my thoughts, some people did so in a nice way that provoked debate rather than expressing their outrage on my innocent content.

Some people get a lot worse abuse than I have ever received though. You only have to see reactions to things that celebrities do or what politicians say to judge the depth of the anger and rage in some people. And a lot of things that these trolls are reacting too is totally trivial. 

One of the biggest offenders is Donald Trump but they can’t all be like him – surely? Not everybody in the world is a malignant narcissist, are they? 

I believe that it is because some people are unable to vent their rage in normal life and choose to do so anonymously. 

What I don't understand is that I would never do that so why do some people think it is okay to be so completely horrible online?

What the hell is going on in the universe?

This year, in order to improve the subject matter of my reading material, I decided to start reading more non-fiction and the first book I read was “A Brief History of Time” by the late lamented Professor Stephen Hawking. I studied and passed “A-Level” physics and understood some of the basic concepts he was writing about. Of course, my knowledge of the universe is limited, especially compared to the genius author, but some concepts made my mind utterly boggle. 

For example, time is not a constant. Just think about that for a second. We move through the universe at a temporal speed of one second per second. Yet as we move out into space and increase our speed, time moves slower. What this means is that if I were to board a spaceship and travel for a minute at the speed of light, then time slows down for you. 

Doesn’t that boggle your mind? 

But it’s worse than that. What is dark matter? What the hell is anti-matter? And what is the deal with black holes? What happened before the Big Bang? 

I really enjoyed the book but it left far more questions than answers. 

To be fair, I think that there are numerous physicists trying to answer these questions and make sense of them. 

But my mind is truly boggled!

Why do men stand next to each other when they go to the toilet?

Okay – this is a weird one and I've left it until last for that reason. 

I am a man and I have accepted that whenever I go to a public toilet, I sometimes have to stand next to a man and answer the call of nature. 

But why do we do this? There are unwritten rules of etiquette when you are a bloke. You are not supposed to look around when you are doing the business and definitely not allowed to talk to the gentleman standing next to you, even if you are best friends. Yet women, apparently, are quite happy to have a deep conversation from adjacent cubicles. For men, once you pass the threshold of the toilet door and enter that realm, communication becomes a bad thing unless it is absolutely necessary. And the moment you stand in front of a urinal, no words should pass your lips until you have finished. 

It’s odd. Some bloke in the past must have decided that it is okay to make men stand next to each other. I wonder who that was? 

And finally …

There are many more things that confuse me and I will almost certainly highlight some of these in future posts. 

I am clearly not as clever as I thought I was. 

Proactive Washing

The other day I had a surreal conversation with Mrs PM.

It went like this.

Mrs PM: I want to weight myself but I can’t.

PM: Why? You’re not scared are you? You look fa… OWWW!!!! Why did you thump me?

Mrs PM: You know why, you arse!

PM: I was going to say, you look fabulous!! What did you think I was going to say? Anyway - why can’t you weigh yourself?

Mrs PM:  Oh! Thanks! The batteries have run out on the scales and we haven’t got any more.

PM: Yes we have. I bought some, remember? I’m proactive. As I’ve always said, it’s better to have stuff in than nothing at all.

Mrs PM: You’re not proactive! I’m the proactive one out of the two of us.

PM: Then why didn’t you buy the batteries? When I bought them two weeks ago, you said “Why have you bought those batteries? We don’t need them!”

Mrs PM: No I didn’t.

PM: Yes you did. I’m surprised you don’t remember. You remember things that I said eighteen years ago. OWWWW!!! What’s that for?

Mrs PM: I’ve just remembered what you said to Susan in 2001!

PM: See? I don’t remember that! In fact, I’m not even sure who Susan is!

Mrs PM: It shows that I’ve got a good memory and that you are a stupid arse!

PM: What did I say?

Mrs PM: Well if you don’t remember, I’m not going to tell you.

PM: What does that even mean?

Mrs PM: It means that you are an arse!

PM: By the way, did you know that women make great archaeologists?

Mrs PM: Why?

PM: Because they love digging up the past. OWWW!!! What was that for?

Mrs PM: Sexist pig!

PM: It was a joke.

Mrs PM: I’ll remember that!

PM: I bet you will. Pity you don’t remember saying what you said about the batteries.

Mrs PM: That’s because I didn’t say it.

PM: Yes you did. Did you know that those batteries are also used for other things like the TV remote control, for example?

Mrs PM: Really? I thought you were just hoarding batteries. You hoard other stuff.

PM: No I don’t. I’m proactive. When you’ve just shopped, you leave things off the list because “we don’t need it”. And then we run out. I’ve always said it’s better to have too much than not enough. We nearly ran out of toothpaste last week you know.

Mrs PM: Yeah – and we’ve got food that’s past its sell-by date because you bought too much.

PM: Nonsense – and when I say that I mean you saying that you’re proactive.

Mrs PM: Okay smartarse! Tell me why you’re proactive and I’m not.

PM: Well besides the batteries and the toothpaste, I’m proactive with the washing.

At this point I have to pause because Mrs PM burst out laughing and I watched in puzzled astonishment as she struggled to control herself.

PM: What’s so funny?

Mrs PM: Proactive washing? What the hell is that?

PM: Look at the washing basket and you’ll see.

Mrs PM: It’s empty.

PM: Exactly.

Mrs PM: You are deranged. What the hell are you talking about?

PM: I’ve done the washing before the washing basket filled up and started overflowing with dirty shreddies and socks!

Editor’s note – “shreddies” are what the Plastic Mancunian calls his underpants for reasons that I don’t want to go into. Suffice it say, it’s not a pleasant name when you think about it.

Mrs PM: So proactive washing is making sure that the washing basket is empty?

PM: Duh! Yes!

Mrs PM: I thought you meant that proactive washing is making sure that the washing never gets dirty. I’ve got a wardrobe full of clean clothes if you want to be proactive about it. You can wash all my clean clothes BEFORE they get dirty. That way, the washing basket will never ever have anything in it.

PM: What are you talking about?

Mrs PM: You! You’re an idiot!

PM: Well I’ll remember that!

Mrs PM: No you won’t!

PM: Yes I will! I’ll write it down in my next blog post.

Mrs PM: And let the world know exactly what an idiot you are. Proactive washing! Have you heard yourself?

Maybe I will review the conversation and not post it after all. I don’t want to look daft to the world. I also don’t want the world to know that I don’t understand women. Looking back, I still can’t understand why I was thumped three times during these exchanges. It also makes people think that I rarely win these fun exchanges with the love of my life. The truth is I rarely do.

I think I’ll consign this draft post to the “also rans” folder on my computer.

“Proactive washing” indeed! 

What a stupid idea! 

What a stupid title for a blog post.

Nailed

One of the many things I don’t understand about women is how they treat their fingernails and toenails. The thought of applying paint to my nails is as abhorrent to me as is the thought of plucking out all of the hairs in my eyebrows and then painting them back in.

It’s utter craziness.

Granted, as painful as plucking or waxing eyebrows is, applying a bright colourful load of goo to your nails seems painless by comparison.

Yet women still feel the need to do it.

So why am I talking about painting nails? Allow me to tell you.

Yesterday we made the short trip to the city of Chester to watch horse racing and gamble responsibly along with around 20,000 other people. This particular event was slightly different because it was Ladies Day. What that means I don’t know really, other than perhaps an attempt to entice members of the fairer sex to lose their money alongside their male chumps.

What I do know is that every single woman there made an extra special attempt to beautify themselves, spending more money on that than the entrance fee and amount they would lose on the horses combined.

There were eight of us, four men and four women. The men all wore jackets and ties and that was it. My preparation for the event was to dust off one of my two suits (the non-penguin one) and iron my white shirt. It took all of ten minutes in total and most of that was ironing the damned shirt.

Mrs PM on the other hand spent weeks preparing for this event. After two failed trips to buy a new dress, she finally managed to choose a superb, if not expensive one that made her look lovely. She also agonised over matching shoes and a new bag and eventually bought those as well. Last week she went looking for a fascinator. I didn’t even know what a fascinator was and I had to ask my good friend, Mr Google to assist.

Here’s an example of a fascinator:

Why they are called fascinators is beyond me.

While shopping for this, she spotted another dress that she preferred and bought that instead, returning the original dress a couple of days later. Worse, she couldn’t find a suitable fascinator and had to order one online. Worse still, she had to also return the bag and shoes she bought because they didn’t go with the new dress. And of course she had to hunt for replacements.

Had I been involved in all of this trauma, I think I might have torn all of my hair out in frustration but I made it quite clear from the offset that this was her problem and her problem alone and I would rather extract each hair on my body with a blowtorch than make numerous trips to women’s clothing shops waiting outside the changing rooms like a total muppet as I watched my will to live erode.

Thankfully, Mrs PM (and indeed all women as far as I can tell) are used to this crazy way of preparing for events and having spent most of her life in changing rooms trying on clothes that either don’t fit or she doesn’t like and her stamina is unbreakable.

The final touches for this event were painting her nails. Naively, I thought this meant buying a bottle of goo and painting it on her fingernails.

When she explained what was going to happen, I gaped like a lunatic.

“Two hours? TWO PHARKING HOURS to get your nails done?”  I said incredulously.

“Yes,” she declared. “They have to look perfect.”

Basically, she was going to pay money to a beautician to apply multiple layers of goo to her nails that would take two hours to complete and cost 55 English pounds.

“55 quid?” I gaped, amazed at how much more shocking that was. “Why don’t you set fire to the notes? It will be quicker and less of a waste of money.”

I was slapped for that one.

This traumatic experience is not as easy as it sounds. I’ve looked this up.

First you have to have your nails prepared which means cutting them, filing them and deciding what shape to have them. Surely the answer to that is “nail shaped”!

Next you have to remove your cuticles. I misread this at first and winced before I realised that women don’t have what I thought had to be removed. Apparently cuticles are dead skin at the base of your nails and you use a funny shaped stick to do the revolting deed.

At this point you can start painting. But this is not just a simple job; you have to apply a base layer and wait for it to dry for longer than it says on the tin. And then you have to apply two more thin layers, drying each of them under a UV lamp for two to three minutes – a pharking UV lamp!!

And that’s not all because after that, you have to apply yet another layer and zap that under a UV lamp for the same length of time.

Finally, this fiasco is completed by removing imperfections and applying a weird cuticle oil.



Mrs PM had this done to twenty nails – ten fingernails and ten toenails.

I never knew any of this and I am totally flabbergasted.

Of course, the worst thing is that this amazing artwork is only guaranteed to last two weeks when, presumably, keen women will want to return to the beautician to throw away another £55 and waste two more hours of their lives.

Mrs PM’s nails were and are wonderful (I have to say this, lest I have my cuticles removed with a rusty saw) and so did her three friends. In their case, the nails were decorated with patterns that must of (a) cost even more money and (b) taken much longer.

Of course, their nails were and are wonderful  too (I have to say this, lest I have the remaining parts of my anatomy removed with the same rusty saw).

In conclusion, I can only say two things.

First, I am no closer to understanding women.

Finally, I am so, so, so glad that I am a man.

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.

The Look

I love The Walking Dead and so does Mrs PM. We were watching the exciting and disturbing climax of series six on Monday night and when it finished, my beloved said:

“What are we going to do without The Walking Dead?”

“Don’t worry,” I said. “There’s a spin off starting next week.”

“Really?” she said, looking very excited.

“Yes,” I continued. “It looks at the issue from another angle. Have you seen the Hitchcock film called The Birds?”

“Yes,” she said.

I now had her full attention.

“Well, it’s a variation on that theme. Instead of people dying and coming back to life, the problem is all about birds. It’s a post-apocalyptic drama about people dealing with Zombie birds.”

“Wow,” she said.

“It starts next week. It’s called The Squawking Dead!”

“OH PULEEEEAASEEE!” she shouted.

I started laughing as, once again, I had proved that there is no such thing as a lying face and a lying voice, the apparent features she uses to detect whether I am fibbing to her. It’s a rare thing to catch her out and when I do, I don’t let her forget it (see here for more examples where I have failed misreably).

“There is no such thing as a lying voice or a lying face,” I declared triumphantly.

And then she responded with The Look!

Most men know what The Look is. It is the expression on a woman’s face that tells her man, without words I might add, that he has stepped over the line and has lost so many Brownie Points that he is bankrupt.

The Look has several intensities depending on the nature and seriousness of the crime committed. On a scale of 1 to 10, this was about a 2 out of 10 – mild irritation. Mrs PM was disappointed that The Walking Dead had finished and irritated at the fact that I had exploited her momentary weakness and struck a comedy blow.

Really, she was pissed off because I had caught her totally unawares!

In case you don't know what I am talking about, here are some stock images of The Look!

2 out of 10 - You might just escape unscathed

4 out of 10 - Be warned

6 out of 10 - Now you are in trouble!

8 out of 10 - Lock yourself in the cupboard and pray

10 out of 10 - Run for the hills 

I have never achieved a 10 out of 10 (or at least I don’t think so).To be honest if I were to reach that lofty pinnacle, I would probably be out of the house and down the road when the eruption took place.

Sometimes, I see The Look in other women, particularly in social situations, when their oblivious husbands/partners have overstepped their bounds. Usually this involves showing off, saying something that was meant to be kept a secret or basically being an arse in front of her and friends, resulting in, in her eyes, ritual humiliation.

It’s quite funny, really, because the man will continue acting the dick, or mouthing off and she will smile as if she is enjoying his antics. He will be oblivious to her feelings and continue to entertain his friends. She will smile – but not with her eyes. 

And then, she will wait until there is a lull and her beloved man looks at her. That is when she will strike with The Look and he will immediately know that he is in trouble.

I’ve seen it many times and it can go one of two ways.

If he notices The Look, he will stop abruptly and change the subject and spend the rest of the evening trying to rectify the situation, cuddling his woman, telling people openly how much he loves her etc. etc. 

It won’t work. 

Women have long deep memories and the moment she gets him on his own he will feel the full force of her wrath. The 4 out of 10 look of annoyance will escalate, potentially, to a 6 out of 10 look – if he’s lucky.

Worse, if he fails to notice The Look and continues down to the next level of Hell, then woe betide him when they get home. 

I have seen both situations.

Worse, I have BEEN in both situations. 

In my defence, I thought I was being clever and funny – when in reality I was almost certainly being a dick.

However, there is one situation that all men struggle with. And I will bet that it has happened to each and every male reader with a significant other (don’t deny it, guys! You know I am telling the truth). The situation to which I refer is when you arrive home and get The Look as soon as you see your lovely lady.

This is the worst situation of all. At least when you are a dick in front of your friends, you have an idea about why you are in trouble - and you have no idea why! 

You may try to delay the inevitable by saying “Hi beautiful” or another similarly shallow attempt at making things right. You may panic, walk straight out of the door and run to the nearest pub to get drunk.  At least when the inevitable tempest occurs, you will have an idea about what you did wrong.

“What have I done now?” is the usual response but that won’t help either. 

Women are irrational beings and will say:

“Well if you don’t know, I am not going to tell you,” and then walk away leaving the environment in the house frostier than a snowman’s underpants.

Thankfully, Mrs PM is the kind of woman who wears her heart on her sleeve and she will tell me in no uncertain terms the exact reason why I am a dick and what I did to incur her wrath. Mostly, it will be something insignificant and through an insincere cloud of apology I will do my best to rectify the situation even if I am deeply puzzled about why I am in the wrong.

Tact is my middle name – at least until Mrs PM reads this post.

By the way, I also tried to crack the same joke about The Walking Dead to my eldest lad.

Before I had even begun to describe The Squawking Dead he simply said:

“This is going to be a crap joke, isn’t it?”

Maybe that says something about the difference between men and women.

I Can't Help It

Attention all women …

I am not a mind reader and don’t know what you are thinking. Please tell me what you want me to do.

I know that I always moan about romantic comedies. The romance is unrealistic and they are not funny, ergo they shouldn’t be called “romantic comedies”.

I don’t want to know why Sandra is upset. I don’t care that Sandra’s husband, Bill, is always in a bad mood. He’s probably in a bad mood because Sandra was telling Bill about Tabitha’s problems with her husband, Clive, while he was trying to watch the football. Bill has never met Tabitha or Clive. Bill probably never will meet Tabitha or Clive.  I have never met Sandra, Bill, Tabitha or Clive and I probably never will. And the football is on.

Talking of which – football is important, certainly more important than Sandra’s woes.

Man flu exists. It has been proven that men suffer more than women. Here is proof from a FEMALE neuroscientist.

Your hair looks wonderful. It always looks wonderful. Stop asking me how your hair looks.

I love your eyebrows. I will always love your eyebrows. Stop asking me about them.

I will buy you flowers, just not on Valentine’s Day because the price trebles.

I do not need to use products on my hair.

The phone call was from Fred. Yes, I know we chatted for five minutes but he didn’t tell me his life story so I can’t tell you.

Yes, I know I can be immature.

Please don’t take me shopping. I can’t bear standing in the lingerie department again while you try on your fourteenth different dress in three different sizes and then reject all of them.

I still think that the Twilight saga was rubbish and I always will think that it is rubbish.

You look beautiful. You are beautiful. You are always beautiful. Stop asking me if you look good.

I am asking you where my gloves are because they are not in the place where I put them.  I put them there so that I would know where they are. They are not there now. You must have moved them. That’s why I am asking you where they are.

I don’t need an hour to get ready to go out. Please let me finish my video game; we have another hour before the taxi arrives.

I’ll take the small suitcase. Yes I can fit all the clothes I need for a week in it.

I love you. I will always love you. I tell you all the time. Stop asking me if I love you.

I would rather extract all of my teeth with a hammer than go with you to see One Direction. It would be less painful.

I’ve just redecorated the entire house on my own. Stop shouting at me because I didn’t do the washing up.

I will take you out for a meal, just not on Valentine’s Day because on that day the restaurant will be full of blokes who don’t want to be there, each having a “romantic set meal for two” that is half the size of the usual meals and three times the normal price. Heart-shaped food and millions of tiny little heart-shaped bits of glitter don’t justify the extra cost.

No, I don’t know what the difference is between day cream and night cream. Nor do I want to know.

No, your “bum does not look big in this”.

Please explain to me what is going on in your head.

Why am I in trouble again? I don’t know what I’ve done. I can’t read your mind.

No, I don’t remember what I did on 5th April 1999. And how is it relevant to the current argument?

Bring me a beer and we can resolve all of our differences.

Please take note of the above.

I can’t help it! 

I’m a man!

Just remember this quote:

Women spend more time thinking about what men think than men actually spend thinking.

So true.

Watch Them And Weep

My two lads and I were forced by Mrs PM to watch a terrible movie at the cinema. It was payback for us dragging her to see a full on action film the previous month.

The film was Marley and Me, a movie about the relationship between a man and his dog. While funny in places, the basic purpose of the film was to take a hold of your heartstrings and wrench them as hard as possible, opening the tear ducts and allowing them to dispose of their contents in a flood down your face.

I sometimes hate those kind of films because although they are primarily targetted at women, they have an effect on men too.

Not all tear-jerkers are bad films. I can see the merits of some of them. For example, The Elephant Man, made me blub like a baby but it was an excellent film.

I challenge anyone not to shed a tear over this scene from the film:

My problem is that I do not like to watch sad films as a rule. I prefer to feel uplifted and happy when the closing credits start. After Marley and Me, I felt wretched, cheated and pissed off.

Needless to say, Mrs PM loved the film. As we left the cinema, my two lads were moaning that there were much better films on the other screens. Mrs PM simply wiped tears from her eyes and told us why we were all wrong. The film had everything she wanted; romance, comedy and sadness.

While I like comedy, the bias in Marley and Me was clearly towards those who wanted to blub into their popcorn.

Like many men, I am confused by this need for the fairer sex to crave misery in movies. I simply don’t understand why feeling sadness and grief during and after a film is a good thing. The kind of films I watch have lots of death and destruction but the emotions are stifled in favour of the good guys being triumphant over the bad guys.

My kind of film

The long drawn out death of a Labrador, while its owner talks to it as if it were a human being is just not something I want to have to endure as the climax to a movie that is at best a poor romantic comedy.

However, an article in last week's Sunday Times has gone some way to explaining why such movie scenes are more appealing to women than they are to men.

Evidently, tear-jerkers allow women to bond with their friends. The theory is that watching a movie filled with abject misery is a way for a woman to share a more positive emotional experience with her female friends, resulting in a positive bonding experience.

I suppose it goes a long way to explaining things to a man like me who has no idea why a long drawn out weepy would make you feel positive in any way whatsoever.

I guess, in a similar way, a typical bloke movie like, for example, The Fast and The Furious franchise cause men to bond. While the plots and action scenes may require a massive suspension of disbelief, the amazing stunts will produce as much testosterone in men as the tears produced in women by a half-decent weepy.

Perhaps this also explains why men do not want to show their emotions in public when watching a weepy. When I watched The Elephant Man for the first time, I was on my own in the house and I cried continually. Had I seen it in a cinema, or even with Mrs PM, I would almost certainly have suppressed my tears.

Does this mean that I am an emotional Neanderthal?

Not at all.

Maybe it’s just a personal thing but I think most men do not like to show their emotions and anything that tries to force the issue is not a good thing. That’s not to say I won’t ever watch another weepy again; I will just watch it on my own or, grudgingly, with Mrs PM and a handkerchief to cover any tears under the pretence of having a sniffle.

That said, Mrs PM has seen me blub at a film. I remember one Christmas Eve, when we had been out for lunch and a couple of beers. I was slightly merry from the alcohol and we opted to relax in the Christmas spirit with the classic movie It’s a Wonderful Life. I think, because I had had a couple of beers, my defences were down and the two of us sat on the sofa and cried our eyes out.

It's not a bad film and not the kind I would normally watch,  but at least it was uplifting and totally got me in the mood for Christmas despite the blubbing. Had I been with a bunch of mates, we would probably have watched an explosive action movie with gallons of beer and testosterone, cheering every explosion and punching the air as the hero punched the villain.

Dear female reader, if you think I am an emotionless buffoon, you are wrong. I have deep emotions but the idea of having them brought out by a weepy movie in front of mates is an abhorrent concept to me. I consider that to be a trait for most if not all men – so I am not alone.

To be honest,  a good piece of music stirs my deep emotions probably more than a tired, contrived tear-jerker aimed to stir female emotions.

But that’s a tale for another post.

So what about you, dear reader?

Guys, am I wrong when I describe what men think of tear-jerkers?

Ladies, do you think I’m an emotionless idiot?

Hopefully, this will go some way to help me on my quest to understand the fairer sex.

Nevertheless, I still have a long way to go.

Are You Listening?

“Are you listening to me?” said Mrs PM the other day.

Although I was listening a little, she did not have my undivided attention. I was watching football on the TV and she was prompted to ask because I made a minor faux pas; I nodded in agreement when she was expecting the answer “No!”

I mastered the art of switching off during a conversation when I was a child. I come from a family containing three extremely talkative women. My mother has the ability to, as the saying goes, talk the hind legs off a donkey and my two sisters are similar.

When I was a kid, trying to concentrate on the TV, homework, a book or anything else, my mother had moments when she was oblivious to the fact that I didn’t want to talk or be interrupted. I was a polite child and didn’t want to incur her wrath by telling her to shut up. I managed to train myself to enter the zone, a haven from outside influence where I can concentrate at the exclusion of any external stimulus I choose to ignore.

My mum’s voice was such a stimulus and, believe me, that took a lot of doing over the years. A lot of the time she would talk about everyday nonsense, banal chatter about friends that did not interest me sufficiently to engage in conversation. I mastered the art of occasionally feigning interest by punctuating her one way chatter with the odd “Really?”, “I didn’t know that!” and “Oh yes.”.

I knew my mum well enough to know that most of the time it would work – and it did. When she wanted to tell me something worthwhile I would of course give her my undivided attention.

It’s the same with my sisters – though in their case I would tell them “I’m too busy – tell me later.”

Unfortunately, Mrs PM knows how to catch me out.  She knows me too well and peppering a conversation with “Really?”, “I didn’t know that!” and “Oh yes!” just does not work.

So during a World Cup football match, Mrs PM was telling me about her friend’s woes when I said the words “Oh yes!”.

“Did you hear what I said?” she said.

“Oh yes,” I said again, having no clue what she had said, too intent on seeing a goal attempt by Brazil against Mexico.

She punched me on the arm and said “Are you listening to me?”.

Now she had my attention.

“Of course I am,” I said looking into her eyes.

“What did I just say, then?” she asked, her face starting to show a mixture of annoyance and impatience.

“What did I just say, then?” I quipped with a smile. That was a mistake.

“I meant before that,” she snarled.

“When?” I said.

“What did I say about Susan?” she asked again.

“Erm!” I said pathetically.

I had no idea.

I was caught out because my ability to switch off from the conversation had let me down.

What I should have done was asked her to talk to me at the half time interval rather than during the game. That too might have caused an issue but at least it would have been better than being caught in the zone.

The zone is a place that I retreat to on a fairly regular basis. It is a place where I can disable external interfaces and concentrate on whatever I need to. An example of being in the zone is when I go for a solo walk at lunchtime.

I leave work with my headphones in place so that I can walk the streets for half an hour with a soundtrack of my favourite songs, switching off from work related nightmares, contemplate life and the universe, or simply drift off into a voyage around my own imagination.

On one such occasion I was marching down the street when a friend of Mrs PM spotted me from a distance. She didn’t know where I worked so was unsure whether it was me or not – until I walked right past her on the other side of the road.

I was in the zone and simply did not see her. She called out to me but my music prevented me from hearing her.

I saw her a few days later and she mentioned this; I was surprised and slightly ashamed. I was very apologetic.

Friends of mine, male friends that is, do make the same mistake. One of my work colleagues had a similar experience but his other half caught him out in a much better way.

He was watching TV and his missus, standing in the doorway, said:

“What do you think of this dress? Should I wear it?”

“Yes,” he replied, still watching the TV.

“What colour is it?” she said.

“Erm – Erm,” he replied sheepishly.

He was so deep into the zone that he didn’t even realise that she had left the room and had not paid any attention whatsoever to the dress that she had showed him when she was in the room.

One thing does puzzle me. I wonder whether the ability to switch off and enter the zone is purely a male ability or whether women do the same.

If Mrs PM is not interested in what I am saying, she is forthright enough to tell me. She does not need to enter the zone.

Perhaps my problem is that I didn’t really want to upset my mum by telling her that I would rather watch television than listen to her talking about her friends.

Perhaps I should tell Mrs PM that I don’t want to know about Susan’s current problems because Belgium are playing Russia in the World Cup.

I’ll let you know in a future post whether I am successful or not – and I will also include a photo of my black eye if it all goes horribly wrong.

Let me know, if you are a female reader, whether you enter the zone and switch off; I am genuinely interested.

And I won’t say “Really?” – honestly.

Airbrush Strokes

The other night, I caught the Nutty Bus for the first time for a couple of years. The Nutty Bus is basically the late night bus servicing South Manchester and the usual passengers are either drunk, tired, students or a combination of all three. You can read about it here.

I had just been to see one of my favourite bands, The Wildhearts, at the Manchester Academy and was looking forward to my bed. I wasn’t interested in the usual amusing conversations and shenanigans that occur on the Nutty Bus.

I was upstairs, had my trusty iPod serenading me and was hoping for an event free journey back home.

And then I looked out of the window and saw a sign that caught me unawares. It said:

HD Airbrush Makeup

I had a temporary moment of insanity when I forgot where I was, who I was with and what I was actually doing.

I blurted out the words: “HD Airbrush Makeup? What in God’s name is that?”

Sadly, after my moment of madness, I realised that I was not with anybody I knew and the music in my ears had made me shout out the words at a volume that was quite loud.

About twenty pairs of eyes suddenly turned to look at me and, feeling rather embarrassed, I said “Sorry” and pulled out my phone to make believe that I had something important to do. Some people chuckled; some people winced; some people gave me withering and disgusted looks because they assumed I was drunk.

I wasn’t drunk at all and I could feel the shame manifesting itself in the form of a fairly major blush.

I actually used my phone to look up the term HD Airbrush Makeup and was astounded that it actually exists. If you are a female reader,I am absolutely certain that you know exactly what it means. For male readers, HD Airbrush Makeup is basically a powerful formula that you can apply to your skin (on you face and body) that is used to seamlessly cover blemishes for those people who work in High Definition television, a medium that is so crystal clear that it will seek out any warts and imperfections that conventional makeup can only conceal on Standard Definition.

And this got me thinking.

Why on earth do women bother to use makeup in the first place? 

And why would magazines bother to airbrush photographs of people who we know are full of imperfections?

Generally men do not use makeup. There is no need. Okay, vain men, metrosexuals and those appearing on TV will want to pretend that people don’t know about their blotchy skin. 

But nobody is fooled really.

For women, however, wearing makeup is an absolute must, an essential part of their daily routine. I have looked at Mrs PMs makeup collection and, while she is not as bad as some women I know, she has a fairly large collection of goo and substances, the names of which I simply do not understand and the purpose even less so.

I would like to ask any female readers this: 

If you wear makeup to impress a man and make him believe that you have perfect skin, luscious lips, enthralling eyes and wonderful hair, how do you think he will react when the inevitable happens and he eventually sees you as you really are, sans makeup, lipstick and all manner of goo that makes you look absolutely radiant?

Do you really think he will change his mind about you when he wakes up and sees you next to him devoid of makeup and looking clearly as nature intended? If you fear that or the man loses interest when he sees you as God intended, then the man is simply not worth knowing.

Recently, there was a Facebook campaign were ladies tagged their friends to take a selfie with no makeup all in aid of a fantastic cause: cancer awareness.

Some female friends of mine actually did it, which amazed me. On those rare occasions when I logged onto Facebook, I found myself staring at photos of female friends as I had rarely seen them – a fresh face completely sans makeup showing warts and all.

And for a while it was very refreshing to see women breaking free of the bonds of makeup incarceration. I was happy to see blemishes I didn’t know existed. Okay I got a little bored after a while but at least I knew that women can actually dare to reveal their true selves.

Of course, I have seen Mrs PM without her makeup and the truth is I don’t care whether she wears it or not. I am sure when she reads that last sentence she will cry out “ARE YOU INSANE??” and she will not understand where I am coming from at all.

Celebrities can actually get away with looking good simply because most if not all photos in dreadful magazines such as Hello! are totally airbrushed. Airbrushing photos makes me laugh, particularly when the tabloids obtain photographs of famous people caught unawares, displaying all of their flaws. If I were to meet, say, Madonna, I would be happy to chat to her whether or not she was covered in expensive makeup. I would think nothing less of her if I spotted that she really does have wrinkles that we never ever see in magazines or on the television.

She’s 55 years old, for God’s sake. 

Of course she will have wrinkle.

I also have a confession to make. I have an airbrushed photo of myself. Now before you start calling me a hypocrite, I didn’t want it to be airbrushed.

A couple of years ago, we went on a cruise with Mrs PM’s dad and on one night we all had to dress up in penguin suits (well the guys did anyway). Mrs PM’s dad insisted on buying a proper studio photograph of the four of us and while I was sceptical I didn’t want to rock the boat, so I reluctantly agreed.

When the photo came back a day or two later, I was quite shocked.

“I know I look quite young for my age,” I said to Mrs PM, “but that photo is bloody ridiculous! What on earth have they done to it?”

The cruise was from Seattle to Alaska, with 90% of the passengers being American, a nation that seems obsessed with looking young having the body beautiful.

Here are two photos. The one on the left was taken on my own camera, about ten minutes before the one on the right, which was taken by a professional photographer and then airbrushed, without my permission.

As you can see, I have no wrinkles, no blemishes and even my horrible hair has been tweaked to look only mildly abnormal. I barely recognise myself and I am certain that if I were to suddenly achieve overnight fame, then the whole world would think I looked like a plastic dummy with mad hair; somebody like this:

Or perhaps I could revisit the beauty shop I spotted on the Nutty Bus and ask for a regular HD airbrush makeup makeover every week until I reach the age of 90, at which time no amount of makeup will stop me looking like this:

What Women Want

I don’t read women’s magazines. I need to state that at the beginning of this post.

Occasionally, however, Mrs PM does buy such magazines and leaves them within reach (perhaps on purpose).

Regular readers will know that I simply do not understand women, but strive to do so. And in order to research what makes women tick, I sometimes take the bait and pick up one of Mrs PM’s magazines to see if I can get inside the female brain in my quest to discover the key to the secret.

On Sunday I picked up such a magazine and found an article that made me laugh.

It was entitled: The Good Husband Guide and it listed 10 things that men have supposedly learnt to keep their women happy. I thought it would be a bit of fun for me to comment on each and every point – from a male perspective.

Feel fancied

According to the author, women want their husbands to fancy them. Even though they may feel under the weather, bloated, bad time of the month etc., apparently nothing makes a woman more happy then the knowledge that her man is like a coiled spring, fighting a constant battle with himself not to tear his clothes off and ravage her because she is so utterly attractive.

While this may be something that can keep a woman happy, the phrase “No – I’m too tired” or “No – I’m not in the mood” or “Put your clothes back on, you arse; my mum’s coming round in 10 minutes” do make a man feel rather inadequate.

Talking Is Important

This highlights for me one of the main differences between men and women. Women love to talk, to analyse every nuance, every small piece of information available, every scrap of insignificant news and every aspect of every feeling that is going around inside a man’s brain.

Men don’t talk. Men don’t like talking.

To a man, such conversations are pointless.

If you want a man to have a decent conversation, try talking about sport, cars or books – and not about why Susan’s been feeling low this week.

Never criticise

When shopping with Mrs PM, she sweeps out of the changing room with a new dress and says “What do you think? I want you to be brutally honest!” 

I am under pressure because there are other women present and watching with interest as well as other men, also suffering from my predicament, who are chuckling inside knowing that there is no correct answer to the question.

It is like being asked: “Do you want me to stab you in the chest or shoot you in the nether regions?”

Each answer involves extreme pain.

I trust Mrs PM and have foolishly been brutally honest:

“It makes you look like an old woman. It is more like a sack than a dress. You are in your early 40’s not early 60’s. Put it back.”

The fact that I am still here today typing this is due to the fact that I can run faster than Mrs PM and I have threatened to sell the cats to our local Cruella De Ville if she hurts me in any way.

Don’t back us into a corner

The question in the previous list item is a superb example of women backing men into a corner. Why shouldn’t we do it back?

The author’s point here is that men shouldn’t be flippant over serious issues. I use humour to dissolve tense situations generally but apparently I should stop doing this. And under no circumstances should I say something like “Calm down. It was only a vase!”

That is a sure fire way to pain.

Don’t be a total pushover

Men should fight back and not let women completely dominate them – at least that is what the author is saying.

To me, this seems a difficult thing to achieve, particularly since women are unpredictable – at least that’s what I think (yes – I am that stupid). Mrs PM is very sure of herself and extremely confident. I, on the other hand, am a stubborn, grumpy old git and for the past 20 years or so I have never let anybody push me around.

I think Mrs PM knows how far she can push before I get my soapbox out. The prize of getting her own way sometimes comes at too high a price, particularly when I mutate into a ranting leviathan.

Some things are just not worth it.

If you can’t be romantic, don’t be unromantic

What is it with women and romance? I am romantic but my definition of romance simply does not match the definition of the word in a woman’s dictionary. If Mrs PM wants some romance in the middle of the big game on TV – what should I do? Should I switch off the TV, put on some romantic music and cuddle her, whispering sweet nothings into her ear?

I don’t want to appear selfish but there is a time and a place for everything.

Romance, in my view, is fine, but when the urge for such activities clashes with man stuff – we need a bit of give and take.

Balance is the key ... except some women don’t always see it that way.

Have the same attitude to money as we do

Excuse me but no. I am very careful with money and even though I occasionally go out and buy a gadget, I don’t own more than four pairs of shoes, have a wardrobe full of clothes that I will only wear once, or a room full of cuddly toys that are “too cute to resist so I had to buy them all”.

I will spend money on Mrs PM – but I won’t break the bank. That would be stupid. Thankfully, Mrs PM is also fairly sensible with money.

Be prepared to play the “Daddy” role

What? WHAT?? WHAT?????? 

When I first read this I thought the author was a pervert – but it means that women expect men to take control when it suits them.

This is a bit rich. What it means really is that women want to be in control – until they say we can have a bit of power.

It’s like saying “I have your spine – you can borrow it to sort out the mortgage – and then I want it back - IMMEDIATELY.”

Again – balance is the key.

I am in charge of my relationship with Mrs PM – as long as she says I can be.

Be the sort of bloke who can shop in Ikea and watch the Twilight Movies

My punishment for dragging Mrs PM to see The Avengers earlier this year, is to accompany her to see the fifth and final Twilight film. I haven’t seen the fourth one yet – which means that I have to go the DVD rental shop, rent it out ON MY OWN, watch it ON MY OWN and then go to the pictures with her to see it.

I HATE the Twilight films. They make vampires look like fluffy declawed kittens that have had their teeth removed.

But I will do this because I am a man of my word – and there are a few other movies I want to inflict upon my beloved Mrs PM.

As for shopping at Ikea – FORGET IT!!

Be Reliable

My name is Plastic Reliable Mancunian. I will never ever let my beloved Mrs PM down. She knows that.

And that is all that counts.

Conclusion

What I found incredible about this article was that it appeared in a women’s magazine. Surely, if women want their men to change, to be more romantic, to be a reliable “daddy” who never criticises and gushes over toothless vampires while shopping at Ikea, surely the best thing to do would be to publish it in a men’s magazine between an article on the latest super car and the latest must have gadget.

Men might actually take notice.

Men Versus Women (Part Two)

I have a problem understanding women sometimes and have tried to remedy the situation by highlighting what I perceive to be our differences, like in this old post: Men Versus Women.

However, despite all of that I am still a simpleton. If you had any doubts, here is further proof.

Mrs PM and I had a conversation when she returned home from work a few nights ago. She had had a bad day and wanted to let off steam and talk about it.

The gist of the conversation was this.

MRS PM: I’m so fed up.

PM: Well here’s what I would do. It’s not really your problem so take a step back and ignore it.

MRS PM: I can’t ignore it. I’m pissed off.

PM: Don’t be pissed off; I wouldn’t be. Here’s what you need to do…

MRS PM: I don’t WANT you to tell me what I need to do; I just want some sympathy.

PM: But I can sort this out for you. All you need to do is …

MRS PM: STOP TRYING TO SOLVE IT. I JUST WANT SYMPATHY. 

The next few minutes were spent with Mrs PM reading the riot act to me.

I had upset her and become a verbal punch bag simply because I had followed my natural instinct to address her problem – a suggestion to solve it.

That’s okay – I don’t mind being a verbal punch bag – especially for Mrs PM.

Nevertheless, what I really didn’t understand was that all I needed to do was listen to her, touch her hand, nod in agreement and culminate the exchange with a hug, a kiss and a few chosen words of sympathy.

Another woman would have achieved this perfectly.

In the end, I cast my insensitive stupidity aside and followed her and gave her the hug she needed.

I don’t know whether it is the same for other men but when anybody discusses any issues with me, my natural reaction is to try to solve their problems. I will listen intently until I understand what the problem is and then I will offer a solution, or at least offer my opinion based on how I imagine that I would deal with the situation myself.

It’s a natural thing for me as a guy. Whether other men think this way I don’t know – but it works for me.

Sadly it doesn’t seem to be the same for Mrs PM – or indeed a lot of other women.  Sometimes, a woman will want a solution, but the majority of the time, in my experience anyway, discussing the issue, expressing her innermost thoughts and getting everything out in the open to a sympathetic ear is all that she requires.

In the case above, Mrs PM knew what she needed to do; she just wanted to express herself and tell somebody how she felt.

And this is a fundamental difference between women and men in my opinion.

Am I wrong? Am I generalising too much?

Women say that men are shallow and switch off when the conversation takes a turn into deeper emotional territory. Men are unwilling to listen to the emotional journey that a woman wants to expose to the world; we see a problem and we try to solve it. The moment we find ourselves having to cope with deep inner feelings, we tend to switch off.

If you listen to the conversation between two men, you will see what I mean. It is peppered with phrases like:

“I would have done this”


“Why don’t you try …”


“I can help with that; here’s what you need to do …”

Whereas a woman will say things like:

“Oh that’s terrible.”


“Oh no! Tell me more.”


“How are you coping?”

I do sometimes find myself being sympathetic but the situation depends on whether I can do anything about the issue at hand. This is a subconscious and purely instinctive reaction. If I can help with a problem, and I mean suggest a way to sort it out, I will because that is what I would expect myself if the boot were on the other foot.

Sometimes a sympathetic ear is all that is required, or a hug.

Here I am, almost 50 years of age, and I am only just coming to terms with this seemingly obvious option. As a person who likes to solve problems, I should be able to recognise that the situation at hand is the problem that needs to be solved; Mrs PM had had a bad day and the solution to that was not to step in, grab a hold of the reasons for her bad day, wrestle them to the ground and stand triumphantly over them like a weird victor.

I am an idiot sometimes.

What I needed to do was to realise that the problem was Mrs PM’s frustration and her desire to get the feelings off her chest – and that to solve it, all I needed to do was to stop what I was doing and listen to her.

If she had asked “What would you do about it?” then I could have stepped in with my natural instincts.

Of course, all of this highlights once again that I am pretty dreadful at understanding the enigma that is woman.

But I’m still learning and I’m getting better. At least I think I am.

What do you think? Am I wrong? 

Anyway, Mrs PM is happier now, having sorted everything out herself, as I knew she would.

Next time, I shall be the most sympathetic person on the planet for the duration of her rant.

Who said that you can’t teach an old dog new tricks?

Even a stupid old dog like me…