I have never understood the apparent fascination of my fellow countrymen with watching people on the TV being ritually humiliated before undergoing an experience that involves being hacked on an operating table.
On Channel Four in the UK there is a programme called “Ten Years Younger” where people are made to look, as the name suggests, ten years younger. When Mrs PM (who incidentally loves the programme) first brought this to my attention I sat down to watch it, more out of a morbid curiosity than a real desire to watch a fascinating piece of televisual excellence.
The host of the show is Nicky Hambleton-Jones, a South African dietician. The victim, sorry, contestant, is a person, usually a woman, who appears to be at least ten years older than she is.
We are introduced to the victim at the start of the show. Nicky basically smiles sweetly at the woman and then verbally rips her to shreds, with all the sympathy of a starving lion standing over a plump gazelle. She savages the victim’s hair, colour and texture, before moving onto the face, usually showing the audience every single wrinkle and every blemish. Next the victim is forced to show her yellow or rotting teeth in close up for all to see. The final kick in teeth involves the victim’s dress sense being condemned with the ferocity of a hungry shark.
If that’s not enough, just as she thinks that the savaging is complete, the now dejected contestant is paraded on a local high street like a mutated freak. Nicky demands that every single passer by gives his or her opinion on age and appearance.
Now at her lowest ebb, the victim is led back to the studio where Nicky confirms the dreaded news; the victim looks like a decrepit old geriatric and has the style and grace of an orang-utan cat-walking at a fashion show.
Nicky herself is not a bad-looking woman and boy does she rub it in. “Look at me! I’m beautiful; I dress like a model; I am an expert in all things fashionable and nutritional. You are the complete opposite!!”
Nicky isn’t totally heartless. She is here to help after all and her audience, perched on their settees, are then subjected to the remedy to cure the victim’s problems. With a smile on her pretty face Nicky tells the victim that she will have her face sliced open and vast swathes of facial skin peeled off before having major dental surgery and a thorough makeover.
I cringed throughout the entire show.
I hated the fact that the victim was paraded in public as some kind of aged mutant creature in a zoo. I hated the condescending way in which Nicky talked down to the victim, treating her like a naughty child and acting as if she herself were an omnipotent fashion guru.
And being a squeamish wimp, I couldn’t bear watching the victim being attacked by a mad cosmetic surgeon with a scalpel and marker pen.
I left at that point and returned at the end of the show.
Thankfully, the victim was transformed; her hair was sculpted by a celebrity hairdresser; her teeth were perfected by a dental surgeon; her face was peeled, sliced and every wrinkle and blemish exterminated; her wardrobe was replaced by clothes selected by style gurus to the rich and famous.
The final chapter involved Nicky once more parading the victim in the high street, this time as a youthful, dashing, gorgeous nymphette who could melt any man’s heart at one hundred paces.
It worked. The victim, no longer a victim, did indeed look like a completely different person with at least ten years surgically removed. And the audience agreed.
But, for me the whole thing was very distressing. I saw a sad old woman humiliated to within an inch of total despair only to be sliced and diced and resurrected as a youthful phoenix. I felt a wave of sorrow followed by relief - I hated it.
That’s why I question the programme and other programmes like it. Is it right to watch a person destroyed and then recreated all in the name of entertainment? What if the surgery had gone wrong? What if the makeover hadn’t worked? Do we know about the failures, if there are any?
I am so grateful that I have managed to retain my youthful looks. I am forty five years old but almost always mistaken for somebody ten years younger. Why? Well the main reason is that I do not smoke and I do not spend hours in the sun. If I expose my skin to bright sunshine for more than an hour, it turns a luminous purpley-red colour. Any longer and I get sunstroke, which means that I end up in bed ill, but unable to get comfortable because my skin has been cooked. And two days later I look like an extra from a zombie film as the fried skin peels off - I don't need cosmetic surgery to remove my facial skin.
I have no intention of ever subjecting myself to a traumatic experience such as “Ten Years Younger”. I’m there already thankfully.
See you in two weeks. I’m off to South Africa tomorrow to tell Nicky what I think of her show (if I bump into her on my travels).
Friday, 29 August 2008
Tuesday, 26 August 2008
The Bogeyman
The Bogeyman lurks in the gentleman’s toilet at my place of work.
I am not talking about the demonic fiend that hides in your cupboard and leaps out when you’re asleep to kidnap and torment you to within a centimetre of your life. I am talking about the nameless and repulsive monster that performs an act of gross indecency within the cubicles of the male toilet.
This beast walks amongst us and I possibly talk to him every single day. When an innocent man walks into the toilet to answer a call of nature and chooses to use a cubicle he is reduced to a gibbering wreck if the Bogeyman was the previous occupant.
I know what you’re thinking; you are debating whether or not to read on. I urge you to do so because this kind of act needs to be stamped out and I feel that it is my mission to do so. Why? Because I am sickened whenever I am that poor unfortunate victim who has to bear witness to the antics of this cursed creature and I respect my fellow man.
So what is this grotesque act of offensiveness?
The Bogeyman, when perched on his throne, is obviously too bored to allow nature to take its course and decides to succumb to the urge to pick his nose. When he has managed to clean all of the snot from his right nostril, he doesn’t use the adjacent toilet roll to dispose of the detritus; he wipes it on the cubicle door. How revolting is that? And not content with trying to create a Picasso masterpiece from the dried mucus of his right nostril, he sticks his finger up the remaining nostril and hauls out the contents to reproduce another abstract work of genius on the wall just above the toilet roll dispenser.
WHY DOES HE DO THIS?
I have tried to shame the individual concerned to own up by expressing my displeasure at this revolting hobby – usually when there have been a group of us quaffing beer at the local pub – yet nobody confesses. In fact, everybody seems to find it highly amusing, so much so that I am beginning to suspect that there may actually be several Bogeymen whose sole purpose is to cover each cubicle in snot.
Thankfully I have two groups of allies; the cleaning staff who meticulously scrape the cubicle walls at the end of the day and my female colleagues who agree with me and find the whole thing utterly sickening.
One day I will find out who is responsible for this outrage. I have a dilemma, though. Should I name and shame him or leave a sticky note on the cubicle wall?
“Self Portrait” by “Mr Bogey Mann” (during his green period)
I am not talking about the demonic fiend that hides in your cupboard and leaps out when you’re asleep to kidnap and torment you to within a centimetre of your life. I am talking about the nameless and repulsive monster that performs an act of gross indecency within the cubicles of the male toilet.
This beast walks amongst us and I possibly talk to him every single day. When an innocent man walks into the toilet to answer a call of nature and chooses to use a cubicle he is reduced to a gibbering wreck if the Bogeyman was the previous occupant.
I know what you’re thinking; you are debating whether or not to read on. I urge you to do so because this kind of act needs to be stamped out and I feel that it is my mission to do so. Why? Because I am sickened whenever I am that poor unfortunate victim who has to bear witness to the antics of this cursed creature and I respect my fellow man.
So what is this grotesque act of offensiveness?
The Bogeyman, when perched on his throne, is obviously too bored to allow nature to take its course and decides to succumb to the urge to pick his nose. When he has managed to clean all of the snot from his right nostril, he doesn’t use the adjacent toilet roll to dispose of the detritus; he wipes it on the cubicle door. How revolting is that? And not content with trying to create a Picasso masterpiece from the dried mucus of his right nostril, he sticks his finger up the remaining nostril and hauls out the contents to reproduce another abstract work of genius on the wall just above the toilet roll dispenser.
WHY DOES HE DO THIS?
I have tried to shame the individual concerned to own up by expressing my displeasure at this revolting hobby – usually when there have been a group of us quaffing beer at the local pub – yet nobody confesses. In fact, everybody seems to find it highly amusing, so much so that I am beginning to suspect that there may actually be several Bogeymen whose sole purpose is to cover each cubicle in snot.
Thankfully I have two groups of allies; the cleaning staff who meticulously scrape the cubicle walls at the end of the day and my female colleagues who agree with me and find the whole thing utterly sickening.
One day I will find out who is responsible for this outrage. I have a dilemma, though. Should I name and shame him or leave a sticky note on the cubicle wall?
“Self Portrait” by “Mr Bogey Mann” (during his green period)
Thursday, 21 August 2008
Cats, Vets And Pills Don't Mix
Hell hath no fury like a she-cat scorned.
I am in agony as I type this post, quite literally bleeding all over the keyboard.
You may recall that we planned to take our cats to the vet (read about it here). Well yesterday we did the deed. It wasn’t for anything serious; just a visit to clean their teeth. Spike was exempt because he isn’t really our cat, so only Jasper and Poppy had to suffer.
Now call me naïve if you will but I imagined that cleaning a cat’s teeth was a simple procedure where we held the cat and the vet moved in with a tiny toothbrush and special fish flavoured toothpaste. I was completely wrong.
The procedure involved:
(1) Taking the cats to the vet in the morning. Obvious really.
(2) Leaving the cats with the vet. Fantastic – at least the vet will suffer the wrath of the feline.
(3) Each cat having a blood test to see if the cat would be allergic to the anaesthetic. Hang on – anaesthetic?
(4) Shaving a portion of the cat’s front leg to administer the anaesthetic. Shaving their legs?
(5) Cleaning their teeth while they are unconscious. The vet is obviously a coward.
(6) Returning them to their owner with special cat food to settle their stomachs. Great! A chance of cat vomit.
(7) Administering antibiotics for five days. WHAT??????
The whole experience was a trauma from start to finish and not just for the cats.
First, we had to keep them in overnight and not feed them after a certain time. Jasper was delirious with hunger and howled in anguish. Poppy was invisible as usual. Keeping them in was difficult; we had to lock the cat flap and push a kitchen bin in front of it. Why? Because Jasper has been known to break through a locked cat flap – I am not joking.
Of course we had to give them access to a toilet as well so out came the cat tray. I HATE cat trays.
The next morning Jasper was so ravenous that he was looking at me as if I were a gourmet meal.
Mrs PM retrieved the cat carriers while I caught the cats. Jasper was easy. He allows us to pick him up all the time. It wasn’t too bad trying to squeeze him into the carrier. Poppy on the other hand is a nightmare. First I had to flush her out from under the bed in the spare bedroom, then Mrs PM had to stand strategically by the kitchen door so that Poppy would be diverted into the lounge. It worked but we had to move every item of furniture to retrieve her.
By this stage, Jasper was howling. Already starving, he was trapped and knew what was coming. We bundled the cats in the car and set off to the vets – a fifteen minute drive. Except this time we hadn’t anticipated the traffic jam.
The fifteen minute journey turned into a forty minute descent into Hell; as the cats’ howling intensified, Mrs PM became more anguished, causing the cats to howl even more and my road rage to intensify, which caused the cats to howl even more. By the time we arrived at the vet, both cats had expelled the contents of their bladders leaving them and the back seat of the car covered in cat urine.
We had to wait ten minutes for the vet and then we left. Mrs PM was distraught.
After work, Mrs PM went to pick them up.
When she arrived home, she was still agitated, but mainly because the entire procedure had cost us a lovely £330.
THREE HUNDRED AND THIRTY BLOODY POUNDS!!!!
The fee included anaesthetic, light food, antibiotics, the blood test and the treatment itself. Why did we need antibiotics? Because the de-scaling procedure can cause their gums to bleed; the pills were needed to stop them from getting an infection.
Well, basically the cats stopped speaking to us, apart from Spike who was laughing his tail off.
Poppy, the timid one, glared at me and fled.
Now tonight, we had to administer the first of the antibiotics. We have in the past failed miserably when trying to hide the pill in the cat food - they are wise to that now. We would have to use the technique that the vet was so successful at – opening the mouth, popping the pill in, closing the mouth and rubbing the throat. The vet had made it look easy in the past.
Again, Jasper was easy enough to catch but forcing him to take a pill was very difficult. It took us ten minutes and my hands were covered in cat saliva.
Poppy was far, far worse.
Again we trapped her in the lounge through the use of a strategically placed Mrs PM. And I caught her. As I held her, Mrs PM opened Poppy’s mouth and dropped the pill inside. Poppy closed here mouth and stared fiercely at me. Her little tongue popped out and I caught a glimpse of the pill resting on it. She spat it out even though I rubbed her throat. Three times we tried and three times we failed. I decided that Poppy was small enough for me to both hold her and force the pill inside. After all I’d seen the vet do it many times.
I opened her mouth and popped the pill in. However I left my finger in her mouth a little too long and she sank her teeth straight in. I howled with pain and Poppy saw her chance; as I relaxed my grip she extended all of her claws and literally ran up my shoulder and face digging her claws in as deep as she could to get a foothold. And she spat the pill out for good measure.
Bleeding and feeling sorry for myself (and Mrs PM trying not to laugh) we finally managed to succeed.
Poppy fled and is now on her way to London to seek her fortune.
And the worst thing about all this is, we have to go through the whole thing again for the next four days.
I bloody hate vets!
I am in agony as I type this post, quite literally bleeding all over the keyboard.
You may recall that we planned to take our cats to the vet (read about it here). Well yesterday we did the deed. It wasn’t for anything serious; just a visit to clean their teeth. Spike was exempt because he isn’t really our cat, so only Jasper and Poppy had to suffer.
Now call me naïve if you will but I imagined that cleaning a cat’s teeth was a simple procedure where we held the cat and the vet moved in with a tiny toothbrush and special fish flavoured toothpaste. I was completely wrong.
The procedure involved:
(1) Taking the cats to the vet in the morning. Obvious really.
(2) Leaving the cats with the vet. Fantastic – at least the vet will suffer the wrath of the feline.
(3) Each cat having a blood test to see if the cat would be allergic to the anaesthetic. Hang on – anaesthetic?
(4) Shaving a portion of the cat’s front leg to administer the anaesthetic. Shaving their legs?
(5) Cleaning their teeth while they are unconscious. The vet is obviously a coward.
(6) Returning them to their owner with special cat food to settle their stomachs. Great! A chance of cat vomit.
(7) Administering antibiotics for five days. WHAT??????
The whole experience was a trauma from start to finish and not just for the cats.
First, we had to keep them in overnight and not feed them after a certain time. Jasper was delirious with hunger and howled in anguish. Poppy was invisible as usual. Keeping them in was difficult; we had to lock the cat flap and push a kitchen bin in front of it. Why? Because Jasper has been known to break through a locked cat flap – I am not joking.
Of course we had to give them access to a toilet as well so out came the cat tray. I HATE cat trays.
The next morning Jasper was so ravenous that he was looking at me as if I were a gourmet meal.
Mrs PM retrieved the cat carriers while I caught the cats. Jasper was easy. He allows us to pick him up all the time. It wasn’t too bad trying to squeeze him into the carrier. Poppy on the other hand is a nightmare. First I had to flush her out from under the bed in the spare bedroom, then Mrs PM had to stand strategically by the kitchen door so that Poppy would be diverted into the lounge. It worked but we had to move every item of furniture to retrieve her.
By this stage, Jasper was howling. Already starving, he was trapped and knew what was coming. We bundled the cats in the car and set off to the vets – a fifteen minute drive. Except this time we hadn’t anticipated the traffic jam.
The fifteen minute journey turned into a forty minute descent into Hell; as the cats’ howling intensified, Mrs PM became more anguished, causing the cats to howl even more and my road rage to intensify, which caused the cats to howl even more. By the time we arrived at the vet, both cats had expelled the contents of their bladders leaving them and the back seat of the car covered in cat urine.
We had to wait ten minutes for the vet and then we left. Mrs PM was distraught.
After work, Mrs PM went to pick them up.
When she arrived home, she was still agitated, but mainly because the entire procedure had cost us a lovely £330.
THREE HUNDRED AND THIRTY BLOODY POUNDS!!!!
The fee included anaesthetic, light food, antibiotics, the blood test and the treatment itself. Why did we need antibiotics? Because the de-scaling procedure can cause their gums to bleed; the pills were needed to stop them from getting an infection.
Well, basically the cats stopped speaking to us, apart from Spike who was laughing his tail off.
Poppy, the timid one, glared at me and fled.
Now tonight, we had to administer the first of the antibiotics. We have in the past failed miserably when trying to hide the pill in the cat food - they are wise to that now. We would have to use the technique that the vet was so successful at – opening the mouth, popping the pill in, closing the mouth and rubbing the throat. The vet had made it look easy in the past.
Again, Jasper was easy enough to catch but forcing him to take a pill was very difficult. It took us ten minutes and my hands were covered in cat saliva.
Poppy was far, far worse.
Again we trapped her in the lounge through the use of a strategically placed Mrs PM. And I caught her. As I held her, Mrs PM opened Poppy’s mouth and dropped the pill inside. Poppy closed here mouth and stared fiercely at me. Her little tongue popped out and I caught a glimpse of the pill resting on it. She spat it out even though I rubbed her throat. Three times we tried and three times we failed. I decided that Poppy was small enough for me to both hold her and force the pill inside. After all I’d seen the vet do it many times.
I opened her mouth and popped the pill in. However I left my finger in her mouth a little too long and she sank her teeth straight in. I howled with pain and Poppy saw her chance; as I relaxed my grip she extended all of her claws and literally ran up my shoulder and face digging her claws in as deep as she could to get a foothold. And she spat the pill out for good measure.
Bleeding and feeling sorry for myself (and Mrs PM trying not to laugh) we finally managed to succeed.
Poppy fled and is now on her way to London to seek her fortune.
And the worst thing about all this is, we have to go through the whole thing again for the next four days.
I bloody hate vets!
The Flying Spaghetti Monster Is Real
Today I discovered evidence that the Flying Spaghetti Monster, the supposed creator of our universe, is in fact real.
I know – difficult to believe isn’t it?
I first became aware of the Flying Spaghetti Monster when a rather eccentric Austrian database trainer pointed it out to me during a course on performance tuning. I laughed, of course, and after a quick investigation with the help of my good friend Mr Google, enjoyed the supposed parody religion that has now become the Church of The Flying Spaghetti Monster. And it is truly hilarious.
The Flying Spaghetti Monster has the appearance of two enormous meatballs literally implanted in a huge mass of sentient spaghetti known as “noodly appendages”. The creature supposedly created the entire universe after a particularly heavy drinking session thus explaining the imperfect nature of our beloved world. There is even a “Gospel of the Flying Spaghetti Monster” complete with eight commandments (or “I’d Really Rather You Didn’ts”).
Followers are called “pastafarians” and non-believers are “spagnostics”.
You can read all about it here.
Until now I treated with sheer amusement, particularly the seriousness with which some people take it. It is a joke after all.
Or is it?
A colleague of mine at work sent me an article today with a rather startling picture of the Flying Spaghetti Monster in all his glory. Here it is.
I’m afraid that I might have to reassess my thinking in this area. Perhaps I should start by confessing that I have just devoured a huge plate of Spaghetti Bolognese.
I know – difficult to believe isn’t it?
I first became aware of the Flying Spaghetti Monster when a rather eccentric Austrian database trainer pointed it out to me during a course on performance tuning. I laughed, of course, and after a quick investigation with the help of my good friend Mr Google, enjoyed the supposed parody religion that has now become the Church of The Flying Spaghetti Monster. And it is truly hilarious.
The Flying Spaghetti Monster has the appearance of two enormous meatballs literally implanted in a huge mass of sentient spaghetti known as “noodly appendages”. The creature supposedly created the entire universe after a particularly heavy drinking session thus explaining the imperfect nature of our beloved world. There is even a “Gospel of the Flying Spaghetti Monster” complete with eight commandments (or “I’d Really Rather You Didn’ts”).
Followers are called “pastafarians” and non-believers are “spagnostics”.
You can read all about it here.
Until now I treated with sheer amusement, particularly the seriousness with which some people take it. It is a joke after all.
Or is it?
A colleague of mine at work sent me an article today with a rather startling picture of the Flying Spaghetti Monster in all his glory. Here it is.
I’m afraid that I might have to reassess my thinking in this area. Perhaps I should start by confessing that I have just devoured a huge plate of Spaghetti Bolognese.
Tuesday, 19 August 2008
My Feline Masters
It is said that an Englishman’s home is his castle. That is a misguided statement, particularly if cats live there.
Cats are devious, manipulative and selfish creatures who twist people to do their bidding. I am not the king of my own castle; I am a mere servant who, when home, is ruled by felines. Even as I type, I have a cat sitting next to the keyboard glaring at me because I have not leapt up to feed him.
One cat is bad enough; but Mrs PM and I own two and share a third. Mrs PM is a willing servant. I am not and am desperate to recapture my castle. I am starting a revolution in my own home.
It isn’t easy. You see, Mrs PM is enthralled by each one of them – I face major opposition from my only human ally.
Allow me to introduce you to our cats:
First, we have Jasper, a six year old male black cat who is extremely fat. He is very friendly but is driven solely by philosophy: “I am therefore I eat”. If there is any food left anywhere in the house he will hoover it up via his huge maw. Recently we have been trying to weigh him but the scales have been complaining about exceeding limits. The only time Jasper moves is when it is dinnertime or he needs to answer a call of nature. The cat flap we had initially installed had to be replaced by a new one “for the bigger cat”. I am convinced that he thinks his name is “Dinner”. Here he is:
Second, we have Poppy, a six year old female black cat who is Jasper’s sister. Their colour is where the similarity ends. Poppy is afraid of absolutely everything, including her own tail. If a pebble moves in the garden, she flees for her life. She is so timid that she has to pluck up a huge amount of courage to miaow for food. She is small and slim and moves at lightning speed, usually to flee from a shadow. It takes a major amount of courage for her to be in the same room as us. She struggles to compete with Jasper for food and we have to referee each dinnertime to stop Jasper from devouring her portion, which is difficult since Poppy runs at the slightest provocation. We managed to take a photograph by hiding behind a mirror just as she was admiring herself:
Finally, we have Spike, a sixteen year old male black cat who is a cuckoo in our nest. Spike’s real name is Hamish McTamish (as Dave Barry would say, I swear I am not making this up). Spike’s real owner lives a couple of streets away. We have agreed in principle to share him because frankly the lady who owns Spike cannot stop him from invading our house. Spike is very friendly but knows how to look after himself. He is old and so arthritic that he can barely climb onto the sofa. I christened him Spike because he can be very vicious when provoked (I have the scars to prove it). He also has hyperthyroidism, which makes him very hungry, very thirsty, very dribbly, very vocal and very, very demanding. Here he is:
From the above descriptions I can imagine cat lovers everywhere saying “Aww! How cute!”. And I say this – those cats have taken over my home and want to alienate me from Mrs PM’s affections. If I dare to say a word against them I incur the wrath of Mrs PM, which is not a pleasant experience, especially when it involves “her babies”. The cats use her to get to me.
Mrs PM insists that we sleep with the bedroom door open so that they can keep me awake. Jasper is so heavy that when he spreads his fat body across your legs the circulation quite literally stops. Poppy runs across the bed in sheer terror whenever I turn over and Spike is so demanding that the instant he requires food, he literally walks over my head, plants his bum on my face and then dribbles all over me whilst miaowing so loudly that neighbours consider calling the police. When I try to eject them, they hide in the shadows so that if I need to answer a call of nature in the middle of the night, they can walk in front of me and trip me up as I pass the stairs.
Now if I were paranoid I would swear that they were trying to kill me. I have evidence. When Jasper was younger he leapt from the wardrobe in the middle of the night and landed on my stomach. If it wasn’t for the fact that I was concentrating on getting my breath back, I might have died of fright.
I wouldn’t mind but I do actually look after them. I am not cruel to them in any way. I feed them when I can; I allow them to walk all over me; I protect them from other cats; I brush them; I pamper them; I give them titbits. What more could a loving owner do? Last week for example, I stood outside the house in the pouring rain holding a dish full of cat foot up to a six foot wall so that Poppy could eat – she was too scared to come in the house because there was a shadow in there.
And what do they do in return? They keep me awake; they bring me dead animals; they cough up fur balls on our carpets; they howl at night; they scratch the floor; they scratch the furniture; they make Mrs PM panic when they disappear for a day or so and I suffer as a result.
Still, they are cute when they behave themselves and all three are usually mooching around the house when we’re home.
I do occasionally get the chance to impose my authority and tomorrow is one such day. It is time for their check up at the vet.
I fully expect a campaign of revenge from them – starting tomorrow night I guess when I am asleep; I expect a close encounter with Spike’s bum.
Cats are devious, manipulative and selfish creatures who twist people to do their bidding. I am not the king of my own castle; I am a mere servant who, when home, is ruled by felines. Even as I type, I have a cat sitting next to the keyboard glaring at me because I have not leapt up to feed him.
One cat is bad enough; but Mrs PM and I own two and share a third. Mrs PM is a willing servant. I am not and am desperate to recapture my castle. I am starting a revolution in my own home.
It isn’t easy. You see, Mrs PM is enthralled by each one of them – I face major opposition from my only human ally.
Allow me to introduce you to our cats:
First, we have Jasper, a six year old male black cat who is extremely fat. He is very friendly but is driven solely by philosophy: “I am therefore I eat”. If there is any food left anywhere in the house he will hoover it up via his huge maw. Recently we have been trying to weigh him but the scales have been complaining about exceeding limits. The only time Jasper moves is when it is dinnertime or he needs to answer a call of nature. The cat flap we had initially installed had to be replaced by a new one “for the bigger cat”. I am convinced that he thinks his name is “Dinner”. Here he is:
Second, we have Poppy, a six year old female black cat who is Jasper’s sister. Their colour is where the similarity ends. Poppy is afraid of absolutely everything, including her own tail. If a pebble moves in the garden, she flees for her life. She is so timid that she has to pluck up a huge amount of courage to miaow for food. She is small and slim and moves at lightning speed, usually to flee from a shadow. It takes a major amount of courage for her to be in the same room as us. She struggles to compete with Jasper for food and we have to referee each dinnertime to stop Jasper from devouring her portion, which is difficult since Poppy runs at the slightest provocation. We managed to take a photograph by hiding behind a mirror just as she was admiring herself:
Finally, we have Spike, a sixteen year old male black cat who is a cuckoo in our nest. Spike’s real name is Hamish McTamish (as Dave Barry would say, I swear I am not making this up). Spike’s real owner lives a couple of streets away. We have agreed in principle to share him because frankly the lady who owns Spike cannot stop him from invading our house. Spike is very friendly but knows how to look after himself. He is old and so arthritic that he can barely climb onto the sofa. I christened him Spike because he can be very vicious when provoked (I have the scars to prove it). He also has hyperthyroidism, which makes him very hungry, very thirsty, very dribbly, very vocal and very, very demanding. Here he is:
From the above descriptions I can imagine cat lovers everywhere saying “Aww! How cute!”. And I say this – those cats have taken over my home and want to alienate me from Mrs PM’s affections. If I dare to say a word against them I incur the wrath of Mrs PM, which is not a pleasant experience, especially when it involves “her babies”. The cats use her to get to me.
Mrs PM insists that we sleep with the bedroom door open so that they can keep me awake. Jasper is so heavy that when he spreads his fat body across your legs the circulation quite literally stops. Poppy runs across the bed in sheer terror whenever I turn over and Spike is so demanding that the instant he requires food, he literally walks over my head, plants his bum on my face and then dribbles all over me whilst miaowing so loudly that neighbours consider calling the police. When I try to eject them, they hide in the shadows so that if I need to answer a call of nature in the middle of the night, they can walk in front of me and trip me up as I pass the stairs.
Now if I were paranoid I would swear that they were trying to kill me. I have evidence. When Jasper was younger he leapt from the wardrobe in the middle of the night and landed on my stomach. If it wasn’t for the fact that I was concentrating on getting my breath back, I might have died of fright.
I wouldn’t mind but I do actually look after them. I am not cruel to them in any way. I feed them when I can; I allow them to walk all over me; I protect them from other cats; I brush them; I pamper them; I give them titbits. What more could a loving owner do? Last week for example, I stood outside the house in the pouring rain holding a dish full of cat foot up to a six foot wall so that Poppy could eat – she was too scared to come in the house because there was a shadow in there.
And what do they do in return? They keep me awake; they bring me dead animals; they cough up fur balls on our carpets; they howl at night; they scratch the floor; they scratch the furniture; they make Mrs PM panic when they disappear for a day or so and I suffer as a result.
Still, they are cute when they behave themselves and all three are usually mooching around the house when we’re home.
I do occasionally get the chance to impose my authority and tomorrow is one such day. It is time for their check up at the vet.
I fully expect a campaign of revenge from them – starting tomorrow night I guess when I am asleep; I expect a close encounter with Spike’s bum.
Saturday, 16 August 2008
Fear (Part Three) - Public Speaking
“Everybody will think I am a completely spineless imbecile with all the social graces of a demented rhinoceros on acid.”
Why does that sentence (and others like it) run through my head when I am asked to give a presentation? The final phobia I wish to talk about is fear of public speaking, otherwise known as glossophobia.
Sadly, as part of my job, I am sometimes asked to make a presentation to a handful of people or give training courses to external customers. Each time I am asked I quite literally explode with anxiety. The mere thought of standing up in front of even a handful of people causes me to mutate into a gibbering alien.
Of all my fears, glossophobia is the most irrational of all. Why should I be afraid to stand up in front of people talking about something I am very familiar with? It makes absolutely no sense whatsoever.
The first time I had to face this particular fear, I was asked to give a five day training course in the United States. I tried my very best to avoid the course; I even contemplated pretending to be ill. I felt like I was being thrown into a volcano that was about to erupt. Here I was, a terrified Englishman being asked to stand up in front of a handful of Americans for seven hours a day for five days. I’ve worked with Americans before and they are extremely friendly people who are easy to talk to in casual conversation. Generally, however, I find they possess a quality that, at the time, I lacked – they are supremely confident.
On the long flight across the pond, I replayed the course over and over again in my head. Each time I saw myself stammering and shaking; running out of the training room in blind panic; screaming in pure terror; passing out in panic.
I decided that I had to do something about it. In the hotel room on that fateful Sunday night I asked myself a simple question:
What is the worst that can happen?
Pretty soon, I came up with several terrifying scenarios and I concluded that, realistically, the worst case scenario would be my dismissal from the company, probably due to the fact that I had burst into tears and fled the building like a screaming banshee.
On the morning of the course, I had a light breakfast and absolutely no coffee. I told myself over and over again that nothing would happen and I encouraged myself further by telling myself that these people wanted to hear what I was saying. My students were desperate to learn and I was the only person who could hand over that knowledge. As soon as I had introduced myself, in my stammering voice, I allowed each of them to do the same and I was immediately struck by their confidence, friendliness and most importantly of all eagerness. They wanted to hear me.
I struggled for the first ten minutes. I was sweating profusely and my voice quivered. Occasionally I lost track of my train of thought, stopped, breathed deeply and somehow found my way.
After an hour I was in full flow and my fear had dissipated. When we had a break, I chatted to the students and they told me how much they were getting from my course. My confidence came back and the rest of the week was a breeze.
My problem is that each time I make presentations, my anxiety returns. As I prepare for the course or presentation, I am briefly possessed by the fretful beast within. And thankfully, these days I can overcome the anxiety because deep down I know that my audience want me to pass across my knowledge to them; they want me to succeed.
I have seen professional presenters flounder and somehow get a grip of the situation. I now know from experience that if I struggle myself all I need to do is call a break to compose myself or simply pause for long enough to control my inner turmoil. The good news is that now I can.
It still scares the hell out of me though.
Why does that sentence (and others like it) run through my head when I am asked to give a presentation? The final phobia I wish to talk about is fear of public speaking, otherwise known as glossophobia.
Sadly, as part of my job, I am sometimes asked to make a presentation to a handful of people or give training courses to external customers. Each time I am asked I quite literally explode with anxiety. The mere thought of standing up in front of even a handful of people causes me to mutate into a gibbering alien.
Of all my fears, glossophobia is the most irrational of all. Why should I be afraid to stand up in front of people talking about something I am very familiar with? It makes absolutely no sense whatsoever.
The first time I had to face this particular fear, I was asked to give a five day training course in the United States. I tried my very best to avoid the course; I even contemplated pretending to be ill. I felt like I was being thrown into a volcano that was about to erupt. Here I was, a terrified Englishman being asked to stand up in front of a handful of Americans for seven hours a day for five days. I’ve worked with Americans before and they are extremely friendly people who are easy to talk to in casual conversation. Generally, however, I find they possess a quality that, at the time, I lacked – they are supremely confident.
On the long flight across the pond, I replayed the course over and over again in my head. Each time I saw myself stammering and shaking; running out of the training room in blind panic; screaming in pure terror; passing out in panic.
I decided that I had to do something about it. In the hotel room on that fateful Sunday night I asked myself a simple question:
What is the worst that can happen?
Pretty soon, I came up with several terrifying scenarios and I concluded that, realistically, the worst case scenario would be my dismissal from the company, probably due to the fact that I had burst into tears and fled the building like a screaming banshee.
On the morning of the course, I had a light breakfast and absolutely no coffee. I told myself over and over again that nothing would happen and I encouraged myself further by telling myself that these people wanted to hear what I was saying. My students were desperate to learn and I was the only person who could hand over that knowledge. As soon as I had introduced myself, in my stammering voice, I allowed each of them to do the same and I was immediately struck by their confidence, friendliness and most importantly of all eagerness. They wanted to hear me.
I struggled for the first ten minutes. I was sweating profusely and my voice quivered. Occasionally I lost track of my train of thought, stopped, breathed deeply and somehow found my way.
After an hour I was in full flow and my fear had dissipated. When we had a break, I chatted to the students and they told me how much they were getting from my course. My confidence came back and the rest of the week was a breeze.
My problem is that each time I make presentations, my anxiety returns. As I prepare for the course or presentation, I am briefly possessed by the fretful beast within. And thankfully, these days I can overcome the anxiety because deep down I know that my audience want me to pass across my knowledge to them; they want me to succeed.
I have seen professional presenters flounder and somehow get a grip of the situation. I now know from experience that if I struggle myself all I need to do is call a break to compose myself or simply pause for long enough to control my inner turmoil. The good news is that now I can.
It still scares the hell out of me though.
Wednesday, 13 August 2008
The Female Of The Species
Ladies and gentlemen, I have a big problem and I need your help.
At my age you would have assumed that my experiences would have equipped me to deal with most situations. For the most part, I am fully capable of coping with life’s mysteries. However, one thing continues to elude me; how to understand what is going on inside a woman’s mind.
I love women. They are fabulous, fascinating and wonderful people. My problem is that I am forever getting into trouble with them because of my lack of understanding. And it frustrates the hell out of me. I have tried repeatedly to escape from this predicament and just as I am almost at the point of being able to boast “I understand women”, I suddenly say or do something that pushes me back to the start. I can go for weeks talking to ladies, discussing interesting topics of conversation and generally getting along fine. And then I say something that upsets or annoys them and I find myself staggering backwards against a tsunami of verbal abuse, simply because I have done it again; said something without thinking.
It is like playing a game of “Snakes and Ladders”.
I end up spending a week walking around with a limp, and not always because my foot is entrenched firmly in my mouth.
I have already given you one example of this ("The World's Most Difficult Question") and you would have thought that by now I should have learned my lesson.
I haven’t.
Here’s an example of a conversation with my boss, who happens to be female. The background is that she has been trying to lose weight. I hope this illustrates my point. I will play the part of “The Idiot” (which is in reality what I am):
THE BOSS: It’s Fred’s birthday today and he’s put a box of chocolates in the kitchen.
THE IDIOT: Are you going to succumb to temptation?
THE BOSS: What do you mean?
THE IDIOT: Are you going to have a chocolate or two?
THE BOSS: Why do you ask?
THE IDIOT: Well, you said you were on a diet so I assumed that you wouldn’t bother. You know – chocolate makes you fat.
The tension increases at this point as THE IDIOT realises that his foot may be approaching his mouth at rapid velocity
THE BOSS: (through clenched teeth) Are you saying I’m fat?
THE IDIOT: No, of course not. I just thought …
THE BOSS: Just thought WHAT exactly???
THE IDIOT: (gulp) I just thought that you would stick to your diet?
THE BOSS: You ARE saying I’m fat!!!!!
THE IDIOT: No, of course I’m not saying you’re fat. In fact I think you look fabulous. You look really slim and really nice; you are delightful.
Seconds pass - tick tick tick tick
THE BOSS: ARE YOU COMING ON TO ME?????????
At this point the entire office is in uproar as once again the Plastic Mancunian has kicked himself in the teeth and upset yet another woman.
What should I have said? I mean, to be honest, I asked Mrs PM when I got home and she, like everybody in the office, laughed her head off. Thanks for the support Mrs PM!
I need to go on a crash course. I need to write to an agony aunt. I need a book that tells me how to talk to women without upsetting them. My head can’t stand many more blows. I’m punch drunk.
Can anybody help me?
At my age you would have assumed that my experiences would have equipped me to deal with most situations. For the most part, I am fully capable of coping with life’s mysteries. However, one thing continues to elude me; how to understand what is going on inside a woman’s mind.
I love women. They are fabulous, fascinating and wonderful people. My problem is that I am forever getting into trouble with them because of my lack of understanding. And it frustrates the hell out of me. I have tried repeatedly to escape from this predicament and just as I am almost at the point of being able to boast “I understand women”, I suddenly say or do something that pushes me back to the start. I can go for weeks talking to ladies, discussing interesting topics of conversation and generally getting along fine. And then I say something that upsets or annoys them and I find myself staggering backwards against a tsunami of verbal abuse, simply because I have done it again; said something without thinking.
It is like playing a game of “Snakes and Ladders”.
I end up spending a week walking around with a limp, and not always because my foot is entrenched firmly in my mouth.
I have already given you one example of this ("The World's Most Difficult Question") and you would have thought that by now I should have learned my lesson.
I haven’t.
Here’s an example of a conversation with my boss, who happens to be female. The background is that she has been trying to lose weight. I hope this illustrates my point. I will play the part of “The Idiot” (which is in reality what I am):
THE BOSS: It’s Fred’s birthday today and he’s put a box of chocolates in the kitchen.
THE IDIOT: Are you going to succumb to temptation?
THE BOSS: What do you mean?
THE IDIOT: Are you going to have a chocolate or two?
THE BOSS: Why do you ask?
THE IDIOT: Well, you said you were on a diet so I assumed that you wouldn’t bother. You know – chocolate makes you fat.
The tension increases at this point as THE IDIOT realises that his foot may be approaching his mouth at rapid velocity
THE IDIOT: No, of course not. I just thought …
THE BOSS: Just thought WHAT exactly???
THE IDIOT: (gulp) I just thought that you would stick to your diet?
THE BOSS: You ARE saying I’m fat!!!!!
THE IDIOT: No, of course I’m not saying you’re fat. In fact I think you look fabulous. You look really slim and really nice; you are delightful.
Seconds pass - tick tick tick tick
THE BOSS: ARE YOU COMING ON TO ME?????????
At this point the entire office is in uproar as once again the Plastic Mancunian has kicked himself in the teeth and upset yet another woman.
What should I have said? I mean, to be honest, I asked Mrs PM when I got home and she, like everybody in the office, laughed her head off. Thanks for the support Mrs PM!
I need to go on a crash course. I need to write to an agony aunt. I need a book that tells me how to talk to women without upsetting them. My head can’t stand many more blows. I’m punch drunk.
Can anybody help me?
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