The Quest For Positivity

I just want to reassure you all that this post may initially appear to be a political ranting mess from the mind of an angry Plastic Mancunian.

It isn’t.

It is about positivity.

First of all, let me say this: Donald J Trump is an incredible man.

Yes, you’ve read that correctly.

“Why would you say this?” I hear you cry. “You’ve said horrible things about him on this very blog.” 

That is true. Here are some of the things I have said:

“I mean look at the guy! He has mad hair and a mad attitude.”

“He's like a walking parody of a politician, an idiot who allows his mouth to utter his thoughts without going through his mental firewall.”

“I am a lot younger than the oversized oompa loompa with mad hair currently residing in the White House.”

I stand by those things – I think “the Donald” is as mad as a bag of badgers. Yet the reason I think he is incredible is because he seems to be getting away with it and has conned a lot of people – somehow. I would like to add that he is also a comedian.

The Plastic Mancunian of 2016 would have ranted and raved like an insane lunatic about the antics of the man who is leading America into a deeply uncertain future. However, I want to thank my quest for positivity for making me step back and remove negative thoughts about Donald Trump and also Brexit.

In the case of Trump, I watched the highlights (or should I say lowlights) of his totally embarrassing and deranged press conference last week and I actually laughed.

There was no anger. What is there to get angry about?

His lies were exposed (again!) and most of the western world were and remain incredulous that this man has the balls to say what he says.

That is why he is an incredible man. Everything he says is incredible and his outrageous lies are so breath-taking that they are hilarious.

So instead of dragging my soapbox out of retirement, I have been watching marvellous comedians, satirists and political commentators from both sides of the Atlantic, ripping him apart.

I have had a great time.

A positive outlook also helped me cope with a potentially disastrous family exchange on Sunday.

Before I continue, let me just fill you in on a few things you need to know.

(1) Mrs PM’s mum is a rampant Brexiteer, which means that she gets really, really angry because we haven’t left the European Union yet.

(2) I am the complete opposite and Brexit was the main contributor to my ranting negative angry persona in 2016.

(3) Mrs PM’s mum and I have had several arguments over the years, one in particular over lunch in a nice restaurant where I totally belittled her in public. Mrs PM and Mrs PM’s other half told us both off for being so stubborn and humiliating them in public.

(4) I avoided Mrs PM’s mum for almost five months in 2016 because I knew that the moment she brought up Brexit I would erupt like a human volcano and say lots of things that I would regret.

(5) Mrs PM’s mum’s political views are the polar opposite of mine.

(6) The only political similarity between Mrs PM’s mum and I is that we both have been known to stand up and bellow at political programmes on the television.

(7) Until today, Mrs PM had ordered her mum, that UNDER NO CIRCUMSTANCES should she mention Brexit in front of me.

(8) Apart from politics, Mrs PM’s mum and I get on really, really well and we have been on holiday together quite a few times.

(9) Former Prime Minister Tony Blair, a rampant Remainer last week urged the people of the UK to rise up and fight against Brexit, causing every single Brexiteer in the UK to bellow their hatred of, in their words, “this arrogant delusional undemocratic arsehole”.

(10) Mrs PM’s mum hates Tony Blair.

On Saturday night we stayed at her mum’s house in Blackpool and went out for a lovely Chinese meal. Afterwards we went to the pub for a nightcap before returning to her house to retire for the night.

Now picture the scene:

I came down in the morning to see Mrs PM’s mum with a face like thunder. She was sitting on the television watching a political programme where the interviewer was asking a politician about whether Tony Blair could and should attempt to derail Brexit. The politician was talking and Mrs PM’s mum slapped the sofa in anger and looked like a coiled spring, ready to launch into a tirade of abuse about Remainers.

She knows my political stance and glared at me with the words “I AM SO WOUND UP!”.

Her face dared me to speak, challenged me to rant about Brexit. She had prepared herself for a confrontation with a Remainer, and there was one standing in her lounge - ME! The good time we had had the night before was a mere memory in her eyes.

The 2016 version of the Plastic Mancunian would have embraced the fight and unleashed my true thoughts about Brexiteers to her. He would have told her what he thought of her views and he would have insulted her with words that he would later regret. He would have pointed out her narrow-minded hypocrisy and upset everybody.

I somehow found something within to calm the situation. I wanted to be positive and non-confrontational. I knew that trying to point out why I hated her views would be as futile as leaping off Blackpool Tower in the hope that I would sprout wings and glide over the Irish Sea like a seagull.

I sat next to her and said, as calmly as possible:

“I am equally wound up but my views are the exact opposite of yours. Let’s find something else to watch.”

She looked at me in a puzzled way and then also found something within. Her face softened and she remembered where she was and who was in front of her.

“Do you want some tea and toast?” she said, finally realising that I was a guest in her house.

“Yes please,” I said. "Remainer tea, with Remainer milk and toasted Remainer bread with Remainer butter.”

I nudged her and grinned.

She smiled back and said “We only serve Brexit breakfast here.”

By this time I had flicked over the channel and Frasier popped on the TV.

“Have you ever seen this?” I said, swiftly changing the subject

“No, “ she said and then got up to make my breakfast.

Her other half then came in and said, “She’s been ranting all morning.”

But now she had stopped. I got my lovely toast and a fine cup of tea. The subject was forgotten and not mentioned again, even though , deep down, the anarchist within me wanted to destroy her argument in a furious verbal attack.

I regard that as a small victory for positivity.

The future is bright.

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.