The Antique

 I was in Liverpool with my eldest lad and I walked past a pub that I used to pop into back in the early 1980’s. Outside there was a sign that said “Established 1898”. 

“I used to go in there when I was a student,” I said with a smile, reminiscing as the memories of fun nights out with friends came flooding back. 

“Oh really? What was it like on opening night?” he asked with a laugh. 

This happens on a fairly regular basis when my two lads decide that I am a walking antique. I've been called a fossil, a dinosaur and a caveman. I have successfully managed to ignore such jibes, adding "It will happen to you one day!".  

Occasionally, sadly, such things catch me unawares and I react. Usually, I am quite happy to be a man in my early 60’s and mostly I ignore my advancing years. In my head I am still that 18 year old lunatic (probably with the brain of a 15 year old if I'm honest). The only thought that pops into my head when confronted by a reminder of my age is “Oh – I remember that” and it is almost always with fondness and causes me to laugh or smile. 

Last weekend I went away for a weekend with some friends all around my age (ranging from 55 to 66) and we had a good time just catching up and enjoying each other’s company. One afternoon, we went to a place in the Cheshire countryside that is basically a family park or village with lots of attractions, such as quirky shops, various country-based activities, restaurants and bars. 

We popped into a shop that advertised itself as an antiques shop. Initially I spotted a few items of furniture, books and an assortment of household items and ornaments that I would have said fitted into the category of “antique”. However, as I strolled further into the store, I noticed that there were a few items described as “collectibles” but originated from my youth; memories came flooding back. I saw old records, toys, magazines, football programmes, games, books and many other items that I was very familiar with. These were things that my parents bought for me or that they had had around the house having bought them back in the 1950’s to the 1980’s or perhaps been given them by my grandparents, which definitely made them antiques. 

I thought to myself – I really am quite old if I remember these things. 

For example, I flicked through several record collections for sale and saw albums that I used to have from the 1970’s or that my parents had bought when they were young (we are talking 1950’s and 1960’s here). I saw a cutlery set where the handles were made of faux bone ivory that I remember eating with as a kid in the late 1970’s. There were old games, Corgi and Dinky model cars that I once had a vast collection of, and lots of old books by people like Enid Blyton that my two sisters and I used to read. 

It was like stepping back in time. 

And then I thought – “Bloody hell! I really am an antique!”

Have you heard of the term “mid-century”? It is used to describe items that span the middle years of the 20th century from the early 1930’s to the end of the 1960’s. I was born in 1962 so, strictly speaking, that makes ME mid-century. I had only heard it mentioned in terms of antiques on shows like “Bargain Hunt” and “Antiques Roadshow”. 

For some reason this struck a chord and when I returned home, I looked up the definition of “antique” and I was pleasantly surprised. To define something as an antique it has to be at least 100 years old. Thank goodness for that, I thought. Things that are over 50 years old are described as “vintage”. This means that I am not antique; I am merely vintage – and also mid-century. 

That’s a relief. 

Back on our Cheshire break, after the trip to the antique shop, we returned to the place we were staying and decided to play some music with our evening meal. For a change we decided to play songs from Spotify that were number 1 in the UK for various milestones. For example, when we were born, when we were 10, 18 and 21. I have to say that when I heard them all, I started to think about being old again. These songs were all over 40 years old, for goodness’ sake and no matter how good they were, it didn’t stop my age from coming back to haunt me, especially after seeing toys, books and games from my youth in the shop claiming to be antique. 

I’m over it now, because I have been happily listening to songs from the 1970’s to the 1990’s since then and my happy memories of times that were up to 50 years ago are still worth cherishing. I am sure that in the future I will be hit by the realisation that I am an old man now. However, it will be a fleeting negative feeling I think because I have friends who are older than me and I love reminiscing about times gone by. They were happy times in a world that was vastly different to the one we are living in now. 

I am proud and happy to be a vintage mid-century man. 

Young Guns

Welcome to a bright but cold winter day in South Manchester. The UK has been battered by a storm called Storm Goretti (named by the French Meteorological Office) which struck the other night bringing 100mph hour winds and tons of snow to various parts of the country. Thankfully it travelled south of Manchester and the only sign that we had here was a slightly breezier day and a little rain. In the UK, we are legendary in our ineptitude at being able to cope with adverse weather conditions. Whenever a storm arrives or we have snow, the whole country comes to a standstill, and such is the case with this new storm. Locally (within about a fifty mile radius) we are okay but the rest of the country is struggling to cope, with power cuts, blocked roads and transport problems. Hopefully things will improve soon. 

This week’s Sunday Stealing takes us back in time to childhood. In my case this is about five decades because I was born in 1962 and grew up, really, in the 1970’s. I guess it will vary from person to person. To be honest, I don’t recall much about the 1960’s apart from England winning the World Cup in 1966 and Neil Armstrong setting foot on the Moon in 1969. I was only three years old when England won but I vaguely recall my dad being ecstatically happy about it. The Moon landing was different because my dad told me that this was an important moment in history and as we watched it on TV he told me that I should remember this - and I do.

By the way. the photo above is me when I was twelve years old. That was over fifty years ago and makes me feel really old

Shall we dive in, anyway? 

1. Tell us about a time when your family got a newfangled invention (your first air conditioner, colour TV, VCR, microwave, computer, etc.).

My dad, like me, was a lover of technology and gadgets. I think if he had had the opportunities and educational chances that I had he may have been the first person in my family to go into further education but instead he had to make do with succumbing to the demands of the working-class principles of the day. He left school at fifteen and immediately got a job in a factory. He was a well- read man though, my old man, and he always had his nose in a book. Whenever he saw something shiny and new advertised on the TV, he would make a mental note to save up his hard-earned money and buy it. 

For this reason, we were one of the first families where I lived to get a colour TV and a VCR when they were released. I remember seeing him walking up the street carrying a box. I ran up to him and, knowing his love of gadgetry, I asked him what he had bought. He smiled and said “Come home and see; we can set it up.”

It was a VCR and I had heard of them but never thought we could afford one. The two of us set it up and worked out the controls and how to record on the timer and then played with it for weeks. We had quite a few tapes and gradually he started building up a library of his favourite shows. My mates wanted to visit just to see it in action. I loved it because you could pause TV programmes and step through them a frame at a time, which made watching football on Match of the Day really interesting. 

2. Is there a particular song that sparks a childhood memory?

There are hundreds of songs that spark childhood memories. Here are a couple:

I loved this song and my dad hated it. I was only about four at the time but I remember hearing it on the radio at Christmas while sitting in front of a coal fire at my Grandad’s house and then jumping up and down singing “She’s giving me Good Vibrations” much to the amusement of my grandparents. I still love the song today. 

This is the first song that I really loved. The Sweet were a British glam rock band who were massive in the UK in the early 1970’s and this song reached number one, which meant that it was played everywhere. My parents and grandparents hated it but we as kids loved it. I have a vivid memory of attempting to dance to it at a school disco with my mates when I was about eight years old. 

Fast forward to 1978 when I was about fifteen years old. I used to do a paper round and had to be up at the crack of dawn. My dad worked shifts in a factory and he would wake me up at about 5:30 am and I would drink coffee while listening to the radio in order to wake myself up. Baker Street was released in the winter and I recall loving it before setting off to wander the streets with a bag full of newspapers in the darkness before the whole of Walsall woke up. I recall loving the tranquillity and peace of dark silent streets as people were gradually waking up to greet the new day. I did briefly consider becoming a postman for that reason and I think if I ever get bored in retirement (as unlikely that this is) I might just think about early morning deliveries. It is very mindful and relaxing. 

3. What is something an older family member taught you to do?

My mum taught me to cook a lot of basic things as well as useful household chores. I am not a fan of cooking now but thanks to my mum I can make a variety of things even without recipes should the need arise. This came in very useful when I left for university. A lot of my mates there were hopeless in the kitchen. In fact, there are lots of mates of mine even today who can’t cook (or maybe that is just an excuse). I certainly encouraged my own lads to cook and now they are both very good. My youngest son's Brownies are delightful (and I have just finished off the batch he made us for Christmas).  

4. Back in the day, what name brands would we have found in your family's kitchen?

A lot of brands have survived from when I was a child and some have fallen by the wayside. We used to have Heinz soup for example.  A few weird things existed though like powdered mashed potato. We had a brand called Smash with the slogan “For mash get Smash”. It had a funny advert though:

Thankfully, we peeled potatoes with our metal knives, boiled them for twenty of our minutes and smashed them all to bits because Smash was horrible in comparison. 

Another disgusting thing that my mum used to buy was condensed milk which came in a can and looked vaguely like normal milk – except that it was thick, sweet, sickly and tasted nothing like milk at all. In fact, there was a Saturday morning kids show called TISWAS (Today Is Saturday Watch and Smile) where they used to take the mickey out of this foul substance by pretending that “condensed milk sandwiches” were a good thing. 

5. As a child, did you collect anything (rocks, shells, stickers, etc.)?

Yes I did. I started off by collecting cigarette cards. My dad was a smoker (as were most people back in the 1960’s and 1970’s) and with each packet of cigarettes you got a little card with a picture on it and you could collect them all and add them to a little booklet. I gave up eventually and started collecting football programmes. My dad was a regular at Walsall football club and every time he went to a game he would buy a programme. I started collecting them in 1973 and I carried on through university and for the first couple of years of work. And then I stopped apart from buying the odd one at more recent games. I actually still have my collection in the loft. I don’t think they are worth anything but certainly the nostalgia factor is still there. I even dug one out for my next door neighbour recently because he knows a former professional footballer who played for Port Vale against my team, Walsall, in the 1970’s and I have a football programme with a photo of him in it and his name on the team sheet. Apparently he was pleased to see his name and face in the programme. 

Here is an example of one of the first programmes I collected:

Progressive Thoughts - Day 18

Today’s song is called Space-Dye Vest by the brilliant progressive metal band Dream Theater. Again, this is a mellow slow burning song that may make you ask:

“What do you mean “Metal?”.

The song is quite sad and dark and reflects the pain of a relationship being over from the perspective of the person who was dumped while he struggles to get over the fact that everything is over.

There are so many songs about the pleasure and pain of love, so many in fact that often they are quite shallow.

Some, however, are quite profound and this is one of the better ones, both musically and lyrically.

I’ve only ever been dumped once and, to be honest, I could see it coming. I was 18 years old and the girl in question was the daughter of one of my parents’ best friends, so the family connection was quite strong, which is one of the reasons that other people took the break up more seriously than either of us.

As usual, I shall protect the identity of the girl in question by calling her Gwen.

Gwen was my second serious girlfriend. My previous relationship had ended a few months earlier and had lasted for over a year and my parents, particularly my mum, had reacted badly to that one.

“You’ve dumped that poor girl?” she had said angrily and demanded to know why.

I think she saw wedding bells even though I had only been 17 years old. So when Gwen and I got together, I think my mum was totally delighted; not only did I have a new girlfriend, the bonus was that she was best friends with Gwen’s parents.

It was a win-win for her.

The truth is that Gwen and I kind of drifted into the relationship because of our parents. We saw a lot of each other because of them and were already good friends. I was hopeless with the opposite sex at the time and blindly tried to chat up women who were out of my league, making a complete arse of myself every time. I was also very stupid because didn’t really see it when a girl liked me.

This was the case with Gwen and she made all of the moves.

Sadly, for her, I had just discovered the joys of alcohol and was in my final year at school with A-Levels on the horizon and at the same time looking for a place at university. I was also an arsehole generally.

The problem was that I was changing, both my appearance, my outlook on life as well as trying to calm down and stop being an arsehole. Gwen and I got together at totally the wrong time.

I spent Saturday nights in Walsall town centre drinking with my mates and then knuckling down with work the rest of the time. Gwen wanted me to spend time with her and, to be fair to her, I neglected her. When we got together the first thing she used to do was moan about how selfish I was. She was working and not at school so she didn’t understand what I wanted and what was driving me.

Nor did she understand that I needed to spend time with my best friends on Saturdays.

It was doomed and the inevitable happened after about three months.

I called at her house and she opened the door.

“Hiya,” I said.

“I’ve had enough,” she growled. “Why don’t you fuck off back to your boyfriend, Stan!!!”

Stan was my best mate at the time (that wasn’t his real name by the way – I just want to protect the guilty).

“Are you dumping me?” I asked, incredulously.

“I thought you were clever,” she said. “YES I AM DUMPING YOU!”

And then she slammed the door in my face, leaving me standing there shocked. I remained there for about a minute then burst out laughing. I realised at that point that I didn’t really care that I'd been thrown onto the scrap heap and instead, went to Stan’s house (as she had said) where we went to the pub to discuss it over a pint.

Strangely, the next time I saw Gwen, she was her usual self and we actually chatted like the old friends we were.

Gwen will always stand out in my memory, however. A few months after we split up, my dad died. My mum wanted to tell Gwen’s parents but she was a complete mess, so I took that responsibility. I walked the short distance to Gwen’s parents’ house and knocked on the door.

Gwen saw me coming and assumed that I was visiting her.

She opened the door with a smile and said “Hiya! What are you doing here?”

I looked at her and blurted out “My dad’s died!” and then burst into tears.

Gwen grabbed me and gave me a huge hug as I rested my head on her shoulder and wept like a baby, soaking her jumper. She dragged me into her house as I sobbed and gave the bad news to her parents who also fell apart in grief. Gwen made me a cup of tea and sat next to me holding me as if I were going to run away forever.

At that moment, I felt closer to Gwen than I had ever felt to her when we were boyfriend and girlfriend.

Sadly, I lost touch with her after I left Walsall but that one memory of Gwen comforting me is far stronger than just being an ex-girlfriend who dumped me for being an arsehole (which I deserved to be fair).

I will never forget what she did to comfort me.

Thanks again, Gwen.

Relativity

One of the more common phrases I’ve started using in the past few years is “You’re a child”

I am not talking to children when I say this, nor am I insulting the person to whom I am speaking; it is all to do with relativity, i.e. our relative ages.

My oldest friends are all around my age or older. The rest are mostly younger. At work recently, one lad was beating himself up about his age and younger colleagues, sensing blood in the water, did their best to pour flames on his despair.

As I watched this from afar, I found myself starting to feel the inner frustration that only age can bring until finally I had to act.

“Stop feeling sorry for yourself,” I yelled across the office. "When you’re over 50, sure, you can start contemplating what life is like for an older man. But until then, stop whining. You’re still in your thirties; YOU'RE A BLOODY CHILD.”

Laughter erupted and insults were hurled my way about my own age, deflecting attention from this youngster so that he could wallow in self-pity at the prospect of entering his forties.

Part of me would LOVE to be his age again; yet, paradoxically, the other part is absolutely delighted that I am sitting comfortably in my mid-fifties. Now that may sound strange to youngsters (and by that I mean those under fifty), but it’s true.

I have wandered this planet for fifty four years, some of it on my hands and knees, when I was a toddler or inebriated in my twenties, and loved almost all of it. My brain is full of experiences that youngsters today cannot really appreciate. However, despite the jokes, they do actually appreciate it, I think.

Here is an example.

A couple of really young colleagues from work have formed a quiz team at a local pub. My own son is also part of that quiz team. All of them are in their twenties. Until recently, they weren’t doing very well at all. At the end of the quiz, the quiz master usually announces the top three only and they had not featured in that lofty position.

The next day at work, I walked into the kitchen to make a cup of tea and two of them were discussing the previous night’s defeat. One of them went to university with my son, hence the reason my son comes to the quiz too.

“Those questions were really hard,” one of them said. “How are we supposed to know who was a Prime Minister in the 1970’s or who starred in a film in 1956!”

I asked what the questions were and then, to their amazement, answered them.

“You should come to the quiz and join our team,” said one of them.

“Nah,” I replied.

Soon afterwards, I got a text from my son, asking me to be part of the team.

“Come on,” he said. “Show us how much you know!”

Reluctantly I agreed to go and found myself sitting around a table with people who were half my age and younger. On that first week, we finished one point outside the top three – a lofty position for them.

The next week we tied for first place – and I won the tie-break question meaning that we had WON! Our prize was a certificate giving us money off food and drink on our next visit. I have now turned up four times to the quiz and we have won TWICE now, the most recent victory coming on Wednesday of this week. Since I have been part of the team we have a 50% success rate,

They are now almost begging me to turn up every week.

To be fair, it isn’t just me; it is the age range. I have no idea about some of the question being asked, particularly questions about celebrities, pop music of the 2000’s onwards and knowledge about the latest crazes. However, my brain is full of golden knowledge nuggets that I have collected over the years and I am very strong on older stuff.

One thing saddened and amazed me the other week at the quiz. The question was:

“Which comedian released a song called “Funky Moped” in 1975?

I immediately said “Jasper Carrott”.

Now I appreciate that foreign readers may not have heard of him, but he was a very famous comedian from Birmingham from the early 1970’s, probably until the mid to late 1990’s. I’m originally from Walsall, near Birmingham, so I know Jasper Carrott very well and have actually seen him live. He is very funny and his Birmingham accent reminds me of my home town.

Not one of the other members of my quiz team had heard of him.

“WHAT???” I said incredulously. Aware that I might give the answer away, I starting hissing at them like a snake with a frustrated whisper.

“YOU’VE NEVER HEARD OF JASPER CARROTT?” I hissed.

“SSSSHHHH!!” they implored. “You’ll give the answer away.”

I didn’t care. I ranted in a silent hissing whisper for about five minutes, almost causing us to miss the next question.

The other teams must have thought that we were impersonating a group of deranged anacondas!

I was appalled, so much so that I have mentioned it to people my age who are equally amazed that the youngsters of today have forgotten or never heard of one of the best British comedians of the past few decades.

To be fair, they have also been amazed that I have never heard of various other modern celebrities, comedians included.

It’s all relative you see.

Never mind, at least between us we stand a great chance of winning on quiz night.

Mind you, that doesn’t stop my own 23 year old son hurling ageist abuse at me. Last week we were in Liverpool, where I went to university. We passed a pub called The Swan Inn that I and fellow rock music lovers had frequented in the early 1980’s because it had great beer and a jukebox that played heavy metal classics.

“Look at that!”  I exclaimed. “I was in there drinking beer and listening to Iron Maiden in my youth.”

“Really,” he said, looking at the sign. “It was founded in 1898. Were you there for the first opening night?”

This is what I have to put up with, dear reader. I don’t really mind. What I do mind, is that Jasper Carrott is lost on the youth of today.

He is still around today so I would like to make sure that my quiz team know who he is. Here he is discussing, coincidentally, growing old in the 1990s.

I hope you can understand his accent.

Speak English!

Recently I have been struggling with the English language. Certain groups of people have taken it upon themselves to make me look like a fool by speaking a language that sounds like my mother tongue but in fact is far from it.

I have stared at these people, either in the flesh, or on my television set, as they abuse the language I have spoken all my life and, basically, speak meaningless nonsense, masquerading as English, in an attempt to make me look and feel like the dumbest person on the planet.

Don’t get me wrong; these people are using English words and constructing sentences and, strictly speaking, if you analysed their sentences you would find that they were in fact speaking English.

The problem is that their sentences make no sense at all.

They are talking bullshit!

For the past ten years or so, I have been paranoid, thinking that I am devolving and gradually turning into a total cretin. However, thinking about it, I have become aware that the language I speak fluently is being abused by certain groups of people like businessmen, politicians and youngsters who have taken my language and mutated it into a new and sometimes unintelligible load of gobbledygook.

The problem is that other people in the same group actually understand what is being said, so I have often found myself looking blankly at them as if they are speaking Russian. To them, I look like the village idiot and really, what I should be saying is “Speak English! You are making no sense whatsoever.”

I am not the only one. Other clever people have noticed this disturbing trend.

I’ve found myself in meetings and at presentations listening to people who use phrases that make no sense whatsoever.

For example, here is a sample presentation with the thoughts going through my head:

Presenter: Going forward, we have to make sure that we are all on the same page.

PM: Are we supposed to be reading a book?

Presenter: I’m sure you all realise that we have to address the elephant in the room.

PM: How rude! I’m not fat!

Presenter: The helicopter view is that we need to make maximum use of our greatest assets and some of those assets are here today. We need to leverage our potential and grab the low hanging fruit.

PM: What are you saying? Are you asking me to fly into the office in a chopper and pick fruit? I didn’t even know we had any apple trees.

Presenter: Nevertheless, we all need to touch base on this one.

PM: Baseball this afternoon anyone?

Presenter: To maximise our business and climb the strategic staircase, we must look under the bonnet. 

PM: I thought we all worked in retail, not an upstairs garage.

Presenter: And for that reason we need to downsize. We will be looking for some volunteers but from the rest of you, let’s put on a record and see who dances.

PM: Party time.

Presenter: Anyone who wants to discuss this can touch base with me offline.

    LATER

PM: What on earth were you talking about?

Presenter: You fired! Bye!

I’m not saying that such bullshit is spoken in my workplace, but I have noticed an alarming increase in such nonsense.

It’s not just business.  Politicians infuriate me with their bullshit or simply revert to gobbledygook in an attempt to cover their tracks with a string of nonsensical jargon. Either that or they repeat the same drivel ad nauseam. Everybody knows it yet they still do it – and worst of all – they get away with it.

Interviewer: Are you going to admit that you are wrong and that you lied to the House of Commons about the tax increases?

Politician: Let me refer you to my earlier statement. We, as a government, are totally committed to making sure that the working families of the United Kingdom are rewarded.

Interviewer: By paying more taxes?

Politician: The fiscal machinations of the governmental departments are designed, unequivocally and exclusively to promote the advantages of the diligence of our dedicated citizens who reap the rewards of full time employment. 

Interviewer: What does that even mean? You lied to the House, didn’t you? Working families will be much worse off.

Politician: The figures show that our policies have led to the most successful government in years, unlike the last government who were a disaster.

Interviewer: But …

Politician: Will you let me answer the question? My point is that we have increased spending in the NHS by 3% in this term.

Interviewer: What’s that got to do with you lying in the House?

At this point I would love the interviewer to throw down his microphone and slap the politician in the face with a large fish while screaming:

“JUST ANSWER THE PHHHAAAAARRKKKINNGG QUESTION AND STOP TALKING BULLSHIT!!!”

One thing that really annoys me about politicians trying to bamboozle us with inane rhetoric is that they basically think the rest of us are stupid. As they lie to our faces, refuse to answer questions or smile in the most insincere manner possible, they secretly believe that we are stupid enough to buy what they are saying.

Of course, there is the dim possibility that they are sticking to a prewritten script in order to save themselves from being caught out and forced to resign for actually baring their true soul to us.

Finally, we have the youth of today whose “urban” speak is like a foreign language. It comes from rap, I guess, but to me it makes absolutely no sense whatsoever.

Thankfully, here is the very funny Doc Brown to give me a helping hand:

Mind you, I’m a bit of a hypocrite myself. I originally come from Walsall, a town near to Birmingham, in an area known as “The Black Country”, so-called because of the heavy industry there, pumping vast quantities of soot and smog into the atmosphere.

It is the area that gave us Judas Priest and, most famously, Ozzy Osborne and Black Sabbath, as well as Led Zeppelin.

I used to speak in Black Country slang as illustrated by this jolly little video.

Did you understand it?

Smart Conversation

The art of conversation is slowly dying.

The only people who are currently keeping it active are those above a certain age, like me, who like to have a good old fashioned conversation (or a “chinwag”) with one or more people in pleasant surroundings such as a restaurant, pub of coffee shop.

However, there are a certain group of people (to whom I shall refer as the youth of today) who prefer other means of communication.

I am referring to the smartphone.

Actually, it’s not just the youth of today – some people my age are equally guilty of this crime against humanity.

Picture the scene:

Mrs PM and I walk into a pub and approach the bar. After ordering our drinks we find a seat and chat to each other about our day at work, next year’s holiday plans, what a great guy I am and how lucky she is to have me – you know the kind of thing.

On the table next to us are three people all with drinks who obviously know each other. None of them are talking to each other. Instead, each one of them has a smartphone in their hand and each one of them is doing something like:

(1) Surfing the internet looking at crazy You Tube videos

(2) Posting their status in Facebook (“I’m having a great time with Kate and Paul in The Blue Hippo and am just about to quaff a pint of Old Skunkwarbler”)

(3) Posting their status on Twitter (“Drnkng Old Skunkwarbler with m8s in pub – LOL - #Drunkasskunk)

(4) Texting other friends who aren’t there (“CU L8er @BlueHippo – wot’s ur eta?”)

We sat there watching them and nobody spoke until one of them ran out of beer and asked whose round it was.

A more extreme case occurred in my own house. I was with Mrs PM, my son and his girlfriend. Mrs PM and I were watching TV and the kids were busy typing on their phones. Suddenly, my lad’s phone chirped – he had received a text message. That text message was from his girlfriend who was sitting a yard away and had texted him asking for a drink.

We like his girlfriend a lot and I have told her that she can help herself to anything in my house (apart from my beer of course!) – and usually she does.

Even my lad was surprised.

He turned to her and said “Get your own drink!”

“What?” I said incredulously. “Have you just texted him to ask for a drink?”

“Yes,” she confessed.

As you can imagine, my soapbox came out and I started ranting about how smartphones are turning people into robotic ignoramuses and that the logical evolutionary conclusion will be that people eventually forget how to speak, only able to communicate with grunts and superfast typing on their devices with their oversized thumbs.

“Ignore him,” said my lad as he got up to fulfil his girlfriend’s request. “He’s old!”

“Don’t tell me you’re actually going to get her a drink?” I said.

“Shut up!” shouted Mrs PM, bringing my rant to an abrupt end. My lad and his girlfriend just laughed (as they usually do).

I have now banned the use of phones when I am out with Mrs PM and my immediate family and their girlfriends unless they receive an important text or a phone call.

Actually, that’s another thing. People these days communicate by text instead of ringing each other up. If you want to have a serious chat with somebody or arrange something you cannot do it with a text that is written in the stupid abbreviated slangy language, known as text speak.

You can achieve so much in a five minute conversation. If you text to each other it takes hours to do this, and in my case most of that time is taken trying to decipher the idiotic language that’s used.

Does the following really make sense?

OMG RUOK? UR BF is a dick IYKWIM! TIME! TTYL! HAK! Kate

What this means is

“Oh my God! Are you OK? Your boyfriend is a dick, if you know what I mean. There are tears in my eyes. Talk to you later. Hugs and kisses. Kate.”

Actually, she won’t “talk to you later” because she will send you a tweet, post you a message on Facebook or text you.

Don’t get me wrong; I am a technophile who LOVES my smartphone. The difference between me and the youth of today is that I use my phone for learning Spanish, navigating, receiving emails, reading, taking photos, checking the weather, measuring my walking distance and speed, organising my calendar, watching TV via Google Chromecast, converting currencies, translating from English to other languages and vice versa, checking the time, storing useful information, brain training, simulating a torch, reading the news, posting photos on Instagram, checking the names of actors in films, learning other subjects, identifying songs, checking the latest gigs, recording voice notes and looking at You Tube videos.

I hasten to add that I only do this when I am on my own and not when I am in the company of one or more people.

I use my phone in a pub, for example, when Mrs PM has gone to the toilet and I am on my own waiting for her to return. If I am with several people, my phone stays in my pocket.

And that’s the way it should be.

I don’t want the art of conversation to die. While social media has revolutionised communication, it should not be used to communicate with people who are in the same room as you.

People need to talk to each other.

It’s ridiculous.

Anyway, rant over.

I’ve got to go. Mrs PM has just texted me to tell me to start cooking dinner because her favourite television programme is on.

Bloody smartphones!!!

Evolution Of A Metalhead

I’ve been watching a great program on TV that chronicles the evolution of what is known as Heavy Metal music.

It got me thinking (always a dangerous thing).

Why do I like hard rock and heavy metal music?

Well I guess it all started when I was a rebellious teenager, driven by raging hormones, with no direction and desire to lash out at people whether they deserved it or no.  I wasn’t openly angry, reacting only when provoked; sadly, it was very easy to provoke me. I had a very short fuse.

At the time, my schoolmates were exploring Black Sabbath, Deep Purple, AC/DC and other similar bands. Punk rock was around but I wasn’t really exposed it that much because hard rock and heavy metal were prevalent in my school.

People used to lend me albums by Rainbow, Ian Gillan, UFO, Nazareth and Judas Priest; it was magnificent. I found an outlet for my anger. When I listened to grinding guitars, screeching vocals and pounding drums I was mesmerised and completely enthralled.

I will never forget the day when I bought my first rock album, Strangers In The Night by UFO, and put it on in my room at high volume. My dad and I had a row that day over the music and he threatened to break the LP in two if I didn’t turn down the volume.

My hair was long and bushy and I was not alone. At school, hair length was increasing despite the teachers’ attempts to force us to shorten it. One teacher called me “the boy with the chrysanthemum head” in an attempt to shame me into cutting it.

It worked – well sort of.

I reduced the length of it, but rebelled by keeping it bushy.

At school we had to wear a uniform, yet I managed to show our loyalty to the gods of rock with a scruffy beige rucksack upon which the logos of all my favourite bands was etched. I wasn’t talented enough to draw them so I asked my younger sister Jackie, who was a maestro when it came to art.

She drew the logos of Whitesnake, Deep Purple, Judas Priest, UFO, Nazareth, Black Sabbath and many others, even though she hated the bands herself.

Outside school I started wearing black shirts, T shirts and denim jackets. When I was seventeen I went on holiday with my family to Butlins  and spent the time on my own walking around with no desire to fit into the family lifestyle. I may as well have gone on holiday on my own. Here is a rare photo from that holiday, when my dad finally demanded proof that I had actually been with them.

Yes - that really is me aged 17. What do you think of the hair?

Of course, I mellowed slightly as I matured, yet my love of heavy metal and rock prevailed. The bands changed (I discovered progressive rock in the form of Rush, a band that is still my favourite today).

As I went to university, I began to drift away from rock slightly. My mates said that I would grow out it – and for a while they were right. While I enjoyed pop music, I still found it dull and as the 1980’s wore on, it became clear to me that music, in my opinion was too simple. I began to favour the bands of my youth, the progressive rock bands that composed rock symphonies, the powerful hard and heavy thumping sound of pure heavy metal at its very best.

I welcomed it back into my life with open arms – and I have never looked back since. And to me, my evolution into a metalhead is complete, simply because now I appreciate the music for what it is – skilful and beautiful.

I no longer needed to be the rebel I was when I was fifteen. I didn’t want to break my skull on a wall to the pounding heaviness of “Sabbath Bloody Sabbath”; it was more an appreciation of how beautiful and powerful the genre can be.

And since then, my taste is more refined and the style I listen to most is progressive rock and progressive metal. I love listening to Dream Theater, a band who compose rock music with such virtuosity that it literally brings tears to my eyes, and Porcupine Tree, another fabulously talented band.

Old favourites are still there; Deep Purple, Rush and Judas Priest as well as new rock bands like the Black Spiders.

I marvel at the ability of guitarists like Alex Lifeson, Tony Iommi, John Petrucci, Joe Satriani, Ritchie Blackmore, Angus Young, Kirk Hammett, KK Downing and many more. The vocal range and talents of singers like Ian Gillan and Geddy Lee are incredible. The incredible majesty of drummers like Cozy Powell, Ian Paice, Mike Portnoy and Neil Peart are a joy to behold.

And I am so enthusiastic about these people and the music they compose that I find it hard to contain myself when talking to people about them.

Mrs PM and I have had numerous discussions about the glory of rock and heavy metal and she simply can’t understand why I rave about a Joe Satriani guitar solo or a Dream Theater masterpiece.

I know I’m not alone because I have friends who are enthusiastic as I am. And my eldest lad Stephen also appreciates how wonderful metal can be, though his taste is slightly more modern than mine.

I’ll leave you with a monster of a song from Judas Priest from the 1980’s which sums up why I love heavy metal so much. Incredibly I find songs like this blast away the anger and frustration I feel after an awful day at work – even now.

You won’t get Coldplay playing like this:

P.S. I am currently compiling a list of rock and metal classics to make up a blogathon, similar to the one I did in January that embraced the pop songs I love. I can sense already, dear reader, that this might not sit too well with some of you – but I hope when the time comes you will stick with it. It may even make those who think that metalheads are braindead Satanists think again. If you listen to the actual talent these guys have – you will be pleasantly surprised.

I hope.

A Recipe For Disaster

In the past, on this blog, I have tried to give you the impression that I am an intelligent guy.

That is true – but at the same time I can be a bloody idiot.

How do you make a so-called intelligent Plastic Mancunian into an idiot? There are many recipes; here’s one of them I used a long time ago:

INGREDIENTS

One sober young Plastic Mancunian.

One ridiculous set of clothes that are fashionable only in the eyes of the Plastic Mancunian.

One mirror.

Two other sober young friends of the Plastic Mancunian also prepared in ridiculous clothes.

One ATM card.

Several pints of fine English ale (or lager if none is available)

One Friday or Saturday night.

Several expensive pubs in London.

One very expensive night club in London.

A large group of people willing to dance.

One DJ.

One night club bouncer.

Approximately two hours of cheesy music.

Three young ladies who are well out of the league of the Plastic Mancunian and his mates.

Several cheesy chat up lines.

One stupid idea.

One taxi.

One time machine.

PREPARATION METHOD

(1) Using the time machine, transport the ingredients back to 1985. It doesn’t matter if the year is 1984 or 1985 – that should be close enough.

(2) Dress the Plastic Mancunian in the set of ridiculous clothes and stand him in front of the mirror until he believes that he is sex on a stick. This should take approximately two minutes.

(3) At this moment, take the pre-dressed friends and put them and the Plastic Mancunian into the first expensive pub in London.

(4) Soak the idiots in a couple of pints of beer.

(5) When the conversation starts to get silly and the three young men start to turn into idiots, transfer them to another expensive pub in London.

(6) At this point, you may need to apply the ATM card, particularly if any of the idiots have run out of cash.

(7) Repeat steps (4) to (6) for several hours until the three young men are fully matured idiots.

(8) Apply the ATM card one more time.

(9) Transfer the three idiots to the very expensive and preheated London night club.

(10) Apply the ATM card again because the idiots didn’t get enough cash.

(11) At this point the idiots may realise that they are about to make a huge error in judgement. If this is the case, liberally apply more beer in another pub. That idea will soon diminish.

(12) Apply the ATM card again if necessary.

(13) Before reaching the next stage, the three idiots should be well-oiled and may even be rat-arsed. Ideally they should all be able to string together a coherent sentence and understand each other – just.

(14) Place the idiots outside the very expensive night club in London at the back of the queue of people who are willing to dance.

(15) Slowly place the group of people into the night club for just enough time to irritate the Plastic Mancunian. Two minutes should suffice.

(16) Before putting the idiots into the night club, make sure that the Plastic Mancunian has been allowed to exchange words with the night club bouncer.

(17) Do not allow the night club bouncer to mutate into a violent moron – that will ruin the recipe. If necessary subdue the Plastic Mancunian with a diversionary tactic; pop the three young ladies into the night club (though they can be applied later).

(18) Once in the night club, apply liberal lashings of lager. Be careful not to overdo it at this stage.

(19) Mix the DJ, the cheesy music and the group of people willing to dance until the atmosphere is HOT, HOT, HOT!!!!

(20) Take the stupid idea and mix it with the idiot that is thriving best in the lager. The best idea to use is Impersonate the Dancer, whereby one of the idiots tries to exactly copy one of the more bizarre dancers for one whole song.

(21) When the idiot has finished dancing, and assuming he hasn’t been attacked by the target of his impersonation, he must select another idiot to impersonate another dancer. At this point it may be necessary to apply yet more beer and if you have any, some Dutch courage.

(22) Repeat steps (20) and (21) until each idiot has played the game or until the threat of violence has reached alarming levels.

(23) At this point, mix in the three young ladies who are out the idiots’ league (if not added already) and liberally pour in as many cheesy chat up lines to add a little spice. My personal favourite is

Hey Doll. Have you got a license for those eyes?

Nevertheless,  

Fancy a snog?

will do if all else fails.

(24) There may be a few slapped faces at this point but that will add to the pleasure; the idiots won’t feel the pain; they should be totally sozzled at this point.

(25) Continue to cook at a high temperature until the idiots start to wilt or the three ladies resort to more extreme forms of violence.

(26) Now transfer the idiots to a taxi, applying the ATM card for one final time if necessary. There is no need to worry about the three young ladies at this stage; they will have disposed of the idiots in suitable fashion. The three idiots will be saying “Yeerrr my bessst mate!” to each other anyway.

(27) Leave the resulting mess to rest overnight.

When you have finished in the morning, you will have three colossal hangovers, no memory, no cash, no egos and lots of embarassment all nicely wrapped up in the stupidity of youth with maybe a little vomit on the side.