We Are The Goon Squad And We're Coming To Town!

Mrs PM uses a phrase that is almost guaranteed to make my teeth itch. The phrase is:

It’s SO over!

She uses it to inform me that my ideas, dress sense, musical taste, etc. are no longer in vogue. When I play a Def Leppard song she will say “Why are you listening to 80’s rock music? It’s SO over!”

When I wear my crusty old leather jacket she will say. “It’s about time you threw that away. That design is SO over!”

The time she uses it most is when we go out and I decide to wear a favourite shirt that I bought a year or two ago (one that she hasn’t hidden or thrown away). I can read her mind when I come downstairs and present myself to her.

Me: What do you think?

Mrs PM: Why don’t you wear that black shirt I bought you last week?

Me: I want to wear this one. I like this shirt.

Mrs PM: But it’s SO over!

You can guarantee that the shirt will somehow find it's way into a remote part of the house - if it's lucky!!

What Mrs PM forgets, is that I am definitely not a dedicated follower of fashion. In fact, I am the complete opposite; a fashion barbarian.

I stopped actively taking in interest in clothes when I was in my mid 20’s. Sadly, the women in my life have not allowed me to pursue this course of action and have vetoed the vast majority of garments I have attempted to buy.

I remember, when I was 18, dressing up in what I thought were spectacular clothes that would have me fighting off all the young women of Walsall as they threw themselves at my amazing body. As I was about to leave the house, my younger sister said, “You’re not going out looking like THAT are you?” Needless to say, the only think thrown at me that night were drinks (as usual). What I failed to realise when I was a teenager was that no matter how trendy the outfit, I still looked like a bucket of arse on legs.

Nowadays, Mrs PM will always find time to accompany me on shopping trips if I intend to buy any item of clothing, fearing that I will buy something bland or featureless.

Mrs PM: Where are you going?

Me: I’m off to the shops. I need a pair of trousers and a couple of shirts.

Mrs PM: I’m coming with you.

Me: I thought you had to go to work.

Mrs PM: I’ll call them and tell them I can’t make it. This is far more important.

Me: But what if you get the sack?

Mrs PM: There are always other jobs.

Actually, that’s an exaggeration (though not much of one).

When Mrs PM and I moved into our first house together. I unpacked my suitcases and installed all of my clothes into the wardrobe. Within minutes, Mrs PM had made it her mission to change the way I looked. I’m sure that I was downstairs for just two minutes when I heard what I thought was a tornado in the bedroom. I went upstairs and found Mrs PM, hurling my shirts out of the wardrobe in a flurry of wind and expletives.

“What on earth were you thinking when you bought this?” she howled holding up a shirt with a look of purest malevolence.

“I bought that in 1988,” I said gulping nervously. “I love that shirt.”

“This is 1998,” she said slowly as if talking to a five year old. “THIS SHIRT IS SO OVER!”

In the next two weeks, I spent a fortune replacing the majority of my clothes, with Mrs PM standing over me like a tyrant as I tried on shirt after terrible shirt in the fitting room.

“DO NOT BUY THAT!” she would say as I held up what I thought was a fabulous T-shirt for her approval.

I often wonder whether, if left to my own devices, I would truly buy a wardrobe full of dreadful clothes.

I'm sure that I would never mutate into an eccentric weirdo wearing only wore tweed jackets and corduroy shirts. All I've ever wanted is to wear decent everyday garments that are slightly different from everybody else. I don't want to be out for an evening’s entertainment and wearing almost identical apparel to every other man in Manchester. Unfortunately, any plans I harbour in this direction have been thwarted by Mrs PM; she insists that I become a clone of sorts, dragging me to high street chains and forcing me to buy clothes that the other sheep were buying.

If you want to see a sad sight on a Saturday afternoon, just visit a shop like Burtons. You will undoubtedly see a couple come in and you will recognise them immediately. He will have a sad look of resignation on his face; his eyes will be screaming “I don’t want to be here”.

The poor man will pick up a shirt and his partner will glare at him and replace it with another that she has chosen. He will reluctantly try it on in the fitting room, while she prowls around the shop like a hungry predator, selecting other items for him before standing guard outside the fitting rooms like a benevolent dictator. Some time later the couple will leave; she will have a look of satisfaction on her face; he will wonder how he has managed to spend £350 on several items of clothing that he doesn’t even like.

I am that man. Mrs PM is that woman. And there are thousands if not millions of similar couples in Great Britain.

I may have implied that if given the freedom by Mrs PM to buy what I want, that I would look for something unique and outrageous. You would be wrong.

Why? Because I have always questioned the sanity of so-called “fashion gurus”. Like contemporary artists, they have somehow managed to persuade the rest of us that their bizarre designs are “must have” fashion items – and then they charge a fortune for them. And we, like idiots, actually pay the crazy amounts of cash they charge. Worse, they parade their peculiar designs on famous people in the hope that the rest of the sheep will follow suit.

Who decides what next year’s fashion should be? A faceless elite who laugh all the way to the bank having pulled the wool over our eyes.

And why on earth do we, like lost sheep, go out and buy these bloody things? I know why I do – partly to please Mrs PM and partly because there is no other choice – unless I choose to go to an “old man’s” shop.

These people redefine the word "eccentric" and have somehow managed to introduce a whole new language of bullshit, using phrases like “blue is the new black”, “that is so last season” and “you look FIERCE”.

Whenever I watch a fashion report on the TV, I laugh my head off. We are presented with models looking like stick insects, marching down a catwalk in front of a captive, brainwashed audience, wearing clothes that can only be described as ridiculous.

The models are not appealing at all; most men I know prefer a woman to hold onto; somebody with a bit of meat on them (as my dad used to say), not a size zero woman who is so skinny that she is almost invisible.

If you are a woman and you believe that size zero is a great target I have one piece of advice; stay a size 10 or 12. Most men love women who they can cuddle up to.

Bizarre fashions are not just restricted to women. Male models are forced to prance up and down a catwalk wearing clothes that most men would run a mile from.

If you were to put these bizarre garments on an ordinary girl or an ordinary bloke and then send them out onto your average High Street, they would be laughing stocks. People would fall over in fits of hysterical laughter.

Yet people (those with more money than sense) are quite content to spend magnificently huge amounts of money on such items and make complete fools of themselves on red carpets all over the world. A corollary of that is that ordinary people want to copy them. You may find a superstar like David Beckham, content to shave off his hair and wear a skirt but the sad thing is that other men who are mere mortals will look absolutely ridiculous.

You will never, ever, ever, ever find me wearing anything outlandish and, given the choice, I wouldn’t succumb to the latest fashion craze that most men are forced to endure by their ladies. With the greatest respect to myself, I look like the product of the union of an albino baboon and a walrus so any "decent" item of clothing makes me look like an ape in fancy dress.

Imagine what I would look like wearing anything that an icon like David Beckham would wow the crowd at a party with?

I would look like an orang-utan wearing a tent.

Take a look at some of the following items. Can you imagine a middle-aged, crazy-haired arse like me walking down to the pub wearing anything like them?






I would look like a sentient sack of sewage and, of course, I would totally refuse to wear them.

I pray that similar items do NOT become fashion because I’m sure that Mrs PM will drag me around the shops despite my protestations.

The fashion police, as misguided as they are, would almost certainly hurl me in jail for crimes against the human eye. Can you imagine fashion prison? All the inmates would probably end up wearing something by Vivienne Westwood, the woman who gave us this:


Can you imagine me wearing these? Hello! HELLO!! Are you alright? Should I call a doctor?

Astrology For Pets

My cats are fish.

Actually, that absurd statement is slightly misleading. Allow me to clarify it; my cats, Jasper and Poppy are Piscean cats.

When we acquired our cats, from the Cat Protection League, the woman who handed them over to us (after reading us the riot act and lecturing us on how to look after cats) told us that they were born on March 16th.

Of course, I couldn’t give two hoots but Mrs PM remembers their birthday every year. Why? Beats me! If we bought them a present, they would simply ignore it anyway. However, she does appear on the morning of their birthday and sings “Happy Birthday To You” to our stunned pets.

I’ll bet you are wondering why I am telling you the star signs of my feline masters? Why would you care?

I do have a reason; the other day I stumbled across the concept of pet horoscopes.

I am not joking and I swear I am not making this up. I discovered several web sites that tell you what’s in store for your pet dog or cat based on its date of birth. When I first saw it, I honestly thought it was a complete wind up. And I laughed. Boy, did I laugh. In fact, I’m still laughing at the moment.

Are these people serious?

I don’t want to regurgitate the exact words in case I breach some bizarre copyright but here are a few personality qualities for Piscean pets:

Your Piscean cat must have a diamond studded collar.

Piscean cats are very intuitive.

Piscean dogs are very confused.

Piscean dogs love walking on the beach.

Piscean cats are had to predict and are a wandering whirlwind of fur.

Take your Piscean cat to a beauty parlour.

Piscean dogs are excellent judges of character.

Piscean dogs are accident prone.

Your Piscean cat loves water

Your Piscean pet is often ill.

Your Piscean cat lives in a fantasy world of his own and has a vivid imagination.

Piscean cats are philanthropists

Piscean cats are full of self-sacrifice

Have I entered a crazy parallel universe? Who believes this nonsense? Am I alone in thinking that all this is the warped fantasy of a mind almost as weird as my own?

I would say words fail me but I am so incredulous that I can’t help pouring scorn on this bilge.

How on earth can Piscean cats love water? Cats absolutely detest water. This is an irrefutable fact that has been documented in many cartoons.

Are these people trying to tell me that roughly one twelfth of the cats in the world harbour a deep primeval desire to hurl themselves into the nearest river?

What utter nonsense.

As I stumbled through these predictions, I began to wonder whether cat horoscopes were restricted to the domestic variety. What about the big cats?

Can you imagine an accident prone lion? How about a panther with a vivid imagination? An intuitive lynx? Can you picture a tiger that loves a swim? A leopard who is a philanthropist, perhaps.

It is beyond belief.

Here is the horoscope for this week for Jasper and Poppy. And I say again – I am not making this up (again paraphrased):

How fantastic it is to dream about your fantasies and the plans to turn them into reality both for yourself and your loved ones. You will need your owner’s assistance but, be warned, everyone is in an extreme mood so you may fall at the first hurdle. Don’t worry about such delays as friends are anxious to deal with situations that they feel strongly about. Your turn will come. Your housemate has his own dreams and he needs to concentrate on them for the time being.

We’re talking about cats – bloody cats for crying out loud. If either of my cats could read, they too would dismiss this crap. I am certain of that. I can just imagine the cat conversation:

Jasper: Pops – have you read our horoscope.

Poppy: What’s a horoscope?

Jasper: I don’t know but I was trying to get that tight-fisted arse who blunders around our house to give me some more food, when I spotted him laughing at that computer thing he’s always messing about with.

Poppy: That scary thing, you mean?

Jasper: Everything’s scary for you. Anyway, I started to read over his shoulder and it said that I need his help to make my fantasies come true.

Poppy: You don’t mean ...

Jasper: Yes - my dream to fill this house with an endless supply of tuna fish and catnip and for that great oaf to let me sleep for 23 hours a day instead of the 20 hours I have to live with at the moment. I yearn to hunt mice in the house and consign that dog next door to the great kennel in the sky. And I want to be able to crap in the house - preferably on the oaf's bed.

Poppy: Dream on, you fat idiot. The only thing the oaf does is wobble about the house like a pink elephant, scaring me and ranting about those little people he sees on that big box in the lounge. He’s useless. He wouldn’t help you even if he could.

Jasper: That’s what I thought. Horoscopes are utter bilge aren’t they?

My star sign is Libra and apparently I’m a romantic, indecisive flirt. All this twaddle has made me wonder whether Libran cats are as indecisive as I am, or whether male Libran moggies are romantic and buy flowers for their ladyfriends. I can’t help but picture that Tom and Jerry cartoon where Tom falls in love with the beautiful she-kitty next door. I am willing to bet that Tom is a Libran cat.

Also, would a Libran cat sit there in the garden watching a bird and a mouse and consume hours of time trying to decide which one to catch? I very much doubt it – a Libran cat would probably starve to death.

I struggle to believe my own horoscope so imagine my reaction to this craziness.

I’m sure that some people assume that it is a bit of fun – and maybe it is. I certainly had fun reading these horoscopes for pets, mainly because I am certain that there are people in the world who believe that their moggy can be adversely affected by the moon rising in Uranus.

Grumpiness Is Good For You

Normally I totally ignore crap that I hear on the news or read in the paper about how something is good or bad for you. Over the years, most of my guilty pleasures have been put aside in favour of health (both physical and mental).

You find something enjoyable (like a massive burger with tons of mayo) and the experts inform you that you will keel over if you eat them all the time. Another pleasure, beer, is much maligned also. I used to be able to drink my 21 units a week with a smile on my face – now, they (those faceless buggers who are trying to rule my life with fear) tell me that I am a binge drinker if I have three pints in one evening.

I love to watch a little bit of TV – but even that is bad for my mind.

What’s worse, the number of mixed messages we get from “experts” is contradictory and changes from second to second. Take the much maligned egg:

In the 70’s - "Eat as many as you can – go to work on an egg"

In the 80’s and 90’s – “AARRRGGHH!!! CHOLESTEROL!!! SALMONELLA!!! STOP EATING EGGS!”

Now? Eggs are a good source of protein!!

So, am I supposed to eat eggs or not?

Anyway, back to the plot - I stumbled across this link on the BBC website:

Feeling Grumpy Is Good For You

I must admit that I didn’t read the full article because the headline told me all that I needed to know. I would react in a similar way if I read headlines like:

“Eat More Cheese! You Are Guaranteed To Live To Be 150!”

“Experts Say That We Are Not Drinking Enough Beer!”

“Rock Music Is Therapeutic And Good For The Soul - Particularly If Very Loud!"

Sadly, we never see such headlines but “Feeling Grumpy Is Good For You” is the closest I have seen.

Before I go on, let me reassure you, dear reader, that I am a happy person with a positive outlook on life. I wake up everyday and I feel good to be alive. I want to live a long and happy life and see and experience just about everything that is good in the world.

However, I am a grumpy old git.

I’ve often wondered why I feel so happy even when I am in the middle of an enormous rant about something I’ve seen on the news. It has puzzled me that I can stand on my soapbox and pontificate about everything that is wrong in the world with a huge grin on my face and a feeling of euphoria in my heart. My mind is cleared of all the cobwebs; ranting is a spring clean for the brain. Being grumpy is therapeutic. I’ve known this for years.

Now I know it’s true – and nobody will convince me otherwise.

Many things make me happy but being a grumpy old man is one of the more pleasurable aspects. Until now, I honestly thought that I was a walking paradox; I appear to be totally angry and depressed yet I am absolutely delighted. I used to think that I had a split brain, the two halves balancing each other out as I ranted.

As well as giving myself immense pleasure by putting the world to rights, others, bizarrely, also enjoy my grumpy monologues. Certain people wind me up on purpose, knowing exactly which buttons to push to get me started:

Ill-deserved knighthoods

Politicians lying through their teeth

Strictly Come Dancing

Office politics

The state of music in the world today

Premiership footballers

The X Factor

Chirpy morning TV presenters

Radio DJs

The list is endless.

I can enter into a world where I am King and everybody else is my subject and must listen even if they don’t want too. Some people chuckle; others roll their eyes and say “he’s off again”. Some people even ignore me.

I don’t care. Ranting soothes my soul. Grumpiness makes me feel happy. I know that sounds absurd but it is absolutely true.

Mrs PM occasionally chuckles when “I go off on one”. She will sit there and smile as I preach about the state of the world and how I would rectify the situation if I had the omnipotence I secretly desire. Sometimes I go too far and my tirade of abuse is cut short when she says something like “Shut up – for the sake of my SANITY if nothing else!!!”

And now the BBC has confirmed something that I have known deep down for years; being grumpy is good for you. It focuses the mind and sharpens my razor tongue. And I am happier as a result.

When Mrs PM reprimands me for being a grumpy old git I can now turn to here and say, with my hand on my heart:

“Grumpiness is good for me – the BBC told me so. I shall continue to rant and I shall continue to moan. The TV will not get a reprieve. You should try it some time.”

I will spread the word. I will tell people that instead of bottling up their frustrations they should let it all out and rant away. There is nothing wrong with being grumpy.

Moan to your friends. Here a few topics that push my buttons – I’ve posted about some of them already:

Starbucks opening a new coffee shop five minutes walk away from another one.

The ever increasing price of petrol.

People yelling into their mobile phones saying things like “I’m on a bus – I’ll be there in thirty minutes. I’ll call you in ten minutes just to let you know where I am.”

The one-sided scare-mongering science that makes us believe the world is going to end if we don’t switch off our lights in time.

Dreadful romantic comedies that all have the same plot.

So-called celebrities who preach to their fans – the biggest offender being Bono.

The cult of celebrity and the pointlessness of people like Paris Hilton who are famous for absolutely nothing.

Overpaid, cheating prima-donna footballers.

The ego of every single contestant on the Apprentice. One particular comment a year or two ago quite literally made me spill a cup of tea over my crotch: “I am the best salesperson in Europe” – NO YOU BLOODY WELL ARE NOT!!!!!!!

Vegetarians who preach to me about eating meat. I don’t mind vegetarians but don’t give me a hard time just because I eat pork.

Overpriced restaurants serving crap food.

Contemporary art

Business bullshit: “What do you mean STEP UP TO THE PLATE? WHAT BLOODY PLATE?”

Christmas commercials in October.

People who ask stupid questions.

Talentless celebrities who expect special treatment “just because they are Britney Spears”

Over the top political correctness – she is female therefore she is a chairwoman NOT a CHAIRPERSON

Dreadful TV commercials particularly involving celebrities saying “because you’re worth it”

Novels that are supposedly literary masterpieces but in reality are as boring as hell and are only top of the bestsellers list because nobody understands the dreary monotonous story.

Ridiculous fashion and the fact that an elite bunch of idiots are telling Mrs PM that I should wear ridiculous clothes – “It’s the fashion Dave – your clothes are SO OVER!!”

Father’s Day, Mother’s Day, Valentine’s Day and any other day when I have to waste money on cards just because some faceless elite are trying to rob me of my hard earned cash.

Over the top TV commercials for new pop stars “Winky Booger’s new album – the most anticipated recording of 2009. Winky opened his soul to the world.” Winky’s music is CRAP!

People who tell me that I look unhealthy because I haven’t spent my life sunbathing.

Over-zealous Health and Safety.

That’s plenty to keep you going, if you are anything like me. In fact, it has almost certainly given me a couple of ideas for future blog posts.

See what I mean?

I want to take a leaf out of Gordon Gecko’s book. I want to inspire you all.

The Plastic Mancunian says:

Grumpiness Is Good

Happy ranting – you know it makes sense.

Remember, Remember The Fifth Of November

Robert Catesby is a lucky man; not too many people in Great Britain have heard of him.

So who is he? Or should I say: who was he?

If I mention his more infamous side-kick, you may hazard a guess. I am talking about, none other than Guy Fawkes.

The mists of wonder become clear and now just about every British person knows what I am talking about.

For those of you outside Britain, let me explain.

In 1605, Robert Catesby masterminded a fiendish plot to blow up the Houses of Parliament, killing King James I and a huge number of Protestant dignitaries into the bargain.

Why? Because he was a staunch Roman Catholic at a time when Catholics saw themselves as targets for discrimination; by wiping out the King and his Protestant followers, Catesby and his men could strike a major blow and change the course of history.

Catesby handed over the responsibility of performing the deed to Guy Fawkes, who promptly managed to get caught on November 5th, 1605 before he managed to execute this monstrous act of treason. I’ll bet Catesby was a little irritated by this.

Poor Guy Fawkes was probably more than a little irritated. The Gunpowder Plot was an act of treason. Had he been alive today, Fawkes would have been imprisoned for life. However, bear in mind that this was medieval times and I can barely begin to imagine what the poor man had to go through.

First of all he was tortured. I’ve seen some of the methods for extracting information in those times and it makes me pleased that I’m alive today and not having to survive in those barbaric times. Of course, poor Guy Fawkes succumbed to the torture and blabbed the names of all his allies without a second thought. I think I would have done too if I had seen the first spike.

As a result, all were sentenced to be executed in another very nasty way; to be hanged, drawn and quartered, the punishment for treason at the time.

What does that mean?

The victim was dragged on a wooden contraption to the location of his execution, which in itself is pretty unpleasant. Upon arrival, he was led to the gallows and hanged. But it didn’t end there. While still barely alive, the condemned soul was cut down and disembowelled and castrated before watching his own body parts burned in front of him. Finally, if he was still alive at this point, his body was hacked into four quarters before finally having his head cut off and displayed on a pike.

Guy Fawkes managed to leap from the gallows before he was hanged, breaking his neck in the fall. I must admit I might have done the same had I been in his shoes.

As for Robert Catesby, he managed to evade this horrific death; he died three days after the plot was discovered, shot by soldiers in a siege – a relatively painless way to go.

Guy Fawkes is the unlucky focus for the Gunpowder Plot, and is remembered to this day. It is a tradition to commemorate the event by burning an effigy of Guy Fawkes on a huge bonfire every November 5th. Huge bonfires and firework displays occur the length and breadth of the country.

I remember as a child, creating an effigy of Guy Fawkes with friends, using old clothes, lots of newspaper and a very scary mask. We used to walk around with our ugly creation asking people to spare a “penny for the guy” so that we could buy fireworks or at least contribute to the firework fund. Kids today don’t tend to do this, I guess, because it makes them look as if they are begging for cash.

On 5th November, cities, towns and villages across the UK will organise bonfires and fireworks; many will take place in back gardens. Most places will stink of smoke and fireworks will explode into the night.

Unfortunately, kids these days tend to get hold of fireworks and start setting them off before the big night. There is an age limit on fireworks but it doesn’t stop kids somehow managing to acquire them. Organised events do help but I’m sure there will be a few accidents on and around the big night.

Anyway, back to the plot. Why do I consider Robert Catesby to be lucky? I guess it’s because although he was a treacherous traitor, he isn’t widely remembered whereas poor Guy Fawkes is mocked, ridiculed and burned annually because of his part in a Gunpowder plot that took place 404 years ago. I’m sure if he had succeeded, he would have been revered as a hero. Who knows?

In fact, Guy Fawkes also donated his name to the English language – the word “guy” is derived from his name. After all, if Robert Catesby had been the main figurehead, we would have been referring to you average bloke as a bob” or a “robert”.


I’ll leave you with a traditional English nursery rhyme about the Gunpowder Plot, something you may have heard in the film “V For Vendetta”, a modern take on the story, featuring a vigilante, who wears a Guy Fawkes mask, wreaking havoc in a future Britain ruled by a fascistic government.

Remember, remember the fifth of November,
Gunpowder treason and plot.
We see no reason
Why gunpowder treason
Should ever be forgot!

Guy Fawkes, guy, t'was his intent
To blow up king and parliament.
Three score barrels were laid below
To prove old England's overthrow.

By god's mercy he was catch'd
With a darkened lantern and burning match.
So, holler boys, holler boys, Let the bells ring.
Holler boys, holler boys, God save the king.

And what shall we do with him?
Burn him!

I wonder what Guy Fawkes would think if had known how famous he would become.

How Can I Get Fit?

Last night I made an arse of myself in front of strangers (yet again)!

I arrived home from work, as usual, ranting to myself about work and discovered that Mrs PM wasn’t home. With monumental self control I forced myself to calm down, forgetting the rigours of the day, breathing in slowly and meditating. And then I realised it was my turn to cook.

“OK,” I said to myself. “I can do this. I can keep calm. What I need is a little Heavy Metal and I can cope with anything.”

I switched on my computer and went straight for my new Rammstein album, carefully selecting “Bückstabü”, the track that was most likely to blast any stress away in a tsunami of noise.

With Till Lindemann growling in the background, I opened the fridge.

AAARRRGGGHHH!!! NO BLOODY MILK!

I looked at my watch and saw that the time was five to six. Five minutes before the local newsagent closed. Five minutes! It was a ten minute walk away.

“I could run,” I told myself.

With Rammstein blasting away, I grabbed my coat and before I could say “Bückstabü” I was out the door running down the street like an Olympic athlete.

As I approached the corner, two young women watched me with interest.

I ran past them and could have sworn that I heard “I didn’t know baboons ran like girls” amidst a fit of giggles. I didn’t care. My focus was my mission – to buy a carton of milk.

I arrived at the shop. It was then that I realised that I am a totally unfit forty seven year old man. I staggered over to the fridge and held on for support as the woman behind the counter watched me impatiently. She wanted to close the shop and a middle-aged pillock passing out would have made her life slightly irritating.

I gasped like a chain smoker as I approached the woman.

I meant to say, “Just the milk please,” but I think it came out as “JUSSERMELK” as I gasped for air.

“What?” said the woman. If I had been able to read her mind I’m sure I would have heard “Are you one of those people who make obscene phone calls?” I must have sounded like a complete pervert.

Somehow I managed to pay. I left the shop still gasping for breath with sweat running down my forehead and my back. I noticed the two young women were still watching me from a distance and I had to pass them on my way home.

Like a pillock, I decided to run again. Why? Call it some primeval urge but deep inside my addled brain, the male within said “You have to run past these girls. DON’T BE WEAK! YOU ARE A MAN!”

So like a moron, I ran. And I sprinted. As I passed them, I smiled.

“Hey look! I’m a middle-aged man who can sprint like Usain Bolt.” I wanted to say.

If I had been able to speak, it would have come out like “URRRRRGHHH! GIEARRRLLLLS”

They laughed at me. Not the way that girls laugh when they are flirting; they actually laughed as if they really had seen a crazy muppet, leering at them as he stumbled past. Instead of looking like Usain Bolt, I resembled a giant waddling baboon who had painted his face bright red and then had a shower in rancid sweat. My hair made my appearance even more bizarre.

I have a feeling that one of the women took a photo with their camera phone, so expect to see a bloated, smiling, half-dead baboon on You Tube or Facebook in the near future.

I arrived home and collapsed in the chair, sweating like a man who had just run a marathon. My heart was doing a fine impersonation of a drum solo. I had run for around ten minutes and it felt like I had just sprinted across Europe.

Jasper, our fat cat, wandered over and stared at me. I saw the words in his eyes: “You bloody idiot. By the way – can I have some food?”

All this has told me what I already knew. I need to get fit.

I used to be extremely fit. At school, I was a cross country runner and used to sprint around local streets delivering newspapers as well as playing football and rugby. I was one of the fastest kids in my school year and was happy running 100m, 200m, 800m, 1500m and even 3000m.

At university, I swam at least three times a week; I played squash and badminton and jogged.

At work, I played 5-a-side football twice a week and swam. I gave this up in my mid-thirties but joined a gym and only stopped going there around five years ago. Since then, my exercise regime has been walking and the occasional bike ride. Pathetic really!

When I look at my body (believe me – I don’t want to but somebody has too), I see a man who is putting on weight, slowly but surely. My gut is increasing in size; I can see flab appearing in places that I thought flab could never exist. I am sliding down the slippery slope to having a middle-aged spread.

Friends are kind – “You’re still quite slim, Dave. What’s the matter with you?” said one of Mrs PM’s friends last week. “If you are worried about your weight, just start exercising again.”

This is the problem – I want to start exercising again but I am lazy and, despite my war against procrastination, I am still procrastinating in areas such as this.

I could cycle to work but I am too sluggish in the mornings. My workplace is less than five miles from home and I drive there. Why? Because I wake up at 7am and in order to cycle, I would really need to get up an hour earlier. So, as you can see, I am a totally lazy git.

I could rejoin the gym. However, I have a couple of problems with this.

First, the gym is boring. Running on a treadmill is tedium personified. Cycling on a cycling machine is so mind-numbing that I almost fall asleep. Cross trainer machines are even more boring.

Second, the gym is embarrassing. When I am running on a running machine, I feel like a pillock. I can see people watching me, thinking “He runs like a demented road runner”. Worse, I find my eyes drifting towards female runners, particularly those in front of me.

I am a male – I can’t help it.

When a woman runs in a gym, she is usually very fit (in more ways than one) and I find myself staring in admiration, only to be glared at when she notices the lecherous goon leering at her. Of course, because I have been running, I am all sweaty, red, and gasping like a colossal pervert as I try to justify myself.

This isn’t the only source of embarrassment though. When you go to the weight machines to “pump some iron” (or in my case “give myself a hernia trying to lift a weight”), there is nothing more soul destroying than taking over from men who make Arnold Schwarzenegger look like Mr Bean. On one occasion, I was waiting to use the shoulder press and as I approached it, I found a huge black shiny man with muscles the size of Manchester leaning against it.

“Is it free?” I asked politely.

“Not just yet,” he boomed with a voice so deep that the floor shook.

I waited patiently as he started using the machine again. I goggled at the amount of weight he was lifting – and he made it look so easy. His rippling muscles mocked me as I watched, so I casually turned around and leaned up against the adjacent wall. Two minutes later, he appeared beside me.

“It’s free now,” he boomed and slapped me so hard on the back that I literally almost fell to the floor.

“Sorry about that,” he said smiling. “You need to bulk up, my friend.”

He then flexed his muscles for effect. Women who happened to be passing started giggling. My new found friend then stood in front of a mirror with other like-minded and equally massive individuals and began posing before lifting unfeasibly large quantities of weights. I felt absolutely useless.

When I started using the machine, I reduced the weights to the minimum, which was all I required. My friend watched me for a few seconds and chuckled to himself as he lifted another enormous pile of metal.

My final problem with gyms is the cost. When I joined the gym, I remember passing out when the trainer told me how much it cost per month. I had to force myself to go three times a week at least to justify the cost. In the end, procrastination took over and I stopped going – otherwise it would have been more cost effective burn a wad of cash once a month.

So I am not going to join a gym.

With winter approaching, my desire to do any form of physical exercise is diminishing. The days are cold and the nights are becoming long and dark as well as the weather becoming much worse. Should I start jogging around my neighbourhood in the rain? I don’t think so. Should I cycle in the dark and risk being smeared over the bonnet of a car? That doesn’t appeal much to me.

I think I’ll wait until New Year. – I know what my resolution will be: to get myself fit for a brand new decade. And I’m going to set myself targets and actually start in January. I know, dear reader that you are thinking to yourself “Why not start now you lazy arse?”

The problem is that I need to psyche myself up – but that will take a month or two. Of course, I realise that things could go downhill so I need to stop the rot – soon!

I have a goal - by the time I’m fifty I want to be slim and fit and not some fat lump of flab wobbling around Manchester before trying to crowbar myself back into my house.

I will cycle to work. I will walk and walk and walk. I may even run.

And finally - a message to those two young women who mocked me so mercilessly last night: come next year, I will still be a baboon – but at least I’ll be healthy (as long as I can learn to run properly).

And please don’t put me on Facebook or You Tube.

Dear Simon Cowell ...

Dear Simon,

I was stumbling and bumbling through the world wide interweb when I came across an interesting couple of facts about you.

Before I go into those facts, let me assure you that I am not a crank and my intentions are honourable. I didn’t put “Simon Cowell” into Google hoping to find all sorts of sordid facts about you. Let me make that clear right from the start.

In fact, the truth is a bit sad really. I was devoid of ideas when it came to writing my next blog post and I decided to look for famous Librans – and your name popped up. That’s how desperate I was.

At first, I wondered who you were – so I asked my dear lady, Mrs PM.

“Who is Simon Cowell?” I asked.

“You know when you run screaming from the room on a Saturday night,” she replied. “He’s the reason.”

“Not X Factor,” I cried.

“X Factor, Pop Idol, Britain’s Got Talent, America’s Got Talent – they’re his shows.”

At first, I wanted to hunt you down and subject you to, arguably, my biggest ever rant about the music you promote and those dreadful Saturday night light entertainment programmes that YOU are responsible for, while pummelling you around the face with a rancid salmon to emphasise my points (and believe me there are a LOT of points). I wanted to lock you in a room with Jeremy Kyle and tell him that you were a drunken chain smoker who stole sweets from babies.

But then I thought “No – I am a nice guy and I need to help this man realise the error of his ways. He is a fellow Libran.”

Simon – I want to save you.

We have a kinship, Simon, you and I. Your birthday is 7th October, the day before mine. If astrologers are to be believed, then we have similar personality traits and, although I hate to admit it, we are like brothers.

So I’m going to help you, Simon, in my own inimitable way.

Firstly, congratulations on turning 50 this year. You don’t look a day under 50 and I’m surprised you are so young. Given the dreadful music you promote (and it IS dreadful, Simon, utterly dreadful), I had assumed that you were at least 65 years old. I foolishly imagined that you were a pensioner with false teeth and dyed hair who was seeking a hobby after a long hard life being a gopher for somebody with talent. I guessed that you had a few bits of cash and had used it to inject your face with enough botox to turn you into the Michelin Man.

I admit it – I was wrong - totally and utterly wrong. And I apologise unreservedly for my warped thoughts.

Now, how can I help you?

First of all, being a Libran like me, I can understand your need to rant. I can fully appreciate you desire to vent your spleen when something displeases you. Look at fellow Libran Margaret Thatcher! She vented her spleen for eleven years as Prime Minister of Great Britain.

I’ve seen you in action. I can’t bring myself to watch your appalling TV programmes but, in the interests of research, and in a desire to make you a better person, I have suffered by watching your performances on YouTube; quite frankly I’m appalled.

Here are some of your worst moments:

“You’ve just killed my favourite song of all time”

“It was a bad shrieky version; I’d pack your suitcase.”

“You sing like a train going off the rails.”

“You sounded like Dolly Parton on helium.”

“You’re too old to be a Barbie Doll.”

“I really hate your image – it’s almost creepy.”

“That was like a one year old, singing.”

“Do you have a singing teacher? Get a lawyer and sue her. I’m serious.”

“That audition was like watching a ship sink.”

Simon, there’s no need to be that nasty. I can be that nasty from the comfort of my own living room but the only casualty is my television (which incidentally is thinking of suing me for constant and relentless verbal bullying). The victims of my cruelty are beyond my reach and will never hear me liken them to a screaming tuneless banshee. But you are staring them in the face when you utter those words. It is despicable.

My first piece of advice is, therefore, to be nice to these awful people. They may sing like crows on drugs but they are human beings. They may be the most talentless humans in the world with voices like broken foghorns – but they can’t help it. In their eyes (or should I say ears) they ARE divas; they ARE Elton John; they ARE Stevie Wonder; they DESERVE the fame they are going to get.

Be nice to them. Just say something like:

“I vote no. Next!!”

And when pressed for the reason, let them down gently:

“It was good but there are better people out there.”

The contestants will be happy and the audience will be happy. Nobody will ever take the piss out of your hair again.

Which conveniently brings me to my next point. I have terrible hair and I openly admit it. Mrs PM forces me to put products on it to keep it from invading the house next door. She even does it when I am asleep. You would do well to take her advice. To be honest, your hair looks like a tiny aircraft could land on it. I’m not sure what effect you are trying to create but it does look absurd.

One person said “[his hair] looks like he cut it himself blindfolded in a dark room with his feet”.

I’ve had worse things said about my hair – but you are on telly, Simon. Millions of people watch you every week. People tune in hoping to see a seagull perch on your head and your bonce and crap on your face.

I know it took you a while to get rid of those ludicrous high-waisted trousers and now, apparently, you do actually look a little bit like a human being again. You can do the same with your hair. With a decent haircut you can face your critics with your head held high. And there will be not one seagull in sight.

My final piece of advice is to stop promoting boy band clones, girl band clones, women who think they are Mariah Carey and guys who think they are Robbie Williams and embrace your one true love – ROCK MUSIC!!!

Get out there and start a talent show for young up and coming rock bands; there are thousands of musicians who can actually play instruments, write their own songs and are in bands with mates just waiting for a decent record deal.

I am sick to my back teeth of hearing second rate pop-clones filling the airwaves, warbling badly on a Saturday night and filling our tabloid newspapers with meaningless twaddle about their private lives.

Embrace up and coming rock bands on a Saturday night and I might watch you without:

(a) throwing up
(b) assaulting my telly to a with a cricket bat
(c) getting into trouble with Mrs PM for puking on the carpet and assaulting her poor TV with a cricket bat.

I am trying to turn over a new leaf myself and to spare my TV before it leaves home. You can do the same.

We are Librans. We love Rock music. You can change. You must change.

Yours Sincerely

The Plastic Mancunian

P.S. Sorry for comparing you to Margaret Thatcher. It took years for me to get over the fact that her personality was similar to mine in the eyes of astrologers. I’m still not over it yet actually. The Plastic Mancunian is not for turning – AARRRGGHHH!!! Sorry Simon – ignore that last sentence.

P.P.S. If you want more advice my fees are reasonable. I charge £200,000 for a 10 minute session. Cheap at twice the price – don’t you agree?

Food Glorious Food

I was recently tagged by Kath, from Blurb From The Burbs to have a go at this food-based meme. I usually steal memes so this is almost a novel experience for me (I have been tagged legitimately once before). It does make me think about the morality of stealing memes. Actually that's a lie - I couldn't give two hooots! I will continue to steal them.


However, I will walk on the legal side of the meme line – just this once. Unless of course Kath stole it – in which case – oops I did it again!

Here goes:

1. Whats your #1 comfort food?

I’m sad to say that it’s cheese. I love the stuff, particularly mature cheddar. I’m not that fussy though; I will eat cheese from any country in the world – as long as it doesn’t taste like old socks (which some do). If there is cheese in the house and I am even slightly peckish, I will eat it. In fact, contrary to the urban myth, it actually DOES give you weird dreams. Mind you, I have weird dreams all the time – I won’t go into those here. The only cheese I don’t like is that blue veined rubbish, like Stilton. It tastes as foul as it looks.

2. If you were stranded on a desert island what 5 foods would you want to have with you to survive on?

If there was a sand-powered fridge, I would say:

Cheese, eggs, bacon, pork and beer.

If such a thing didn’t exist, I would have to be more sensible, so for the purpose of this question I am going to assume that a sand powered fridge does actually exist.

3. What are your signature dishes? (What dishes are you known for making?)

I can rustle up a decent pasta dish as long as I have pre-cooked sauce or pesto. It’s quick and easy to make, so over the years I’ve honed the technique, adding bits and pieces of food to it, including, of course, cheese.

4. It’s Friday night, you don't know what to cook. You opt for?

To be honest I’d rather eat out on a Friday night, but, if I had to cook, I would opt for a Chinese stir fry – not as easy as pasta but easy enough.

5. What's your ultimate food weakness?

Cheese – bad for me but delicious.

6. What food can you soooo not eat?

Rhubarb! One of my very first posts on this blog cursed this disgusting vegetation. Here’s an excerpt from my rant about it:

Rhubarb is the only food of any description that makes me throw up. The taste is revolting and activates a cataclysmic chain reaction deep within my abdomen. Not only does it taste revolting, it looks utterly repulsive. And it is poisonous (well the leaves are anyway). I would love to know which masochist spotted a rhubarb plant and thought “Now there’s a strange looking piece of vegetation; I think I’ll stew that”. That person is one of my least favourite people in history. Without that person, my sadistic infant and junior school teachers wouldn’t have rammed rhubarb down my throat and instilled in me a morbid fear of school puddings.

7. You need a drink, you grab a.....?

On Friday and Saturday evening - beer. Or on a school night or during the day at work - a cup of tea. I think I would be sacked if I drank beer at work.

8. What's the most decadent dish you've ever had?

Since I travel abroad on business a few times a year, I sometimes end up in oddly uncomfortable and extremely posh and pretentious restaurants ordering all sorts of decadent crap. I think I will plum for “thousand year old eggs”, which was a starter in a wonderful Chinese restaurant in Hong Kong. It looked repulsive – a dark green yolk in a clear brown goo. When I put it in my mouth, I said to a colleague: “Mmm this tastes just like egg!”. A second later the real taste hit me. It was like eating a solid fart. It was utterly revolting and tasted worse than it looked. I’ve never eaten one since. Here’s a picture.

9. What's your favourite type of food?

I don’t really have a favourite type of food. I do love Mexican food, Indian food and Chinese food so I will cheat and claim that I can’t distinguish between them.

10. Favourite Dish?

That’s a tough one – probably chicken cordon bleu – with tons of cheese!

11. If your partner could take you to any restaurant, where would you go?

I would go to Café Deco on Victoria Peak in Hong Kong. There is a wide range of food there and not a sinlge 1000 year old egg to be found. The view is spectacular. I get a fuzzy feeling inside when I’m there with Mrs PM – fabulous memories and fabulous food in my favourite city outside England. Here's the view from Cafe Deco:

Fab isn't it?

12. Soup or Salad?

Soup – every time. I’m a sucker for chicken and mushroom soup, although I’m usually tempted by any flavour to be honest.

13. Buffet, Take-Out or Sit-Down?

Sit down – unless I’m broke – in which case take away. You can’t beat a bag of fish and chips.

14. What's the most impressive meal you've ever made?

Mrs PM threw a dinner party and forced me to contribute. Worse than that, since she decided that starters and desserts were harder, she made me cook the main meal. Even worse than that, she didn’t even allow me to select the dish – she had chosen it for me. It was some kind of risotto and, as I was following the recipe to the letter, I began to have serious doubts about how good it would be. Thankfully, it went down very well. Nobody was sick and people claimed to have liked it. I’ve refused to make another one.

15. Do you consider yourself a good cook?

No – not at all. I can cook basic stuff but when it comes to anything more difficult than pasta or a quick stir fry I am seriously out of my depth. Mrs PM disagrees though; if she had her way, I would be attempting all sorts of culinary masterpieces. She is one of those irritating people who can throw together a gastronomic delight out of anything. So why she makes me cook is a huge mystery to me.

16. Do you know what vichyssoise is?

I think I dated a girl called Vicky Sauce once but I guess you don’t mean her. The answer is no.

17. Who's your favourite TV cook?

I despise them all. They have a one way ticket to Mars when I become World President. Actually, that’s not quite true. Gordon Ramsay is so rude that he makes me laugh and I quite enjoyed watching Keith Floyd becoming steadily more drunk as he cooked a meal. The two worst offenders and the only ones who make me rant mercilessly at my cowering TV are Jamie Oliver and Anthony Worrall Thompson. Every time Oliver opens his mouth, I scream “SHUT UP! Just shut up! Say PUKKA once more and I’ll be on the next train to London to throw you in the Thames.” Worrall Thompson has a similar effect. GET THEM OFF MY TELLY!!

18. Can you name at least three famous cooking personalities?

I think I named four in the last question, so yes.

19. Homemade or homemade from a box?

Home made (as long as I am not the one who made it)

20. Tag three more foodies...

You can steal the meme if you want. I don’t care. I like to live dangerously. That’s why I eat the food I cook.

If you do steal the meme, let me know and I'll comment on your answers.