20 Songs To Chill Out To

After yet another frustrating day at the office, I was full of road rage on the way home. Thankfully, a song popped up on my mp3 player that eroded that anger and allowed me to drive the rest of the way home in peace and harmony with the rest of the world. The song was "I WIsh I Could Fly" by Roxette.

As I drove, I thought about other songs that have the same effect and have compiled a list of twenty from my collection that may well succeed in changing you from a fiery ball of rage into a chilled-out mellow ball of fluff. Here they are:

(1) Roxette – I Wish I Could Fly
(2) 10CC – I’m Not In Love
(3) Seal – Kiss From A Rose
(4) Air – All I Need
(5) China Crisis – Wishful Thinking
(6) David Gray – This Year’s Love
(7) Depeche Mode – Home
(8) Madonna – The Power Of Goodbye
(9) Tears For Fears – Listen
(10) Shakespears Sister – Hello (Turn Your Radio On)
(11) Enya – Caribbean Blue
(12) Richard Marx - Hazard
(13) Air – La Femme d’Argent
(14) Enya – Lothlórien
(15) Fleetwood Mac – Albatross
(16) Morcheeba – The Sea
(17) Kate Bush – The Man With The Child In His Eyes
(18) Madonna – Frozen
(19) Massive Attack - Teardrop
(20) Moby - Porcelain

For those who have heard or read about me singing the praises of rock and heavy metal, you may be surprised by some of the choices above. Hopefully it reveals another (weird) side of me and confirms that my taste isn’t limited to loud guitar music.

By the way, you can find most if not all of the above songs on YouTube. I would encourage you to seek them out; I think you’ll like them. If you have any similar songs that you think I might like please let me know – I’m always on the lookout for new music.

Stay chilled …

Health And Safety Gone Mad - AGAIN!

I read in today’s newspaper that the polystyrene floats used at swimming pools to help kids to learn to swim are being targetted by Health and Safety officials because (they say) they may be home to nasty bacteria and are therefore totally unhygienic.

Is it just me or is the world going crazy? Have they never heard of the idea of replacing them every so often?

The article goes on to suggest that if your child drowns as a result of not having a polystyrene float then at least you can be safe in the knowledge that it was in a hygienic environment.

I, along with many others, have considered recent health and safety guidelines to be ridiculously over the top. We can’t do anything these days, for fear of violating some weird safety protocol. I worry about wandering down my own street in case I break my leg on a cracked paving slab. I’m concerned about plugging in an electrical device unless I’ve passed an exam to do so. I’m even scared to get on my soapbox in case I should fall off and injure myself.

It never used to be this way. We could do things without worrying about our own safety. We could get involved in exciting activities without the fear of being sued. We took risks and we accepted them. Reading this article in the paper reminded me of an email I received a few years ago, regarding how things have changed over the years. I was born in 1962 so the contents of the email struck a chord. Here it is:

According to today's regulators and bureaucrats, those of us who were kids in the 60's, 70's and early 80's probably shouldn't have survived.

Our baby cots were covered with brightly coloured lead-based paint, which was promptly chewed and licked.

We had no childproof lids on medicine bottles, or latches on doors or cabinets and it was fine to play with pans.

When we rode our bikes, we wore no helmets, just flip flops and fluorescent 'spokey dokey's' on our wheels.

As children we would ride in cars with no seatbelts or airbags -riding in the passenger seat was a treat.

We drank water from the garden hose and not from a bottle and it tasted the same.

We ate chips, bread and butter pudding and drank fizzy juice with sugar in, but we were never overweight because we were always outside playing.

We shared one drink with four friends, from one bottle or can and nbody actually died from this!

We would spend hours building go-carts out of scraps and then went top speed down the hill, only to find we forgot our brakes. After running into stinging nettles a few times, we learned to solve the problem.

We would leave home in the morning and could play all day, as long as we were back before it got dark - no one was able to reach us, and nobody minded.

We did not have Play Stations or X-Boxes, no video games at all. No 99 channels on TV, no video tape movies, no surround sound, no mobile phones, no personal computers, no DVD's & no internet chat rooms. We had friends - we went outside and found them.

We played elastics and rounders, and sometimes that really hurt!

We fell out of trees, got cut and broke bones, but there were no lawsuits!

We had full on fist fights but no prosecution followed from other parents.

We played chap-the door-run-away and were actually afraid of the owners catching us.

We walked to friends' homes.

We also, believe it or not, WALKED to school; we didn't rely on mummy or daddy to drive us to school, which was just round the corner.

We made up games with sticks and tennis balls.

We rode our bikes in packs of 7 and wore our coats by only the hood. The idea of a parent bailing us out if we broke the law was unheard of...they actually sided with the law.

I remember as a kid playing British Bulldog, a game involving around thirty kids. All kids would line up on one side of the playground (a concrete playground), apart from one who would stand in the middle facing them. The kids would then charge across to the other side of the playground, with the kid in the middle trying to capture any one of them, usually by wrestling him to the ground. The captured kid would then join the original kid and attempt to capture others on the next charge across the playground. The game would continue, with more and more kids being captured by being tackled onto the concrete until at the end there were only a handful left to charge across. The winner was the last surviving kid, or the kid who got furthest across without being leapt on by the captured kids. It was a great game. Nowadays it has been banned because it is "too dangerous".

We also played a variation of the game in the swimming pool. This game was called sharks and the idea was that the thirty kids would swim from one side of the pool to the other with one in the middle, the shark, trying to capture them by ducking them beneath the water. Once ducked, the kid became a shark and eventually there would be more sharks than kids trying to get across. Again, this was a superb game. It, too, has been banned because it is "too dangerous".

I have never seen any kids badly injured at either game, apart from a few cuts and bruises from being rugby tackled on concrete. In fact, sharks actually helped kids become stronger swimmers. Again, nobody ever drowned and every kid who played the game loved it.

Back to banning polystyrene floats – what next? Will they consider the swimming pools themselves to be unhygienic or dangerous and ban them? I think that there are far too many jobsworths in the world who have absolutely nothing better to do than make life more difficult for the population at large.

I’m adding Health and Safety to the list of things that I am targetting when I take over the world. To Health and Safety officials everywhere: Be afraid! Be very afraid!!

The Mysterious Masked Blade

I’ve just realised that I have been writing drivel on this blog for over a year. My first post was a tentative effort about Walsall Football Club on March 21st 2008. It’s hard to believe I’ve been posting drivel for so long.

For this short anniversary post, I want to introduce you to my alter ego.

Prepare to meet:

I would like to thank Holly from earthtoholly for introducing me to The Hero Factory and thus allowing me to find my inner superhero.

As you can see he is a fine figure of a man (if not a little scrawny). I’m happy with the name though perhaps squeezing “Mancunian” in there might have made it a little more accurate.

But there’s more. Why be content with one superhero when you can have two? Mrs PM also has an alter ego.

Prepare to meet the unfortunately named:





Now I know what you are thinking and you can stop right there. Mrs PM is NOT a General.

I think I might have some fun with General Swashbuckling Whiplash.

Chuck Norris Versus Mr T

I am going to attempt to answer an impossible question. The greatest minds on the planet have been debating the answer since the eighties and have failed miserably. But I, a mere mortal from Manchester, have succeeded where they have failed.

The question is:

Who is the greatest: Chuck Norris or Mr T?

Before I answer I have a couple of things to say. Both men have been involved in some of the best movie fights ever. Chuck Norris took on Bruce Lee in arguably the greatest martial arts battle ever seen on the screen in Way Of The Dragon. Chuck Norris lost unfortunately (but fear not – he was paid to throw the fight).

Mr T positively mauled Silvester Stallone in Rocky III, the only time I’ve seen Rocky Balboa battered to a pulp. Of course, towards the end of the film, Stallone got his revenge by pretending to be a tiger (Mr T was also paid to throw the fight).

A couple of years ago, I was at the Manchester Evening News Arena, waiting to see a concert when all of a sudden, Chuck Norris came to my attention. He wasn’t actually present but there were clearly a few fans in the crowd. How do I know? Well, at the venue, it is possible to send SMS messages to a number and have your messages displayed on the scoreboard there. Usually you end up with utter bilge like:

Frank luvs Rachel xxx

However, on this particular evening, people were sending rather bizarre messages like:

Chuck Norris counted to infinity – TWICE

Chuck Norris is so fast he can run around the world and punch himself in the back of the head

Well I have to tell you, I was impressed. And I have discovered that there are a lot more facts about Chuck Norris. Here are a few of my favourites:

Chuck Norris never sleeps – he waits

Chuck Norris can slam revolving doors

Ghosts are caused by Chuck Norris killing people faster than the Grim Reaper can process them

Chuck Norris can build a snowman out of rain

Chuck Norris doesn’t do press-ups. He pushes the earth down

Chuck Norris can do a wheelie on a unicycle

Chuck Norris died ten years ago but the Grim Reaper is too afraid to tell him

Giraffes were created when Chuck Norris uppercutted a horse

Chuck Norris is the only man on earth who can kick you in the back of the face

Chuck Norris can punch a man in the soul

But what about Mr T? Are there similar facts about the mean machine that kicked Stallone’s bottom? Yes there are – here are twelve of the best:

Mr T does not break wind – he destroys it

Mr T destroyed the periodic table because he only recognises the element of surprise

Mr T is so scary that his hair is afraid to grow. The only reason he has a Mohawk is because it’s in his blind spot

Mr T invented the IQ testing system so that he could pity the fools more accurately

Mr T once won the Olympics – all of them

Mr T and Superman once fought for a bet. The loser had to wear their underpants on the outside

Mr T can beat a wall at tennis

The United States Federal Reserve Bank decided that Mr T’s neck was a much safer place for their gold than Fort Knox

Mr T once pitied the Sun – an Ice Age followed

There are only four horsemen of the apocalypse because Mr T is going to walk

Mr T once bit off more than he could chew. He ate it anyway.

Mr. T speaks only when necessary. His main form of communication is folding his arms and slowly shaking his head. And regardless of the situation, he is always understood.

So who is better? Both have kicked bums in films and both appear to be the best of the best of the best of the best. In order to decide we have to look further than films – we have to look to television. In the interests of research I recently watched episodes of Walker, Texas Ranger and The A-Team.

First, I was amazed to discover that Walker, Texas Ranger ran for eight seasons and finished in 2001. That means somebody must have enjoyed it. In the episode I saw it was basically Chuck Norris as the good guy, protecting innocent people by kicking the backsides of bad guys into the middle of next week’s episode, barely breaking a sweat as the sole of his boot lifted his poor victims a few feet off the ground. I can see where the Chuck Norris facts come from. I know that if I were a bad guy intent on breaking the law in the United States, I would think twice about heading to Texas to do so.

Sadly, for Chuck Norris, I have to admit that I loved The A-Team. It wasn’t just the fact that Mr T played the meanest man in America; I loved the humour, the insanity of Howling Mad Murdoch, the way the team were locked in a garage full of enough junk to build a spaceship (thought they always chose to build a tank), the verbal sparring between Murdoch and Mr T, the way Hannibal Smith, clearly an old man, could kick bottom while calling the villains sleazeballs and chewing on a cigar, the way Face could con anybody out of anything, and best of all, the fact that they never ever killed anybody, despite firing hundreds of bullets and the way B.A. had to be drugged to fly. Each episode was totally predictable; the A-Team would come up against really bad people victimising vulnerable but weak good guys who were heroes in a previous life. The victims would include a lovely woman who would end up having a fling with Face, or on occasion one of the others. At the end of the show, a car driven by a bad guy would be flipped over by a well placed grenade and the villains would crawl out shaken but uninjured. It was simple and thoroughly enjoyable.

For that reason alone, I have to side with Mr T, a man who showed that he was so tough but had a heart made of more gold than he wore. And he was funny, particularly when dealing with Murdoch.

More than anything else, however, Mr T has recently appeared once more on our screens in commercials for the chocolate bar Snickers and they are hilarious. Here they are:





In conclusion, I think you know who I consider to be the greatest. The answer is (cue fanfare):

Mr T

Chuck Norris has kicked a lot of bottom but Mr T was in the A-Team and has enough catchphrases to defeat an army of bad guys.

Please don’t tell Chuck Norris about this post. I really don’t want to have my door kicked down, the back of my face kicked and my soul punched.

I'm off to get some nuts!

Stamp On A Skurff Today

Have you ever heard of a Smurf? They are irritating little blue creatures that apparently live in a wood in Belgium somewhere. No – I have not been drinking, before you ask.

In 1978, most of Europe was subjected to an annoying song by “Father Abraham and the Smurfs” called, imaginatively, “The Smurf Song”. It was played constantly in the UK and actually reached number two (a lot of people bought it). It was so annoying and drove most people up the wall, myself included. I hated it and the Smurfs with a passion because it had one of those tunes that embedded itself in your brain and refused to leave. Here it is:



Such was the success of Father Abraham and his Smurfs that a second, even more annoying single was released called “Dippety Day”. As if the first one wasn’t bad enough. Here it is:



However, thankfully, help was at hand. That same year, Sandford and Saker released a parody single called “Stamp on a Skurff Today”. I hated the Smurfs so much that I had to buy this single. I still have it somewhere in my loft.

Sadly a video wasn’t made for the song, but I have actually found it on YouTube.

For all of you out there who, like me, hated the Smurfs, I present to you “Stamp On A Skurff Today” one of the greatest tunes of 1978 – I hope you find it as funny as I do.



If you cannot get the Smurf songs out of your head, I do apologise. And remember: Stamp on a Skurff today – before it’s too late.

Am I a Gentleman?

I’ve always considered myself to be a perfect gentleman; I don’t, for example, drink tea directly from the teapot and I’ve never used a trowel to eat curry.

Imagine my surprise when I discovered that I may not be a gentleman at all; in fact I could well be diametrically opposite to the perfect gentleman. I could be an absolute blackguard. I’ve decided to test myself and share the results with you.

I have once more explored the internet on your behalf to find out exactly what makes a man a gentleman. Here’s what I’ve discovered. You can judge for yourself whether or not I am a gentleman or whether I am a fiendish cad. I’ve graded myself for each of them as follows:

A – Success. I am a perfect gentleman.

B – Partial success. I am sometimes a gentleman.

C - Average. I must try harder to be a gentleman.

D – Failed miserably. I need to go to etiquette school

A gentleman never slouches.

C – Sometimes I do slouch; it depends on how I feel. If I’ve had a pint or two I definitely slouch all the way home. And when I am at home, generally, I slouch all over the place. I am definitely a domestic slouch.

A gentleman is polite to everyone.

C – I am generally polite to older people. Well, when I say generally I mean sometimes. Well when I say sometimes I really mean rarely (it largely depends who it is – see below). As for younger people – I am a grumpy old git and I am impolite to most of the youth of today generally (mainly because they make fun of my age).

A gentleman pays attention to his appearance.

B – As far as dressing up is concerned, Mrs PM ensures that I don’t look like a sack of potatoes when I present myself to company. However, when she is not around, I tend to dress in the clothes that old tramps would reject as too shabby. For example, Mrs PM has been begging me for years to get rid of a classic leather jacket that I have worn to rock concerts for years. She says “It’s so scruffy! There are holes in it and it looks like you bought it in 1980.” Well she doesn’t know anything – I actually bought it in 1985.

A gentleman never wears the same clothes on consecutive days.

B – I don’t generally wear the same clothes on consecutive days, particularly in the summer when shirts tend to take on a life of their own. I have been known to wear the same pair of jeans for a week. It is possible to wear socks for two successive days, as long as you remember to turn them inside out. I’ve also considered wearing the same pair of underpants for more than a day; after all if you wear them the wrong way round for the second day and turn them inside out for the next two days they can theoretically last for four days. I say that if your clothes aren’t able to escape from your laundry bin on their own then are good enough to wear. I’m kidding of course – Mrs PM ensures that I am crisp and clean wherever I go.

A gentleman never swears.

C – Oh dear! I admit that I swear far too much, although I’ve given myself a C simply because I don’t swear in front of the kids, polite company or older people (if I can help it – see below). Nevertheless, I really do struggle sometimes at work though and am frequently having to apologise for expletives that escape when anger and frustration force my hand. Oh, and I swear in the pub as well. Oh dear – not looking good is it?

A gentleman is chivalrous to ladies.

B – Generally I am chivalry personified. Unfortunately I sometimes forget myself and impose aspects of my bizarre personality on unsuspecting women. Most of the time I get away with it because, even though I say it myself, I can sometimes be quite amusing. Unfortunately I have on other occasions made a complete arse of myself and offended some women. That said, I do generally hold the door open for ladies and assist them whenever I can.

A gentleman never talks down to anybody.

A – I treat almost all people I meet with the same courtesy and I rarely talk down to people. I enjoy making fun of them but that’s not the same as talking down to them, is it? Is it? Maybe I should give myself a D if that’s the case.

A gentleman never loses his temper.

B – I very rarely lose my temper. I rant almost all the time but mostly it is in jest.

A gentleman stands up for his lady.

A – I will always stand up for and defend Mrs PM (though she can certainly stand up for herself).

A gentleman respects his elders.

C – I try to respect my elders but they have to earn that respect. Unfortunately there are some older people who don’t deserve it (so I have to give myself a C for those nameless ignorant buggers). If you are older than me, please don’t be put off – I’m a nice person really and will try to treat you with respect.

A gentleman treats older women in the same way he would treat his own mother.

B – I will give myself a B for this because of one single occasion. I was out on a Christmas pub crawl and a little tipsy. A group of us were talking and a female friend said “You’re a real mate!” Unfortunately I switched my brain off and before I could stop the words from exploding out of my mouth: I said “I don’t regard you as a mate – I think of you more as a Mum”. Well, let me tell you this – that went down like a lead balloon laden with a ten ton weight; she didn’t speak to me for a week afterwards, and when she did finally get round to speaking to me she never let me forget it – nor anybody else for that matter. The fact that it happened about eight years ago and she STILL reminds me of it today means that I must have hurt her feelings pretty badly. But I can’t deny on this occasion that I truly did treat an older woman as a Mum. I just hope she doesn’t read this post otherwise I am in big, big trouble.

A gentleman will never kiss a lady socially unless she initiates it.

B – I’ve improved on this over the years. When I was young and foolish, I occasionally lunged at women and ended up with a big slap in the face for my trouble. Thankfully I have a modicum of self-control now, particularly since I discovered that a woman can legally bite off a man’s nose if he kisses her without permission.

A gentleman never wipes his mouth after kissing a woman.

C – I have been in trouble with Mrs PM for this disgraceful act so I am learning.

A gentleman removes his hat when indoors.

D – Why would a man wear a hat? The only time I would consider a hat is a woolly one in the winter. I’ve told Mrs PM that if she ever catches me wearing a cap or a hat she is to drag me home immediately, making sure that I take off the hat before I cross the threshold.

A gentleman never fights.

A – I hate fighting and would rather walk away than partake in a bout of fisticuffs.

A gentleman never gets drunk.

D – Oh dear! I don’t get drunk very often these days but that’s because my poor old body can’t cope with hangovers and nothing to do with gentleman’s etiquette

A gentleman never laughs at the mistakes of others.

D – I am the first to laugh at others’ mistakes. In fact, I am likely to constantly remind people of their mistakes, particularly if they are funny. Moreover, I am also very likely to post details about them on this blog. Marky Mark – you have been warned.

So how did I do?

I think that proves that I have what it takes to be a gentleman but I obviously need to improve, particularly when it comes to swearing and my behaviour when I’ve had a beer or two. I probably need to listen to Mrs PM more, particularly when going out unsupervised. Who knows, I might make her proud of my ability to dress myself properly one of these days.

I’d be interested to know how other guys rate themselves as gentlemen.

Now then, where’s my f*****g pint?

A "Clear The Air" Summit

Jasper ate my newspaper yesterday (there is a photo of him doing so here) and this is the latest in a number of incidents involving all three of my cats that have caused friction between us.

My cats are fabulous creatures but they are really trying my patience at the moment, not least because Mrs PM is wholly committed to their cause and, as a result, I get the blame for every disagreement I have with my feline masters.

Jasper munching through the “Money” section of the Sunday Times was the last straw. I waited until Mrs PM had popped out of the house and called a meeting. I considered long and hard about the best place for this summit and decided that the ideal location was my own imagination.

I handed over a list of my gripes – and here they are. Unfortunately, the cats can’t read so I had to stand over them and dictate as they stared at me:

Jasper eats my newspapers. This is not a one-off occurrence. He has also eaten my “Classic Rock” magazine, something that is unforgivable.

Spike wakes me up at the crack of dawn every single day, howling outside the bedroom for breakfast and scratching the door.

Poppy runs out of the house every single time I run downstairs. Mrs PM shouts at me as if I’m to blame for Poppy’s cowardice.

Jasper is too fat. Despite his diet (which is working) he still insists on lurking, seeking any opportunity to eat any scrap he can.

Spike is still violent. He will sit on my knee, purring and allowing me stroke him and then, totally unprovoked, will suddenly turn into a vicious blur of fur, teeth and claws and rip my hand to shreds.

Poppy pesters me for food, usually while a big game is on, and when I go out to feed her, she waits for me to put the food down on the floor before shrieking (because a drop of water has plopped out of the tap) and then disappearing through the cat flap like a black bolt of lightning.

Jasper and Spike are in the early stages of civil war, the prize being dominance of the house. Occasionally we will hear them wrestling in the middle of the night and, being a light sleeper, it is me who has to creep downstairs to see if we have a burglar.

Jasper is a big cat. Our burglar alarm is calibrated for small cats. Jasper has set off the burglar alarm several times simply by turning over on the settee. The neighbours are starting to complain.

One or all of the cats eats vegetation and ends up throwing up on our carpets. I have on one occasion stumbled out of the bedroom in the middle of the night and placed my bare foot in a pile of cat vomit – it is a most unpleasant experience I can tell you.

We have a wooden floor. Mrs PM and I have painstakingly sanded and varnished these floorboards and admired them with pride. Now there is a patch about four inches in diameter where a nameless cat has ripped the wood to shreds.

Talking about scratching, all three cats frequently sharpen their claws on the furniture and carpets.

Spike and Poppy both take their food out of the dish and eat it on the floor, leaving dirty marks all over the place. Jasper isn’t guilty of this crime; he vacuums every last scrap.

Spike eats my lunch and any other food we leave lying around at every opportunity. I left a ham sandwich unattended on the chair and Spike somehow managed to pull the ham out and eat it. We left the butter dish on a table and Spike ate a huge chunk of it. I have caught Spike inside the dishwasher licking plates. We almost locked him in there by mistake.

I was actually very surprised to discover that, in return, they all have grievances with me:

Trips to the vet are the major concern. I am seen as the bad guy because Mrs PM is traumatized beyond words. It is I who has to catch them and force them into their cages.

I don’t feed them often enough. I should be at their beck and call. Spike is particularly irritated by this.

I don’t give them enough food. Jasper has a particular problem with this.

Apparently I am too noisy. I “charge about like a demented elephant” according to Poppy.

When a cat sits on my knee I should stay there; I shouldn’t move, fidget or twitch. I should feel privileged that I am being used as a bed. And if Spike wants to sink his claws and fangs into my skin he has every right to do so.

The cats want access to the bedroom at all times. It is particularly warm and comfortable in there at night time. We are hot water bottles for the cats so banning them is a real kick in the teeth.

I do not appreciate their presents. Live mice, a half-eaten bird, even a pile of grassy puke are all gifts that should be appreciated. I am seen as ungrateful.

I don’t look where I’m going in the dark. Cats can see perfectly well, so why can’t I? The fact that they are black is totally irrelevant.

I do not pamper them enough. Mrs PM is seen as acceptable and adequate, whereas I am deemed to be pathetic and useless.

We go away on holiday far too often; our neighbours are seen as even worse slaves than Mrs PM and I.

They all think I am an arse.

Well we had a frank but fruitless discussion and the high level talks collapsed in chaos. Poppy howled at the door to be let out, Jasper munched the remaining sections of the Sunday Times as we chatted and Spike attacked my feet (and now I can barely walk). All three of them treated me with utter (and in their words “deserved”) contempt.

When Mrs PM returned, I told her about the meeting and suggested that we should work together to come to an agreement. After she had called for a psychiatrist, she basically told me that she agreed with the cats.

So I am outnumbered and my ego has been dealt yet another severe blow; I thought I was the King of my own Castle, yet here I am at the very bottom of food chain.

But fear not, fine readers; rest assured that the war will continue. This was just one battle lost. I will return.

I have to go now; Spike is hungry again, Jasper is eating the Sports section and Poppy has broken the land speed record to escape from another shadow.

Coming my Lords and Lady ...