Skinny Jeans

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

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

Not even I am stupid enough to do that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I had to sit down.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“A bit too skinny for you?” he asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Confessions of a Shopaphobe Part Two - Supermarket Hell

Regular readers will know that I despise all forms of shopping. However, there is a certain type of shopping that I hate more than any other. I am talking about the absolute essential pain in the arse that is the weekly grocery shop.

Mrs PM and I take it in turns to traipse around our local supermarket, hunting and gathering for food items, so for me at least this is a fortnightly chore that I have to endure. 

Part of me wants to persuade Mrs PM to do all of the shopping but unfortunately there are several reasons that stop me from doing so. 

Firstly, Mrs PM, who actually likes shopping generally, also hates dragging a trolley around a supermarket. 

More importantly, however, Mrs PM is not very good when it comes to buying the things that I have added to the shopping list. Moreover, she makes unilateral decisions about certain items on the list that are contrary to my wishes.

For example, if I add to the shopping list something like “Mature English Cheddar Cheese”, she will sometimes decide that perhaps we ought to opt for a disgusting smelly French cheese instead. When she returns home from the shop, and I unpack the bag and find this repulsive substance, the conversation will go something like this:

PM: Where’s my Mature English Cheddar Cheese?

Mrs PM: I thought we could try Vieux Fromage Puant instead. It’s French and very potent. 

PM: If I had wanted a stinky old runny French cheese that can render humans unconscious at fifteen paces then I would have written that on the shopping list. I wanted Mature English Cheddar Cheese. That’s why I wrote Mature English Cheddar Cheese on the list. I know you speak French but Vieux Fromage Puant does NOT mean Mature English Cheddar Cheese; it means Smelly Old Cheese and I bloody well hate it. As soon as we open that packet the entire house will stink of smelly six months old  sweaty socks; the cats will pass out. I WILL PASS OUT! That’s why I put English Mature Cheddar Cheese on the bloody list.

Mrs PM: Well I like it and I’ll eat it.

PM: But I won’t. Why didn’t you buy English Mature Cheddar Cheese AND Vieux Fromage Puant? We would both be happy then.

Mrs PM: Well next time YOU do the shopping. 

PM: I will – and perhaps I’ll make a unilateral WRONG decision about what you wrote on the bloody list.

Of course, I won’t do that – because I always buy EXACTLY what Mrs PM adds to the list. But sometimes the things she adds are too vague – and usually it involves women’s things.

I can cope with a vague description of shampoo and conditioner, for example, even though I get some really funny looks when examining lots of female shampoos and conditioners for the gazillion different types of hair that exist in the world. 

I have to draw the line at women’s things now, though, ever since I have had to stand in front of the area selling these objects (and believe me there are hundreds of them), examining each packet or pack trying to decipher exactly what they are and whether they match Mrs PM’s vague description of them. 

I am sure on one occasion that a shop assistant was considering calling the police because “some pervert was inspecting all the women’s things”.

Thankfully, Mrs PM now only buys such things when it is her turn to shop. I persuaded her by begging her not to add them to the list when it was my turn, lest I be arrested by the pervert squad. 

And another thing Mrs PM does is forget things that we buy every week because she"doesn’t like them” or “doesn’t need them”. For example, I drink lots of grapefruit juice and you can bet your bottom dollar that when we are about to run out, she will forget to buy some. The reason? Because she doesn’t drink it. 

But I tell you this; woe betide me if I forget to buy cat treats or cat biscuits. 

Supermarkets themselves are awful places. I always go to the same supermarket because I have memorised the locations of everything we normally buy, my sole aim being to get around this fifth level of hell as quickly as possible. 

Yet every time I think I have it down to a fine art, something will happen that makes the shopping trip to hell an even worse experience. 

I hate Valentine’s Day and Hallowe’en and many other ridiculous days that force people to buy things through feelings of guilt. But the thing I hate most about them is that whenever they surface, the supermarket will transmogrify and suddenly I can’t find anything I want. I have to walk through aisles full of crap dedicated to whatever stupid day it is and discover that the little area dedicated, say, to whole foods has now been relocated to a dark and dingy corner of the supermarket where nobody dare go, thus resulting in my wandering around with a trolley full of melting frozen goods searching for a packet of flame raisins and adding about two hours to an already horrendous trip. 

And other shoppers irritate me too. 

You can guarantee that when I want to examine the contents of the dairy counter, there will be an army of people blocking my way with countless trolleys, thus adding yet more time. 

Supermarkets also punish shoppers, I’m convinced of that. They put things on offer, like a breakfast cereal, to tempt you to buy it. You succumb, take it home and over the course of a few weeks, grow to love this tasty breakfast product. And then, without warning, the manager of the store, the dictator in charge of what is sold and not sold, will decide that the cereal will no longer be sold in the shop.

What an arse!

How DARE he tempt me and then take away something I like when he decides I’ve had enough.

There are many other things that irritate me about the weekly shop but I will finish by discussing the checkout. Usually it is a good thing but it signals the end of yet another traumatic experience but this is one final humiliation. The checkout person has the ability to price check every item in your trolley at a speed far faster than your ability to cram them into a bag. Some of them do it on purpose, I’m sure, and you are left crying as objects pile up in front of you as you are trying to make sure that the loaf of bread doesn’t end up at the bottom of a bag full of heavy items that will crush it. The remainder of the queue of shoppers behind stand there impatiently rolling their eyes and shaking their heads in disgust because you are holding them up. 

They can’t wait to get out of the place either.

To be honest, I have been tempted to take advantage of online supermarket shopping, which means you can pick all of your food items from the comfort of your own home and wait for a nice man to bring it all to your door from his big lorry.

Except that is irritating too, because they suffer from the same problem as Mrs PM:

PM: Excuse me, Mr Grocery Delivery Man. Where is the English Mature Cheddar Cheese I ordered?

Grocery Delivery Man: We thought you would prefer Vieux Fromage Puant. It’s on offer. We’ll make sure you like it, and then in six weeks, just when you’re addicted to it, we will stop selling it. And all at NO EXTRA COST.

PM: Excuse me while I get my cricket bat …

How about you, dear reader; are you a lover of grocery shopping?

Or are you filled with dread at the thought of spending time traipsing round a supermarket?

Confessions of a Shopaphobe

I am a shopaphobe, if such a word exists. If it doesn’t then it ought to - and I want it to be added to the Oxford English Dictionary immediately, with the following definition:

A person for whom shopping is a complete nightmare.

Whenever I hear or read about people wanting to improve their mood through retail therapy, I want to scream in anguish on their behalf.

There is no such thing as retail therapy; there is only retail trauma!

If I were feeling low and depressed, the last thing I would do is head off to Manchester city centre or the Trafford Centre in order to combat my dark mood. Such a trip would almost certainly push me over the edge and you would find me sitting cross-legged in the car park rocking backwards and forwards while chanting something incoherent about shopping malls from Hell.

I hate shopping.

I have always hated shopping.

I think I always will hate shopping.

If you are a shopaholic, you may be reading this and shaking your head in disbelief, asking yourself how retail therapy can be rebadged as retail trauma by an idiotic old fool in Manchester.

Allow me to explain:

Shops are generally overcrowded.

Whenever I head towards the city centre or the Trafford Centre, our local piece of Hell, I suddenly become aware that I am becoming increasingly agitated. I am reminded of a Star Trek episode from the original series called The Mark of Gideon, in which Captain Kirk finds himself on a planet that is so overcrowded that there is absolutely no privacy and nowhere free of huge throngs of people, eternally crushed against each other.

Captain Kirk's view of the Trafford Centre

You have to queue for changing rooms, queue to pay, even queue to browse for books and CDs. The staff are run off their feet and seem to be in a constant state of flux, darting around with three pairs of shoes for three separate customers to try on, or struggling to answer questions from around six people about the latest smart TV’s.

I am not claustrophobic at all, but in places like the Trafford Centre on a Saturday afternoon, I find myself fighting to escape. The shops are full but so is the shopping mall itself. There is no escape – except to fight your way out of the place and breathe in precious oxygen in the inevitable rainstorm outside.

I can be indecisive.

Such is my hatred of shopping that I have to decide exactly what I want to buy before I embark upon my trip to the shopping mall from Hell. I have a plan etched into my mind; I know exactly what I want, in which colour and from which shop.

The problem is that when I get there, I find myself changing my mind, particularly if I see something similar that may be slightly more appealing or even better. I am then torn and end up wandering around looking for other alternatives, possibly at a cheaper price. Basically my plan crumbles quicker than badly built skyscraper in a massive earthquake and I either spend hours searching for something else or arrive home disappointed with nothing to show for my trauma.

Mrs PM is indecisive.

Mrs PM claims not to be indecisive - but she is.

I learnt a long time ago not to go shopping for clothes with Mrs PM. Sadly, sometimes, she insists and I have to spend hours in a woman’s clothes shop while she tries of dress after dress after dress, shoe after shoe after shoe, coat after coat after coat, skirt after skirt after skirt – you get the picture.

Even worse, this is not just limited to clothes. If we need something for the house – an item of furniture, a carpet, paint etc. it is even worse. The amount of money we have to spend is potentially larger for such items – so she has to get it right. Consequently I feel that I may as well take a tent and supplies to such shops so that I can bed down for the night while she decides exactly what will fit in our house, what the exactly colour scheme match will be and whether the cats will be comfortable sitting on whatever we buy.

Women’s clothes shops are not designed for men.

You may have seen the episode of Father Ted where a bunch of priests are trapped in the lingerie section of a department store.

I feel the same way as Father Ted but at least I have an excuse because I am with Mrs PM.

The problem is that she is so indecisive (see previous point) that she goes to the changing room with around two hundred  items to try on, leaving me standing outside the changing room like a spare part for the best part of two hours.

Worse, every single ladies' clothes shop has the changing room right next to or within the lingerie section.

What sadistic psychopath dreamt up THAT layout?

I am left standing outside trying my best not to appear to be staring at women’s knickers, bras or the mannequins modelling them.

No matter how obvious it is that I am waiting for my lovely lady, I can’t help thinking that every single woman who sees me considers me to be some kind of colossal pervert who likes to hang around in the lingerie section.

Ikea is a Maze 

The worst shop in the world is Ikea.

Don’t get me wrong, I love the wares for sale in Ikea.

What I hate is the shop itself and the layout of the place. I have a theory that there are people who like to explore dark and inhospitable places who will draw the line at exploring their local Ikea simply because it is like a huge labyrinth that is impossible to escape from.

I am convinced there are people who visited for a set of glasses two weeks ago who are still trying to escape from there.

Even if you know how to negotiate your way out of the place, you still end up buying ten times the amount of furniture or household equipment that you planned to buy when you walked through the doors. The worst thing about the store is that you walk around, lifting box after box of build-it-yourself furniture onto you shopping trolley and then have to find a way to somehow cram it into the car for the fifteen mile journey home.

And Finally

There are many more reasons why shopping is a pastime conceived by a particularly devious and sadistic demon from Beelzebub’s legion of pain and I will no doubt elaborate on those in a future post.

In the meantime, I am sure that there are people out there who are shopaholics and absolutely love to traipse around shops for hours and hours on end.

Over to you, dear reader. 

Are you a Shopaphobe or a Shopaholic?

If you are a Shopaholic, why do you think shopping is therapeutic?

More importantly, have you any tips to help me overcome my fear and hatred of places like the Trafford Centre.

My own way is to avoid these places and shop online.

I wonder whether I can get a doctor’s note excusing me from shopping because of “shopaphobia”?

It’s worth a try. All I have to do is video myself after a trip to Ikea.

That would convince even the most sceptical doctor.

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.

Supermarket Syndrome

Yesterday I returned from (yet another) holiday – this time to Ibiza.

Before you judge me – I am too old to go cavorting around night clubs, enduring foam parties and the general dreadful DOOF DOOF of pounding and utterly shit dance music.

I am now heading towards my fifties so the last place I want to be is watching a bunch of overrated DJ’s with stupid names making awful and loud noises on whatever contraption they use, to a crowd of people aged 18 to 25 who are leaping up and down in rapturous ecstasy as these so called maestros destroy music in front of me, having paid a minimum of 40 Euros for the privilege.

I wouldn’t mind so much if I could find solace in a pint – the only problem is that any liquid in these clubs costs a bloody fortune. The closest I got to one of these hellish places was when a lovely young lady tried to entice me into a bar playing this awful brain shattering tripe with the words:

“It’s Happy Hour!”

“How much is a beer?” I asked .

“Hang on I’ll check,” she said. Out of curiosity I waited. She returned and when she spoke Mrs PM had to pick me up off the floor.

“Eight Euros – and you get a free shot.”

“EIGHT EUROS?????? EIGHT BLOODY EUROS?????????? AND THAT’S BLOODY HAPPY HOUR???????”

I was dragged away by my eighteen year old lad before I could get the soapbox out and scream the words “THAT’S DAYLIGHT ROBBERY!!!!”

Anyway, I digress.

I returned home and opened the fridge – as I normally do – to try to find something to eat after a long journey with nothing to eat other than cardboard plane food. The fridge was just like Old Mother Hubbard’s miserable cupboard – totally and utterly devoid of food. Had I the desire to eat ice I might have been happy.

This meant one thing and one thing only: I uttered the terrible phrase to Mrs PM:

“We have to go shopping – and we have to go TOGETHER!”

“Oh God NO!!!” she cried.

Regular readers of the tripe I post will know that I hate shopping. Alas – I hate shopping for food even more and spend my time ranting internally as I wander around Tesco. When Mrs PM is there, I rant to her – that’s why she hates shopping with me.

Usually we take it in turns with the weekly shop and she is spared the vitriolic gobbledygook that somehow helps me through this tedious necessity. On times such as a return from holiday we do the shopping together- and she hates it; so do I.

Eventually, after a bit of a moan, we set off. I was hungry so the chances of a soapbox moment were exponentially more likely to occur.

Such is the ubiquitous nature of Tesco, our supermarket of choice, that we have two of them very close to where we live. I shop at the smaller of the two. Why? Because I know where everything is and it only takes me about half an hour, depending on queues, to get in and then out of the hellish place.

Mrs PM prefers the other because it is a Tesco Extra – an enormous warehouse of a supermarket that sells everything you would ever need. I hate it because it takes approximately three days to find anything. Mrs PM hates the smaller one because they invariably do not stock essentials in such large quantities; essentials like Felix "As Good As It Looks" Senior (for Cats 7+ Years) Mixed Selection in Jelly.

The Tesco I prefer does not normally have the “As Good As It Looks” tag so the cats have to put up with plain old Felix Senior (for Cats 7+ Years) Mixed Selection in Jelly.

Apparently the cats don’t like that – fussy little buggers. This means that I am consistently on the receiving end of a bollocking for buying the “wrong” cat food.

“They want to think themselves lucky I don’t buy the cheap value cat food,” I rant. “They’ll eat it when they’re hungry,”

“How DARE you even consider buying substandard food for my babies,” she replies.

As you may have already guessed, we ended up at the big Tesco – a Tesco that had around one thousand trollies, each of which had a wobbly wheel and a knackered brake, which meant that I had to wrestle with the thing as it sought to collide with shelves, fridges and other shoppers.

To make matters worse, Mrs PM presented me with a list. “Off you go,” she said. “I need to go to the toilet and get some cash – you start and I’ll see you in five minutes.”

Before I could protest, she had disappeared into the huge shop leaving me doing battle with a trolley that was intent on getting me beaten up and charged with damaging Tesco property.

I walked into the place and realised that I didn’t know where anything was. I also had to decipher Mrs PM’s cryptic list of items that we needed – or should I say things that SHE needed. One of the most traumatic things I have to endure when shopping is buying items for Mrs PM. I have stood in front of a huge shelf with thousands of different kinds of shampoo for thin hair, dry hair, coloured hair, unmanageable hair, greasy hair with all sorts of weird ingredients and claims of increased bounciness, reduced frizzing and all manner of other outrageous and indecipherable claims. All she has written is:

Shampoo for me

What the hell am I supposed to buy?

Sometimes, she puts down another word that strikes terror into my soul:

 Conditioner

Does she mean hair conditioner? And which of the ten thousand hair conditioners should I buy? And what if she means clothes conditioner?

And it can get worse, dear reader. As you can imagine, there are lots of other “female hygiene products” that get included in the list. I don’t even know what half of them are, let alone having to wander up to a female assistant, looking like a total dork, asking her if I have chosen the right “product”. Why can’t she buy them when it’s HER turn?

Anyway, to cut a long story short (and I am aware that I am rambling a bit), I got lost in this huge maze that was Tesco and almost burst into tears when Mrs PM said “Oh – we’ve forgotten tomatoes. Can you just pop back and get some?”

“I don’t know where the tomatoes are,” I wailed. “And what if you’ve gone when I get back? What if I can’t find you?”

I did find her thankfully and I managed to escape within an hour or two thanks to Mrs PM’s expertise with this particular shop.

And we also managed to stock up on our supplies of Felix As Good As It Looks Senior (for Cats 7+ Years) Mixed Selection in Jelly.

And “Shampoo for me”.

Female Fashion (And Other Impossible Subjects)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Am I wrong?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What the hell is a “size 12”?

12 what exactly?

Inches? Feet? Broom handles? Elephants?

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

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

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

So how can a dress be a size 12?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Don’t do it! Be yourself!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then they complain about being cold.

Why?

Am I missing something here?

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

It’s SO over!

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

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

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

Me: What do you think?

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

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

Mrs PM: But it’s SO over!

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

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

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

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

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

Mrs PM: Where are you going?

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

Mrs PM: I’m coming with you.

Me: I thought you had to go to work.

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

Me: But what if you get the sack?

Mrs PM: There are always other jobs.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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






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

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

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


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

Shopping - Will I Ever Learn?

I am the most stupid man in the world. Will I ever learn from my mistakes?

We are going to a family wedding next weekend and, of course, Mrs PM has to have a new dress for the occasion. I know from past experience that shopping with Mrs PM is a dreadful experience, made even worse when she has to buy clothes for herself.

I’ve suffered before (read about it here).

Last weekend, I made several mistakes. First, I told Mrs PM that I was thinking of going to the Trafford Centre to buy a new shirt and tie for the wedding.

“I need to buy a new dress,” she replied.

The horror of a trip to the Trafford Centre being dragged around lady’s clothes shops well up inside me and I almost screamed:

“NOOOO!!! Don’t make me come with you. In the name of all that is sane and holy, please don’t make me come with you.”

Thankfully, my mental firewall intercepted the tsunami of pure panic that threatened to overwhelm me and turn me into a gibbering, blubbing wreck and I managed to compose myself and say:

“Fabulous. I tell you what – why don’t you go ahead and I’ll join you later. I’ve got one or two things to do; I’ll give you a call when I arrive.”

“Fine,” she said, much to my relief.

I let her go and my intention was to give her three hours before joining her. That was my second mistake.

I can barely stand to spend more than an hour in the Trafford Centre myself, so I foolishly assumed that three hours would be ample time for Mrs PM to find herself a dress. Wrong!

Three and a half hours later I set off and arrived at the Trafford Centre with a very simple plan; meet Mrs PM for a coffee, buy a shirt and then go home.

I called her.

“Where are you?” I asked.

“I’m in NEXT”, she said.

“Have you found a dress?” I asked.

“No!” she said.

I felt an invisible hand squeezing on my heart. I almost wept. People stared at me as I crumbled.

“Are you there?” she asked.

“Yes,” I squeaked. “I’ll see you in a minute.”

I managed to pull myself together before I reached NEXT and found her looking frustrated as she moved from dress to dress. I managed a smile.

“Honestly, I’ve been to loads of shops and I can’t find anything,” she said.

“Fancy a coffee?” I said hopefully.

There was no chance. She looked at me as if I had just kicked a dog. We spent the next twenty minutes wondering around NEXT before she dragged me off to Debenhams.

Some people say that Debenhams is a great shop because of the wide variety of choice. I say that it is the eighth level of Hades. The entire ground floor is dedicated to woman’s shopping; if you aren’t asphyxiated by the smorgasboard of female fragrances, then you find yourself, as a man, surrounded by all manner of female attire. It is quite easy to panic in there and find yourself in the lingerie section. If you a male and alone there, you may as well start praying to your maker.

Within Debenhams, there are a large number of franchises each of which has a huge selection of clothing. Mrs PM was like a kid in a candy shop. I was hauled around every single rack of clothing. I saw dresses for small women, big women, fat women, thin women and there were numerous varieties for all ages. I was surrounded by females all of whom were totally and utterly indecisive. Are all women Librans? I think they are. I made another mistake at this point. I said:

“There are hundreds of dresses. Why can’t you decide? You’re worse than I am.”

She physically abused me at this point. If the look of rage wasn’t enough to strike fear into my soul, the thump that followed was an appetiser that had me wondering about the manner of my impending doom at the hands of my beloved.

I had to make amends. I had to feign interest.

“What about this one?” I asked.

“Are you mad?” she replied with ill-concealed venom.

“How about this?” I asked picking up a small number that I foolishly thought would accentuate the better parts of her figure.

“DON’T YOU KNOW WHAT I LOOK LIKE? ARE YOU BLIND?”

I decided to shut up and only add words of encouragement when she showed a little interest in a garment.

After an eternity Mrs PM managed to select some dresses. By this time my diminishing interest was but a memory; I had no idea where she had picked up each item and had followed her around the store like a lost puppy.

“Right,” she said. “I’m going to try these on.

“At last,” I whispered under my breath.

“WHAT?” she snarled.

“Nothing, my sweet,” I said smiling.

I thought that I could see the light at the end of the tunnel. I had a moment of pure optimism where, in my mad mind, I saw Mrs PM trying the first dress on, loving it and then both of us leaving the store happy.

What an utter clueless goon I was.

I forgot two things:

(1) It was Saturday afternoon, arguably the busiest time on the busiest shopping day of the week.
(2) Debenhams had a sale.
(3) Mrs PM had several dresses to try.

We arrived at the changing rooms and found a queue. We moved to another set of changing rooms and found another queue. My heart sank.

“We may as well join this one,” said Mrs PM and before I could blink, she added

“OOH – just hang on a minute. I want to look at that dress over there. Keep my place in the queue.”

She handed me the dresses.

Just when I thought it couldn’t get any worse I found myself in a queue of four women waiting for a changing room cubicle to become free - and I was holding several dresses. To the average passer by it looked as if I was queuing to try on the dresses myself.

For the first time I felt like a colossal pervert, a cross dressing maniac. Several blokes walked past. Some laughed openly; others whispered to their partners and pointed; the rest shook their heads, knowing the torment I was going through.

After what seemed like an eternity, Mrs PM returned.

“I didn’t like it,” she said, as if that would make me feel any better.

After an eternity, Mrs PM finally reached the front of the queue. As she disappeared within the changing room I said “If there’s anything you need, let me know.”

That was my biggest mistake. Born out of a desperate need to rectify the numerous faux pas I had offered to assist Mrs PM in the hope that we would leave this hell hole in harmony.

I vowed not to make the mistake of trying to answer the world’s most difficult question: How do I look in this?

Regrettably I heard seven words that shattered any hope of leaving with a tiny amount of my pride intact. The changing room attendant came out holding one of the dresses that Mrs PM had taken in.

“Are you Dave?” she asked.

I should have run away at that point but I said, yes.

“Can you get this in size 14?”

She handed me a purple dress and disappeared back into the changing room leaving me standing there like a complete cranberry.

For a while I was too shocked to react. When I finally came to my senses I realised the enormity of the task before me. I hadn’t paid any attention to the exact location where Mrs PM had acquired the dress. It could be anywhere in this enormous shop. And then I realised that I would have to find the location whilst clutching the bloody dress. I wouldn’t have Mrs PM with me so once more I would look as if I were shopping for a dress for myself.

This last fact was with me as I walked through the shop. I was being mocked by a series of thoughts entering my head from an unknown nemesis within:

“They think you’re buying that dress for yourself.”

“I’ll bet it would suit you if you tried it on.”

“They’re all laughing at you – you’re a PERVERT!”

I ran around the store, frantically searching. My haste made matters worse because the dress clung to me like a purple leech, giving some people, I’m sure, the impression that I was actually wearing it.

It probably only took me five minutes to find the location and swap dresses but it was the longest five minutes of my life. I raced back to the changing room and almost threw the dress at the changing room attendant. My face was red and flustered; I’m sure I heard mocking laughter.

Thankfully my efforts weren’t in vain and Mrs PM chose the dress that I had just humiliated myself with.

Two hours had passed since I’d arrived- Mrs PM had been there for FIVE AND A HALF HOURS.

I managed to buy a shirt and tie within ten minutes and we enjoyed a relaxing coffee before finally going home.

To give you some idea about how I feel when shopping with Mrs PM, consider the following excerpt from the hilarious show “Father Ted” where a bunch of Catholic priests suddenly find themselves in the lingerie section of a department store and have to escape unnoticed (follow this link).

I am looking forward to the wedding – I just hope that Mrs PM doesn’t tell everybody about our escapades with the dress. Knowing her, she will convince them that I actually tried on the dress myself – or worse that I actually enjoy shopping with her!!

What shall we do on a beautiful Sunday in May? - Spend it in Ikea

Shopping is a trauma for me unless I am going out there to buy something I desperately need and want. I would love to spend two hours wandering around shops to buy a gadget, a decent book, anything for myself to be perfectly honest. Unfortunately any luxuries I desire are near the bottom of the joint shopping list, that of Mrs PM and me that is. Sadly most of the things on that list are for the most demanding thing in my life – the house. This means that I have to endure a trip to Ikea, via other furniture shops.

So what do we need for the house? Having just redecorated the smallest bedroom, we have to buy:

(1) A wardrobe
(2) A small chest of drawers or other storage unit.

Simple? No! My dreams were shattered, in particular when Mrs PM suggested the inevitable trek along the M60 to the shop that metaphorically speaking exists in the storey below Dante’s seventh level of hell – Ikea.

I’m not having a go at Ikea, by the way. I love the furniture in there and I think it is reasonably priced and excellent quality and value for money. But, as with most other furniture shops, I detest the shopping experience and what I am about to write applies to just about all of them. Every time I have been furniture shopping, I have entered the shop an optimistic customer and departed in agony, both mental and physical, with a hole in my bank balance.

This time was no exception. It started badly as we were driving because I told Mrs PM in no uncertain terms why the furniture shopping experience was so awful for me. This didn’t go down to well because Mrs PM assumed that I was criticizing her. I tried to explain that perhaps the problem was me but I gave up having realised that I had dug a hole big enough to bury myself and an elephant three times over.

To cut a long story short:

We got lost in the showroom because we couldn’t decide whether to buy a bedside table or chest of drawers, and the wardrobe we wanted was available but not in the colours that Mrs PM wanted. I wandered aimlessly in the maze that is the showroom floor, trying to work out from the “easy to use” store maps, where the bloody hell we actually were. When we eventually found something recognisable, for example, the TV bench area, we couldn’t agree on a style; should we choose the Leksvik or the Markör? What do these words mean? It wouldn’t surprise me if they were Swedish for “moron” and “stupid”. We argued about the wardrobe, we wandered about between bedroom, lounge, office etc. sections looking for anything we could. At one stage I was caught short and had to find the toilet. When I got back, could I find Mrs PM? I think you can guess the answer to that. Eventually we bumped into each other and discovered that she was frustrated because the colours she wanted were being phased out and I was frustrated because I wanted to get home to watch the Manchester United game on TV.

The worst thing is, we thought we were ready for this trip to Ikea but in reality we were totally ill-prepared. Oh I thought we were prepared; we had measured, discussed, measured again, discussed again and we both approached the building with a firm plan in our minds. However, we just didn’t plan enough.

We couldn’t decide on a colour (well personally I didn’t care; I would have selected purple with pink stripes and yellow spots to get out of there); we couldn’t decide on a style or shape (again I could ant would have accepted a wardrobe shaped like a pyramid to get out of there). And the result was that we moaned and argued as we wandered around the shop, trekking back and forth with other like minded and equally frustrated couples.

I’m sure that staff working at any furniture shop love to watch hapless couples reduce each other to gibbering wrecks after hurling vitriolic abuse at each other over the shape and size of bedside tables. I can imagine that in their position I would love it.

Well in the end, having trudged around a hundred miles in the confines of Ikea, we finally made a decision. And what happened? We discovered that the exact model and shade we wanted was out of stock and furthermore the shade we desired (or more accurately Mrs PM desired) was now being phased out.

We left the shop three hours after we had walked in with nothing.

On the way home, I plucked up the courage to suggest that Mrs PM, the more difficult to please of the two of us, do more research on the Internet, decide what she wants and where she wants to get it. With a snarl, she agreed and this afternoon I have left her to it.

Suffice it to say, we will probably spend next Saturday hiking around MFI for hours.