The Throne

It is said that an Englishman’s home is his castle.

If that’s true, I put it to you, dear reader, that there is a throne within that castle that every single Englishman loves to spend time perched upon.

And it is not just Englishmen.

This place is every man's sanctuary, a place where he can escape within his fortress, a place where he can lock the door and forget about all of his troubles, as he meditates and ponders the particulars of his life.

He is truly at home on his throne.

Yes, that’s right – it is the toilet.

And yes – this is yet another reason for me to stoop to the depths of depravity and waffle on about toilet habits.

If you are easily offended, please stop reading.

For the rest of you …

A friend recently said something that made me think about the role of the porcelain throne in a man’s life.

He has a young son who has just started potty training and his wife said to him:

“We need to go and buy potty training essentials.”

She was thinking about a trip to Mothercare, where she would undoubtedly purchase trainer pants and a potty chair.

My friend said:

“OK – you go to Mothercare, I’ll go the newsagents and buy Auto Trader”.

You see, there’s nothing better than reading a newspaper, car magazine or sports magazine while contemplating life as you are perched on the throne.

Women all around the world ask their men:

“Why do you spend so long on the toilet? And why do you use so much toilet paper?”

I can answer the first question: we spend so much time on the toilet because for some men it is the only place they can get a little peace and quiet in their house. Reading the newspaper on the throne can be extremely therapeutic.

This is an ideal toilet:

I am going to let you into a little secret. When I go to the toilet, I love to read a good comedy book, particularly the ones that have short chapters or segments, just enough reading material to let nature take its course.

This practice can backfire.

On one occasion, we had friends round and I needed to answer that call of nature. As I settled on my throne I read a particularly amusing story and found myself guffawing like a demented animal. It is an urban myth but it was so funny that I found myself howling with laughter.

In many ways it was fortunate that I was positioned where I was. Here’s what I read:

Dear Sirs,

I am writing in response to your request for additional information in Block 3 of the accident report form. I put "poor planning" as the cause of my accident. You asked for a fuller explanation and I trust the following details will be sufficient.

I am a bricklayer by trade. On the day of the accident, I was working alone on the roof of a new six-story building.

When I completed my work, I found that I had some bricks left over which, when weighed later, were found to be slightly in excess of 500 pounds.

Rather than carry the bricks down by hand I decided to lower them in a barrel by using a pulley, which was attached to the side of the building on the sixth floor.

Securing the rope at ground level, I went up to the roof, swung the barrel out and loaded the bricks into it. Then I went down and untied the rope, holding it tightly to ensure a slow descent of the bricks. You will note in Block 11 of the accident report form that I weigh 155 pounds.

Due to my surprise at being jerked off the ground so suddenly, I lost my presence of mind and forgot to let go of the rope. Needless to say, I proceeded at a rapid rate up the side of the building. In the vicinity of the third floor, I met the barrel, which was now proceeding downward at an equally impressive speed. This explains the fractured skull, minor abrasions and the broken collar bone, as listed in section 3 of the accident report form. Slowed only slightly by the encounter with the barrel, I continued my rapid ascent, not stopping until the fingers of my right hand were two knuckles deep into the pulley, which accounts for the four broken fingers and various lacerations of my right hand.

Fortunately by this time I had regained my presence of mind and was able to hold tightly to the rope, in spite of beginning to experience pain. At approximately the same time, however, the barrel of bricks hit the ground and the bottom fell out of the barrel. Now devoid of the weight of the bricks, that barrel weighed approximately 50 lbs. I refer you again to my weight. As you can imagine, I began a rapid descent, down the side of the building.

In the vicinity of the third floor, I met the barrel coming up. This accounts for the two fractured ankles, broken tooth and several lacerations of my legs and lower body. Here my luck began to improve. The encounter with the barrel slowed my descent enough to lessen my injuries when I fell into the pile of bricks and fortunately only three vertebrae were cracked. I am sorry to report, however, as I lay there on the pile of bricks, in pain, unable to move, I again lost my composure and presence of mind and let go of the rope and I lay there watching the empty barrel begin its journey back down onto me. This explains the two broken legs. I hope this answers your inquiry.

Thanks in advance for expediting my claim,

Sincerely

Abe Ricklayer

When I left the bathroom, the inevitable questions were hurled in my general direction:

“What on Earth were you DOING in there?”

“Did you catch sight of yourself in the mirror?”

“Were you choking on toilet paper?”

If you still have any doubts about how important a toilet is, listen to Al Bundy from the brilliant American comedy Married With Children.




And if you had any doubt about how dear the toilet is to a man, just check out Al Bundy’s reaction when he discovers that Peggy Bundy has redecorated his oasis – his sanctuary:



I’ll leave you with this thought:

It is good to have reading material next to the toilet. If the book is rubbish, you can always find a use for the paper – as I have, having started Piers Morgan’s autobiography.

Reality TV Is Rubbish

A few years ago I found myself watching a television programme. It featured a house filled with people, none of whom I had heard of, and they were ranting and raving and their behaviour was, quite frankly, depraved and idiotic.

I turned to look at Mrs PM who was catatonic having been fully been sucked into the nonsense in front of her.

I realised that I, too, had been totally enthralled by the antics of these strange people.

Something happened.

I had a feeling in my stomach gradually began to take control. My brain, which was close to shutting down, began to react and found a new lease of life. My common sense slowly began to exert its influence on my comatose sensibility and suddenly I found myself blurting out the words that would save me:

“WHAT THE BLOODY HELL ARE WE WATCHING THIS GARBAGE FOR?”

My outburst shocked Mrs PM back into the real world and instead of watching a bunch of idiots on the TV she had to endure a massive rant from the man in her life. It wasn’t long before she ushered me out of the room to rant to the cats instead.

For me it was a Eureka moment. I had seen the light. I realised a basic concept that I should have grasped years before. It became my mantra:

REALITY TV IS RUBBISH.

It was a life changing moment.

The programme we had been drawn into was Big Brother 2, the second series of one of the worst programmes ever to grace our TV screens.

Why was I watching it?

I don’t know, is the honest answer.

I had purposely missed the first series and caught part of the start of the second series on a Friday night after returning home, under the influence of a few beers from the pub. I still can’t fathom what possessed me.

I hated the contestants who were largely people who simply wanted to be famous but possessed absolutely no discernible talent.

Yet I still watched it.

The contestants were either extreme egomaniacs, deeply annoying at a primeval level, totally and utterly stupid, had no shame whatsoever or were a combination of all of the above.

And now we are inundated with programmes of a similar variety. In fact, it’s worse than that because now, failed celebrities desperate to kick start their careers, are humiliating themselves in the name of entertainment.

Big Brother has had its celebrity version and I’ve really never heard of many of these so-called stars. And not content with being locked up in a house for weeks, other celebrities allow themselves to be carted to a jungle in Australia and expose themselves as arses as they are forced to eat bugs, crawl through pits of snakes or wear a helmet full of cockroaches.

Yes – I’m talking about I’m a Celebrity! Get Me Out Of Here! – except, in my view the “celebrities” aren’t really celebrities – they are the dregs of the cult of celebrity, Z list celebrities, celebrities who have had their day and should just retire.

With the advent of satellite TV we now have approximately 1000 channels, most of which have nothing worth watching, but which the TV producers seem content to fill with reality rubbish.

I came home from the pub on another Friday night and caught a programme called Geordie Shore which features an obnoxious bunch of male arses from Newcastle who just want to “get pissed and pull women” and their female counterparts who would make any woman ashamed to be female.

Rant?

 It was so dreadful I didn’t know where to begin and for the first five minutes, at least, I sat there, so stupefied, my brain so focussed in disbelief at the chaos on the screen in front of me, that my mouth dropped opened and I drooled like a madman.

And then I said:

“WHAT THE HELL IS THIS CRAP?”

Geordie Shore is based on a similar American show called Jersey Shore, which I have never seen but I can imagine is just as dreadful.

Equally appalling is Made In Chelsea. I have never seen this show but the cast members have appeared on other TV shows as guests – as if they are really famous. And guess what? They are arses too.

What I find really sad about shows like this, is that if you want to be famous these days, all you need to do is switch off your brain and become an outrageous, egotistic, flamboyant narcissist and somehow convince a television producer that you have talent - even if you don't have any whatsoever.

All the TV producer then has to do is put together a whole bunch of these arses with the instruction:

“Just be as offensive and despicable as you can be and I will turn you into a star”.

Incredibly for some of these people such a ploy actually works. We see them on panel shows and on the front of tabloid newspapers.

How can “TV personality with no talent” be a job?

It makes my blood boil.

And that is why, dear reader, Reality TV is rubbish.

Of all of the items I have labelled as rubbish, this is the one that genuinely makes me angry. Such is the appetite for this car crash TV that audiences crave more and more. Each time a new show appears it is more depraved, more annoying and more shockingly dreadful that the last one.

Our TV airwaves are diseased because reality TV is spreading through the like a virus from country to country, gradually turning the human race into a species of catatonic brain-dead halfwits..

Big Brother is still going strong.

This is a crime against humanity. 

The show was finally dropped by Channel 4 in the UK but Channel 5 have bought the rights and we are currently in the middle of Celebrity Big Brother with a new series destined to start in the summer.

Heaven help me! Can you believe that?

Perhaps I should work myself into a ranting frenzy and apply for the next series – and destroy the programme from within.

I would be tempted to become so obnoxious that the producers would sign me up in an instant.

“This is Plastic Mancunian, a 50 year old ranting arse who loathes Big Brother and all it stands for. He hates all of the other contestants by default.”

No – it’s just not worth it.

I don’t want to be famous for being famous.

I don’t want to walk into posh restaurants and say “Do you know who I am?” when they refuse to give me a table at the last minute.

I don’t want to be mocked mercilessly by comedians on late night panel shows.

I don’t want to have my face splashed over the front of tabloids for months and months.

I have a life.

Oh – and please don’t get me started on The X Factor – my cats will never forgive you.

Sir Spamalot's Comments

I am a wonderful blogger – at least if you believe some of the spam comments I get. I like to think they are from the same person - a very strange and disturbed surfer called Sir Spamalot.

In my early blogging days, I fell for the crap in these bogus comments and actually (and rather stupidly) published some.

I then noticed that the wording was a bit strange and the "links" they sent under the guise of “Here’s my blog” were very dodgy indeed.

I thought, for a laugh, I would share some recent spam comments that didn’t make it to my blog.

You could certainly see your expertise within the work you write. The arena hopes for more passionate writers such as you who aren't afraid to mention how they believe. Always follow your heart.

So I’m a passionate and expert writer and like to say what I believe. My ego is swelling.

Once we consider the term your message really like, with regards to a close romance with a further, yet to be a sensing that's engendered once you have miltchmonkey a better relationship with yourself very * or even just as the sense of increased oneness household as well as human race ( space ) therefore it gets much more really clear that every one anyone wants in your life will be really like. 

Random use of a word that sounds fabulous – miltchmonkey – what a word!

Now I am going away to do my breakfast, afterward having my breakfast coming yet again to read further news.

Well thanks for sharing that. I hope you enjoy you breakfast, and be sure that, as a news blog, I will satisfy your need for more. Now then, let's invent a story about the Queen...

Asking queѕtions аre truly fastidіous thing іf уou are not understanding аnything fully,eхceρt this poѕt prеѕents niсe undеrstanԁing yеt.

I have a question. What on Earth are you talking about?

I like the helpful information you provide in your articles.I will bookmark your weblog and check again here regularly. I'm quite sure I will learn many new stuff right here! Best of luck for the next!

Wow – I didn’t for one second ever think that the inane garbage that poured forth from my brain onto this blog was in any way helpful information. My God – I must be a genius.

Are you looking to have a video chat with your relatives overseas or out of state.
If you will be unable to attend the live chat, you can post your questions for Patricia in the comment area below. Overconfident men and women are insecure and are putting up a show of fake self-confidence to mask their internal flaws.

Thanks Patricia. I’m glad you liked my blog post telling you how I am a slave to my cats and I can see that your comment is wholly relevant to that. Are you telling me that my overconfident cats are really insecure and faking their self-confidence to mask their internal flaws? I’ll be sure to mention that to Liquorice when she next tries to rip the flesh from my face.

I've read some excellent stuff here. Certainly price bookmarking for revisiting. I wonder how so much attempt you set to make the sort of fantastic informative site.

I don’t charge for bookmarking. Basically all I do is write bilge – I really didn’t know it was informative.

Whoa! This blog looks exactly like my old one! It's on a totally different subject but it has pretty much the same layout and design. Wonderful choice of colors!

Why thank you. I stole it from you, you know.

I am frequently to blogging and I seriously appreciate your content. The post has definitely peaks my interest. I am going to bookmark your web-site and maintain checking for new facts.

If you think I write facts then you should seriously consider therapy.

It’s hard to find knowledgeable people on this topic, but you sound like you know what you’re talking about! Thanks. 

I am an expert on the weird and wonderful world of the Plastic Mancunian. Oh – and I checked your website - thanks for telling me about your sexual problems. I would recommend that you pop along to a clinic and speak to a specialist.

I have an endless supply of similar comments, plus many who seem to be aware that I am 50 yet think that anyone of my age and older needs to eat Viagara by the bucketload. If I followed their advice I think none of my trousers would fit and I would be afraid to leave the house.

I appreciate genuine comments and will always reply – but not to those sent by Sir Spamalot (who uses the name Anonymous)

Do you get this problem?

Er – the spam comments, I mean, not the Viagara…

Flying In A Blue Nightmare

I’m so tired, tired of waiting, tired of waiting for … EVERYTHING TO DO WITH FLYING!

Mrs PM and I have just returned from a New Year trip to Tenerife and as I was standing, hanging around yet again, I started to think about how much time I waste waiting for things that I really shouldn’t have to wait for, increasing my frustration exponentially.

If only I could get to foreign soil without having to fly there!

Let’s take a return flight from Manchester to Tenerife as an example of why flying is an exasperating experience for me. For the outbound flight, our tickets told us that we needed to arrive at the airport a full three hours before our flight.

THREE BLOODY HOURS!

At this time of year, apparently, there are a lot of travellers so the strain on airport security is immense. Or so we are told. Nobody seemed to tell the staff at Manchester Airport.

Manchester Airport security is currently under scrutiny because of a major security flaw. I am not making this up.

In July, a young child of 11 managed to sneak aboard a flight to Rome and was only noticed once the aircraft was in the air. He managed to sneak through the airport security without a boarding pass and actually get on board the aircraft itself.

Read about it here.

Consequently, staff at Manchester Airport have been severely reprimanded and have had to become extra vigilante. The result; yet MORE ways to infuriate me.

We had already checked in online for our flight but that didn’t help us one bit. The bag drop queue was immense and as I stood like an idiot, desperately frustrated and frantically trying not to rant, I began to wonder about why checking in online makes things quicker. I don't believe it does.

It took an age to meander through to the departure area, having to remove anything metallic, including my belt, watch, cash, keys, phone etc. What usually happens is I forget something and end up setting off the alarm and have to endure being patted down by a burly security guard who enjoys the experience as much as I do, i.e. not at all.

The exception to this is China, where I have been groped and prodded by a very angry and serious looking female security guard who was about half my height. She treated me as if I had set the scanner off on purpose.

Back in Manchester, the staff didn’t appear to have noticed that this was a particularly busy time to travel. Not all of the security desks were manned and, pretty soon, I was joined by hundreds of kindred spirits, each one grumbling openly about the lack of progress and the possibility of missing their flights.

Having made my way through the security, I then had to get dressed again (belt, watch etc.) before entering the departure lounge in search of food, while pondering why I had to get up at 4am to catch an 8:30 flight when I live approximately 20 minutes away from the airport.

Guess what? Yes – that’s right. I had to queue to get breakfast, and wait for the gate to be published.  Yet more bloody waiting and hanging around. The staff in the airside shops must be equally frustrated because by the time passengers make it through security, they only have five minutes before they have to board their flights.

And when you arrive at your destination, depending on where you land, the waiting just continues. The first problem is usually the immigration queue. Why are there only ever two immigration officers there when five packed flights have just arrived?

In Europe this isn’t so bad because as a European I can wave my passport at the guy and away I go. In places like America, the inquisition takes so long that I have to bite my lip to stop myself from saying:

“I’m in the United States of America to complain about the length of time it takes for any foreign national to get INTO your bloody country. Oh – and by the way! HAVE A NICE BLOODY DAY!!!”

I fear I would be marched off to jail fairly quickly if I did. Knowing my luck I would be deported and have to queue for hours to leave again.

After the humiliation of immigration, comes the free-for-all known as collecting your baggage. Usually, the queues from immigration are so slow that one of two things happen.

Either …

You have spent so long trying to convince the immigration official that you are here on holiday and not to spy in his country, that by the time you get through, your carousel is full of bags from the next flight and your luggage has been confiscated because you didn’t get through in time to collect it.

Or …

You actually get through quickly and then wait for an hour for the baggage handlers to unload the aircraft and dump your bags on the carousel.

When we returned to Manchester on Saturday, we had to wait for an hour for our bags and I was ready to commit grievous bodily harm.

On other occasions, I have had my luggage shifted into a holding room because immigration took so long. In South Africa, I arrived along with six other long haul flights, to find that only three immigration desks were open. I almost completely soured UK South African relations.

Of course, there is a third possibility. Your bag may not arrive, particularly if you have had to transfer. This is the most frustrating of all because you end up standing there like a lemon as all of the other passengers collect their bags and bugger off with a relieved smile on their faces, while you break down and start sobbing because you are in a foreign place and all of your clothes for a three week business trip are on a flight to the other side of the world, and you realise that you have no spare underwear in your hand luggage.

I love travelling but the frustration of waiting and waiting around at airports threatens to turn me into a primeval, subhuman Neanderthal.

Can I please ask all of you science boffins out there to do me a favour?

Please, please, PLEASE hurry up and invent the Transporter they use on Star Trek.

I am sick and tired of waiting for you guys to pull your fingers out.

Goodbye 2012

2012 is almost over so it is time to dust off an old meme that covers the last year. 

Please feel free to steal it yourself.

As usual, this is quite a long post so just in case you get bored, I will wish you all a Happy New Year right at the start, and I hope that 2013 brings all of your dreams to fruition.

I will be jetting off to the sun for New Year (we are off to Tenerife) rather than trying to avoid the rain.

Let’s dive in, shall we?

1. What did you do in 2012 that you'd never done before?

I visited a new part of the world, the United Arab Emirates. We have friends who have moved out to Abu Dhabi for a couple of years and we decided to pop over and pay them a visit. These friends are the former owners of our hellcat, Liquorice.

The Grand Mosque, Abu Dhabi

Burj Khalifa, Dubai

I was a bit worried because I had read some strange stuff on the internet about the place but, as usual, Captain Paranoia was wrong and I enjoyed every bit of it – apart from climbing the Burj Khalifa in Dubai, the world’s tallest building (you can read about it here). I never ever learn.

2. Did you keep your New Years' resolutions, and will you make more for next year?

Yes and no. Here are last year’s resolutions:

(a) At least TRY to write that elusive book.

Writing a book still eludes me – but I have cheated a little. I have turned my blog into a book – well sort of. I have pulled together most of my blog posts from 2008, 2009 and 2010 and compiled them into five small books, converted them to eBook format and then dumped them onto my Kindle.

So rather than writing a new book, I have compiled five books from words I have written on this very blog over three years.

That sounds impressive but, really, it isn’t.

Nevertheless I will write a book next year because we are going to Japan and I aim to write my third travelogue to summarise the experience.

(b) Learn Spanish to the point where I can talk to Spaniards without a dictionary.

I am still plugging away at Spanish and have improved, despite a bit of a relapse in the last couple of months. I have been to Spain twice this year and have managed to speak to people without a dictionary – only in restaurants though sadly.

(c) Cycle to work at least twice a week (when the weather improves).

I have failed miserably on this promise. I haven’t even taken the bike out this year.

My resolutions for 2013 will therefore remain the same. I’ll report this time next year.

3. How will you be spending New Year's Eve?

We are going to Tenerife this year, so hopefully I will be spending New Year’s Eve in the sun, and then in a restaurant followed by a lively bar.

4. Did anyone close to you die?

No humans died thankfully. Sadly, my old Ford Escort died in September and I managed to kill my iRiver ihP-140 mp3 jukebox. You can read about my losses here and here.

5. What countries did you visit?

I visited Switzerland, the United Arab Emirates, Spain and Italy.

6. What would you like to have in 2013 that you lacked in 2012?

A little willpower wouldn’t go amiss to be honest. I would love to actually say this time next year that I had gone above and beyond the call of duty when it comes to writing, cycling and learning Spanish. I might achieve that with some willpower.

Oh – and maybe a winning lottery ticket would help too.

7. What date from 2012 will remain etched upon your memory, and why?

I guess October 8th stands out because that was the date I entered my sixth decade. I am now officially an old git, at the tender age of 50.

Despite the slide downhill, I actually feel very content and am looking forward to the next ten years.

8. What was your biggest achievement of the year?

I would say that my biggest achievement this year was standing up to my fear of heights and climbing the Burj Khalifa in Dubai. Alas, I didn’t conquer that fear but I am quite proud of the fact that I didn’t turn into a jabbering wreck and scream “GET ME DOWN!!!!”.

9. What was your biggest failure?

Sadly, that would be failing to overcome my fear of heights. I have surrendered in that particular war and promised myself that I will never scale any tall buildings or structures ever again.

10. Did you suffer illness or injury?

No, thankfully.

11. What was the best thing you bought?

The prize is shared between the following:

(a) An iPod Classic

Yes, I have ventured over to the dark side and bought an Apple product. It has a whopping 160 Gb of storage, four times than my old mp3 player, and is far superior in every way. It currently contains approximately 6300 songs and two recorded rock concerts from DVDs. And it is only a third full.

(b) A Kindle Touch

I debated whether or not to buy a Kindle because I didn’t really want to contribute to the end of the paperback. Unfortunately, now that I have one, I much prefer it, mainly because I can keep any books I read without fear of Mrs PM throwing any away in one of here bi-weekly purges. The added bonus is that I can load it with books and it won't get any heavier, thus saving me valuable luggage space for a work trip to Oman at the end of January and a jaunt to Japan in May.

(c) A New Car

My old banger has been replaced by a three year old silver Vauxhall Astra. I feel like a bit of a traitor because it is a much nicer car than my old dead jalopy.

12. Where did most of your money go?

The new car, although my eldest lad, Stephen, who is 19 and in his second year at university, has tried his best to relieve me of as much cash as he can. I have now become a bank.

13. What song will always remind you of 2012?

2012 was a fantastic year for music and once again I bought loads of fabulous CD’s. It would be unfair to mention just one song – so here are my top songs of 2012, although one or two of them are from previous years. Follow the links to listen to some great music:

At number 8 – Black Country Communion – Cry Freedom

Black Country Communion released their third album  this year, called Afterglow, and it is just as good as the previous two. This is my favourite song on the album.

At number 7 – Ginger Wildheart – Internal Radio

Ginger Wildheart is another criminally underrated songwriter who produces extremely catchy rock songs. His band, The Wildhearts, have been around for about 20 years now. In 2012 he released a solo album called 100% which is full of captivating songs of which Internal Radio is my favourite.

At number 6 - Ten – Arabian Knights

Ten are an English rock band that you will only ever have heard of on this blog – as I have mentioned them several times in the past, mainly because they are wickedly underrated. This year they released their tenth album, Heresy and Creed, and it is a great slice of melodic rock.

At number 5 – The Hives – Go Right Ahead 

The Hives are a Swedish punky rock band who write some extremely catchy songs. 2012 saw the release of the album Lex Hives and this wonderfully catchy song.

At number 4 - Porcupine Tree – Idiot Prayer

Porcupine Tree are one of my favourite progressive rock bands and I have been collecting some of their older albums. This year I bought 1996’s Signify and the best track is Idiot Prayer – progressive rock at its very best.

At number 3 – Steven Wilson – Deform To Form A Star

The main man behind Porcupine Tree is Steven Wilson, a prolific prog rock genius. In 2011 he released his second solo album called Grace For Drowning which is a masterpiece. Deform To Form a Star is a beautiful, spine tingling, mellow masterpiece that will make the hairs stand up on the back of your head. I love this song.

At number 2 – Muse – Survival

2012 was a triumph for Britain, with the Olympics taking centre stage. I loved every bit of the entire event including the opening ceremony, and the incredible sport. Best of all, though was this incredible song from Muse, the official anthem for the Olympics. The album, The 2nd Law, is equally good and easily the second best album of the year.

At number 1 – Rush – Headlong Flight

So what could beat Survival by Muse? Only one band – the magnificent Rush who released the album Clockwork Angels in 2012, their best album for years. I have barely stopped playing it. How can a band that has been producing superb albums for almost 40 years provide one of their greatest recordings so late in their career? They are geniuses – nothing more; nothing less. Headlong Flight is the song of 2012.

14. What do you wish you'd done more of?

I wish I had made a bit more of an effort with Spanish – like starting a proper course. My problem is that work commitments usually jeopardize courses. For example, I can never be sure whether I will have to work late or jet off somewhere. For example, if I wanted a winter course, it would be screwed by a three week trip to Oman I have to make at the end of January.

Maybe I should say no – but it is a brand new country for me and the lure of that makes me excited. I am not looking forward to the work though.

15. What do you wish you'd done less of?

As usual, I would like to have done less procrastinating and less ranting. Maybe this year?

16. What was your favourite TV program?

Once again, TV has been great this year. Here are a few to mention:

The Walking Dead, Dexter, True Blood, Fringe, Game of Thrones, Dr Who, Falling Skies, Red Dwarf X, Alphas, Merlin, Warehouse 13 and many more.

17. Do you hate anyone now that you didn't hate this time last year?

No – but I have added to the list of people I want to dump into a spaceship bound for the Planet Tharg. One day I will write a list.

18. What was the best book you read?

That’s easy – The Player of Games by Iain M. Banks.

I am gradually working my way through the author’s Culture novels and still have a lot to get through. I may start reading some of his non Science Fiction efforts when I have finished them all.

19. What was your greatest musical discovery?

I haven’t discovered any new bands this year, sadly. Let’s hope that changes in 2013.

20. What was your favourite film of this year?

I have seen some great films this year, including The Dark Knight Rises, Prometheus, The Hobbit: An Unexpected Journey and Skyfall (the new James Bond movie).

My favourite, by a long way is The Avengers Assemble.

21. What did you do on your birthday?

On my actual birthday, October 8th, I spent a boring day at work and then Mrs PM and I ordered a Chinese take away and shared a bottle of wine.

However, the real celebrations was a four day break in Rome with friends, which you can read about here.

22. What kept you sane?

Work has been especially hard this year, particularly recently. When I am working long days, I tend to drift into a day dream thinking about spending time with Mrs PM in a foreign country where work is at the other side of the universe and therefore cannot be considered.

Add to that the usual remedies for insanity – beer, blogging and a good dose of music – and I can get through most things.

23. Who did you miss?

Nobody leaps to mind.

24. Who was the most interesting new person you met?

Nobody stood out this year, but next year I have decided to make more of an effort to chat to strangers, something that I don’t tend to do much because of my inherent shyness. Is that a new resolution? Perhaps – we’ll see.

25. Tell us a valuable life lesson you learned in 2012.

I'll tell you three life lessons:

(a) Being 50 years old is actually pretty good.

(b) The Twilight Saga is rubbish.

(c) Gadgets don’t bounce.

The Pros And Cons Of Christmas

Is it just me or are years flying by way too fast?


It seems like only yesterday when I was recovering from Christmas 2011 and, hey presto, here it is again. As a self-confessed grumpy old git, you may imagine that I adopt the role of Ebenezer Scrooge at this time of year and start moaning about humbugs.

That’s not true. Well – sometimes it is to be fair.

I have a love-hate relationship with Christmas; there are elements that I love and embrace, and there are elements that I despise. I’m sure that regular readers will have a guess at which bits of the festive season drive me crazy, given the things I’ve ranted about before on this cyber soapbox.

I thought it would be a nice idea to share with you what I hate and what I love about this time of year.

Without further ado, here are the pros and cons of Christmas.

Cons

(1) Choosing presents – I find it really difficult to decide what to buy everybody. I find my thoughts drifting to what I want, which means that I have to resist buying a heavy metal album for Mrs PM for example. Mrs PM says that by now, after almost 15 years together, I should easily be able to select a suitable gift. And I can – after I have beaten myself up over it for several months. Come January, I will be thinking of what I can buy her for Christmas 2013 – yes it takes that long. And she is only one of the people I have to consider.

(2) Christmas shopping – I hate shopping at the best of times and it this time of year, this abhorrent pastime mutates into a monstrous experience – even if you want to buy something unrelated to the festive period. In Manchester we have a huge shopping mall called the Trafford Centre and in December it is like entering Hell itself. The enormous car parks are so full that arriving and leaving take hours to achieve, having blocked up the motorways and main roads around for hours. Inside the Trafford Centre all shops are absolutely crammed with hapless shoppers, none of whom want to be there. You have to queue for hours to actually buy what you want and queue for more hours to leave the bloody place. And supermarkets are the same. There is so much food to buy that the weekly shop becomes a nightmare. People buy so much food you would think that they have predicted World War 3 and are planning for four years in a bunker to avoid nuclear fallout.

(3) Christmas starts earlier and earlier every year. My birthday is 8th October and I use that as a marker to see whether Christmas adverts have started or not. In the past, the first commercials appeared in late October. More recently the adverts have started much earlier; it was in September this year meaning that we have to spend a quarter of the year suffering bloody Christmas commercials – three bloody months of it.

(4) The Queen’s Christmas Message. I am ambivalent when it comes to Liz. I neither hate her nor love her. To me she is just another celebrity who happens to get a lot of media attention. Why should I be even remotely interested in anything she has got to say? I haven’t. The only thing I have in common with Liz and her family is that we live in England. Apart from that I care not one jot about her thoughts, her wisdom or her opinions. Why this is prime time TV on Christmas Day is beyond me.

(5) Travelling. Since I moved to Manchester in 1984, I have had to spend the Christmas period driving around the Midlands, Yorkshire and the North West of England visiting people who demand my presence. Back in 1984 I thought to myself, one day you will all come to me. It is now 2012 and there is absolutely no chance of that happening, This year I have to drive for three hours on Christmas Day, an hour and a half on Boxing Day and three hours the day after that. I’m exhausted just thinking about it.

(6) Bad presents. I wish people would just say – “Here’s £20 – go and buy something you like.” Instead I get slippers, hankies and after shave – repeatedly.

Enough of that “Bah! Humbug!” nonsense. Here are the pros:

Pros

(1) Time off work. I love being off work and at Christmas I usually manage a week or two off work. I love to wake up with the knowledge that I can stay in bed, relax, go for a walk and take it easy for the duration of the Christmas Holiday period.

(2) Christmas Parties and socialising. Christmas parties can be an amazing experience, with either friends, family or work colleagues and usually I end up attending quite a few events. Generally the pubs and restaurants are full of joy and cheer anyway but whether you go to the pub with your mates or end up at a Christmas Party, fun is freely available to make even the most boring Scrooge smile occasionally – even me:

(3) Kids – Kids love Christmas and there is nothing better than seeing the faces of children when they see Father Christmas and open their presents on the big day. Sadly my two are too old now (19 and 16) and no longer have that innocent enthusiasm.

(4) Good presents. Occasionally I have genuinely surprised when receiving gifts. As I said above, these days I love it when people give me gift vouchers or cash so that I have an excuse to hit the sales or go online and splash out on something wonderful for myself.

(5) Christmas Markets. In recent years there has been a trend in Britain where major cities welcome European style markets selling all sorts of Christmas goodies. The annual Christmas Market in Manchester is usually packed but mulled wine is abundant and you can relax in a bar supping your mulled wine or the alcoholic beverage of your choice while watching people enjoying the experience. A great way to spend a few hours in the run up to Christmas.

(6) Food. I love Christmas fare, particularly mince pies. Mrs PM and I eat them by the bucket load and any diets we are considering are shelved for a week or two. Christmas is the time of year when you basically tell your diet to “Bugger off”. I genuinely do not feel bad about gaining a few pounds. Such things can be dealt with in January. This year on Christmas Day I will end up looking like a roly poly old man as I settle down in front of the TV to watch the Dr Who Christmas special. And I won’t care at all.

Well that’s it for now.

I would like to wish everybody a Merry Christmas whether you are a regular reader or a poor unfortunate who has stumbled across this post by accident.

May Father Christmas bring you all the gifts that you want – but please – no more socks and hankies. I have so many now that I could open a shop.

Room 101 (Part Two)

Earlier this year I wrote a post about Room 101, a place where all of the horrors of the world are kept and promptly popped 10 things into the room so that they would never be seen or experienced by human eyes ever again – apart from by the eyes of those humans already in Room 101 – like Piers Morgan for example.

You can read it here.

Well, dear reader, it is time to put ten more things into Room 101.

And good riddance!

Monday Mornings

Like Garfield I hate Monday – particularly Monday morning at the precise moment my alarm clock drags me kicking and screaming from the bliss of my beauty sleep into a reality that forces me to get out of bed and go to work. There is no worse feeling than getting dressed and trying to psyche yourself up for the inevitable struggle through five days of frustration, ranting and pleading with yourself not to attack people with cricket bats.

It is the worst day of the week and needs to be dispatched to Room 101 with maximum prejudice.

Antony Worrall Thompson

In Britain we seem to be obsessed with cookery programmes and I hate them. What’s more, I am not keen on any so-called celebrity chefs either. I could spend all day ranting about cookery programmes but I will restrict myself to one person for now: Antony Worrall Thompson, one of the most irritating chefs on television.

His voice is so annoying it makes me feel like my head is pummelled by a woodpecker on speed. How did he ever become a TV chef?

It beats me.

What’s worse is that in 2008 he recommended that we all add a little henbane to our salads. Do you know what henbane is? It is a toxic weed that should not be consumed under any circumstances. Okay – he meant to recommend “fat hen”, a wild herb, so perhaps he could be forgiven.

Except in January this year he was caught shoplifting in Tesco – something he allegedly did on five separate occasions, leading to a tabloid headline “Ready Steady Crook”.

Off to Room 101 you go, Antony; Piers Morgan is hungry.

Immigration and Customs Officers

I am not a murderer. I am not a drug lord. I am not a terrorist. I am not a smuggler. I am not a criminal.

When I visit another country, I do so out of pure pleasure (except when I am working; nevertheless I try to find some pleasure outside work too). Yet when I enter certain countries I am subjected to an interrogation by immigration officers and or certain customs officials. What’s more, I even sometimes suffer on my return to the UK. On a visit to America once, Mrs PM and I approached the immigration officer together as “family” but because we aren’t married, I was bollocked by this uniformed stranger, sent back and then when he finally allowed me to come back, I was interrogated.

“What’s the purpose of your visit to the United States?”

“Let me see your return ticket!” 

“How long do you intend to stay in the United States?” 

“Where will you be staying?”

The temptation to be sarcastic is almost overwhelming but you daren’t lest you be carted off by armed officers, dragged into a room and then subjected to a search that requires a special glove.

Customs officials aren’t much better. On a return trip to the UK:

“Where have you been?”

“What did you buy?”

“Open up your suitcase: I don’t care if it has three weeks of dirty underwear – I have a special glove.”

Into Room 101 you go - and feel free to interrogate and strip search Piers Morgan.

Boy Bands

What is a boy band? A boy band is a bunch of pretty boys who can barely sing and regurgitate the same old insipid song over and over again for an army of teenage girls full of hormones and hysteria, or a bunch of old women who, for some reason, have abandoned all hope and want to be spoon fed dreary ballads.

I hate them; I hate them so much I can barely type out the words that express my hatred of them.

Take That, Westlife, One Direction, Boyzone and all other equally shit “bands” should be locked up and blasted to the planet Tharg at the first opportunity.

Please help me rid the world of them. Oh – OK let’s put them into Room 101 where they can annoy Piers Morgan with their crap cacophony.

Diving Footballers

I enjoy watching Premiership football but there are certain players who are so keen to win or gain an advantage that they throw themselves to the floor when an opposing player breathes on them, screaming blue murder in a vain attempt to be awarded a penalty.

The way some of them do it, you would think a sniper had shot them in the head from the stands. This is not the way football should be played. There should be no reward for cheating. If I had my way, I would ban players found guilty of diving for at least five games and fine them a month’s salary (which could run into hundreds of thousands of pounds). Sadly, I can’t – but what I can do is put them into Room 101.

The Turner Prize

Modern art leaves me stone cold. It is garbage produced by so-called artists for pseudo-intellectuals under the pretence that “it hasn’t been done yet”. The focal point for all that is wrong in the art world is the annual Turner Prize where “artists” compete for a cash prize by producing a piece that makes most people say “What the PHARKKK????”.

Past winners have included:

A bare room where the lights are on for 5 seconds then off for 5 seconds – called “The Lights Go On And Off”.

“60 minutes of silence” in which we see a whole bunch of policemen sitting there staring at the camera for 60 minutes.

It is insanity and only belongs in one place – Room 101.

Lady In Red

Lady In Red is one of the worst songs ever written – four minutes of dreary nonsense masquerading as a romantic song. If somebody were to play it to me in the name of romance I would vomit all over them. The lyrics are so cheesy that they could have been written by mice. And Chris de Burgh’s voice grates my brain and makes me grimace in pain.

A dreadful song – an utterly dreadful waste of four minutes. I’ll bet it is Piers Morgan’s favourite song – he is welcome to it.



Thick British Tourists

Some British people should never be allowed to leave our island. Why? Because they are not equipped to deal with life in foreign countries. In their minds, every country is just like good old Britain, where everybody should speak the Queen’s English and watch British television. In their eyes, Britannia Rules the world, so it is perfectly acceptable to say things like:

“I’m a British ciitizen – give me some Worcester Sauce NOW!!”

I have numerous examples of the obnoxious behaviour of Brits abroad and each time I hold my head in my hands and shake it in despair and shame.

“Give me a pint of lager! What do you mean you don’t know what a pint is?”

“DO YOU SPEAK ENGLISH???? WHY NOT??? I thought EVERYBODY spoke English!”

“I’m not eating any of this foreign muck. Have you got any fish and chips?”

“Are you showing Eastenders in your bar? What do you mean you don’t get Eastenders in Spain?”

Let’s hope they are happy in Room 101 because that is where they are going.

Obnoxious Parisians

When I first visited Paris, I was led to believe that all French people were obnoxious arseholes. Later visits to La Belle France have corrected that initial wrong assumption - the problem is limited to a small percentage of obnoxious and extremely rude Parisians.

There are certain Parisians who simply don’t like anybody who is not from Paris. I can speak a little French and my general philosophy is to try to speak the language of the country I am in – with a phrase book if necessary. One summer, I was in Paris and my hay fever was so bad that I had to seek medication. I found a pharmacy and, with streaming eyes and constant sneezing, I tried to buy some antihistamine tablets. Sadly my French didn’t stretch to “Antihistamine” and the phrase book didn’t help. I was unfortunate enough to be served by an obnoxious Parisian:

PM: Pardon, monsieur (AAAATTTTCHHHOOO!!!!) Parlez vous anglais? (AAAAATTTCCHHOOOOO!!!)

Obnoxious Parisian: Non!

PM: D’accord. Avez vous (AAAAATTTTCCHHHHOOOOO!!!!!) quelquechose pour m’aider (AAAAAAAATTTCHHHHOOOO!!!!) ….

The bugger just left me standing there and went to serve somebody else. I tried to interrupt but he totally ignored me. The other person was quite surprised and started pointing at me and gestured for the arse to help me. I was clearly struggling – and I would have struggled in an English pharmacy to be honest.

What did this arse do? He shrugged in typical Gallic fashion and carried on serving the woman. Thankfully, another assistant came to my rescue and she spoke a little English. With an exchange of franglais she sold me a box of antihistamines with instructions in both French and English.

I saw her talk to the obnoxious arse as I left – and all he did was shrug again.

There are a fair few people like this in Paris, superior people who look down on non-Parisians. Mrs PM lived in Toulouse for a year and told me that people from that town are generally not keen on Parisians either.

In the other parts of France I have visited, I have been welcomed with open arms and encountered some of the friendliest people I have ever met. I want to dispatch these people to Room 101 where they can be rude to Piers Morgan.

The rest of the people in Paris can then make me welcome next time I visit that beautiful city.

My Hair.

I hate my hair. You can read about the reasons here.

Every day is a constant battle to keep it under control. Every day I look into the mirror and grimace in shame because it has morphed into a totally embarrassing shape. One time, on holiday in Spain, I spent a fair amount of time swimming in the sea before strolling around the holiday resort for the rest of the day. When we returned to the hotel, I looked in the mirror and my hair, which was admittedly a little longer than usual, was sticking up all over the place.

“You let me walk around like this?” I asked Mrs PM.

She sniggered and said “Your hair looks like that all the time. It’s lovely!”

It’s not. And here are some examples:

Shocking hair aged one.

Shocking hair aged 12

Can you spot the bad haired boy in this picture?

Shocking hair aged 17

 Into Room 101 you go – and give me a decent hairstyle.

That’s it for now. I will add some more items to Room 101 next year some time.

I have thousands of things destined for Room 101.

I hope Room 101 can cope.