Come On You Saddlers

It’s that time of the year again.

Tomorrow at approximately 4.50pm I shall either be sizzling with satisfaction, fiercely frustrated or dangerously depressed. Yes, that’s right - the football season starts again. And I’m talking about the real football season here, not the pseudo-rugby that Americans call football, nor the pompous, over-rated gluttony that is the English Premiership.

My attention will be focussed completely on a small Somerset town where my beloved team, the mighty Saddlers (aka Walsall), will be in combat with Yeovil Town at Huish Park. I will not be there, much to my chagrin, mainly because I live so far away, but also because Mrs PM would reject me with maximum prejudice were I to spend my weekends away from her, screaming with a tribe of like minded Saddlers, as our mighty team do battle on the field of play.

I’ve waited for this all summer. When the football season ends in May, a little piece of my soul is stolen. In England we are meant to enjoy the beautiful weather and relax; the only problem is that the beautiful weather never arrives and most of the time we stare out of the window as the storm clouds expel an ocean of water onto our cities. I would argue that summertime in England is the ideal time to play football, and would gladly back any argument to play the beautiful game every single week of the year. Of course this is not possible and players deserve a rest, so begrudgingly I don’t complain (too much anyway).

During the void that is summer, I have to content myself scrutinizing the internet searching for news on new players. Will we sign a new striker or midfield dynamo? How about a stalwart defender who will let no opposing striker run rampant in our area? What about the safest goalkeeper in the league?

I was disappointed last season because after a lot of promise and a massive unbeaten run, Walsall floundered and ended up finishing in a tedious style in mid table. We also lost the manager, Richard Money (or “Dicky Dosh” as the fans christened him). I was distraught. I regarded him as our best manager for years and he simply walked out. I don’t want to dwell on the reasons why but my frustration was almost unbearable. Many Walsall fans share my irritation (some more than others) and voice their opinions on different platforms. I prefer not to do that. I am not as vociferous as most.

However, now the new manager, Jimmy Mullen, has acquired several decent new recruits and I feel frighteningly confident. I am desperately resisting the inexorable urge to be over-optimistic but it is a massive struggle. My heart tells me that we shall romp through the season winning every game. My head shoots that line of reasoning down in flames, reminding me that there are some very good teams out there who will potentially destroy us. Leeds United will be formidable as will Leicester City. I hope I’m wrong but common sense tells me otherwise.

Of course every fan of every other League One team will be imbued with exactly the same amount of confidence as I am, even though in some cases that confidence will be undeserved.

Me, I will choose to succumb to the excitement in the hope that my club and the players will not let me down.

At 4:50 on Saturday I may be drinking a beer to toast the heroic Saddlers or to drown my sorrows. I pray that fate shines a light on the away team at Huish Park tomorrow and we demolish Yeovil Town.

Come on Walsall – make my day!

Up The Saddlers

Fear (Part Two) - Heights

I have a secret that I want to share: I do NOT plan to throw myself off a tall building.

To be honest, if I did have suicidal tendencies, hurling myself into space from a lofty position would be the last thing I would do. The reason? I am afflicted with is acrophobia: an irrational fear of heights. Like many co-sufferers, when I venture to uncomfortable heights (usually about fifty feet will do it), I feel as if an unseen and unknown force is drawing me to the edge of the precipice with the sole purpose of flinging me to my death. How stupid is that?

I admit it – I am being totally and utterly ridiculous about this. There is no invisible entity lurking in the shadows next to a cliff waiting to push me off. So why am I so scared? I really don't know. And the worst thing about this is that I am getting steadily worse. My fear of heights is increasing at a rate that is directly proportional to my age. As a child I don’t recall being afraid of tall structures. In fact I distinctly remember jumping up and down, as a child, on the glass floor at the top of Blackpool Tower. Something must have changed in all those years but I simply cannot recall ever being in a position of jeopardy at a great height that might have triggered the descent into acrophobia

Despite my fear, over the years I have scaled some of the world’s tallest structures; the Eiffel Tower, The Empire State Building and even the CN Tower in Toronto in order to combat my fear. Each time I have failed.

Take the Eiffel Tower for example. I climbed up to the second level of the structure, gripping the sides in sheer terror. I then went to the top in the lift and was perfectly fine. You see my problem is that when I am enclosed I am okay. At the top of the Eiffel Tower, I was caged in and there was no chance of falling at all. Same with the CN Tower – I had absolutely no problem walking around admiring the view.

Sadly I came unstuck when I visited Sydney in 2005 and Mrs PM persuaded me to climb the Sydney Harbour Bridge. Knowing that my fear of heights might intervene I asked the check-in assistant:

“I’m scared of heights! Is that going to be a problem?”

Her reply was:

“Don’t worry about you fear of heights. Leave it on the ground, mate! No worries.”

When the assistant offered her advice I had a moment of spontaneous insanity during which time I paid my fee and agreed to do the climb. This insanity lasted until the point of no return when, after a pre-climb and health and safety briefing, I found myself walking along catwalks with wire meshing at my feet that were approximately 170 feet above the ground. The insanity departed and absolute terror took its place. My heart started beating faster than a Cozy Powell marathon drum solo and leapt up into my mouth.

And then it got worse. In order to cater for all levels of fitness, the actual climb to the summit of the bridge took ages and ages. Our guide was superb and asked if everybody was okay. Only Mrs PM (to whom I was clinging) was aware of my discomfort.

“Look, there’s the Sydney Opera House”, people said. “Wow, what a view!”

I didn’t look until I had to.

I clung on for dear life but somehow managed to completely fool everyone in our party that I was fine, using a combination of Oscar worthy acting, strategic eye-closing, deep breathing, using Hulk-like steel grips on Mrs PM’s arm and lying my bloody arse off to the guide when he asked if was okay. Nobody suspected that I was absolutely crapping my pants all the way up, all the way across and all the way back down again. We were all perfectly safe, harnessed to the bridge itself and each other and under the protection of a superb guide. There was absolutely nothing to fear – apart from the height. What seemed like an eternity later, we were back down on solid ground. The climb had lasted a couple of hours and I have never been so relieved in my entire life. Thankfully there is photographic evidence to prove that I made it.

I will endeavour to try to understand why I am so idiotically afraid of heights, starting with a trip to Hong Kong in November, where I shall undoubtedly crap myself as I stand at the bottom of one of the countless skyscrapers in that formidable city. I’m just glad that Mrs PM will be there to hold my hand, though if she suggests abseiling down the Bank Of China building I shall retire to the nearest bar and leave her to it.

Crazy Song Titles

I’ve just been listening to a song with an amazingly long title:

You Got to Get Through What You've Got to Go Through to Get What You Want, But You Got to Know What You Want to Get Through What You Got to Go Through

This particular song is by The Wildhearts and as I listened, I started thinking about what other strange, quirky, long and crazy song titles are out there. So I did a little research and discovered the following gems from my own collection:

• Post Fade Brain Damage
• I Hate Myself And Everybody Else
• Luminous Flesh Giants
• Malignant Narcissism
• This Maniac’s In Love With You
• The Ninns Of Mourning
• The Four Of Us Are Dying
• Mugwump
• The Mystical Potato Head Groove Thing
• Everybody Knows That You Are Insane
• Too Many Hippies (In The Garden Of Love)
• Break Like The Wind
• I’ll Rip Your Spine Out
• Jizzlobber
• Cheer Up Boys, Your Makeup Is Running
• Help Me I Am In Hell
• Can’t Drink You Pretty
• A Piece Of Liquid
• Objects In The Rear View Mirror May Appear Closer Than They Are
• Woodpecker From Mars
  

Of course, if you trawl the internet, you can find all sorts of crazy stuff. Country and Western seems to be full of wackiness:

• I Don’t Know Whether To Kill Myself Or Go Bowling
• I Still Miss You Baby, But My Aim's Gettin' Better
• Mama Get A Hammer (There’s A Fly On Papa’s Head)
• You’re The Reason Our Kids Are So Ugly
• I Flushed You From The Toilets Of My Heart
• I Wanna Whip Your Cow
• I’d Rather Have A Bottle In Front Of Me Than A Frontal Lobotomy
• May The Bird Of Paradise Fly Up Your Nose
• She Made Toothpicks Out Of The Timber Of My Heart
• They May Put Me In Prison But They Can’t Stop My Face From Breakin’Out
  

Similarly, from the world of heavy metal and rock

• Bring Your Daughter To The Slaughter
• Leper Messiah
• Killing Is My Business … And Business Is Good
• Lay Down And Die … Goodbye
• You’re The Victim, I’m The Crime
• Where There’s A Whip There’s A Way
• The Apes Of Wrath
• Suburbanality (How To Hang Yourself From An Urban Structure)
• Circular Flight of the One-Winged Sparrow
• Journey Through A Burning Brain
  

Anybody got any more?

Fear (Part One) - Spiders

Mrs PM walloped me with a book the other night.

We were lying in bed, reading, and I had reached the stage where I was having to re-read the same sentence over and over again, dozing in between words. I had finally succumbed to sleep when I was rudely awoken by having a paperback smashed across my face. Accompanying this apparently act of random violence was a high-pitched screech. Totally disoriented and reeling from being physically abused, I fell out of bed, reaching up imploringly. For a second I thought that our bedroom had been invaded by a screaming banshee.

By the time my senses cleared, Mrs PM had also leapt out of bed and was pointing at the duvet.

“What are you doing?” I asked in bewilderment, trying to recall whether I had done something awful to provoke this unwarranted attack.

She could barely speak but managed somehow to speak:

“Sp…sp…sp…spider!”

I stood up and looked at the bed expecting to see the world’s largest arachnid. Instead I saw a typical, small British house spider, measuring approximately one centimetre in length (including legs). Apparently the creature had abseiled down from the ceiling and landed on the very word she was reading. In a fit of absolute panic she had lashed out and clobbered me full in the face with the book.

When she had calmed down she dispatched the poor creature to the afterlife with maximum prejudice.

She is terrified of spiders. I have a confession to make – so am I. I wonder what I would have done had the eight-legged beast landed on my book instead. I would probably have reacted in a similar way. The only difference between Mrs PM and myself is that her fear encompasses ALL spiders whereas I am scared of those that are slightly larger.

My fear is irrational; I admit that. I have never encountered any eight-legged monster larger than a fly but the thought of a large tarantula crawling on my skin fills me with absolute dread. The mere fact that a spider has fangs and that some can actually puncture the skin is enough for me. Worse still, some are totally and utterly poisonous and can actually seriously damage human beings.

In 2005, we went to Australia on holiday. On the flight I had plenty of time to read about the creatures inhabiting that far away place. As I read, my imagination began to run amok. Ignoring the snakes, jellyfish and other toxic creatures, I focussed wholly and absolutely on the arachnid population. Two specimens in particular captured my imagination and hurled it into the pits of Hell. The two beats I am about to describe can be found in Australian cities - inclduing the cities we were visiting:

(1) The redback spider bites frequently and can cause serious illness or death yet are only about a centimetre in length. Looks harmless doesn't it? Don't be fooled:



(2) The funnel-web spider is much bigger and is the stuff of nightmares. A bite from this satanic creature can cause death. Bizarrely, the venom is only toxic to primates (and of course that includes humans). Dogs and cats for example can break down the venom in half an hour. For humans, they are bad news because they like to nest under houses. They are also quite large and their fangs are strong enough to penetrate a finger nail or soft footwear. What’s even scarier is that they are aggressive and will bite repeatedly. This one looks horrific:



In the three weeks I was there, I was totally paranoid about everything that touched my skin, including inanimate objects. When walking through some grass to get to the beach at Port Douglas I was so on edge that I almost screamed every time a stalk of grass brushed past my legs. Bizarrely Mrs PM seemed to have no fear – you remember Mrs PM – the person who assaulted me in my own bed because a harmless spider landed on her book?
Anyway, in England my arachnophobia is under control though I have an irrational fear that if I were to kill a spider, my punishment would be a visit from a larger toxic cousin (even though no such creatures exist on our beloved island). When I encounter a spider, I either capture it in a plastic tub and dispose of it outside, or I set the cats on it. My three cats have no qualms about devouring spiders. To be honest it makes me convulse just to think of having one anywhere near my mouth.

One final thought – I would like to thank the producers of the movie “Arachnophobia” for creating one of the scariest films I have seen. I quite literally watched it through my fingers and have never seen it since. I even struggle to watch that episode of Red Dwarf where Lister was forced to eat a tarantula.

Is my fear irrational? I don’t know. But if any hypnotist or therapist reading this thinks that they can cure my terror by allowing a tarantula to crawl on my bare skin should think again. I am a pacificist but will use everything in my power to escape, as will my lovely lady, Mrs PM who is normally not the kind of person who batters loved ones with books.

Aliens In Manchester?

We have aliens in Manchester and I’m not talking about certain members of the cast of Coronation Street.

Our local newspaper, The South Manchester Reporter, reported that a couple living in Northenden, just a couple of miles from where I live, filmed a bunch of lights in the sky on Saturday 12th July at around 10:40. Apparently there were other witnesses to the event. You can see the footage of their video here.

Being a closet sci-fi buff myself, I would love it if tangible evidence for the existence of aliens existed. Sadly, the best we have is shaky video footage that shows the odd light here or there. I’m not suggesting for a second that the witnesses in Northenden didn’t see anything; the problem is that under the circumstances, it would be difficult to get a clear picture of what they actually saw. There have been many famous films showing UFOs from all over the world but experts and sceptics alike dismiss them simply because we simply cannot see what the witnesses themselves saw. Most of the time, the UFOs appear at night, which to me makes perfect sense. If aliens wanted to reconnoitre our planet, why would they do so during daylight hours when the sun is high in the sky and every intelligent life form below can actually see them?

Despite my wish for alien evidence, I am in reality a sceptic myself. Thinking about this logically, if there are aliens out there, do you not think that they would have made their presence known by now? If there are extraterrestrial creatures out there with the technology to construct huge flying saucers that can move at incredible and impossible velocities (as witnesses have testified) do you really think that there would be evidence somewhere on Earth that they have visited?

I’m with Enrico Fermi on this. Enrico Fermi is a physicist who came up with the “Fermi Paradox” which basically states “if there are aliens out there, where are they?”

As a race, we live here on our little world in perfect harmony with other life forms. We exist and dwell on one tiny planet out of billions in the universe. What are the chances that there is another world somewhere out there, inhabited by other intelligent beings who have developed technologically? The basis of the Fermi Paradox is that given the sheer magnitude and age of our universe, surely there must be many technologically advanced species out there. The only problem is that there is literally no evidence to support it. Nobody can prove that they have seen any evidence of intelligent aliens. We have received no radio transmissions that originate from intelligent life forms. Furthermore, despite the supposed plethora of alien sightings on Earth and the number of alien spaceships that have whizzed past stunned observers in the middle of the night, there is not one shred of evidence to support the existence of aliens on Earth. There are no artefacts. There are no alien footprints. Aliens haven’t disposed of their waste products in the countryside. We have never found a dead alien. I ask again, as did Enrico Fermi; where the hell are they?

I would love to be wrong. I watch science fiction shows and films and envelop myself in the mysticism of these alien worlds and beings created purely from the imagination of talented authors and film makers. If an alien space ship landed in Cheshire I would be in my car like a shot to get great photos.

As for the Northenden sighting; I wish I had seen it myself. I’m sure the UFOs must have flown over my house on their way home. I would have liked to have been able to judge with my own two eyes rather than seeing home videos.

Never mind. Maybe aliens do exist and have done a pretty good job of disguising themselves. There are one or two celebrities who sometimes make me wonder …

The World's Most Difficult Question

“It makes you look fat!” are the most ill-chosen five words I have ever used in my entire life. I was answering the most difficult question in the world at the time and for a whole day my normal, sane life was turned upside down in tsunami of abject misery.

The question was: “How do I look in this?”

I realised my mistake immediately.

I was standing in a female clothes shop outside the changing rooms waiting for my lovely lady, Mrs PM, to try on her umpteenth dress. I was hysterically bored and had spent the last hour and a half being dragged around similar shops. My will to live had booked a one way ticket to oblivion. To make matters worse, the changing rooms were strategically located to cause maximum embarrassment for men like me – right in the middle of the lingerie section. I stood there trying my best not to look like a colossal pervert gawping at bras and panties.

I mean, come on! Where do you look? You can’t stare at the goods on sale because the staff and other customers will think you are a cross dresser. You can’t look at the other female customers because they will think that you are eyeing them up, as will you missus when she finally emerges from the changing cubicle.

So why did I reduce my life expectancy to a few seconds in such a cold-hearted and stupid way?

To be honest, I made the mistake of misjudging the way women think.

On past excursions to similar shops I have simply not known how to answer the question and simply mutated into a gibbering wreck when asked it. Mrs PM, in a desperate attempt to help me, once said “Just be honest and tell me what you think”.

I thought honesty was the best policy. I should have that engraved on my tombstone.

As the five words that would spell my doom gushed from my mouth, I saw several women wince. Some stepped back in utter amazement. One man grabbed his crotch, presumably anticipating my punishment. Another dived for cover.

I almost ran myself but decided to stand my ground in a stupid attempt to recover the situation. I smiled and said “I was joking – it looks lovely”. It didn’t and she knew it. She was on this occasion seeking confirmation that perhaps it didn’t suit her. I spent the rest of the trip in mental anguish, anticipating the psychological torture on the way home and the pain that would assail me when I arrived there.

Suffice it to say, I endured hours of pure agony so graphic that I can’t possibly describe it here.

So this post is a warning to all men.

(1) “How do I look in this?” is the most difficult question in the world to answer. I don’t care about so-called philosophical claptrap like “Does God exist?”. You will suffer no matter how you answer.

(2) Honesty is most definitely NOT the best policy. In fact it is more likely to propel you towards the end of your life faster than you can say “but …”


(3) Never ever ever ever ever go shopping with your wife or girlfriend unless the alternative is a slow painful death.

Can somebody please help me to understand what goes on inside the female mind? Perhaps when I recuperate I can avoid walking with a limp next time I find myself in an alien place full of bras and panties.

Sanity In Europe - Finally?

In April, I mentioned after a trip to Madeira, that the EU had banned Madeiran bananas because they were to small.

I was delighted to read today in the Sunday Times that there are movements stirring to rid the EU of these ridiculous regulations concocted in the minds of faceless bureaucrats with nothing better to do than to conjure even more bizarre rules. Why? Apparently EU farmers are throwing away mountains of fruit and vegetables because it does not meet their moronic standards of these anonymous idiots sitting somewhere in the echelons of European Parliamentary buildings.

I have already cited the case of the Madeiran banana. What other preposterous legislation has persecuted inferior fruit and vegetables in our beloved “United States of Europe”?

From today’s Sunday Times we have …

(1) “Class 1 cucumbers must be practically straight and their maximum bend must be at a gradient of no more than 1/10”. Does that mean that there are sad individuals whose job it is to sit there armed with a tape measure and a protractor measuring each cucumber to make sure that it falls into these absurd guidelines? I don’t know what I would do if I chanced upon a cucumber that violated these dimensions.

(2) While cucumbers must not be bent, bananas have to be: “The thickness of a traverse section of the fruit between the lateral faces and the middle perpendicular to the longitudinal axis must be at a minimum of 27mm”. Can you believe that somebody actually wrote that?

(3) “A string of onions must consist of no fewer than 16 onions bound together”. What happens if an onion, disillusioned by illogical regulations let’s its entire bunch down by going AWOL?

(4) “Class 1 green asparagus must be green for at least 80% of its length”. No sunbathing for European asparagus then.

It would seem that the plight of poor nations is finally giving overpaid European decision makers the mental boost they deserve. Fruit is being thrown away because it is the wrong shape or colour and finally some are seeing the global picture. When I say some, I mean that countries like the UK who are actively backing this proposal. But typical of our European neighbours, there are some who oppose it; notably France, Italy and Spain. How can they justify this foolishness?

When farmers dispose of mountains of fruit and vegetables because it is the wrong colour or shape, it goes beyond the realms of madness. It becomes a crime.