Half-eaten Kebab

Have you ever been drunk?

I have – quite a few times, but thankfully not in recent years. Don’t get me wrong – I do like a pint or two but these days I tend to take it easy so that when I do drink I know I can wake up in the morning feeling reasonably fine.

Sadly, in my youth I was easily led and I thought that I was indestructible, especially when it came to the demon drink. I was rarely so drunk that I couldn’t remember anything but I have been in that position in my youth.

When you are in such a terrible state, weird thoughts go through your head, the biggest one being “I’ll be fine! I can handle another pint!”

Wrong! 

If you are drunk, that is the thought that you should totally dismiss because deep down you know for a fact that when you wake up in the morning your head will feel like Satan himself is hitting it with a lump hammer, your mouth will feel like you have just eaten the contents of a vacuum cleaner bag and your stomach will feel like it is about to explode in a tsunami of half-digested food.  If you have the strength to crawl to the toilet your entire world will spin like a demented spinning top and you will almost certainly be uttering the Hangover Mantra which is:

“NEVER AGAIN!”

Of course when you are in the throes of alcohol-fuelled ecstasy, you have lots of bad ideas. Logic doesn’t seem to enter into your thoughts. If you were sober then you would almost certainly say to your brain “You want me to do WHAT?? No bloody chance!”.

But when you are drunk, your response is “WHAT A GREAT IDEA!!!”.

Before I go on, there is something that any foreign readers must understand. Pubs and drinking are a massive part of British culture (and to a lesser extent Europe too). For example, when I have been to the US, I have been amazed that hanging out in a bar for an entire evening seems to be frowned upon – certainly more so than in the UK where such behaviour is commonplace.

So what good ideas have I encountered when drunk that are really terrible ones?

Have another drink

This is bad because, as I said above alcohol gives you the illusion of indestructibility. In this state you think you are utterly fine until the first light of day brings you back to reality with an enormous crash.

Go for a curry

Indian food is massively popular in the UK and drunk guys will flock to Indian restaurants after a night out because they think that it will satisfy the alcohol-fuelled hunger. Now the problem with a post-drink curry is that first of all Indian restaurants offer even more booze to add to your already saturated brain but worst of all, the bravado of being drunk means that you will almost certainly select the hottest curry on the menu because you think it is a fantastic idea. It isn’t because a hangover with a curry nestling in your stomach is not a good idea. Remember, a really hot curry burns twice; once on the way in and once on the way out.

Chat up a woman

I have fallen foul of this “good idea” many times and have been ritually humiliated. Worse, on one occasion I was out with workmates, including a female friend of mine. While in a pub, she started talking to a lovely young blonde woman who happened to teach her daughters ballet. Sadly, my mind told me to complement this vision of beauty. I walked up to her, in front of my female friend and a lot of workmates and said (I am not making this up): 

“First of all, I’m not coming on to you at all. But having said that, can I just say that you are ABSOLUTELY GORGEOUS!!” 

Thankfully, she took it in good stead and said a polite “Thanks” before blanking me out completely. What followed was a tirade of abuse and piss-taking from my work colleagues and, worse, from my female friend who later said “What the phark are you on?” I am still reminded of this even to this day and it happened about twenty years ago!

Buy a kebab

 If you don’t go for a curry, you go for a kebab. Britain is filled with kebab shops, some better than others. When sober, I would never have one because I prefer healthier food. Yet when drunk, it has almost become the law. Kebab shops in the UK are filled with drunk people from around 11pm to much later and I am amazed that people know what to order. One of the problems is that your average kebab is huge and you are incapable of eating the entire thing. This has three possible consequences (and I have seen all three). 

Number one: you leave the half-eaten kebab on the sofa and crawl to bed, only to see it the following morning when your stomach is too delicate to deal with a now rancid stinking half-eaten mess. 

Number two:  Put the half-eaten kebab in the fridge to be finished off for breakfast. This is so wrong because the last thing you want to see when you go to the fridge to get a can of coke to help your hangover, is a half-eaten kebab stinking out your fridge with half-eaten fries that you felt you couldn’t do without. 

Number Three: you fall asleep while eating the kebab and wake up three hours later with your head resting in a mound of spicy meat, fries and rancid salad covered in spicy sauce.

Thankfully, I have grown up a bit and while I still drink, I no longer allow myself to have stupid ideas. That said, I have been known to indulge in a curry or a kebab but, thankfully, with a relatively sober head.

I’ll finish off with a song about a hangover from my collection. Check out the lyrics because they sum up most of the stuff I’ve said in this post.

The Ghost Hunter

Do you believe in ghosts?

I don’t really but I have had rather a spooky encounter in the past that could have been a ghost (I’m still not 100% convinced but you could judge for yourself – read about it here).

Maybe there is something in it – maybe not. My feeling is that if ghosts really do exist then at some point we all must have seen them or at least felt their presence. The house I live in is over a hundred years old and I am certain that at least one person must have died in it during that time.

Yet I have never felt, seen or heard a ghost in my house – and neither has anybody else that I have known of. In fact, none of my friends, acquaintances or work colleagues have had an encounter with a soul from the afterlife either.

If ghosts really exist then this is a weird thing. I read an article surmising that for every living person today, there are 15 dead people, which means that, potentially, there are 105 billion ghosts wandering the earth. Whenever we walk the streets of our towns and cities there are 15 spooks also wandering the streets for each of us.

I sometimes watch weird videos on YouTube featuring all manner of creepiness, ranging from aliens, to lizard people, ghosts to demons, yet when I watch supposedly genuine images of ghosts caught on camera, I cannot help but chuckle because, to me at least, they like elaborate hoaxes. I’m pretty sure that your everyday psychic would disagree with me, suggesting that not only have these spirits allowed themselves to be caught on camera, they are also able to communicate with certain special people, like a psychic, a person who claims to be able to perceive a different wavelength of reality and as a result can talk to ghosts.

They are lying, dear reader. However, I don’t want to drift into telling you that all psychics are charlatans (deep down you know that already). What intrigues me about the videos you see on YouTube is that they are very well done, so well done in fact that you can barely see the cracks in some of them.

One of the best of these videos is from my adopted home city of Manchester. The video contains CCTV footage from a number of cameras scattered around an office in the city and the security guards on duty flicking between the cameras as spooky things were happening.

Here it is:

Now I loved watching this and, almost as much, liked reading the comments on it. What struck me is that it was recorded on the night of 1st November 2012, that is Hallowe’en night. It is very well done and could, I think, convince anyone who is even slightly gullible. Since then a Ghost Hunter has debunked the film as a hoax.

What’s more interesting is the term “Ghost Hunter” because until I read that article, I thought that a Ghost Hunter was a figment of the imagination of authors and writers who wrote scary fiction about ghosts.

I am amazed that there is a Ghost Hunter in Manchester – in fact there are possibly more.

People exist who actually go out to find ghosts or at least deal with situations where people think they are being haunted.

While I love this kind of spooky nonsense, I don’t think I would want to go out in search of them, just in case I actually discovered that spooks really exist after all.

But if you had a heart of steel and fear is not part of your DNA, how would you set about becoming a Ghost Hunter?

First of all, you probably need the equipment. And it is not cheap.

Here’s an example of what you would need:

An accelerometer to measure even tiny vibrations in objects.

Video recorders and cameras (obviously – though I am not convinced that ghosts can be photographed), including special infra-red equipment to detect weird stuff in the infra-red spectrum.

Sound recorders to detect abnormal sounds.

Spectrum analysers to detect energy out of the normal perceivable ranges.

Thermal cameras to detect changes in temperature.

Various other essential equipment such as X-ray and UV scanners.

Obviously, you also need to be totally laid back, methodical, patient, confident and, most importantly of all, not prone to squealing like a little girl should you ever see an actual ghost.

Of course, if you can talk to the ghosts when you find them, that might be a bonus but, since nobody can talk to ghosts, that is just a little wishful thinking.

Finally, you have to have an open mind and not be, like me, a totally cynical sceptic.

I know that I may be mocking what could potentially be a fulfilling, if not totally weird career path and for that I apologise. To be honest, if there are any genuine Ghost Hunters out there, please leave a comment and I will read it with an open mind.

In the meantime, if I feel that there is a ghost in my house, I might just hire these guys:

Over to you, dear reader:

Do you believe in ghosts?

Have you ever seen a ghost?

The Madness of Art

I read something on the internet last week and I didn’t initially know how to react. It is about a painting.

Here’s a summary of what I read:

The painting by Nua On, who made his debut In November 2013 following several years of development of his special painting style, begins as bold medium length strokes in many directions and has progressed to incorporate dabs of paint, using a sensuous colour palette of Winsor Violet, Lavender and Silver.

The painting was for sale at the princely sum of almost 500 American Dollars and with it, you get a Certificate of Authenticity together with a biography of the artist and a photograph.

Now when I read this, I thought the words were describing a budding new artist, trained to master his or her art and trying to make a living selling their so-called masterpiece to gullible pseudo-intellectuals. The painting itself was dreadful, a mishmash of daubs that would have had contemporary art critics, wetting themselves with glee and uttering nonsensical sentences to describe what was going through the artist’s head as the brush strokes were applied with words like:

Nua On demonstrates the inner conflict of the mind perfectly, fusing irony and metaphysics in a manner that represents the love affair of souls, destined to meet but finding themselves travelling apart in an ethereal medium of flame and liquid with only their thoughts of the emptiness of atomic division to hint at their ultimate purpose. As Socrates once said: Be as you wish to seem. I cannot elucidate these feelings more humbly.

I imagine that the naïve pseudo-intellectuals will rush to buy this mess at the bargain price offered and spend hours reading the inspirational story of the artist while gazing into his eyes on the photograph and struggling to contain their orgasmic urges.

But there is something I haven’t told you about this painting, dear reader.

It is special.

The artist looks like this:

I swear I am not making this up, 

Nua On is a fucking elephant!! 

I wonder whether the poor creature signed the back of the painting by dipping it’s enormous foot in a bucket of paint and slopping it onto the canvas.

I know that I have basically said that the painting is utter shit but, having been dragged around the Tate Modern in both Liverpool and London, I can safely say that it is actually better than some of the garbage hanging on the walls in those museums that was painted by human beings.

This is yet another example of how mad the art world has become. Everybody likes art but now what seems to have happened is that these nutcases are thinking even more outside the box in their quest to appear intelligent and cultured, praising pictures painted by other species and, presumably, trying to get into the heads of the giant wrinkly pachyderms that painted them.

To those pseudo-intellectual fuckwits, I have this to say.

IT’S AN ELEPHANT! 

IT’S A BLOODY ELEPHANT! 

THE POOR CREATURE WANTS TO USE HIS TRUNK FOR FEEDING HIMSELF, GIVING HIMSELF A SHOWER AND SNIFFING HIS OWN BALLS. 

HE DOES NOT WANT A CRUEL PERSON EXPLOITING HIM BY MAKING HIM HOLD A PAINTBRUSH SO THAT YOU CAN  PONTIFICATE ABOUT WHAT THE UNFORTUNATE ANIMAL WAS THINKING WHEN  HE WAS FORCED TO COVER A PIECE OF PAPER WITH PAINT. 

YOU ARE A BLOODY IDIOT!

The people behind this enterprise are really clever and I am amazed that there are pseudo-intellectuals actually thick enough to be conned into buying this shit.

There is always somebody out there trying to exploit stupidity and, to me, this is just another example.

It’s crazy. But it’s worse than that! Paintings by other creatures are available to buy.

I kid you not!

So what other these other animals paint?

I promise that I am not making this up. 

You can buy paintings by turtles, tortoises, snakes, skinks, cheetahs, tigers, jaguars, gorillas, orangutans, chimps, grasshoppers, worms, millipedes, sea lions, penguins, rhinos, hippos, dolphins and whales.

In the case of the smaller creatures that cannot hold a brush, they have to have their bodies or at least parts of their bodies, dipped in paint before making then slither or crawl along the canvas.

I would love to see what happens if a tiger suddenly objected to being forced to paint.

YOU WANT ME TO DO WHAT???????????

It also makes me wonder about copyright. Surely a painting is owned by the artist, not the person that is forcing the poor creature to apply paint to canvas in such a humiliating way. Could Nua On challenge me if I were to reproduce his art on my blog? No doubt there is a lawyer out there who would try to take me court, saying that his elephant rights are being violated and exploited by a ruthless blogger.

The more I delve into the world of contemporary art, the more amazed I am about how absurd it is. They never cease to amaze me with new conceptual ideas for the pseudo-intellectual community to preach about.

The madness of art is exploding exponentially.

Still, at least if you are a philosopher, you can be happy in the knowledge that your wise words will be taken completely out of context by a moron trying by using them to describe the thoughts of an elephant as he splashed paint onto a big slice of paper.

I’m not a philosopher by any means but I am thinking about starting my own contemplative genre of that discipline, dedicating my own words to help pseudo-intellectuals to gush over artwork created by humans and animals alike.

Taking this a step further, I might actually consider being the agent for my cats, encouraging them to dabble in the world of modern art so that I can exploit pseudo-intellectuals and make myself - er sorry - my cats very rich.

That may not be such a good idea because either the cats would rip my hands off or, more likely, Mrs PM would beat me to a pulp.

So, Nua On, you are safe from the challenge of cat art for now. But I will write a few quotes for the pseudo-intellectuals to use to describe your work. 

I can’t wait to read your biography!

Guilty M'lud!

Whenever I return from a holiday or from a pastime that I enjoy, there is always a feeling of guilt deep down inside me that threatens to ruin the memories of the fun I have had.

It shouldn’t be this way, dear reader.

I blame politicians and control freaks
.
We need to stand up against this outrageous manipulation of our feelings as these people try to control us by pointing out the bad things in life.

Are you with me?

When I go on holiday it is like the steam valve on a pressure cooker has been released and the true me escapes into the world like dog let off a leash.

I eat too much, drink too much and sleep too much.

I spend my time either being lazy and relaxing or embracing new cultural experiences.

I make rude gestures at Mr Motivator, the corporate bastard who tries to dominate my life.

I ignore advice from governmental arseholes who think that they know what is best for me.

And when I set foot back in my own home, part of me feels guilty , even if I have only been away for seven days, because:

I have over-indulged on food that is going to make me fat and unhealthy.

I have drunk more beer than I should have with little regard for the consequences.

I have wasted part of the day because I went to bed at 1am, got up at 10am, having spent too much time sleeping and just lying in bed with a good book.

I have spent time on a sunbed reading or listening to music while watching the sea gently lap up onto a golden beach, when I could have (and in certain people’s eyes should have) been doing something productive.

All thoughts of work have been dispelled and I have dreamt about leaving and burning all of my bridges with Mr Motivator.

I have done exactly what I wanted.

The current guilt-laden culture of living really pisses me off. Why? Because ...

I am made to feel guilty because I have a full English breakfast on a Saturday morning. 

I am made to feel guilty because I choose to spend three hours binge-watching Sons of Anarchy instead of going outside to do something more active.

I am made to feel guilty because I want to go for a long walk at my own pace instead of killing myself to run a 10K race.

I am made to feel guilty because I leave work early to relax instead of choosing to stay behind for four hours listening to Mr Motivator’s bullshit.

I am made to feel guilty because I have an extra beer on a Friday night.

I am made to feel guilty because I sometimes want to some “me time”.

I am made to feel guilty for sleeping in at the weekend.

I am made to feel guilty not getting over-excited when I read the latest banal post on Facebook.

I am made to feel guilty because I choose to go to a rock concert instead of an opera.

I am made to feel guilty because I tell people why I do not like things.

I am made to feel guilty because I no longer send Christmas cards or Valentines cards. 

I am made to feel guilty for being happy.

I am made to feel guilty for swearing when I’m pissed off.

I am made to feel guilty for having fish and chips!

I am made to feel guilty about going on holiday.

I am made to feel guilty for not working hard enough by Mr Motivator and politicians who praise “hard-working families” without actually knowing how fucking hard people DO work.

I am made to feel guilty by refusing to give money to charities, even though I give money to other charities.

I am made to feel guilty for going out when the BBC hand over their entire Friday Night schedule to a charity telethon.

I am made to feel guilty for watching football. 

I am made to feel guilty about sneaking food into the cinema because the bastards try to rip me off with overpriced and oversized portions of crap.

I am made to feel guilty about having a big cream bun!

I am made to feel guilty for telling people “No”!

I am made to feel guilty for doing exactly what I want to do and not what other people want me to do to “fit in”.

I am made to feel guilty for playing video games at the age of 53.

I am made to feel guilty for spending my own money on things I want.

Well, dear reader, there are many reasons other things that people try to make me feel guilty about and to be brutally frank I’ve had enough!

I think I need to make a change and stick two fingers up to the establishment on certain occasion.

The fightback starts here!

I am NOT GUILTY M'lud!

Now PISS OFF and leave me alone!

Are you with me, dear reader?

Mr Squeamish

The other day, I sat down on my sofa with my evening meal and started watching a television programme that both Mrs PM and I really like. I started eating and watched the next scene – and almost retched.

I saw a man lying on an operating table with his chest cut open and a doctor probing the red mess inside.

“Oh for God’s sake!” I exclaimed covering my eyes. “I’m eating  my dinner!”

I kind of hoped that the doctor on the TV would turn to me and say “Sorry Dave, we’ll move on to a more tasteful scene while you eat!”

Of course, he didn’t and I did my usual trick; I turned to Mrs PM and said “Tell me when it’s over.”

She just laughed, as she usually does and watched avidly, chomping on her food as if nothing odd was happening.

Deep down, I knew that the bloody scene on my television screen was not real and, in fact, was the product of the special effects department at the studio. Yet I couldn’t help myself. I waited until Mrs PM gave me the all clear.

There’s a deep irony here, dear reader, because a lot of the shows I like contain a lot of gore and blood and guts are frequently exposed. Yet each time I cringe inwardly and my stomach lurches because I simply cannot stand the sight of blood, real or otherwise.

I am squeamishness personified – I am Mr Squeamish.

I think if I were to injure myself I would pass out, not from shock, but from the sight of my own blood.

It’s embarrassing.

Many years ago, I had a blood test and, as the nurse, prepared my arm, she could tell that something was wrong.

“Are you okay?” she said.

“I’m a little squeamish,” I said.

“Most men are,” she said in a tone that was not meant to be mocking but somehow made me feel ashamed. I had to look away as she inserted the needle and drew out my lifeblood.

“There – it’s all over,” she said with a smile when she had finished. I felt like a child.

I’m not a big fan of needles, generally, and have similar experiences when I have to have a vaccination for trips abroad. One nurse actually told me off once because I was so tense that she was struggling to push the needle into my skin.

“Just relax,” she said, again as if I were a five year old. “The tenser you are, the longer this will take and the more it will hurt.”

It’s the same story at the dentist. My last major dental operation was to have a crown replaced and that experience was totally unpleasant, from the injection in my gum to the ripping out of the existing crown. I hate the sound of metal against metal or metal against enamel and I had to endure what seemed like an eternity as the dentist grinded his pliers against my crown in a desperate attempt to pull the thing off.

I also have a thing about eyes. My eyesight is terrible and many years ago I wanted to try contact lenses so that I could play football without being blind. The cost of a contact lens trial at the optician was £10 and I may as well have simply set fire to the note instead of handing over to the optician.

As soon as he went anywhere near to my eye, I flinched and pushed him away.

“Look,” he said in exasperation. “You have to let me do this.”

In the end, I turned as white as a ghost and felt extremely nauseous, so much so that he stopped immediately and offered me a glass of water.

“Are you going to be sick?” he asked, now looking concerned (probably more for the state of his consultancy room than for me).

“Maybe, “ I said trying desperately to hold onto the contents of my stomach.

Thankfully I survived and after five minutes I managed to pull myself together and walk out of the optician with his words ringing in my ears:

“You are too sensitive for contact lenses.”

Really he meant:

“You are too squeamish for contact lenses.”

Happily, I am not the most squeamish person I know. There is a guy at work who cringes at the very mention of the word “needle”. This weakness was exploited to maximum effect the other week. For some reason I mentioned the fact that the vaccination nurse had struggled to insert the needle in my arm because of the tense knotted muscles and he visibly looked shaken. I shall call him Mr Ultrasqueam.

“Just shut up,” he ordered.

“Why?” I asked.

“I pharrking HATE needles; they make me feel ill!” he exclaimed.

My desk buddies at work love this kind of stuff. When a member of the desk exposes a weakness, it is exploited with maximum prejudice and we all join in an attack, like sharks circling a drowning man in the sea.

Another desk buddy started laughing and told me in no uncertain terms that I was an utter wimp. He then went on to describe an operation that he had had in great detail involving needles, scalpels, a local anaesthetic and a very, very vulnerable part of the male anatomy.

He went into great detail including the mishaps. I won’t mention this in detail (in order to maintain the good taste element of my blog) but suffice it to say that Mr Ultrasqueam covered his ears with his hands and started shouting:

“For phark’s sake SHUT UP!”

There was blood in the water now and no mercy was shown. Other tales of needle mishaps and nasty operations were mentioned by other buddies and in the end the colour started draining from Mr Ultrasqueam’s face as he desperately implored us to shut up.

“I thought I was squeamish,” I said laughing, “but in my case I have to actually see the needle.”

“STOP MENTIONING PHARKING NEEDLES!” he screamed.

At this point we relented, in case he actually threw up. But it was hilarious.

A little later, when he had recovered, he said:

“If I EVER have to have even a minor operation, I will order them to give me a general anaesthetic so that I don’t have to be there when they start cutting and hacking.”

“You do know that they give you a local anaesthetic with a needle,” I said.

“STOP MENTIONING PHARRKING NEEDLES!” he shouted again.

I will remember this next time I am the victim of our wonderful banter.

In fact, I think I might start calling him "Needles"!

How about you, dear reader?

Are you as squeamish as Mr Squeamish (i.e. me)?

Are you as bad as Mr Ultrasqueam?

Nailed

One of the many things I don’t understand about women is how they treat their fingernails and toenails. The thought of applying paint to my nails is as abhorrent to me as is the thought of plucking out all of the hairs in my eyebrows and then painting them back in.

It’s utter craziness.

Granted, as painful as plucking or waxing eyebrows is, applying a bright colourful load of goo to your nails seems painless by comparison.

Yet women still feel the need to do it.

So why am I talking about painting nails? Allow me to tell you.

Yesterday we made the short trip to the city of Chester to watch horse racing and gamble responsibly along with around 20,000 other people. This particular event was slightly different because it was Ladies Day. What that means I don’t know really, other than perhaps an attempt to entice members of the fairer sex to lose their money alongside their male chumps.

What I do know is that every single woman there made an extra special attempt to beautify themselves, spending more money on that than the entrance fee and amount they would lose on the horses combined.

There were eight of us, four men and four women. The men all wore jackets and ties and that was it. My preparation for the event was to dust off one of my two suits (the non-penguin one) and iron my white shirt. It took all of ten minutes in total and most of that was ironing the damned shirt.

Mrs PM on the other hand spent weeks preparing for this event. After two failed trips to buy a new dress, she finally managed to choose a superb, if not expensive one that made her look lovely. She also agonised over matching shoes and a new bag and eventually bought those as well. Last week she went looking for a fascinator. I didn’t even know what a fascinator was and I had to ask my good friend, Mr Google to assist.

Here’s an example of a fascinator:

Why they are called fascinators is beyond me.

While shopping for this, she spotted another dress that she preferred and bought that instead, returning the original dress a couple of days later. Worse, she couldn’t find a suitable fascinator and had to order one online. Worse still, she had to also return the bag and shoes she bought because they didn’t go with the new dress. And of course she had to hunt for replacements.

Had I been involved in all of this trauma, I think I might have torn all of my hair out in frustration but I made it quite clear from the offset that this was her problem and her problem alone and I would rather extract each hair on my body with a blowtorch than make numerous trips to women’s clothing shops waiting outside the changing rooms like a total muppet as I watched my will to live erode.

Thankfully, Mrs PM (and indeed all women as far as I can tell) are used to this crazy way of preparing for events and having spent most of her life in changing rooms trying on clothes that either don’t fit or she doesn’t like and her stamina is unbreakable.

The final touches for this event were painting her nails. Naively, I thought this meant buying a bottle of goo and painting it on her fingernails.

When she explained what was going to happen, I gaped like a lunatic.

“Two hours? TWO PHARKING HOURS to get your nails done?”  I said incredulously.

“Yes,” she declared. “They have to look perfect.”

Basically, she was going to pay money to a beautician to apply multiple layers of goo to her nails that would take two hours to complete and cost 55 English pounds.

“55 quid?” I gaped, amazed at how much more shocking that was. “Why don’t you set fire to the notes? It will be quicker and less of a waste of money.”

I was slapped for that one.

This traumatic experience is not as easy as it sounds. I’ve looked this up.

First you have to have your nails prepared which means cutting them, filing them and deciding what shape to have them. Surely the answer to that is “nail shaped”!

Next you have to remove your cuticles. I misread this at first and winced before I realised that women don’t have what I thought had to be removed. Apparently cuticles are dead skin at the base of your nails and you use a funny shaped stick to do the revolting deed.

At this point you can start painting. But this is not just a simple job; you have to apply a base layer and wait for it to dry for longer than it says on the tin. And then you have to apply two more thin layers, drying each of them under a UV lamp for two to three minutes – a pharking UV lamp!!

And that’s not all because after that, you have to apply yet another layer and zap that under a UV lamp for the same length of time.

Finally, this fiasco is completed by removing imperfections and applying a weird cuticle oil.



Mrs PM had this done to twenty nails – ten fingernails and ten toenails.

I never knew any of this and I am totally flabbergasted.

Of course, the worst thing is that this amazing artwork is only guaranteed to last two weeks when, presumably, keen women will want to return to the beautician to throw away another £55 and waste two more hours of their lives.

Mrs PM’s nails were and are wonderful (I have to say this, lest I have my cuticles removed with a rusty saw) and so did her three friends. In their case, the nails were decorated with patterns that must of (a) cost even more money and (b) taken much longer.

Of course, their nails were and are wonderful  too (I have to say this, lest I have the remaining parts of my anatomy removed with the same rusty saw).

In conclusion, I can only say two things.

First, I am no closer to understanding women.

Finally, I am so, so, so glad that I am a man.

The Perfect Person

I recently saw a job advert and it made me laugh at its absurdity. The job wasn’t for anything special but reading the list of desirable performance and competency related requirements you would have thought that the position was for President of a major country. These weren’t requirements such as “Has experience of Microsoft Word” or “Has at least three years of experience managing a supermarket”.

I am talking about the personality and competency requirements or “What kind of a person are you?”

I read this list and started to score myself.

There were far more failures that successes and if I had been the interviewee I think I would have failed miserably had I been asked truthfully if I satisfied the competency requirements for the position. Furthermore, I think I would have had a huge cross through my name because I would have laughed my head off when asked the questions.

What these people are looking for is basically an alien/human hybrid – somebody like Mr Spock – although he would certainly fail when asked if he was a people person.

Worse, I don’t know anybody at all who would satisfy these requirements. I know for a fact that just about every person I have ever worked with wouldn’t.

And that’s not me being nasty to these people – they are human beings not machines. The have all the beauty and warmth that humanity has but also the deep failings.  Everybody is the same.

I suspect that the list of requirements was written by my old nemesis, Mr Motivator. Do you remember him?

He is the man who appears on the Apprentice claiming to be the best of the best of the best and who will give 250% to “get the job done".

He is the man who will work until stupid o’clock, fuelled solely by Monster Raving Looney strength coffee that is actually pure caffeine.

He is the man who will claim to be your best buddy and then brush you aside when the next opportunity to climb the corporate ladder appears.

He is the man who will buy a Porsche but never have time to drive it.

He is the man who will go on the most expensive holidays money can buy but spend the entire fortnight working and ignoring his long suffering family.

Yet there is a deep irony here, dear reader – because the truth is that not even Mr Motivator himself will pass all of these competencies. Yet he will almost certainly bullshit his way through the interview, claiming to be the best of the best of the best with excellence running through his bloodstream instead of blood.

The competency list is too long to reproduce here, dear reader, and I would hate to infringe any copyright laws. But I can give you a brief summary.

Basically they are looking for a robot with the interpersonal skills.

The person must actually thrive when the going gets tough and enjoy working every hour God sends without getting upset and, while working into those deep dark lonely hours in the night, will do so with a massive smile on his face, praising their boss at the same time and, when the smelly brown stuff hits the whirling cooling device will instantly be able to cope without making a single mistake.

The person will be your best friend and will make every effort to be your perfect temporary  spouse, because, don’t forget, you will be working so hard that you won’t have time to see your family.

The person will love their boss and the harder working the boss is the better because ultimately the person will strive to become just like their boss. 

The person will have a 200% grasp of all business practices and will be able to foresee any disasters and act before they occur. If, for some reason (perhaps being tired due to overwork) the person fails to see the looming disaster then he will be able to immediately react and fix it with a huge smile – even if it’s three o’clock in the morning and he has been working for eighteen hours fuelled only by a triple strength caffeine bomb.

The person will be so ambitious that his ultimate goal will be to rule the entire world.

The person will be the most benevolent human being in the world, caring for all the people he works with, even if they don’t meet his high standards.

And when it comes to conflict, the person will simply end a difference of opinion decisively, even if he is wrong.

The person will be totally creative and will redefine bullshit business terminology like “thinking outside the box” and “blue sky thinking”, perhaps even inventing a new term like “extra-terrestrial creativity” to be used from now on when trying to impress his so-called superiors.

The quality of the person’s decisions will be consistently brilliant. He will rarely be wrong and when he is, he will end the debate and move on.

The person will be the funniest man in the world. His jokes will be the best and the entire audience will spend most of their time laughing at him. Like this guy:

And that’s just for starters, dear reader. There’s lots more where that came from.

As I said, I would fail to get the job.

I didn’t want to stack shelves in the local supermarket anyway.