Being A Guy

I often hear women saying things like “You don’t know how lucky you are being a man.”

I kind of agree with this because the truth is I absolutely love being a guy.

I have been a guy for 54 years (and counting) and I have loved every second of it. Mrs PM also claims that being a woman is fantastic – but I have no experience of that so can’t possibly comment. Besides, I wouldn’t want to risk the wrath of an irate Mrs PM.

Having said that, I may just risk that with this post. I recently rediscovered a humorous list from the 1990s which listed 100 reasons why it’s great to be a guy. Whilst it is meant to be a joke list, there are some elements of truth in it.

I thought I would share some of my favourite reasons from that list with you.

1. Phone calls last only 30 seconds.

This is true. When Mrs PM talks to her mum she is on the phone for what seems like hours. I don’ actually know what they talk about but I daren’t ask. If I were to ask she would reproduce the entire conversation to me including her thoughts, her mum’s thoughts and, worse, she would ask my opinion on everything – which could lead to danger if I said something wrong.

Conversely, when I make a phone call I am short and to the point – as is the man on the other end of the phone. If happens to be a woman then I can struggle to make the call last 30 seconds. Either way, Mrs PM usually wants to know exactly what was said, my thoughts, the other person’s thoughts etc.

I have no idea why. And if I say “don’t be nosey” I can get into serious trouble.

2. A five day holiday only requires one suitcase.

I only pack what is necessary for the holiday, which usually means that I have the minimum packed away. If I run out of stuff, I can buy some more. I don’t plan what I am going to wear every day – I just wear it.

Women on the other hand pack their entire wardrobe into the suitcase (or suitcases) and are oblivious to weight limits on aircraft. The argument seems to be that they don’t know what they are going to wear so they have to have a choice – for every single day. Worse, the entire contents of the cosmetic bag and bathroom have to fit in too – as well as the army of shoes.

I once travelled abroad for business with a woman and we were going for just two days. I had a tiny suitcase that I could take on the aircraft as hand luggage. She had a huge suitcase that had to be checked in. Being the gentleman that I am I also hauled the bloody thing around when we arrived.

I didn’t dare ask what she had in there – in case she either thumped me or listed the contents and the reasons why she felt the need to pack her entire house into a tiny suitcase.

3. Haircuts are cheap.

When I get my hair cut I usually say “Short at the back and sides and slightly curly on top please.”  The whole thing is over in about five minutes and costs about £8.

Women, on the other hand, are totally ripped off even if they want a trim and can expect to pay at least £20, rising up even more if something more sinister is involved, like dye.

I once went to a unisex hairdresser with my ex-wife. All she wanted was a trim the same as me. She paid about three times the amount that I did.

Why is that?

4. You can get ready in ten minutes.

If Mrs PM and I are going out, she usually starts getting ready an hour before we are due to leave, leaving me downstairs watching TV. As she is preparing herself, she shouts downstairs at ten minute intervals.

“Are you going to get ready?”

Finally, ten minutes before, I go upstairs, take a quick shower and change. I am ready before her as well.

This infuriates her. I love it.

5. Hot wax never comes near to your body.

At work, for charity, we persuaded my boss to have his legs waxed for charity. It was the funniest thing I have ever seen. He flinched and grimaced and yelped as his leg hair was ripped from his skin with maximum prejudice.

The women we work with had front row seats and kept saying “Now you know how we feel.”

I can safely say that this will never ever happen to me.

And, I have to ask, why on earth would any human being put themselves through such a traumatic experience?

I think that’s enough for now – but bear in mind there are 100 in total. I may share some of them with you in future.

Progressive Thoughts - Day 10

Today’s song is one of my all-time favourites by yet another band from Birmingham, the Moody Blues. I’m sure you have heard the song before – Nights In White Satin:

The song is basically a beautiful and emotional love song, the kind of song that I normally wouldn’t like. It’s not that I’m not romantic – I think I am. The problem is that I find generic love songs a little too contrived whose sole purpose is to rip your heart strings.

If you are just beginning a truly wonderful relationship, and everything is new, then perhaps love songs can express human feelings -  that is unless the lyrics are extremely corny.

If you have just broken up, or had a failed attempt to win over the heart of a fair maiden, then such songs can become your nemeses. 

There are one or two that I still cannot bear even a couple of decades after the event.  I am in a long term loving relationship with the woman who is “the one” and yet when I hear these songs, I feel like Satan himself has ripped out my heart and taken a big bite with a grin on his malevolent face.

That’s what love songs can do for you, dear reader.

So, how do these songs get into your head? Let me tell you.

I regard music as a surreal kind of time machine. A song can propel you back in time to your life at the time it was popular or had meaning in your life. You hear the opening notes of the song and a box of memories is opened in your mind that remind of the time you heard that song or when it was important in your life.

I have a vast collection of 1980’s songs that do just that, propelling me back to the time when I was young and when life was truly exciting; songs that remind me of good times, friends etc. but most of all that remind me of my successful and failed attempts to acquire a girlfriend – and there are far more times when I failed.

Any love song from that time will cause what is left of my heart to lurch but one two in particular invoke a mixture of rage and pain. It’s almost like a phobia. 

One of the artists responsible for the song in question specialises in the sugary nonsense that drips from loving youthful relationships. But they don’t prepare you for the inevitable pain. As a consequence of one particular incident, which I won’t relate for fear of bringing back more pain, I now refuse to listen to ANY songs by this artist. It’s not that I hate them – it’s just that their performances evoke that nasty bilious feeling of rejection and heartbreak.

There must be millions of people who hate certain songs and artists for the same reason.

Of course, on the other hand, there are some songs that loving couples regard as “our song”, and such love songs serve a purpose. The problem is that you both have to like the song. 

Mrs PM and I do not share the same taste in music and the truth is there aren’t any songs that we could regard as “our song”.

I have associated one or two from my collection with my lovely lady, but I can tell you all this for free – she will hate every single one of them.

I am certain it’s the same case the other way round too.

Nevertheless, I still love Nights in White Satin and I thank the Lord that I was too young to care less about women when it was released in the late 1960’s.

I’d hate to hate it.

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.

How Times Have Changed

When I was a young man, in those dim and distant days when I found myself desperately seeking female companionship, womankind had me in their clutches. They had power over me and I was a slave to them.

I fancied any woman who would talk to me and the more beautiful the woman, the more enthralled I was.

Sadly, in those days, society dictated that it was the man that had to do the chasing. It was the man who had to ask the woman for a date or make his desires clear. And that was why women had power over me. They had the ability to twist me around their little finger.

And they were cruel, dear reader.

I remember one occasion when my so-called mates goaded me into asking a woman out.

“She fancies you, Dave. It's obvious,” they would say, goading me into action by appealing to the optimist in me. “Shall we come with you to give you moral support?”

Being a fool – and too blindly in lust to realise that the gorgeous target of my affections was fancied by just about every other male in the vicinity – I marched over to her with my “friends” behind me. She was with her mates too.

In order to protect her identity, let’s call her Alison.

“Hi Alison,” I said with a smile.

“Hi Dave,” she said smiling back. Yes – she smiled – that means she must like me.

“Can I ask you something?” I said summoning up all the courage I could muster.

“Sure,” she said.

“Can we – erm – get together? Will you go out with me?”

In my imagination, she stood up, threw her arms around me and said “I’ve been waiting for you to ask!”

In reality, she said “WHAT? With YOU???? You must be joking!”

She laughed.

Her friends laughed.

My “friends” laughed.

I ran away looking like a complete arse.

Don’t get me wrong; she genuinely liked me – but because I was funny. She wouldn’t have even entertained the idea of anything more than just friendship.

Bless her, she later found me and apologised and asked if we were still friends. Of course, still being enthralled by her, I agreed. But our relationship had changed.

This was the story of my love life around that time.

Thankfully, something changed and all of a sudden women decided that it was time to turn the tables. I guess they became fed up of waiting for guys to ask them out. I don’t know when it started – I just noticed that women were actually marching up to guys and asking them out on a date.

And then it happened to me. My ex-wife W basically took control and made her feelings perfectly clear. Many years later, my beloved Mrs PM did exactly the same.

In fact, over the years, I have been approached a few times, and had to let the poor woman down gently in the nicest possible way (realising how painful such rejections can be).

I for one am really glad that it happened and it marks a significant power shift in the way women behave.

I had an interesting chat with Mrs PM’s mum the other week. When we go to the pub with her and her other half, she refuses to go to the bar or pay for any meals we have in restaurants because, in her eyes, it’s the responsibility of the man. Mrs PM is a modern woman and we share most of the responsibilities.

“Why are YOU going to the bar,” Mrs PM’s mum says.

“Why not?” says Mrs PM.

It’s the same at home. Mrs PM’s mum does all the cleaning, washing, cooking etc. and accepts that role. She even packs both suitcases when they go on holiday, selecting all of his clothes and everything else he needs.

And she accepts this without question. In fact, she positively revels in it.

There is no way I would let Mrs PM choose or pack my clothes for me. Besides, she wouldn’t do it.

Not all women have embraced the power shift. Mrs PM has friends who still want the man to chase them. She calls them “princesses” presumably after fairy tale princesses who are swept of their feet by handsome princes.

When I cast my mind back to the time when I desperately wanted to be that prince, I recall being let down almost every time, sometimes cruelly.

I used to think that I wasn’t “prince” material and I considered myself, with the aid of Captain Paranoia, to be a hideous villain who would never get the girl.

Of course, these days, the whole concept of dating has changed. People do not have to humiliate themselves by marching confidently up to a member of the opposite sex and asking them out. The internet and social media has revolutionised the dating game.

You can join a dating site and now even get a smartphone application to help you. Take Tinder, for example. This app allows you to find other people within a certain distance of your location and matching certain criteria and, if you like them, you simply tap a heart icon if you like them and a cross icon if you don’t. Obviously two people like each other then they can arrange to meet.

I wish there had been something like that around when I was about eighteen years old. It would have protected me from being humiliated and having my poor heart shredded by a female friend who had no desire to take our friendship further.

Unbelievably, there is also an app called Binder that allows you to dump people too if you are too scared or too much of a coward to do it yourself.

This is the kind of message you get:

If there had been an app like Tinder around when I was young and single, I wouldn’t have been told to “Piss off” when I resorted to desperate chat up lines.  

In fact, I would have been equally concerned by a crass app like Binder because in those early days I can only imagine my poor heart being destroyed by a text message.

At least I wouldn't have received it in front of a group of people, I guess.

Anyway, I for one am glad that times have changed and that there is more equality when it comes to relationships.

After all, we are in the 21st century now, and not in the 1950's.

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.

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: