Trick Or Treat? Humbug!!

I was going to post a short work of fiction, a scary tale in preparation for Hallowe’en – but then I thought to myself, why?

I hate Hallowe’en. I hate it with a passion.

Now I don’t want to sound like a killjoy here, or somebody who hates kids having fun, but I really wish that we would just leave the Americans to celebrate this day.

The holiday has taken off in recent years in the United Kingdom, to the point where our shops are now full of scary paraphernalia such as witch costumes, lanterns, pumpkins, monster outfits, pumpkins, vampire outfits, face paint, pumpkins, fake blood, more pumpkins, more bloody pumpkins and finally even more pumpkins.

As a fan of ghost stories, horror novels and horror films, I am all for sitting in a candlelit room, telling scary tales or watching terrifying movies on the box.

What I positively hate is the commercialism that surrounds it.

Tomorrow night is going to be a nightmare, and not because it is scary. Our streets will be full of kids dressed as vampires and monsters, roaming round with bored parents in tow, begging for sweets with the threat of punishment if you fail to hand over the chocolate bars. If I stay in I will be subjected to a knock on the door approximately every ten seconds for the entire evening. If I am stupid enough to answer it I will see five year old children dressing up as vampires and ghouls saying “Trick Or Treat”. I will then say “Go away” and find my house covered in eggs the following morning.

Why do kids dress up as monsters anyway? Most are too young to watch films containing vampires and witches. I remember as an eleven year old kid pestering my dad to allow me to watch a horror film. I must have been a real pain in arse because he finally gave in and allowed me to watch “Dracula” starring Peter Cushing and Christopher Lee. I was so excited I almost peed my pyjamas. I watched the film and then peed my pyjamas. I have never been so scared in my entire life. I spoke with a stammer for ten weeks. I didn’t get a wink of sleep for an entire month. I quite literally avoided cemeteries for ten years. My dad certainly taught me a lesson. He asked me about a month later if I wanted to watch “Dracula Has Risen From The Grave”.

“Has he risen from the grave?” I stammered. “Yes,” he replied. I spent the next fortnight under the duvet with a crucifix, a torch and a telephone directory trying to find the number for Professor Van Helsing.

So why do kids dress up as creatures they would be terrified of? Why do we do have this ritual? Who bloody started it? Businessmen who want to exploit people, that’s who. It is far too commercial and yet another way to extract cash from my pocket for a meaningless purpose (other than to make them rich).

I don’t mind it being celebrated in America or Canada, where it has been traditional for decades. But in the UK it should stop forthwith.

When I am President of The United Kingdom I will ban this holiday immediately. Anybody who opposes me will be locked into a crypt in the most haunted cemetery in England. If people want blood-curdling terror, I will show endless repeats of the Vanessa Feltz Show on TV.

In fact, that’s a thought. Given some of the shows and celebrities in England, if you want to scare the children just let them watch any TV show with Jeremy Kyle, Trinny and Susannah, Bonnie Langford, Anthony Worrell-Thompson, Gillian McKeith, Jamie Oliver or Tim Westwood. That should give them sleepless nights for months.

Hallowe’en! What a royal pain in the buttocks! Dracula would turn in his grave. So would Frankenstein’s Monster. I’m sure that Freddy Krueger, Jason Voorhees, Michael Myers and all other evil entities escape to avoid the legions of children roaming the streets. It must scare them to death.

I’m glad that’s off my chest. I’m now off back to my coffin for a well earned rest before rampaging through the streets of Manchester with my vampire friends in search of adults hiding in their homes.

Or maybe I’ll just hide in the pub.

Fat Cat

I have just broken some horrifying news to Mrs PM. Jasper, the biggest of our cats, is actually a little too big.

A few months ago, Jasper was able to leap up onto the table, despite his bulk. Today, however, we watched as he thought about leaping onto the table before lazily climbing on to the chair and then struggling onto the table.

Once there he stared at us as if to say “OK then! Where’s the food?”

I couldn’t remember when we last weighed him. It was a few months ago and he was 14lbs; I recall saying then that he should be on a diet. Seeing his struggle to get onto the table I decided to weigh him again.

He was 17lbs. Mrs PM was aghast.

Consequently, Jasper needs to go on a diet. If he were our only cat, that wouldn’t be an issue. The problem is we have three cats, one of which is scared of anything that moves and another which demands food but, due to hyperthyroidism, doesn’t gain weight, despite his appetite. In the past we have watched over the cats as they eat making sure that Jasper doesn't take over and scoff the whole lot. And that has worked; Jasper has lost weight.

Recently we have lapsed and the results are there for all to see. Jasper has been cleaning up after the other two cats like a feline hoover, sucking up the scraps and converting them into body fat.

I need to take charge. Mrs PM is far too soft.

From now on I am going to overthrow my feline masters and make sure that they only eat when I allow them to. This is going to be hard on Poppy (the scared one) and Spike (the demanding one) but I see no other option.

The days of pandering to their every whim are over. Here is my plan:

(1) All cats will be fed in the morning before we go to work and in the evening when we return.

(2) Jasper will be locked in the lounge until Spike and Poppy have eaten their fill. They will be allowed to eat as much as they like.

(3) We will then free Jasper and give him his ration. Spike and Poppy will be removed from the equation. Jasper will be given less food.

(4) Jasper will not be allowed to have any biscuits or dry food or treats of any kind. He can miaow to his hearts content but I will not submit.

While this strict regime may work in theory we have a couple of problems to overcome.

(1) Mrs PM are going on a two week holiday on 2nd November, leaving the cats in the care of our neighbours. I know what will happen. They will come in the morning and put down food for three cats – and Jasper will be lurking, waiting to vacuum the entire lot into his oversized maw. My only hope is that Spike will stand his ground and keep Jasper at bay. I fear that Poppy may starve, though she does have a tendency to stand up for herself when hungry. Despite my hopes, I fear that Jasper may weigh more on our return. If that is the case then I we will just have to impose a stricter regime.

(2) Mrs PM is too soft. When Jasper is hungry he sits and stares at her with doleful eyes and miaows. She can resist but I wonder for how long. I need to be strong and authoritative and take on the cat in a battle of wills. Unfortunately my track record in this challenge is pretty poor. Jasper usually wins.

The good news is that this time Mrs PM is on my side – I feel therefore that together we can win and turn Jasper into the slimline moggy that he was at a year old. It will be tough though, especially since Christmas is coming, a time when the cats benefit from our own over-indulgence.

With strength, perseverance and a little cunning I can turn our house into a fat-fighting feline boot camp. I will prevail. I will even resort to calling him names; I’ve started already:

Fatty
Lardbucket
Lump

Jasper will be thin again. Either that or we’ll have to get a new catflap.

Strange Places To Live - Part Three - Australia

I’m on a roll now. Not content with laughing at mad place names in Britain and America, I can now reveal to you that those lovely Pommie-bashing Aussies from down under (who are insanely jealous about how much better at sport we are than them) have an equally fantastic sense of humour and, judging by the list of place names below, are very happy to laugh at themselves. After all, if you can’t laugh at how poorly our Antipodean friends did in the recent Beijing Olympics what can you laugh at? I’m only kidding, guys – I love Australia!

Anyway, back to the point of the post. Here are some fantastic place names in Australia. Again these place names are genuine – please feel free to shove the name in Google Map to confirm:

Amphitheatre
Blackbutt
Boggabilla
Bong Bong
Broken Head
Chinaman’s Knob
Come By Chance
Foul Bay
Gobbagomblin
Grong Grong
Howlong
Humpybong
Humpty Doo
Innaloo
Kurri Kurri
Mamungkukumpurangkuntjunya Hill
Manly
Middle Intercourse Island
Monkey Jacket Creek
Mooball
Mount Buggery
Mount Speculation
Nevertire
Nobby Beach
Nowhere Else
Poowong
Punchbowl
Rooty Hill
Scone
The Entrance
Tittybong
Wagga Wagga
Wangi Wangi
Wee Waa
Wet Beaver Creek
Woolloomooloo
Wonglepong
Wuk Wuk
Yorkey's Knob
Younghusband

Once more, I hope you agree that these are wonderful names. And of course, as much as I enjoy taking the pee out of Australians, I think that they are wonderful people. I loved every minute of my three week visit to Australia in 2005.

I can’t wait to visit again. I think Manly is the place where I was born to be – Nowhere Else will do. Maybe Punchbowl will also be worth a visit as well. Kurri Kurri appeals too, and obviously if I have too much of that, Innaloo may provide some relief. There are certain places I may avoid though – Foul Bay and Chinaman’s Knob leap to mind. I can seek solace in Tittybong though.

A Strange Place To Live - Part Two - America

I have an announcement to make: Americans also have a sense of humour. I didn’t doubt this for an instant because some of my favourite comedy shows come from across the pond. However, I have always thought that Americans take themselves far too seriously and just don’t get our wacky British sense of humour.

But I may be wrong.

For every crazy town in Britain, there is an equally crazy town in the United States. Listed below are some of my favourites. The names may not be as funny as our British triumphs but they are amusing nonetheless. I would also like to add that these place names are genuine – if you don’t believe me then try popping them into Google Map:

Bald Knob, Arkansas
Bangs Beach, Maine
Beebeetown, Iowa
Boring, Maryland
Butztown, Pennsylvania
Christmas, Florida
Climax Springs, Missouri
Crapo, Maryland
Dead Horse, Alaska
Dickey, North Dakota
Dwarf, Kentucky
Eagle Butte, South Dakota
Earth, Texas
Elephant Butte, New Mexico
Experiment, Georgia
Fertile, Minnesota
French Lick, Indiana
Frostproof, Florida
Hell, Michigan
Hippo, Kentucky
Hookersville, West Virginia
Hot Coffee, Mississippi
Humptulips, Washington
Looneyville, Texas
Mollies Nipple, Utah
Monkeys Eyebrow, Kentucky
Mudd Butte, South Dakota
Mud Lick, Kentucky
Normal, Illinois
Paradox, New York
Santa Claus, Indiana
Slaughter, Louisiana
Tightsqueeze, Virginia
Tingley, Iowa
Toad Suck, Arkansas
Truth Or Consequences, New Mexico
What Cheer, Iowa
Whiskey Dick Mountain, Wisconsin
Why, Arizona
Whynot, Mississippi
Wide Awake, Colorado

Fantastic names – I’m sure you will agree. Next time I fly across the pond I may attempt to visit some of these special places. I’m particularly intrigued by French Lick, Hookersville and Tightsqueeze. I think I may avoid Toad Suck, Elephant Butte and Boring. And I’m having second thoughts about Why. But then again, Whynot?

Rules For Men

What makes a man a man? How do men believe that they should behave? How do women think that men should behave? Why don’t I stop asking stupid questions?

I’m curious about people. I’m that kind of weirdo. And I like to watch and learn from the way other people behave. Sadly, there are two distinct types of people; men and women. I do not understand women but I do, at least to some degree, comprehend the component parts of the typical behaviour patterns of your average male. I do have a head start – I am a man myself (or so I’ve been told).

I’ve been investigating how the world (the female world in particular) perceives the male form and have once again scoured the internet for guidance and added some items of my own (based on my own pitiful experience). Here are a few of the more important rules that will allow you, as a man, to live a happy and fulfilled life:

Never ever, ever, ever, ever speak to another man in a public toilet. If you meet somebody you know just nod to them but do not under any circumstances whatsoever make eye contact.

Do not ever even consider wearing a sarong. You will be laughed at by other men. I know David Beckham did this (almost certainly under duress or under the misguided idea that he would be an innovator) but he did not pull it off. Every single man in England laughed.

If your car breaks down and you are not a mechanic, open up the bonnet and stare at the engine nodding sagely, particularly when the breakdown truck arrives.

What happens on the stag party stays on the stag party. Never ever, ever take a camera to a stag party. Never ever tell anybody who was not there any details of what happened.

Do not share an umbrella with another man.

Never cry at a film in the company of other men. When in the company of women it should be encouraged unless there is another man present or one of the women is your sadistic sister, the kind who will tell your mates.

Never ask another man what his star sign is. You may be killed.

The only permissible question at a football match is “What’s the score?”

Do not ever ask any other man to explain the offside rule,

Do not ever buy Christmas or birthday cards for other men.

Never let a woman touch the TV remote control.

Do not under any circumstances wear sandles and socks. In fact, if you really want my advice, give the sandles a miss altogether.

Do not allow a beard to grow more a centimetre in length.

Avoid shopping with women. It will end in tears.

Never shave when drunk (I speak from personal experience).

Work to live – not the other way round.

If a man buys you a beer accept it – even if it is horrible.

Never ever drink cocktails containing umbrellas.

Never tell another man he is “flying low”.

Never talk to your wife/girlfriend/partner about relationships involving your mates.

Never drive a pink or orange car. Do not ever, ever, ever drive a fluorescent green car (again I speak from experience).

There is no reason for men to watch any of the following TV programmes: “Desperate Housewives”, “Strictly Come Dancing”, “The X Factor”, “Wife Swap”, “Big Brother”.

Never, ever, ever, ever allow the lady in your life to persuade you to see a boy band in concert.

If your lady wants to watch the big game with you, do not allow her to ask a single question other than “What’s the score?”. If you do, you will not see the rest of the game.

There are many more rules that I may post later. I have made mistakes (too many to mention) but have tried to abide by the above rules. I know for a fact that if you inadvertently break one of the above rules you will only do it once.

I’m off now to watch Manchester United v Celtic – and Mrs PM will be watching “Desperate Housewives”. Guess who will watching on the portable TV?

A Strange Place To Live

One of the millions of things I love about Britain and British people is our uncanny ability to laugh at ourselves and our surroundings. We have a bizarre sense of humour, something that has been developed over centuries.

I live in a place called Manchester, which is a fairly sensible name for a city. There are, however, many rather bizarre towns and villages scattered throughout the United Kingdom with names that are far from sensible; in fact I would say they are crazy. Whoever conceived these names over the years must have had an eccentric idea of what constitutes a good name for the place that they live in. Or maybe our maybe our ancestors simply wanted to give their communities silly names as a joke.

Listed below are genuine names of British towns and villages. I can imagine that you will not believe that they exist but I swear that they do. I have discovered some on the internet but I promise you that I have actually been to or through these some of these places. If you don’t believe me, pop the name into Google Map.

Asick Bottom
Barton In The Beans
Besses o’th’barn
Biggar
Bishops Itchington
Bitchfield
Blackadder
Blubberhouses
Cockermouth
Crackpot
Crapstone
Dyke
Fatfield
Gaywood
Great Snoring
Horsey Windpump
Leatherhead
Loggerheads
Looe
Lover
Lower Dicker
Lower Slaughter
Nether Wallop
Nobber
Once Brewed
Outcast
Pant
Penistone
Pity Me
Pratts Bottom
Ramsbottom
Sheepscar
Spital In The Street
Splott
Tongue
Twatt
Ugley
Upper Dicker
Upperthong
Wetwang
Wyre Piddle

I often wonder why how these names came to be but it is probably more prudent to simply enjoy them and ask no questions. I’m off now to visit a friend in Pity Me though I will avoid Ugley, Pratts Bottom and Splott because I’ve heard traffic around there is dreadful. I may drive through Lover though just to see what it’s like.

What Is Love, Anyway?

Today’s post is a minor diversion from my usual inane mutterings.

I’ve been reading a lot of blogs recently where people elucidate their feelings about the mystery surrounding love. It’s not the kind of thing I would normally write about or even hold a conversation about to be honest. However, some of the beautiful things I have read in the past few weeks have inspired me to attempt to explain what love means to me.

As a man, this may prove to be difficult because as a rule men aren’t very good at talking about romance or the "L" word. When guys get together we rarely talk about our relationships. We are happy to talk about work, football, cricket and cars but as soon as the subject of love comes up, a strange shroud of discomfort descends and all concerned quickly revert back to chatting about the big game next week. I used to be married and when it fell apart I found that I couldn’t talk to my friends because they really didn’t want to know – or if they did, they could offer no advice and were reluctant to be the shoulder that I needed. Furthermore, I didn’t know how to talk to them. Don’t get me wrong; they were aware of how I felt but thought that the problem could be solved by a hearty slap on the back and another pint of the landlord’s famous ale.

That was a long time ago,

Now, however, if I were to tell my male friends how much I love Mrs PM, the subject would be changed as soon as is humanly possible, even as quickly as the next sentence. Therefore I don’t talk about love to guys. And guys don’t talk about love to me.

Women on the other hand talk about it all the time. I don’t want that to sound like I am generalizing but that is my understanding based on conversations I have heard and from what Mrs PM has told me. Just the other week, I was in a pub and I couldn’t help eaves-dropping a conversation between two young women who were discussing their partners over a bottle of wine. I didn’t know the two women but the conversation was compelling; I immediately realised that each of them was very keen to sing the praises of their men and do so in great detail. It made me feel slightly ashamed because I know that two men would never do that. They may chat about women, their partners even, but it would not be so open and emotional. There are some exceptions I sure but I am convinced that’s the way we are.

Back to the subject in hand: allow me to go against the grain and talk about what love means to me.

Love is impossible to describe and furthermore it can be difficult to differentiate between the various aspects of love. For me, my relationship with Mrs PM has evolved over the ten years we have been together.

When we first met, there was an immediate bond. I knew fairly quickly that this wonderful woman was the fabled “one”. Until that moment I was sceptical about people I had heard talking about “the one”. Mrs PM was my soul mate and when we first got together I was swept away on a tsunami of obsession. She occupied my every thought and for a short time I was worried that I was a victim of infatuation. When I was with her I was deliriously happy; when we were apart I pined for here like a man lost in the wilderness.

As the months went by, the obsession faded and something more meaningful took its place. I was still delighted in her company and I missed each moment apart but I came to terms with her absence, looking forward to the time we would be together again.

Over the years, we have in many ways become even closer. To describe Mrs PM as my soul mate is an understatement. She is witty (far wittier than I am), intelligent (far smarter than I am) and she understands me more than I do myself. We talk for hours about everything. I would do anything for her – indeed I have humiliated myself just to make her happy on several occasions (read about it here. I am happy to support her when she needs a shoulder to cry on simply because when she is down I am too. I am a verbal punch bag when she needs to let off steam.

Without Mrs PM I would be an empty shell. When I am returning from a business trip my heart is filled with a strange fuzzy warmth when I think about seeing her again. She is my best friend.

After all this time together, my feelings are as strong now as they ever were. In November we are returning to Hong Kong, where our relationship started to celebrate our tenth anniversary. I can’t wait; neither can Mrs PM.

Normal blogging service will be resumed in the next post but I hope that in the meantime you get an understanding of what love means to a forty six year old Mancunian. I’m sure many men feel the same way – but just don’t like to talk about it. Maybe we should open up a little more.