The Plastic Mancunian

The Queen (Elizabeth To Her Mates)

noreply@blogger.com (The Plastic Mancunian) — Mon, 04 Jun 2012 11:13:00 +0000

I have nothing against the Queen.

I prefer to think of her as a celebrity called Elizabeth Windsor, who happens to have inherited a lot of wealth and whose job it is to draw tourists into the country and place the United Kingdom into the limelight worldwide.

And that works for me.

My own personality type is such that I have a big problem with anybody who claims to be my better. I am certain there are really talented people out there in the big wide world who are better than me in some ways – I accept that. But these people are not worthy of me bowing to them or addressing them in such a way that makes me subservient to them.

And that goes for the Queen.

Don’t get me wrong; I would gladly go to Buckingham Palace and spend the afternoon sitting down with her and other members of the royal family, chatting about life, the universe and everything over afternoon tea.

I would not bow to her, though and I would want not refer to her as “ma’am”, “Your Royal Highness” or any other such terms.

I would call her “Elizabeth”. After all – that is her name is it not?

Elizabeth is Queen because she happened to be the daughter of King George VI, a man who himself was son of a previous King. And so it has been for centuries. She’s done nothing special – not really.

She is not better than me. She is just a person. I do not regard her as my ruler.

She is just a fellow Brit.

I have found the Diamond Jubilee celebrations a bit of a paradox; I like the idea that we should highlight the United Kingdom and show off to the world and all of the patriotism that goes with it, seeing people waving the Union Jack and celebrating everything that is British.

On the other hand, the focus of those celebrations is Elizabeth. The reason we are celebrating is because she has ruled for 60 years; we have been subservient to this woman for 60 years.

Elizabeth has been Queen all of my life. I have seen her face on stamps, coins and bank notes ever since I can remember. Hardly a day has gone by in my entire life when she hasn’t been in the newspapers, on television or brought to my attention in some other way.

It’s almost like she is a member of MY family.

Of course in real terms, she is a figurehead, these days. She has no real power, other than ceremonial and traditional. It’s not like, say, Tudor times, when a tyrant like Henry VIII ruled with a rod of iron.

Imagine living in England during the reign of Henry VIII? If he were to read any blog posts criticising the monarchy from the likes of a plebeian like me, I would find a number of royal soldiers on the doorstep of my hovel whose sole purpose would be to butcher me in the most painful way possible for being arrogant enough to dare to challenge the King’s right to rule me.

Thank goodness I live in the 21st century.

I can now tell everyone my feelings without fear of reprisal.

I have watched bits of the jubilee celebrations with mixed feelings. It’s great to see people celebrating Britain but I cringe with all the sycophancy that accompanies it. All news stations are biased, perhaps understandably so, and actually don’t tell the full story.

For example, with the camera on the Queen’s face, the commentator said something like:

“I’ve never seen the Queen looking happier; she is thoroughly enjoying this.”

What I saw was the Queen looking quite stern, clearly not smiling – in fact she was grimacing at the rain that was threatening to ruin the spectacle of the flotilla of boats on the Thames.

And then the interviews with royalist spectators;

“Oh she’s WONDERFUL! I LOVE her; she’s done a magnificent job for 60 years. Long may she reign over us.”

And that sums up the problem for me. The Queen is the original “celebrity” for me, a person who shows up at various functions, cuts ribbons, makes the odd speech, smiles and waves, tells us all about what she thinks at Christmas and has her face on our currency.

I recently visited the Tower of London and saw the Crown Jewels and was kind of shocked at the opulence. Elizabeth is so wealthy, so utterly rich that it is almost obscene. She has done nothing to earn that wealth other than be born into it.

People like to remark about how the royal family do so much for charity but they could sell one of the crowns and then use the money to feed the starving in Africa – or even help the needy in their own country.

When I see people fawning over royalty, I see the same undeserving adulation as people who claim to love people like Katie Price and Kerry Katona.

As I said, I don’t hate the Queen at all; she was born into the role she has and she is obliged by the system to sit comfortably within that role until she dies or decides that she’s had enough, when it will all be handed over to her son Prince Charles.

What I am not comfortable with is the actual role itself and the concept of the monarchy in general. Maybe it is the anarchist within me; maybe it is the rebel who wants all men to be equal.

Power corrupts and people who have such power generally abuse it in some way. History is full of examples of this and my own country has an absolutely horrific history. Imagine Henry VIII on the throne now.

I’m not saying that the Queen would ever consider being such a tyrant. But I am willing to bet that in a conversation between us, she would not be even vaguely interested in my life – simply because she would regard me as such an insignificant person.

I, on the other hand, would be very interested in her life. I would love to spend a couple of hours listening to her true thoughts on the monarchy, the lives of ordinary people in Britain and so on.

You may think that this is not a worthy post for such a celebration of Britain but I don’t care really. As far as I am concerned, Elizabeth has fulfilled her role very well and will undoubtedly smash the record set by Queen Victoria to become the longest reigning monarch in UK history. In that respect she will have had to have endured the role and all it entails for longer than any of her ancestors.

And she probably deserves some recognition for that.

Well done Elizabeth.

The Health and Safety Comedy Show

noreply@blogger.com (The Plastic Mancunian) — Fri, 01 Jun 2012 17:58:00 +0000

I wasted just over an hour of my life at work today.

It was called Health and Safety training. And I think, in order to pass it with a mark of 80%, all I needed was the IQ of a cat; and before you say it – yes, I know I can be stupid but even I am not that dumb.

The web-based course consisted of watching a few videos and then taking a quiz. I would have passed even if I hadn’t watched the videos – the questions were so simple.

In fact, as I watched it at my desk, with my earphones, I found myself chuckling. In order to illustrate how to be safe and healthy at work, they showed situations with people who had removed their brains and consequently stumbled about the place, driven by their own idiocy.

For example, in one scene, somebody had spilled a small amount of liquid at the top of a staircase. The video showed four people, whose combined IQ must have been less than that of a slug, sliding all over the place in full view of each other.

Idiot number one slipped over as idiot number two approached. As idiot one lay on the floor, idiot two gawped at idiot one and then slipped in the same place and fell down the stairs. At the same time, idiot three was coming up the stairs and when he reached the top having seen the other two idiots slip and fall, he too slipped spectacularly.

I had to answer questions like this:

It is OK to leave you laptop in your car with the window open while you pop into a shop. True or False?

It is OK to climb onto a chair with wheels at the top of a staircase in order to change a light bulb. True or False?

For a laugh, I have decided to publish my own ten point plan for morons as a primer for tests similar to the one I had to take. If you are so stupid that people wonder how you manage to dress yourself in the morning, this is for you.

(1) When making yourself a cup of coffee, do not under any circumstances plunge your hand into boiling water as this may cause pain and severe burning and may stop you carrying on with your work.

(2) Whenever you need to go to the toilet, do not wait at your desk until it is too late. You will wet yourself. Always go to the toilet when you know that you can get there without an accident. Such action minimises the prospect of people slipping in the trail of urine that you leave as you run in a state of panic to the toilet.

(3) Do not throw yourself down the stairs. First of all there may be somebody else coming up and as well as injuring yourself you may injure that person too.

(4) If you work on the first floor or above, do not leave the office by leaping out of the window. Even though this may seem to be the quickest way to exit the building, you will almost certainly injure yourself and anybody who is unfortunate enough to be walking beneath.

(5) If you see a fire, do not stand there pointing at it or attempt to warm up your lunch in the flames. You must leave the building – preferably not by hurling yourself down the stairs or out of the windows, as described above.

(6) Under no circumstances should you pour water into electrical equipment to clean it.

(7) However tempting it may be, do not hit your manager with a blunt instrument.

(8) Do not use your laptop while driving. You may crash the car.

(9) If there is a fire, do not stop to make a coffee because it may be cold outside.

(10) Hitting your colleagues over the head with a laptop will injure them. It may also damage expensive company equipment.

You may chuckle at that list but the training I received assumed that I had no common sense whatsoever.

The whole world has gone mad when it comes to Health and Safety. Here is an example from work; I’ve mentioned this before but this time I thought that photographic evidence was required to show normal people how absurd Health and Safety can be.

This notice is on the mirror in the gents toilet at work.

It’s a good job they told me – my IQ usually plummets when I’m in the toilet and I wouldn’t want to spread germs.

Actually, I had to be very careful taking that photo. Walking into the gents with a camera, no matter how innocent the reason, could have been taken the wrong way.

I hope nobody saw me.

I Think We're In Didsbury

noreply@blogger.com (The Plastic Mancunian) — Thu, 24 May 2012 21:16:00 +0000

It’s time to open the door to my life just a touch wider, dear reader, so that you can take more of a peek into my life.

You can probably guess that I live in Manchester – but which part?

Well I’ll tell you.

I live in a suburb about 4.5 miles south of the city, called Didsbury. In reality it comprises Didsbury Village, West Didsbury and East Didsbury. I live close to Didsbury Village, an area of shops and pubs that is dissected by Wilmslow Road, one of the main arteries out of the city centre.

Why am I telling you this?

Because I have discovered an entertaining video that shows the world what Didsbury is like.

Well sort of…

Actually, it takes the piss out of people who live there.

Didsbury is considered a nice area to live and the house prices reflect this. Mrs PM and I moved here 10 years ago and were lucky enough to get our house just before the housing market exploded. We couldn’t afford to buy a house here now, that’s for sure.

A former work colleague, who has now retired, has lived in Didsbury for years and he bought a massive house for a relatively cheap price a couple of decades ago before the place became so popular; and now his house is worth a small fortune. And he moans about the number of German cars that are appearing on his street and the fact that his neighbours are solicitors and doctors.

That is the perception of Didsbury; that it is full of posh, well-to-do Yuppy-type people, who eat brie and rocket sandwiches. Of course, there are some people like that and you do see them, but most of the residents of our little suburb are perfectly normal.

There have been a few famous people living here, though. For example, John Thomson, seen here hosting Jazz Club on The Fast Show:

I’ve seen him a few times strolling around the village.

Also, comedian John Bishop lives here – and I’ve seen him enjoying a coffee in one of the village establishments:

The video was made by a mate of a friend of mine at work and it has been viewed enough times to make the local newspaper.

It is a mickey take of people, like me, who live in Didsbury and there seems to be a feeling that people who live here will not like it because it contains a few “home-truths”.

For example, according to the video, there are no real men in Didsbury and most people are shallow high-flying yuppies who drink cappuccino in pubs, go on protest marches and spend what little free time they have at yoga classes.

Am I offended?

Absolutely not; on the contrary, I find it hilarious.

I am not like that at all.

What’s more, all of the people mentioned in the video actually exist in one form or another. And that’s what’s most funny about it.

So sit back, relax and watch “I Think We’re in Didsbury”. There are photos of the village, West Didsbury and some of my favourite shops and pubs, just to give you a flavour of where I live.

I hope you enjoy it as much as Mrs PM and I did. Beware - it has a swear word in it.

By the way – I do not make patchwork quilts and have never used moisturiser in my life.

My yoga teacher advised me against such pursuits.

Introducing Captain Chaos

noreply@blogger.com (The Plastic Mancunian) — Tue, 22 May 2012 21:27:00 +0000

I have three nemeses (four if you count my hair).

I’ve introduced the first, a certain Captain Paranoia who has been with me all through my life convincing me how useless I am, how nobody likes me and how I will inevitably end up alone in a pit of misery and despair. I tend to ignore him these days.

Today I will introduce mysecond nemesis; Captain Chaos.

His aim, as his name suggests, is to make my life as chaotic and unpredictable as possible, a kind of walking version of Murphy’s Law.

Often, he is accompanied by my third nemesis, called Tonto (I will explain in a future post) and together they wreak utter havoc. And when Captain Paranoia joins in, you can imagine what happens. Apparently all three of them are planning a big get together on December 21^st of this year to bring about the end of the world.

But let’s not worry about that just yet.

I’ve just been on holiday to Spain and on the morning of our departure, Captain Chaos chose to spend the day with us.

It all started at 4:45 am.

Being a careful man, I set the alarm for this time so that we could leave the house in plenty of time to get to the airport for our flight to Spain. I’m usually fine when it comes to getting up, but on that day the influence of Captain Chaos began from the very second I awoke.

My usual sense of timing somehow failed me, and I took my time, having a leisurely shower. Mrs PM, a woman who is generally always late – unless I step in and hurry her along – waltzed around the house without a care in the world, slowly making coffee and packing last minute things. I had things to pack too and after my shower, I got dressed and I too drifted around the house like a happy little hamster.

And then I looked at the clock.

We needed to be in a cab by 5:45 am. It was 5:40.

“SHIT!” I said, as Captain Chaos watched with a grin.

“What are you doing?” I shouted to Mrs PM.

“Feeding the cats.”

“Have you called a cab?” I asked.

She didn’t respond but a voice told me she had heard me. That was the voice of Captain Chaos.

I finished packing and checked my list. I hauled our suitcases downstairs to find Mrs PM cleaning out the litter trays and leaving a note for our cat-sitter.

“Where’s your passport?” I asked.

“In my in-tray on the desk,” she replied.

I looked. It wasn’t there. I had my passport safely stashed in my rucksack.

“It’s not there,” I said. “WHERE IS IT?” I was getting a little frustrated.

“I don’t know,” she said, suddenly panicking.

“YOU DON’T KNOW??” I yelled. “WHY DIDN’T YOU LOOK FOR IT LAST NIGHT? WE’RE GONNA BE LATE!!”

We both frantically started turning the place upside down looking for her passport. Captain Chaos watched and laughed. After about ten minutes of searching, she eventually found it in one of the first places she had looked.

Captain Chaos had taken it – I’m sure of that.

“Right,” I said. “Where’s this bloody cab?”

“When did he say he would be here?” said Mrs PM.

“What do you mean?” I asked. “You rang for one.”

“I thought YOU were going to call for one,” she said.

AAAARRRRGGGGGGHHHHHHH!!!

A frantic phone call and a despairing ten minute wait later, we were finally on our way to the airport, a full twenty minutes behind schedule. But Captain Chaos wasn’t finished yet; he had prepared the groundwork for his next surprise.

We arrived at the airport and found our way to the check-in desk, only to find an absolutely enormous queue.

AAARRRGGGGGGGGHHHHHH!!!

We had tried to check-in online (as we usually do) but the website had crashed just as we were reserving our seats. We thought we weren’t checked in, so we joined the queue.

I must have checked my watch about 300,000 times in that queue and eventually we arrived at the desk.

“Have you got your boarding cards?” asked the check-in lady.

Captain Chaos smirked.

“We couldn’t check in,” said Mrs PM. “The website crashed.”

“I need to call the supervisor,” said the woman. “There’s a problem.”

Captain Chaos laughed.

After ten more minutes (during which I felt an explosion building up inside), she returned and said “Right, it’s sorted out. I’ll just check for seats.”

“Check for seats?” I asked myself, relieved but still wary.

“There aren’t any free seats,” she said wrinkling her brow. Captain Chaos was now on the floor rolling about laughing.

“NO SEATS???” I shouted.

“Hang on,” she said – and disappeared again.

I spent the next five minutes trying to control the raging inferno that was building within.

And then Captain Paranoia turned up, giving a high five to Captain Chaos before whispering “You’re not going ANYWHERE mate!”

The lady returned and said “I’ve freed a couple of seats.”

I was delighted and stuck two fingers up at the two Captains.

“Look at the time,” whispered Captain Paranoia. “You’ll never get through security in time.”

When we finally got our boarding passes and waved goodbye to our suitcases, we had to rush through security, where there was an inevitable queue.

AAARRRGGGHHHH!!!

We were looking forward to a leisurely breakfast airside but that went out of the window, when Mrs PM was “randomly” selected for the body scan.

We finally made it airside and I had barely five minutes to make a quick visit to the toilet.

“I’ll see you at gate,” I yelled as I rushed off.

Such was the nature of my call to Mother Nature that I had to find a cubicle. And the only one left was the one whose previous occupant had exploded.

The toilet bowl was home to the most disgusting mess I had ever seen – and it wouldn’t flush away.

WHY DO PEOPLE DO THIS?????

I had no choice. I had to use it. I was desperate.

Thankfully, I managed to flush some of it away when I had finished but as I left the cubicle I found a queue of men waiting to use it.

I just ran – I ran as quickly as I could (although I was tempted to shout “IT WASN’T ME – IT WAS THE BRUTE WHO USED IT BEFORE ME”), with the echo of a guffawing Captain Chaos ringing in my ears, accompanied by the echo of the words of the man who had entered the cubicle after me.

“MY GOD!!!!!! WHAT KIND OF MONSTER ARE YOU?” was all I heard – and I hope he didn’t think that I had done it but I am absolutely certain he is convinced that I was a disgusting feral human being with a MASSIVE bowel problem and absolutely NO IDEA about toilet etiquette. I just hope I don’t bump into him again. The sight in that cubicle is something that will stay etched on his mind forever – I know I can still see it in my nightmares.

I lost sight of Captain Chaos after that and we managed to get away with no problems apart from having to pay an exorbitant amount for a revolting cardboard breakfast and a cup of coffee that looked like it had been brewed in a cesspit.

Sadly, Captain Chaos accompanied us on our holiday; I saw Captain Paranoia waving goodbye to him as the plane took off.

He met Tonto there. I will tell you about that some other time.

I have many examples of how Captain Chaos has caused me huge problems in my life.

Have you met him too?

The Pseudo-Intellectual's New Clothes

noreply@blogger.com (The Plastic Mancunian) — Sun, 20 May 2012 14:23:00 +0000

I have just read something that has made me rant mercilessly to Mrs PM and the cats. In order to escape me, Mrs PM has left the house and the cats have run to those little hidey holes in the house that are Plastic Mancunian proof (behind their litter trays).

I need to let off steam, so unfortunately, dear reader, you are my metaphorical punch bag to allow me to get this off my chest.

Regular readers will know that I have a big problem with pseudo-intellectuals, particularly those who love contemporary art and accuse me of being an unimaginative moron who lives in a box.

I have posted about such buffoons before (read about it here and here) but yesterday, I read something that takes this to an even more ridiculous level.

There is an exhibition about to start at the Hayward Gallery in London that will “set imaginations on fire”.

I can guess that you might consider this to be an intellectually challenging exhibition featuring the most amazing new pieces of contemporary art that will quite literally blow you away in a cascading and exponentially developing miracle of thought-provoking rapture (sorry about that, dear reader – I stole those words from a pseudo-intellectual who had just looked up the words cascade, exponential, miracle and rapture on a web site about philosophy).

The cost of this exhibition is £8, a paltry sum, I’m sure you will agree, for something that will give your imagination the mental equivalent of a screaming orgasm.

What do you get for your £8?

Nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

Nada! Nichts! Rien! Niente!

BUGGER ALL!!!

Yes, that’s right; the world of contemporary art has stooped to depths lower than even a total cynic like me could imagine.

They are exhibiting NOTHING!!

Allow me to elaborate.

You will see Invisible Sculpture, a “work” by Andy Warhol; an empty plinth, which, apparently, the man stepped on for a brief moment.

You can also feast your eyes on 1000 Hours of Staring; a blank piece of paper (yes you read that correctly – A BLANK PIECE OF PAPER) that the artist, a certain Mr Tom Friedman, stared at on and off for a period of five years.

The same artist has another exhibit and I’ll bet you can barely contain yourself about this one. It is called Untitled (A Curse) and features an empty space which has supposedly been cursed by a witch. That’s right, dear reader – AN EMPTY SPACE!!

How about an empty room by Yoko Ono, where the viewer is encouraged to “conjure up artwork in their minds”? I’m sorry but the blogging equivalent of that is for me to post something called Nothing and let you, dear reader, imagine more of my inane bullshit. Surely that’s MY job as a blogger.

It sounds like a complete joke – but they are serious – totally and utterly serious.

The director of the gallery has said (and I am not making this up):

“I think visitors will find that there is plenty to see and experience in this exhibition of invisible art”.

He also added:

“From the amusing to the philosophical, you will be able to explore an invisible labyrinth that only materialises as you move around it, see an artwork that has been created by the artist staring at it for 1000 hours, walk through an installation designed to evoke the afterlife, and be in the presence of Andy Warhol’s celebrity aura.”

Yes – this pseudo-intellectual mad man actually uttered those words to a national newspaper. And, of course, he had to mention philosophy (what pseudo-intellectual nonsense would be complete without the word philosophy?)

The world has gone crazy; totally and utterly crazy. If this is supposed to be the height of intellect in the world then we, as a species, are doomed.

MY CATS HAVE MORE SENSE THAN THESE PEOPLE.

Actually, that’s not true. The people who will undoubtedly flock to this so-called exhibition are the pseudo-intellectual fools. I could get the same experience staring at my wall and unleashing my sick and sordid imagination to picture an epic war occurring on the plaster.

And it wouldn’t cost me a bloody thing.

The traditional story of The Emperor’s New Clothes has never been more relevant to the rubbish that most modern art is. The parallels are there for everybody to see.

I am almost tempted to gate-crash the exhibition and stand there in every room stating the bleeding obvious.

“There is nothing here. There is nothing worth seeing. There is actually nothing to see. This is an empty room.”

Alternatively, I could pay my £8 and walk in totally naked and say “What do you think of my new outfit? It is straight from the imagination of Rene Descartes; it’s called the Invisible Suit”.

Would they DARE to throw me out?

I could even charge them for their own set of Descartes clothes - £500 a pop. Do you think I’ll get away with it?

I’ll finish with some good news; I have created for you a piece of invisible art that will save you from going to the exhibition. It is in the frame below and it is simply called The Pseudo-Intellectual’s New Clothes.

And it costs exactly what it shows.

NOTHING!!!!

A Real Bucket List (Part 5)

noreply@blogger.com (The Plastic Mancunian) — Thu, 10 May 2012 20:38:00 +0000

Well, dear reader, this is it; the final part of the Bucket List I stole of an unsuspecting victim on the internet.

I would like to thank that person for providing me with inspiration for a few posts.

And without further ado, here are the final 20 items from the list:

81. Be able to handle: your tax forms, Jehovah's Witnesses, your banker, telephone solicitors.

As said in my “alternative”bucket list, I actually enjoy talking to Jehovah’s Witnesses. The last couple who came to my door were reading extracts from the Bible to convince me that the Big Bang didn’t happen. The quotes had nothing to do with the discussion at all. And I was told that Satan placed the dinosaur fossils to prey on our weaknesses. I had to laugh, but I wasn’t condescending at all. In fact, they left with a smile and said that it was a nice change for somebody to talk to them rather than telling them to piss off. As for bankers and solicitors, that’s more difficult.

82. Give to a charity -- anonymously.

I do that – actually I don’t because the hospice that I donate to every month knows my name. I would rather give it anonymously though and I guess I do when Mrs PM forces me to take my old paperbacks to the charity shop every so often.

83. Lose more money than you can afford at roulette in Vegas.

I am very careful when it comes to gambling and when I was in Las Vegas I was extra careful. Mrs PM had been there a week earlier when she went to a conference and I couldn’t let her go alone. On her first night she won $200 on the roulette and then later, she won some more. I went there prepared to lose a small amount per day and stuck to my limit. Mrs PM on the other hand, because of her wins, managed to come out in the black. Personally, I think gambling is a complete waste of time if you think you can become rich from it because the odds are stacked against you; being a student of statistical analysis I have absolute proof of this. The banker always wins in the long run, whether it is roulette, black jack, poker, one-armed bandits or horse racing. Still, it can be fun if you are careful and are prepared to allow the banker to win a tiny amount. I don’t think I am prepared to lose a large amount of money at roulette anywhere, let alone Vegas.

84. Let someone feed you peeled, seedless grapes.

I will ask Mrs PM to do this on my 50^th birthday later in the year.

85. Kiss the Blarney stone and develop the gift of gab.

I would LOVE to have the gift of the gab on a permanent basis. Sometimes I can be extremely charming and captivating but most of the time I try to hard and end up looking like an arse. If you have the gift of the gab, dear reader, and are willing to give me any tips, then I’m all ears.

86. Fart in a crowded space.

This is one of the easiest things to do. All you need to do is let go of a real stinker and look around horrified, wrinkling your nose in disgust. Try it – it works.

87. Make love on the kitchen floor.

The kitchen floor is made of stone and extremely cold – so the answer is a definite no!

88. Go deep sea fishing and eat your catch.

Does catching a trout in a river in Wales count? Actually, it wasn’t me who caught the trout but a friend of mine. I did cook it and we shared it between four of us – there was hardly any really. I felt quite bad about it but my excuse was that I was only 18 and it seemed like an adventurous thing to do for four young lads staying in a cottage in the middle of nowhere.

89. Create your own web site.

I have done this, dear reader. You are reading it.

90. Visit the Holy Land.

Anything that involves travelling is a definite possibility, even to a place like the Holy Land.

91. Make yourself spend a half-day at a concentration camp and swear never to forget.

I presume by this you mean visit Auschwitz or something like that. To be honest, this is a possibility. As I get older, I am more fascinated by history, particularly evil bastards like Hitler, and I think that visiting a place like this would be as fascinating as it was distressing.

92. Run to the top of the Statue of Liberty.

I’ve climbed to the top of the Statue of Liberty but I have a feeling that you can’t do it these days. When I climbed the statue (from the inside I hasten to add) it would have been impossible to run up to the top. To get there, we had to walk up a spiral staircase that was intertwined with another one coming down and it was so crowded, full of fawning Americans, that I would have had to have shoved them out of the way. Basically, I slowly climbed up, walked across the crown, looked out of the tiny windows and then walked back down. It was slightly disappointing but from the outside it looked spectacular.

93. Create your Family Tree.

At the weekend, Mrs PM and I went to a leaving party in Liverpool and were kindly given a lift back from one of her work colleagues. As Mrs PM fell asleep in the back of the car, I chatted to this married couple and he was busy researching his family tree. In fact, the couple were so serious that they had paid money to one of the better known ancestry web sites and actually made a lot of progress. I was slightly inspired to be honest and this might actually become a future hobby, when and if I get fed up of blogging or retire.

94. Catch a ball in the stands of a major league baseball stadium.

The closest I will ever get to doing this is to catch a cricket ball that has been whacked for six by a rampant English batsman. In fact, I am going to see England versus the West Indies towards the end of May in Nottingham – so I’ll let you know if I succeed.

95. Make a hole-in-one.

Golf is utter rubbish. Not a chance.

96. Ski a double-black diamond run.

That’s funny. I would have to learn to ski first. Not a hope in hell.

97. Learn to bartend.

I really should have done this when I was younger. It would have opened up a whole world of part time jobs when I was a student. Instead I was a postman or just plain lazy. I guess it’s never too late and if I get sacked or have an “American Beauty” moment, I could give it a go.

98. Run a marathon.

In my youth I could possibly have done this. I used to be in the school cross country team and as I ran and settled into a rhythm, the thought of doing a marathon seemed an achievable goal (although the furthest I ever ran was probably only about 6 miles). I think I’m a little too old now.

99. Look into your child's eyes, see yourself, and smile.

I have looked into the eyes of both of my sons and seen myself. I’ve laughed and cried at the same time because this is such a wonderful experience. My sons will probably say that they have looked into my eyes, seen themselves and thought “Oh my God! Is THIS what I am going to TURN INTO? AAARRGGHH!!!”

100. Reflect on your greatest weakness, and realize how it is your greatest strength.

I have lots of weaknesses and I know exactly what they are. I don’t really see why or how any of them could be my greatest strength. Perhaps having the openness to talk about them on a blog like this is a strength – but in reality I only do it for cheap laughs.

Well that’s it, dear reader. Once again, please feel free to let me know which of the above items you have achieved.

I am off to Spain on Saturday and can’t wait, so next week will be all quiet on the Plastic Mancunian front.

If I manage to cross any more items off the list I will let you know.

I don’t plan to challenge my fear of heights again though – or my fear of nasty creatures.

A Real Bucket List (Part 4) - and Post Number 400

noreply@blogger.com (The Plastic Mancunian) — Wed, 09 May 2012 19:38:00 +0000

I’ve just realised that I have reached two blog milestones; I have been blogging for 4 years (well in March anyway) and this is my 400^th post.

I was going to do something special but instead I will just continue with the Bucket List. Besides, I want to complete it before I go to Spain on Saturday and time is running short.

Without further ado, here are items 61 to 80 on the Bucket List I’ve stolen.

61. Go wild in Rio during Carnival.

Rio is on the list of places that Mrs PM are both desperate to visit so this is a definite trip for us to take. I imagine that Rio during Carnival will be expensive and the hotels will be fully booked up and it may be a struggle to get there without some serious planning. Nevertheless, I think this is a genuine trip I want to make before my maker tells me its time for bed.

62. Spend a whole day reading a great novel.

When I am on holiday, I like to explore the local community and wander off exploring. However, I also enjoy sitting by a swimming pool, or on the beach, reading a good book and when I get the opportunity to do so, I grab it with eager arms. Sitting by a pool, watching the stress evaporating, with a bottle of beer by your side and a good book is a great way to spend a lazy day before exploring some more. So yes, I have done this (usually on holiday).

63. Forgive your parents.

I’ve nothing to forgive them for. Job done!

64. Learn to juggle with three balls.

Believe it or not I’ve tried to teach myself to do this on quite a few occasions and failed miserably and spectacularly. It’s bloody difficult - and pointless, when I think about it. I think I’ll give this one a miss.

65. Drive the Autobahn.

Give a flash German Porsche, a bright sunny German day and an Autobahn strangely devoid of traffic and I’m there!

66. Find a job you love.

I’ve been trying to do this for years. There are aspects of my job that I love; problem solving, seeing the fruits of creativity in action and travelling to witness this first hand. But there are so many things that make me furious about my job. One day I will – and this is not something I want to do to fulfil some weird Bucket List fantasy – I want to do it for my own sanity. I am nothing if not optimistic and this particular item is one thing I definitely hope to achieve.

67. Spend Christmas on the beach drinking pina coladas.

If I lived in Australia I would do this every Christmas. Sadly I don’t. Nevertheless, Mrs PM and I are planning to go to a warmer place for a week between Christmas and New Year this year. I might give that a go then.

68. Overcome your fear of failure.

That is easier said than done, my friend. I have come to terms with my limitations over the years but failing still hurts. I am improving and that maybe due to the fact that as I get older I care less about screwing something up.

69. Raft through the Grand Canyon.

I’ve flown over the Grand Canyon in a helicopter and on a scheduled flight from Las Vegas to Atlanta. Does that count?

70. Donate money and put your name on something: a college scholarship, a bench in the park.

I’m not sure why somebody would want to put their name on something like this other than for an ego trip. Am I weird thinking this? Would people really care about a park bench that said “Donated by The Plastic Mancunian” or “The Plastic Mancunian Scholarship”? I would prefer to remain anonymous I think.

71. Buy your own house and then spend time making it into exactly what you want.

I am living this particular dream as I type. We’re almost there.

72. Grow a garden.

I hate gardening. I hate gardening with a passion. From an early age, my dad loved gardening and turned our back garden into a mini farm, growing every vegetable that would survive the weather in Walsall. It was a big job and he needed help – so he enrolled me as his slave. He had me digging, weeding, planting and every other dreadful chore involved in maintaining a garden. I also suffer from hay fever and for one whole month every year I suffer from an unnatural allergy to pollen. If I could find out which pollen it might help but in the UK in June there is so much to choose from. I still don’t know. I will leave the gardening to Mrs PM. She can cross this one off her own list.

73. Spend three months getting your body into optimum shape.

I did that when I was around 39 to 40. We moved into our current house and Mrs PM dragged me to a gym to get fit. I ended up with my own training regime designed by a young muscular bastard who. I’m sure, gave me nasty disciplines to overcome to get rid of the excess fat on my body. It did work and I kept it up for a few months before boredom kicked in. In fact, I think it was about three months and during that time my upper body did change shape. Sadly it has all gone back to the way it was, like a balloon that has all the air replaced with jelly. My limited gym membership was also quite embarrassing at times – you can read about it here.

74. Drive a convertible with the top down and music blaring.

I will do this – and the music will be good, solid driving rock!

75. Accept yourself for who you are.

I did that a long time ago – and now I spend most of my time blogging about it.

76. Learn to use a microphone and give a speech in public.

I am terrified of public speaking. I am also terrified of heights and regular readers will know that I am an idiot who tries to overcome that fear by climbing unfeasibly high buildings and bridges. It may therefore come as no surprise that I have used a microphone and given a public speech. In fact, I have done it on several occasions in Britain, Switzerland, China, South Africa, America and Russia. You see, as part of my job I have to make the odd presentation and give training courses. Sadly, because it is part of my job, I can’t really refuse – so I bite the bullet and do it. I have (kind of) overcome the fear a little – it still scares me but not as much. You can read about one such episode here.

77. Scuba dive off Australia's Great Barrier Reef.

Do you know that I had the chance to do this and completely lost my bottle? What is this; a “Tell the world how scared you are” list? I am scared of spiders and insects and jellyfish and Australia has the worst of all of these in the world. Is every creature in Australia poisonous? Suffice it to say that when I heard about box jellyfish and irukandji, my arse went. I refused to put on a stinger suit and dive in the water to become jellyfish lunch. Mrs PM was much braver and I watched Mrs PM snorkelling in perhaps the greatest area of natural beauty in the world, while I stood like an utter coward from the specially sited platform. So, dear reader, here is another post that might interest you which describes the monsters that stopped me from achieving this particular item.

78. Go up in a hot-air balloon.

Right – this is beyond a joke now. Should I rebadge this, my 400^th post, “I AM A COWARD AND HERE’S WHY?”. No chance – not a chance in HELL. I will never, ever go up in a hot air balloon because I am terrified of heights (sob!).

79. Attend one really huge rock concert.

Now we’re talking. I have attended countless really huge rock concerts. I have seen some of the biggest rock bands and artists on the planet in massive arenas. Here are a few of them: AC/DC, Bruce Springsteen, The Foo Fighters, Metallica, Rush, Whitesnake, Marilyn Manson, Aerosmith, Guns’n’Roses, The Red Hot Chilli Peppers, Alice Cooper, Queen, Rammstein, Def Leppard, Motley Crüe, Nine Inch Nails, Deep Purple, Judas Priest, Iron Maiden, and Meat Loaf. And I haven’t finished yet.

80. Kiss someone you've just met on a blind date.

I’ve never been on a blind date but I’ve kissed women I’ve only just met in my youth. Most of the time I got my face slapped. In fact, ALL of the time I got my face slapped. Still, I was a young foolish teenager at the time and stopped doing such stupid things – eventually.

So dear reader, over to you. Are you as big a coward as I am? Have you achieved any of the above 20 items?

A Real Bucket List (Part Three)

noreply@blogger.com (The Plastic Mancunian) — Mon, 07 May 2012 17:37:00 +0000

I tell you what – this is quite a Bucket List. If you were to decide to try everything on this list you may have to start at the age of 20.

Anyway, continuing with items 41 to 60 (out of 100):

41. Shower in a waterfall.

I haven’t done this but it would be a nice thing to attempt on my next travels should I find a suitable place. I wonder whether I can count getting soaked at Niagara Falls? Standing directly underneath the Horseshoe Falls at Niagara might be a dangerous thing. However, you can get close either by standing at a special viewing platform underneath the falls or sailing on a little boat called “The Maid of the Mist”. I’ve done both and here are a couple of photos to prove it. I would urge you to try it if you get a chance.

42. Ask for a raise.

Too bloody right! And yes, I have done it. Don’t get me started on this because I may take up the entire post ranting angrily about office politics, incompetence and bloody-minded arrogance.

43. Learn to play a musical instrument with some degree of skill.

I can play the trombone (read about it here ). Well, when I say “play” I last packed the instrument in its case when I was 16 and rebellious and have never attempted to play one since. I wouldn’t mind having a go but it may take me a few months of practice to get to be able to play something meaningful again. I think my favourite piece of music that I managed to play was “In The Hall of the Mountain King” by Edvard Grieg. Here it is done properly:

44. Teach someone illiterate to read.

Does teaching your kids to read count? Actually, I assisted teaching my kids to read rather than actually teaching them myself. Given the opportunity, I would definitely do it though

45. Be one of the first to take a flight on the new Airbus A380.

If I ever decide to fly to Dubai from Manchester I will do this. Earlier this year I flew to Abu Dhabi rather than Dubai because that’s where our friends live. By the time I get to do it again I will not be “one of the first” sadly.

46. Spend a night in a haunted house -- by yourself.

If ghosts exist, I may have actually seen one (read about it here ). I still remain sceptical about the existence of ghosts despite the evidence. If I did see a ghost then I guess, I may actually have done this. However, I wasn’t alone in the house so I guess it doesn’t really count. I’m not sure that I would want to spend the night in a house that was haunted though because although I love horror stories I prefer to read them than experience them first hand. I might consider it if Mrs PM were with me – and a film crew. But the moment that Derek Acorah turned up I would simply punch him in the face for being a charlatan. In fact, that, might be a genuine item to add to a bucket list. Or better still, if ghosts really DO exist, I would come back and haunt Derek Acorah, who I am almost certain has never met or conversed with somebody who has passed over.

47. Write down your personal mission statement, follow it, and revise it from time to time.

I’m not one for mission statements; I find them irritating and full of utter crap. They are just a way for a company, for example, to lie about what they aim to achieve. Mission statements and business bullshit go hand in hand and to even consider doing that on a personal level fills me with anger and irritation. I think its fine for people to have ambitions but to write them down is a little over the top. I mean, I have ambitions but I am realistic enough to know that I may not achieve them. Writing them down won’t make a difference. I know what you are thinking, dear reader – “Wait a minute, you bloody hypocrite! You’ve posted your ambitions on this blog – isn’t that a mission statement of sorts?” I guess some people could see it that way but in reality I am just opening up and letting you know what I want to do. The difference between that and a mission statement is that with the latter I am telling myself and you that I WILL do it – I WILL succeed – I WILL prevail. In reality I probably won’t. It might work for some people – but not for me because at the end when you have failed in your quest, you feel worse. In fact, isn’t a Bucket List a bit like a mission statement in that regard?

48. See a lunar eclipse

I saw a lunar eclipse in Manchester a few years ago along with thousands of other Mancunians. It’s nice to have crossed this off the list.

49. Spend New Year's in an exotic location.

I will achieve that this year. Mrs PM and I are thinking of heading to the Canary Islands for New Year. In the past I have welcomed in the New Year in New York in Times Square, but it was hardly exotic (in that the temperature was -10 °C with a wind chill factor that lowered the temperature even further).

50. Get passionate about a cause and spend time helping it, instead of just thinking about it.

Sadly I haven’t really got the time to get involved with a just cause; life is too complicated at the moment. I am not ruling out the possibility of doing this in the future though. We’ll just have to see what happens.

51. Experience weightlessness.

If that involves leaving the Earth’s atmosphere, you can forget it. I know that it is possible to achieve this in an aircraft but it doesn’t really appeal to me that much.

52. Sing a great song in front of an audience.

Does karaoke count? And do ten people count as an audience? I vowed never to inflict my voice on the general public (though I have done accidentally in the past – read about ithere ) and was very reluctant to do so at a party in London. Sadly, I had had a couple of beers and “Smoke on the Water” was available for me to destroy – so I did. Actually, it didn’t go down that badly. I could never stand in front of a vast audience and sing though; the humiliation would be unbearable.

53. Ask someone you've only just met to go on a date.

I have always been too shy to do this and thankfully at the moment there is no need for me to ever consider doing this again.

54. Drive across America from coast to coast.

I have driven from coast to coast in Florida but I am guessing that the author means driving from the West Coast to the East Coast (for example Los Angeles to New York). I would definitely consider this if I won the lottery; on my round the world trip, when I reach San Francisco, I will hire a car and drive to New York. You heard it here first – and that is NOT a mission statement – I may change my mind.

55. Make a complete and utter fool of yourself.

I’ve been making a complete and utter fool of myself almost religiously for the past 40 or so years. And there is plenty of scope to do this in future too.

56. Own one very expensive but absolutely wonderful business suit.

Why? Why bother? Your normal everyday off the rack business suit is perfectly fine for most occasions. I guess, when Her Majesty decides to knight me for services to blogging I might consider it – but only if I have won the lottery and can afford to go to Saville Row and spend an obscene amount of cash on a pointless garment.

57. Write your will.

I’ve done that. It’s upstairs.

58. Sleep under the stars.

I did that in Portugal in 1984. We arrived in Vila Real de Santo António in Portugal to catch a ferry to Ayamonte in Spain. Sadly, we arrived at around 2am and the ferry had closed for the night. We had nowhere to stay so we found a small area with benches where we could sleep. I remember looking up at the stars as I tried to get comfortable and while it was not the best place to sleep, it was pleasant enough. I woke up at dawn (as I am a very light sleeper) leaving my travelling companions snoring away as curious locals walked past with a smile, and watched the sun rise over Spain across the Guadina river. Another item crossed off the list methinks.

59. Take a ride on the highest roller coaster in the country.

When I was younger, I used to love roller coasters. However, in 1989, I rode one in Los Angeles that destroyed my confidence. I was visibly shaking when I stumbled off it and I have only ever been on the odd one since. I will cheat a little here because I rode the biggest roller coaster at the time in England (before they built “The Big One” in Blackpool); it was at Alton Towers. A cheat, I suppose, but at the time it was a valid claim.

60. Learn how to complain effectively -- and do it!

Mrs PM and I went to Thailand a couple of years ago and flew with Air France. On the way back, we arrived totally jet-lagged in Paris at around 5am, hoping to get an easy connection to Manchester only to find that Air France pilots had gone on strike and our flight was cancelled. We managed to get a flight back at around 5pm which meant spending hours at Charles de Gaulle airport. We were so tired that we really didn’t want to go into Paris (we had been there a few time anyway). We arrived back in Manchester totally exhausted and our baggage was delayed, just to give us an extra kick in the teeth. I was livid. I immediately wrote an email to Air France, expressing my disgust and asked as my final question, what they were going to do about it “before I took it further”. I received a reply a few days later and Air France had offered us free flights worth a couple of hundred Euros. We used them to visit Boston in the US, the following year. I was delighted and proud that I had complained and will definitely do it again.

Once more, dear reader – have you managed to achieve any of the above items?

A Real Bucket List (Part Two)

noreply@blogger.com (The Plastic Mancunian) — Sun, 06 May 2012 15:51:00 +0000

In my last post, I gave you my thoughts on the first 20 items of a Bucket List (read it here).

Here are the next 20 items.

21. Be a member of the audience in a TV show.

I’m not really sure that I want to do this unless it is a genuinely good show. The older of my two sisters, Julie, has done this and she said that it was a dreadful experience. The show was a comedy light entertainment show and it kept stopping and starting over and over again. And it wasn’t actually funny at all; it was one of those dreadful Saturday night shows that I hate, so I could see why she didn’t like it. I think I might just ignore this one.

22. Put your name down to be a passenger on the first tourist shuttle to the moon.

No way. No chance. You have not got a hope in hell of getting me inside a metal shuttle that will be shot towards the moon at high velocity. If I were able to put aside the immense explosion that is necessary to combat Earth’s gravity as well as the intense heat, I would struggle to ignore the fact that in space, there is no air whatsoever – none at all. There is just too much scope for meeting Death sooner. I would actually love to see planet Earth from space but being blasted into space is something I am simply not prepared to do.

23. Send a message in a bottle.

If ever I get shipwrecked on a desert island, I will do this – providing that there is a bottle, some paper, something to write with and, of course, a lid for the bottle.

24. Ride a camel into the desert.

I saw a camel in the desert on the road between Abu Dhabi and Dubai earlier this year. If I get the chance to go back to the Middle East I might actually try to do this.

25. Get to know your neighbours.

I have always got to know my neighbours in every house I’ve lived in. To me it seems like a natural thing to do, particularly now, as I live in a terraced house. To be honest this is a strange item for a Bucket List – a bit like “talk to a person”. Obviously the person who wrote it lived in a cave in the middle of nowhere and getting to know his neighbours involved trekking for miles.

26. Plant a tree.

II have planted quite a few bits of foliage over the years, ranging from flowers to vegetables. At some point I must have planted a tree; I can say with certainty that Mrs PM has done this because she planted a cherry tree in our back garden a couple of years ago. I can take a little credit because although I didn’t do the deed, I was with her when she bought it and actually loaded it into the car. With a little bit of cheek, therefore, I can cross this one off the list, I feel.

27. Learn not to say yes when you really mean no.

I’m getting better at this. The problem is that I am quite a nice guy (I don’t want to blow my own trumpet too much) and sometimes I allow people to abuse my good nature. Furthermore, I have a tendency to exaggerate my own ability to complete a task, resulting in my agreeing to do things that I really shouldn’t do. As I get older, though, I am less inclined to please people for the sake of it and I am more aware of my limitations. I will probably manage this just two seconds before I shuffle off this mortal coil.

28. Write a fan letter to your all-time favourite hero or heroine.

I have been sorely tempted to do this since the advent of Twitter. In fact, I have tweeted Joe Satriani, complimenting him on his last album (within 140 characters of course). I also left a comment on the official Rush website quite a few years ago, when they were in a hiatus, urging them to come to Manchester when planning their next tour. The did and I went – but Geddy Lee didn’t say “It’s great to be back in Manchester and I’d like to thank Dave the Plastic Mancunian for asking us to play for you tonight”. I still reckon that my little comment helped in some small way, though.

29. Visit the Senate and the House of Representatives to see how Congress really works.

This is obviously written by an American and I have no desire to visit the Senate. I’ve been to Washington DC and seen the White House and the other government buildings – but that’s about as close to the machinations of American politics that I want to get to. What’s more, I have no desire to watch a debate in the Houses of Parliament in London either. I would end up screaming “You’re ALL just a bunch of egomaniacal liars” at all of them. I think this is a firm NO!

30. Learn to ballroom dance properly.

When I was 15 my Mum taught me to waltz so that I could go to a dance. I’m not sure why my parents wanted me to go to this dance because at the time I was totally and utterly disinterested in such things. She perhaps thought that it would be a good thing for the future. The truth is that I have only used this “skill” a couple of times in my life since then. That said, I did go to a couple of dance lessons with W, where I learned basic moves to a couple of other dances. Also Mrs PM and I had a couple of Salsa lessons and somehow managed to convince a few friends at a Christmas Party that we were pretty good dancers. We aren’t – we just blagged it. I guess I can cross this one off as well.

31. Eat jellied eels from a stall in London.

I have eaten an eel stew in China and it was one of the most disgusting concoctions I have ever tried. I ate about a fifth of it before giving up (I honestly thought I was going to throw up). So imagine how I would feel being asked to eat arguably the most disgusting foodstuff ever to come out of England. They only eat jellied eels in London as far as I know – and they can bloody well keep them down there. The look awful and I imagine that they taste worse. Another definite NO!!

32. Be the boss.

I have flirted with boss-hood on a few occasions and I didn’t feel comfortable with it. The worst thing was that it lifted me above the technical aspects of my job and that’s one of the only things that keeps me interested at work. I have also had a few run ins with “bosses” in the past as well and to have to deal with an arse like me from the other side is not something I would like to have to do on a daily basis. I would however, like to be my own boss – and one day that may happen. And then I can cross this one off the list.

33. Fall deeply in love -- helplessly and unconditionally.

Been there, done that, bought the T shirt – and am still there.

34. Ride the Trans-Siberian Express across Asia.

Now we’re talking. I would love to do this. I’ve been to Russia and China but this journey also takes in Mongolia. It might be on the list of things to do when I win that elusive lottery. A definite possibility.

35. Sit on a jury.

In the UK, if you are called for jury service then you have to do it, by law. I await the call with dread because it isn’t really something I want to do; rather it may be something I HAVE to do.

36. Write the novel you know you have inside you.

I’ve actually started a couple of novels but as any budding writer will tell you, this is a really difficult thing to achieve, particularly if you have a full time job and suffer from severe procrastination. I have been sorely tempted to have a go at the “Write a novel in a month” at National Novel Writing Month. The idea is that you write every day for the month of November. I need something to force me to do it and I think with a bit of discipline I might be able to get the bulk of a novel down in thirty days – as long as I don’t keep going back to edit it as I write. I’ll let you know in October whether I am going to have a go – as I do have at least five weird novel ideas buzzing around in my head.

37. Go to Walden Pond and read Thoreau while drifting in a canoe.

I had to look this up. Basically I think the idea is travel to Massachusets and read “Life In The Woods”, a book written by American Henry D. Thoreau whilst floating on Walden Pond. I imagine this is meant to be a spiritually uplifting experience. A possibility – I guess.

38. Stay out all night dancing and go to work the next day without having gone home (just once).

I did this in 1985. I had been working for about six months when a friend of mine from university popped over to Manchester for a job interview that he wasn’t really interested in. I arrived home from work and the two of us and a new work colleague I had recently become friends with, popped to the local pub for a beer or two. Before we knew it, we had met some girls and went back to their house for an impromptu party that lasted until the early hours of the morning. It was too late to go to bed, so we caught a taxi home, got changed and then went to work. I was absolutely shattered as the day wore on and ended up falling asleep in an isolated area of the building under the pretence of writing software. It was fun but I would never do it again.

39. Drink beer at Oktoberfest in Munich.

In 1983, four of us met up in Munich while travelling around Europe and spent two days at the Oktoberfest. It was an amazing atmosphere and yielded a couple of crazy experiences for me. It was my first experience of drinking from a beer stein, having a race to see who could drink the beer fastest ( a very big mistake) and the first time I had slept rough. The latter experience came about because there were no free rooms in the Youth Hostels of Munich. I was woken up by a German Officer who hauled me up with the words “AUF! AUF!” I was badly hung over and almost threw up. The second night we managed to find a room and this time took it easy, enjoying the friendliness of the locals and savouring the atmosphere and even chatting with them in pigeon German. A good experience all round.

40. Be someone's mentor.

I’ve been called on to be a mentor at work on a couple of occasions now and can sometimes be a rewarding experience – sometimes it can be a pain in the arse though.

Over to you, dear reader. How many of the above 20 items have you achieved?

A Real Bucket List (Part One)

noreply@blogger.com (The Plastic Mancunian) — Sat, 05 May 2012 11:39:00 +0000

In my last post, I invented my own Bucket List with the help of my good friend Mr Google (read about it here ).

While I was researching that post, I encountered a few “real” bucket lists and began to consider whether I had managed to achieve any of the items on such lists.

And I was quite surprised.

I have picked one at random, listing 100 things to do before you die. Most of it is bollocks but it did tweak my interest enough to inflict yet more random thoughts on you, dear reader. I shall do this over the next few posts, because the list is just too big.

Without further ado, here are the first 20 items on the list:

( (1) Attend at least one major sporting event: the Super Bowl, the Olympics, the U.S. Open.

I have attended quite a few sporting events in my life, some of which have been “major”, others that have been minor but far more significant to me – for example seeing my beloved Walsall beat Manchester United in the F.A. Cup in 1973. I have seen many football matches, involving massive English clubs like Manchester United, Liverpool, Arsenal, Tottenham, Everton, Manchester City and many others. As well as that I have seen Australia kick Great Britain’s arse at Rugby League and watched England play Australia and most other nations at cricket. I’ve also seen the England football team play a few times too as well as watching Germany v Italy in Euro 96. I think I can safely cross this one off the list.

(2) Throw a huge party and invite every one of your friends.

W, my ex-wife, threw a surprise 30^th birthday party for me but didn’t manage to invite every one of my friends. I also married W, of course, and most of my friends were there too. I can’t say that I can cross this one off the list, though, because not every one of my friends attended either event. In fact, I’m not sure that I want to do this as I am not comfortable being the centre of attention; so I’m not going to attempt this one.

(3) Swim with a dolphin

I have a friend who has done this and to be honest it might be worth trying if I get the chance.

(4) Skydive

Regular readers will know that I am terrified of heights; in fact, I would probably expire the moment somebody threw me out of the plane. This is a definite NO!

(5) Have your portrait painted

Through the miracle of technology, I can paint my own portrait (well – doctor a photo anyway). How about this?

(6) Learn to speak a foreign language and then use it.

I can speak Australian and American fluently. I can speak French well enough to order food and ask for directions and have a very basic conversation. I can speak German and Spanish well enough to ask for very basic things. I can speak very basic Latin so I could in theory ask a Roman where the forum was if I were to travel back in time. I can order beer and say “Thank You” and “Hello” in Dutch, Mandarin, Cantonese and Russian. I can cross this one off the list too, methinks.

(7) Go skinny-dipping at midnight in the South of France

I will almost certainly visit the South of France again in my lifetime but I do not want to inflict my naked body on the French – or anybody else for that matter. The cats are still in a state of constant fear that I will choose to walk around the house naked. I think I will give this one a miss.

(8) Watch the launch of the space shuttle

I’ve seen the space shuttle at the Kennedy Space Center and witnessed everything involved in propelling it into space. I guess that doesn’t count in terms of achieving this particular bucket list item. Instead I will say that I have experienced it vicariously, thanks to this song by Rush:

(9) Spend a whole day eating junk food without feeling guilty

When I was a poor student I had very little money and often ended up eating crap from places like McDonalds and KFC. I don’t do it now, thankfully. Another one crossed off.

(10) Be an extra in a film

As a child I wanted to be an actor and part of me still does.. Being an extra would be the next best thing and, to be honest, this is something that, perhaps I could do with a little bit of effort. Also, it would give a Hollywood megastar the chance to meet the Plastic Mancunian. Lucky them.

(11) Tell someone the story of your life sparing no details

About six months ago, I started thinking about what life was like when my grandparents were kids and it got me thinking about future generations. With that in mind I actually started writing an autobiography of sorts called “Insignificant Memoirs”. Bizarrely I have plugged away at it bit by bit and there are a few chapters now. I think it might be very interesting for my lads and any further offspring to read in years to come – if I can keep it up that is. And it will be “warts and all” too.

(12) Make love on a forest floor

I am scared of most creatures that have more than four legs. The prospect of getting in any state of undress near to the homes of spiders and flies fills me with revulsion. I know there are people out there who want to be “at one with nature” but to me, the thought of a spider getting involved, even as a spectator, would make me unable to concentrate on the task at hand. This is therefore a big NO!

(13) Make love on a train

Again, risking any member of the public seeing me half undressed and fumbling around on a train has no appeal whatsoever. Another big NO!

(14) Learn to rollerblade

I can ice skate a little bit. When I say “ice skate” I mean I can whizz around an ice rink in a state of perpetual peril praying to any higher power that is listening that I don’t fall over and brain myself on the ice. I have rollerskated in the past and that is so much more difficult; I was covered in bruises. Yet another NO – unless I can sneakily persuade you that ice skating somehow counts.

(15) Own a room with a view

When I worked in Hong Kong for three months, I stayed in a hotel that overlooked the fantastic skyline and every morning I had a magnificent view of Hong Kong in all of its glory. Sadly, it cost an arm and a leg (which the company of course paid for). Unless I win the lottery, I will have to content myself with watching cars drive up my street.

(16) Brew your own beer

When I got married, my work colleagues had a whip round and bought me a home brewing kit. It gathered dust in the garage for around six years before I finally got rid of it. I love beer but having tasted other people’s home brew, I prefer to leave this particular task to the professionals. That said, when I retire, I might have a go – just to pass the time of course.

(17) Learn how to take a compliment

I love compliments, particularly from women. In my youth, I used to think that if a woman complimented me, all she really wanted to was drag me upstairs and ravage me. Sadly, this was never the case and I made a complete arse of myself on several occasions. Nowadays, of course, I know different and I love being complimented by women on those rare occasions when it happens. I guess this means that I can take a compliment.

(18) Buy a round the world air ticket and a rucksack and run away

This is my dream – and hopefully it will happen. The only thing I would change is the rucksack – I prefer a suitcase.

(19) Grow a beard and leave it for at least a month

This is a tricky one, if you are a woman. I have actually grown a beard so technically I have crossed this item off the list. However, I hated having a beard and it was extremely embarrassing to have one. You can read about it here. And before you ask, there are NO pictures to prove that I had a beard. I wouldn’t want to inflict yet more trauma on myself.

(20) Give your mother a dozen red roses and tell her you love her

I have given my mother flowers in the past and told her that I love her. They weren’t roses but I won’t tell if you won’t.

Over to you, dear reader. How may of the above 20 items have you achieved?

The Alternative Bucket List

noreply@blogger.com (The Plastic Mancunian) — Fri, 04 May 2012 07:39:00 +0000

I’ve often wondered why people have a Bucket List, i.e. a list of things that you must do before you “kick the bucket”.

Personally, I’ve never been interested in making such a list; all I want to do is get lots of money, travel the world, then grow old and start annoying people by ranting incessantly.

Actually, it would be nice to have a fun bucket list rather than doing the things that most people want to do.

With that in mind, here is an alternative bucket list based on a little bit of a conversation with Mr Google and elements of my own sordid imagination. Some of the items below are stolen – others are from my own weird mind.

(1) Change your name to something utterly ridiculous like “Dirk Prawn” or “Mitt Macaroni” or (and this is bad) “Plastic Mancunian”.

(2) Get revenge on all of those Jehovah’s Witnesses who called at your house, by dressing up as the Pope and then calling at THEIR houses and trying to convert them to Roman Catholicism. (NOTE - I have to say I actually enjoy chatting to Jehovah’s Witnesses on my doorstep, just to see how far they will go to convince me that I should convert to their cause).

(3) Write an entire album of songs that are utter garbage and then record it using your own voice as each individual band instrument. Call the album something that is inspired by the most cringeworthy of pseudo-intellectual arty-fartiness (for example “Philiosophical Pornography”) and make each song about Simon Cowell (for example “Cowell is my Cyberman”). Finally, send the album to Simon Cowell himself in a big box weighed down with bricks and with no postage. Call yourself a strange name like “The Artist Formerly Known As Pfftt!”.

(4) Walk into a pub and find the oldest person of the opposite sex – and then ask that person to marry you.

(5) Write an autobiography that is full of utter lies, taking credit for most of the historical events within your lifetime. Who knows? Somebody might find it in 300 years’ time and think that some geezer called “Plastic Mancunian” was the Prince of Wales.

(6) Act exactly like you did when you went through puberty; march into work and scream “nobody understands me” or “everybody hates me”; dress in ridiculous fashion like baggy-arsed jeans and start talking in a weird form of English while making stupid hand signals and rapping.

(7) Go to a musical that you hate and stand up in the main song and start singing “The Ace of Spades” by Motorhead at the top of your voice.

(8) Dress up as Darth Vader and walk around stopping random people and ask them if their name is Luke. Alternatively, dress up King Leonidas and stop random people shouting “THIS IS SPARTA!!!”.

(9) Dress up as a vampire and go night clubbing. Ask every member of the opposite sex what blood type they are and if anyone tells you, shake your head with the words “Shame! I only drink type O”

(10) Get into a lift at the bottom of a very tall building, wait until it is full, and then press every button before running out. Run up the stairs and meet the lift on each floor, shouting “BOO!” when the doors open.

(11) Gate-crash a fashion show, and walk down the catwalk dressed in your most unfashionable clothes.

(12) Ask somebody really famous to marry you.

(13) Wait until the next general election and print thousands of flyers promoting yourself as a candidate for a ridiculous party, like the Chimpanzee Democrat Party (dressing up as a chimp for the picture of course).

(14) Sell yourself on eBay.

(15) Go to a Star Trek convention dressed as Dr Who and start complaining to anybody who will listen to you that Star Trek is mad fiction.

(16)Dress up in suit of armour and attempt to check in on a flight.

(17) Give random members of the opposite sex your phone number and say “Call me” while looking seductive.

(18) Dress up as Batman or Spiderman and fly to another country.

(19) Buy a parrot and teach it to say “Help! I’ve been turned into a parrot!”

(20) Run into the middle of a crowd, wearing totally dishevelled clothing, and ask what year it is. When somebody answers, scream “IT WORKED!!!” and run away.

Actually, in the course of my research for this post, I came across quite a few real bucket lists. So over the next week or so – until my holiday to Spain – I will run through one such list and let you know what I think.

Bet you can’t wait.

In the meantime, it’s probably wise not to try any of the above items – unless you are a little weird. But if you do, let me know and I will watch from afar, armed with a camera and a video camera.

Evolution Of A Metalhead

noreply@blogger.com (The Plastic Mancunian) — Thu, 26 Apr 2012 19:48:00 +0000

I’ve been watching a great program on TV that chronicles the evolution of what is known as Heavy Metal music.

It got me thinking (always a dangerous thing).

Why do I like hard rock and heavy metal music?

Well I guess it all started when I was a rebellious teenager, driven by raging hormones, with no direction and desire to lash out at people whether they deserved it or no. I wasn’t openly angry, reacting only when provoked; sadly, it was very easy to provoke me. I had a very short fuse.

At the time, my schoolmates were exploring Black Sabbath, Deep Purple, AC/DC and other similar bands. Punk rock was around but I wasn’t really exposed it that much because hard rock and heavy metal were prevalent in my school.

People used to lend me albums by Rainbow, Ian Gillan, UFO, Nazareth and Judas Priest; it was magnificent. I found an outlet for my anger. When I listened to grinding guitars, screeching vocals and pounding drums I was mesmerised and completely enthralled.

I will never forget the day when I bought my first rock album, Strangers In The Night by UFO, and put it on in my room at high volume. My dad and I had a row that day over the music and he threatened to break the LP in two if I didn’t turn down the volume.

My hair was long and bushy and I was not alone. At school, hair length was increasing despite the teachers’ attempts to force us to shorten it. One teacher called me “the boy with the chrysanthemum head” in an attempt to shame me into cutting it.

It worked – well sort of.

I reduced the length of it, but rebelled by keeping it bushy.

At school we had to wear a uniform, yet I managed to show our loyalty to the gods of rock with a scruffy beige rucksack upon which the logos of all my favourite bands was etched. I wasn’t talented enough to draw them so I asked my younger sister Jackie, who was a maestro when it came to art.

She drew the logos of Whitesnake, Deep Purple, Judas Priest, UFO, Nazareth, Black Sabbath and many others, even though she hated the bands herself.

Outside school I started wearing black shirts, T shirts and denim jackets. When I was seventeen I went on holiday with my family to Butlins and spent the time on my own walking around with no desire to fit into the family lifestyle. I may as well have gone on holiday on my own. Here is a rare photo from that holiday, when my dad finally demanded proof that I had actually been with them.

Yes - that really is me aged 17. What do you think of the hair?

Of course, I mellowed slightly as I matured, yet my love of heavy metal and rock prevailed. The bands changed (I discovered progressive rock in the form of Rush, a band that is still my favourite today).

As I went to university, I began to drift away from rock slightly. My mates said that I would grow out it – and for a while they were right. While I enjoyed pop music, I still found it dull and as the 1980’s wore on, it became clear to me that music, in my opinion was too simple. I began to favour the bands of my youth, the progressive rock bands that composed rock symphonies, the powerful hard and heavy thumping sound of pure heavy metal at its very best.

I welcomed it back into my life with open arms – and I have never looked back since. And to me, my evolution into a metalhead is complete, simply because now I appreciate the music for what it is – skilful and beautiful.

I no longer needed to be the rebel I was when I was fifteen. I didn’t want to break my skull on a wall to the pounding heaviness of “Sabbath Bloody Sabbath”; it was more an appreciation of how beautiful and powerful the genre can be.

And since then, my taste is more refined and the style I listen to most is progressive rock and progressive metal. I love listening to Dream Theater, a band who compose rock music with such virtuosity that it literally brings tears to my eyes, and Porcupine Tree, another fabulously talented band.

Old favourites are still there; Deep Purple, Rush and Judas Priest as well as new rock bands like the Black Spiders.

I marvel at the ability of guitarists like Alex Lifeson, Tony Iommi, John Petrucci, Joe Satriani, Ritchie Blackmore, Angus Young, Kirk Hammett, KK Downing and many more. The vocal range and talents of singers like Ian Gillan and Geddy Lee are incredible. The incredible majesty of drummers like Cozy Powell, Ian Paice, Mike Portnoy and Neil Peart are a joy to behold.

And I am so enthusiastic about these people and the music they compose that I find it hard to contain myself when talking to people about them.

Mrs PM and I have had numerous discussions about the glory of rock and heavy metal and she simply can’t understand why I rave about a Joe Satriani guitar solo or a Dream Theater masterpiece.

I know I’m not alone because I have friends who are enthusiastic as I am. And my eldest lad Stephen also appreciates how wonderful metal can be, though his taste is slightly more modern than mine.

I’ll leave you with a monster of a song from Judas Priest from the 1980’s which sums up why I love heavy metal so much. Incredibly I find songs like this blast away the anger and frustration I feel after an awful day at work – even now.

You won’t get Coldplay playing like this:

P.S. I am currently compiling a list of rock and metal classics to make up a blogathon, similar to the one I did in January that embraced the pop songs I love. I can sense already, dear reader, that this might not sit too well with some of you – but I hope when the time comes you will stick with it. It may even make those who think that metalheads are braindead Satanists think again. If you listen to the actual talent these guys have – you will be pleasantly surprised.

I hope.

Ode To A Gadget

noreply@blogger.com (The Plastic Mancunian) — Fri, 20 Apr 2012 07:54:00 +0000

The other week tragedy struck.

My mp3 player, my beloved iRiver ihP-140 mp3 jukebox, containing my entire CD collection shuffled off this mortal coil and made its way to silicon heaven, taking all of my music with it.

This was a double tragedy because it meant that I had to listen to the inane drivel of Radio DJ’s to and from work and then had to decide on a replacement, and knowing how utterly indecisive I am, this was a major problem.

My iRiver mp3 jukebox was my favourite gadget, surpassed only recently my android smartphone.

My work colleagues constantly hurled abuse at me for owning, what they called, a giant brick that played music.

But I defended it, dear reader, because it gave me hours of pleasure, listening to my favourite music over and over again.

With a 40 gigabyte hard drive, it held thousands of songs, all organised in folders by genre, artist and album and with a couple of clicks I could find any song in my collection or play all of my songs in random order for hours on end.

We were one together, dear reader.

And then tragedy struck.

I was walking to my car, carrying my rucksack and mp3 player, trying to get my car keys out of my pocket, when the iRiver decided to make a bid for freedom. It was catapulted out of my hand and slowly rotated into the air before succumbing to the force of gravity and plummeting towards the ground.

It was like slow motion, dear reader. As it fell, I screamed

“NNNNOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!”

And then it crashed to earth and lay silent and still.

I picked it up, jumped in the car and pressed the ON button. At first, everything seemed to be fine until two things happened. First, the display told me that there were NO SONGS on the device. Second, the hard disk within started grinding and cranking – and then it died, there in my hand.

“NNNNOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!” I screamed.

And as I drove to work listening to the wittering DJ’s all I did was cry “PHARK!!” over and over again, like a demented gargoyle.

My work colleagues had no sympathy.

“I thought I felt an earth tremor – must have been when you dropped your brick.”

“Why don’t you take it to the Science Museum? It will be the star attraction.”

“HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA”

I’ve written an ode to my beloved gadget. Coincidentally, it scans almost exactly with a little ditty written by the Beatles, called “Yesterday”. Here it is:

Yesterday,

I had 7000 songs to play.

Now it looks as though they’ve gone away

Oh, I believe in yesterday

Suddenly,

My mp3 player became slippery

and fell to the ground so tragically

Oh, death, it came so suddenly

Why the hard disk froze

I don’t know,

It wouldn’t play

Not a single song,

Now I long for yesterday ay ay ay

Yesterday,

Heavy metal songs were there to play

Now I sit in silence, cast away

Oh, I believe in yesterday

Mm mm mm mm mm mm mm.

Thankfully, I now have a replacement. Mrs PM kindly lent me her spare iPod shuffle, which she won at work, so the vacuum created by the death of my iRiver was filled. I thank her and the iPod shuffle for that.

Now though, I have something MUCH BETTER – an iPod classic with (wait for it) a capacity of 160 gigabytes.

And it can accommodate everything my iRiver could – AND three times more.

So I am over the worst.

I can listen to music without fear of screaming “SHUT THE PHARK UP!” to DJ’s.

Farewell, dear iRiver. I shall cherish you. I hope the other gadgets in silicon heaven are enjoying my Rammstein and Rush songs.

I will move on.

Long Live My iPOD!!!

The Old Washer Man

noreply@blogger.com (The Plastic Mancunian) — Wed, 18 Apr 2012 18:57:00 +0000

Today I want to talk about something I hate. I guess most people who read this post will agree with me.

I’m talking about washing clothes and all the pain that involves.

As an equal partner in a relationship, I am keen not to inflict the pain of washing on Mrs PM, although if she were to volunteer to take on the responsibility of all aspects of keeping our clothes clean, I would gladly hand it over and make her sign her name in blood to ensure that I never have to do it again.

Alas, that is not to be and on a regular basis I am called upon to attack this tedious task with fake enthusiasm.

Some male readers will have no clue what I am talking about.

One guy I used to know claimed that the laundry basket was a miracle of modern science.

“Why?” asked a particularly ferocious woman who worked with us.

“Every day I put my dirty clothes in the laundry basket and, hey presto, a few days later they are magically transformed ; I open my wardrobe and there they are, lovely and clean and pressed.”

I thought the woman was going to explode in rage.

Each stage of washing clothes is a pain in the arse, to put it bluntly; even something as mundane as putting them in the washing machine.

When I first started washing my clothes as a student, I had many mishaps, like the brand new jeans I bought that turned my best white shirt into various shades of blue. I wouldn’t have minded but it wasn’t a uniform distribution of colour; my crisp white shirt had huge blotches of blue of varying intensity making it impossible to wear without looking like a mad goon.

And this has happened repeatedly.

On another occasion, a rogue red sock somehow found its way into a basket full of white clothes and rampaged through them in the washing machine, freely distributing its red colour randomly amongst the perfect white cloth. When I opened the washing machine it looked like all of my whites had been murdered in a horrific bloodbath.

All of this means that I have to painstakingly sort all of the clothes out into piles to make sure that nothing is ruined by murderous colours.

And that brings me to the next point – sorting through shreddies. This is not a pleasant experience even when the shreddies are your own. Underwear is nasty – but my dirty socks are dangerous creatures that need to be handled with care.

The biological suit I had to buy cost me a fortune.

When the washing machine has done its job, unloading it is a pain. The washing machine can mutate your clothes. I’ve already mentioned inadvertently dying your best whites – but sometimes the machine has another couple of surprises. A slight error can cause your clothes to shrink to the point where they are too small for a cat, or to grow so that the only creature they would fit is a deformed troll. Again, washing machines tend to favour new and expensive clothes for this unscheduled punishment.

Living in the UK makes drying clothes difficult because you never know when it will rain. In the summer you can hang out the washing and then the next minute, a thunderstorm will appear and completely soak you newly washed laundry with dirty rain.

If it doesn’t rain, Mother Nature has other ways of ruining your efforts; birds can still crap all over your nice clean shirt, or, if you haven’t pegged up the washing properly, your beautiful clean clothes can end up in the dirt, or resting on a nice fresh pile of cat shit.

And the final operation is ironing, something that I hate with a passion. In the past, I have burned shirts and burned myself. Ironing is a punishment that I am convinced Satan will impose upon me if I end up meeting him in the afterlife.

“You are sentenced to iron my shreddies for the rest of eternity!”

“NOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!”

Anyway, I’d like to finish on a lighter note as I am sure that I have invoked horrific laundry related episodes in your life. I apologise for that, dear reader.

Back in 1976, a song entered the UK charts that was so dreadful it was hilarious. I am convinced to this day it was totally tongue in cheek.

It has the greatest laundry lyrics in the world ever:

She was sharing her spin dryer with a guy in a tie-dye

When she saw my reflection in the chrome

I knew that she'd seen me 'cause she dropped her bikini

The one that I got her in Rome.

Little does she know that I know that she knows

That I know she's two-timin' me

Little does she know that I know that she knows

That I know she's cheatin' on me

When she finished her laundry she was all in a quandary

And made for the street like a hare

Her escape was so urgent, she forgot her detergent

And dropped all her clean underwear

The song is called “Little Does She Know” by the Kursaal Flyers.

There is something the singer can console himself with – at least his two-timing girlfriend did her own laundry.

In Search Of Brownie Points

noreply@blogger.com (The Plastic Mancunian) — Wed, 11 Apr 2012 19:45:00 +0000

The other week, I was shopping in the supermarket and spotted a load of Cadbury’s Cream Eggs. I know how much Mrs PM likes them, so I treated her (and me) to a box of six.

She was delighted and over the next few days we enjoyed a cream egg in the evening.

Last night, I was chatting to my kids and Mrs PM over a meal, when I made a joke about her. The kids laughed but Mrs PM glared.

“You’ve just lost loads of Brownie Points,” she warned.

“It doesn’t matter; I have loads of them,” I said triumphantly. “Those Cream Eggs I bought last week must have earned me thousands.”

“You mean the six Cream Eggs of which you stole three?” said Mrs PM. “That earned you three Brownie Points”.

“THREE?” I said incredulously. “THREE???? I won’t bother next time; THREE??? It’s hardly worth the effort.”

I realised then, as my lads sniggered, that I had lost the battle and approximately four and half million further Brownie Points.

And it has started me thinking – what exactly ARE Brownie Points? How do you acquire them? And once you have them, how do you make sure that you keep them?

What are Brownie Points?

I don’t actually know. All I do know is that they are a representation of my position in the scale of Mrs PM’s feelings, providing an indication of whether I am in her good books or her bad books. Here is a graph to represent how I see Brownie Points plotted against Pain:

The more Brownie Points you have, the less Pain you experience.

As you can tell, I cannot show the actual number of Brownie Points required to produce zero pain. And of course, I haven’t factored in Mrs PM.

For all I know the graph could look like this:

In fact, it probably does.

So how do you acquire these so-called Brownie Points?

Using my male mind, I have always assumed that if you do something good, your Brownie Point account automatically has a few thousand deposited into it. There is, however, a factor I have discovered that affects this. It is called the Female Factor. And what’s worse, it varies from female to female.

I stupidly assumed that because Mrs PM loves Cream Eggs that I would be in credit for days if not weeks. But I wasn’t – and all it took to annihilate the contents of my account were a few ill-chosen words that caused my lads to laugh at her in a restaurant full of people.

I have another example. A mate of mine spent the entire day laying laminate flooring in his house while she was at work. When she returned, he had finished and was taking a well-deserved rest with a beer and a sandwich, watching the football on TV.

Her first words weren’t “Wow – good job.”

They were: “Why haven’t you started dinner? And why haven’t you washed up? This house is a tip!”

If he had spent one hour, cleaning the kitchen, washing up and preparing dinner he would have acquired more Brownie Points than he did spending five hours laying down a floor.

That doesn’t make sense to me.

If I am watching football and Mrs PM returns home from shopping, if I leap up and make a cup of tea for her and then boast about loading the dishwasher, hoovering and feeding the cats, I gain more points than if I had driven to the Trafford Centre and bought something we needed.

Why? Because I completed three jobs with a fourth in progress rather than just the one job.

Does that make sense to any male readers?

It might make sense to female readers but it really doesn’t make sense to me at all.

Once you have performed lots of little tasks and amassed a fortune in Brownie Points, how do you keep them?

This is perhaps the trickiest question of all. I have learned a few tricks but I am no expert; I am a mere apprentice learning from past mistakes.

Here’s how you keep them:

Keep your account topped up with complements. Notice when she has had her hair cut and tell her that she looks fabulous. Do not go shopping with her, but when she returns showing off her new clothes, take interest and let her know how fabulous her choices are. Make her a cup of tea out of the blue. Be romantic.

But the most important thing is – ever underestimate the cost in Brownie Points for the bad things that you do.

And be aware that you will not know which things are good and which things are bad.

For example, a football match costs a lot more Brownie Points than you can imagine. If you have enough Brownie Points to pay for a night out with the lads, the cost goes up exponentially if:

You come home absolutely leathered.

You remark on a good looking woman you saw.

You wake her up.

You say you are going to come home at 10 o’clock and roll in at midnight.

You do not answer the phone or reply to any texts she has sent.

You hangover is so bad that you can’t do anything the next day.

Conclusion

Understanding Brownie Points is like learning to read and write Chinese; a skill that is difficult to master and demands as much attention as you are willing to give it.

In the end, the rewards are incredible but men ever reach the pinnacle and amass enough Brownie Points to achieve these rewards.

By the way, does anybody know Chinese for “You look lovely today, dearest?”

Wind Of Change

noreply@blogger.com (The Plastic Mancunian) — Sun, 08 Apr 2012 10:19:00 +0000

One of the things that foreigners say about British people is that we are obsessed with the weather.

And do you know what? I think they are right.

There is a reason for this obsession – our weather in the British Isles is so crap, so unpredictable, so utterly irritating that it does make a good topic for conversation.

Take the last couple of weeks for example.

Two weeks ago we had unseasonably high temperatures in March; in fact it was the hottest March on record. We were basking in temperatures of 24°C. People throughout the United Kingdom were out in shorts and thoroughly enjoying the warm temperature.

Mrs PM and I walked into Didsbury and sat outside at a local café eating a nice early evening meal with a pint of fine ale; it had a definite continental feel to it. People were walking past in T-shirts and shorts, remarking that we were perhaps, for once, in for a great summer. Sunglasses were ubiquitous and I even heard people talking about using sun block for their kids.

In a little place called Aboyne in the northern reaches of Scotland, they too were enjoying the highest temperatures they had experienced in March.

Fast forward a few days and everything changed.

The temperatures plummeted. In Manchester, having enjoyed 24°C, we suddenly found ourselves waking up to frozen cars and days were the temperature barely scraped 4°C. A huge cloud, weighed down with snow, drifted south depositing several inches over the United Kingdom. The Pennine roads were blocked and impassable; a friend of mine who commutes from Halifax, found himself snowed in.

Aboyne, that pleasant little village in Aberdeenshire that had been basking in the sunshine, now found itself covered in six inches of snow.

And all of this happened in a few days.

Is it any surprise that we are so utterly obsessed with the weather?

The weather forecast is mandatory viewing for most Brits simply because we have no idea what on earth Mother Nature is going to dump on us.

I have in the past seen all four seasons in one day. One June many years ago, I woke up and saw that it was snowing – yes that is correct – snowing in the summer. By midday the snow had turned to rain and in the afternoon we had glorious sunshine.

The weather is that mad.

Nevertheless, we never get extremes. A comedian remarked on TV recently that our weather is rarely so extreme that it is dangerous.

We have had a hurricane – and the weather forecasters failed to predict that – so it caused havoc in the South of England. But that is a very rare event. We don't get cyclones or tornadoes.

We have had a fair temperature range though. The highest recorded temperature in the UK is 38.5 °C with the lowest being -26.1°C.

In my own personal experience, the highest temperature I have encountered in the UK was 35 °C and the lowest about -15 °C.

Of course, outside the UK I have experienced more extremes. The highest temperature I have had to endure was during August in Las Vegas, when the temperature soared to a massive 45°C. I remember the pain involved with that. Walking outside was agonizing and we hotel-hopped down the famous Las Vegas Strip, just so that we could avoid as much of the sun as possible. At one point, Mrs PM and I were waiting for a bus and wilting so much that we just dived into a cab.

Compare that with the lowest temperature I have had to endure; -20 °C in Moscow in Winter. I wore two pairs of socks and a coat that was so big that I looked like the Michelin man. It was so bad that my nose was running and the liquid snot was freezing as soon as it cleared the sanctuary of my nostrils.

And I lost my woolly hat and gloves, thankfully the day before I left. I thought my nose was going to drop off.

We rarely get such extremes in the UK and I am thankful for that. Yes, we have to put up with bizarre weather, damp weather, cloudy dull days, foggy mornings, snow, and rainy summers.

It will be amusing to discover what the British weather has in store for us when the Olympics come to London later this year.

But on those days in late spring, summer and early autumn, when the weather decides to become seasonal and stable and the sun shines on our lovely countryside, with blue skies and big fluffy white clouds, I realise why I love being in Britain.

I still take a coat and an umbrella with me though – because you never know.

I Think I'm Paranoid

noreply@blogger.com (The Plastic Mancunian) — Sun, 01 Apr 2012 12:32:00 +0000

Research can be a dangerous thing.

Being a hypochondriac, I should know better; I choose not to use the internet to research symptoms of illnesses because if I do, I convince myself that I am terminally ill, even though I only have a mild headache (read about my past exploits here).

I should apply the same rules to travel research.

If you read my last post you will already know that I had a jaunt to Abu Dhabi recently, with a day trip to Dubai to scale the world’s tallest building (read about it here) but the lead up to the trip was a nightmare – because of research I had done on the internet.

Mrs PM suggested the trip because her friend who lives there was about to turn 40.

My first reaction was positive; not only had I never travelled to the United Arab Emirates, I had never travelled to the Middle East at all. For an explorer like myself it seemed like an opportunity not to be missed.

So I said “Yes” with no hesitation.

And then I made a mistake. I did some research.

And Captain Paranoia was sitting on my shoulder as I surfed the world wide web, laughing his tiny little socks off.

As he read the words on the computer screen, he must have thought all of his birthdays had come at once. My initial euphoria evaporated as the words sank in. It was like an enormous bubble had burst. My enthusiasm vanished.

Captain Paranoia was merciless.

Here’s what I read:

Possession of illegal drugs can result in a minimum four year jail sentence. Some over the counter drugs are illegal in the UAE.

Captain Paranoia suggested that if the customs officers found paracetamol in my luggage I would be jailed.

Videos, books and CD’s may be censored in the UAE.

Captain Paranoia suggested that my mp3 player was full of songs so offensive that I would be arrested on sight.

While you can drink in the UAE, you may find that a taxi driver will take you directly to the police station if you are drunk, where you will be thrown in jail.

Captain Paranoia suggested that I might be arrested even if I have a small glass of beer.

It is illegal to live together in the UAE if you are unmarried. It is illegal to have sex outside marriage and even for an unmarried couple to be in a car together. People have been arrested and thrown in jail for this.

Captain Paranoia pointed out that Mrs PM and I are not married and that a hit squad of Emerati police would break down our door while we were asleep, drag us off to jail and then I would have my genitalia hacked off with a rusty sword.

You can be arrested for kissing in public or even holding hands.

Mrs PM is affectionate and often puts her arm around me or pecks me on the cheek in public. Captain Paranoia suggested that I would last approximately three minutes in public before the police dragged me off to jail for acts of gross indecency.

For days, Captain Paranoia persecuted me. I had nightmares about being interrogated in an Emerati police cell for being offensive, drunk or merely being in a relationship outside wedlock. I sheepishly approached Mrs PM and told her that I had changed my mind about going.

“You must be joking,” she said. “I’ve been to places like this before and if you behave yourself and are discrete there is nothing to worry about.”

In the end, she contacted Abbi, her friend in Abu Dhabi, and listed all of my concerns. I wasn’t party to the exchange of emails and missives that occurred but Mrs PM told me in no uncertain terms that while there were stricter rules in place in the UAE, as long as you conducted yourself well, respected the local culture and didn’t do anything stupid like get smashed and urinate against the wall of a mosque, you would be absolutely fine.

And, of course, she was absolutely right.

Just before our trip, we had a meal with a friend who had divorced but then subsequently had suffered the loss of her ex-husband. She kindly offered her old wedding ring to Mrs PM so that we could pretend to be married – just to put my mind at rest.

I felt quite bad about this, but our friend just laughed and said that it was really no bother.

So we travelled to Abu Dhabi.

Captain Paranoia was with me all the time. On the flight he said “If you drink on the flight, you will be arrested at the airport.”

Of course, we weren’t arrested at all. In fact, we sailed through immigration and customs with barely a passing glimpse from the authorities.

Furthermore, when we arrived at the airport, Abbi was waiting for us and gave me a massive hug and a kiss on the cheek.

If anybody was offended, they didn’t show it.

When we arrived at Abbi’s house, Abbi and her husband Adam actually thought we had got married when Mrs PM showed the ring off – and it led to a very embarrassing discussion about getting married and me making an honest woman of Mrs PM.

Of course, Abu Dhabi and Dubai were fabulous. I loved it. I will tell you more detail about that soon.

We had no issues whatsoever.

The key was to respect the local customs and that’s exactly what we did. The Emerati we met were friendly and, although the local culture is more conservative than what we are used to in Europe, it didn’t seem anywhere near as oppressive as Captain Paranoia and the selected items I had read on the internet had led me to believe.

That said, Mrs PM and I didn’t hug and kiss each other in public, we had a few beers but were not drunk enough to offend, we respected the local Islamic culture and dressed accordingly – and we thoroughly enjoyed ourselves.

And yes, I will go back again.

The moral of this tale is to be aware of the local laws and customs of a country you visit and don’t be offensive.

You would have thought that I would have learned that by now anyway, having travelled to lots of countries in the world, including places like China and Russia.

I definitely must not take everything I read on the internet literally.

And even more importantly, I must stop listening to Captain Paranoia.

Hey Stoopid

noreply@blogger.com (The Plastic Mancunian) — Mon, 26 Mar 2012 16:12:00 +0000

I am an idiot, a stupid blithering idiot who never ever learns from his mistakes.

Why am I being so hard on myself?

I’ve just been away for a few days to visit friends in Abu Dhabi, the friends who owned Liquorice, our hellcat, before we did. And before you ask, the hellcat is, for once, not the subject of this post. I’ll tell you about the trip in a future post, but for now I have to focus on one particular aspect of it that highlights how stupid I am.

Before the trip, Mrs PM asked me a question.

“Do you want to go to up the Burj Khalifa?”

“The what?” I asked.

“The Burj Khalifa – the world’s biggest building. You know, the one that Tom Cruise climbs in Mission Impossible: Ghost Protocol.”

Regular readers will know where this is going. For new readers, you need to know a fact about me; I am scared of heights. In fact, I am so scared that I can’t even look up at a tall building without suffering a bout of knee-trembling dizziness, sheer panic and breathless nausea; a sort of inverse vertigo, if you like.

In 2005, Mrs PM persuaded me to climb the Sydney Harbour Bridge. I should never have done that. I am an idiot. Here is proof:

Mrs PM thoroughly enjoyed herself and the look of serenity on her face is genuine, whereas for me the calm look of serenity on my face is masking a turbulent, heart-wrenching, gut-tearing panic.

When I thought about the bridge climb, I considered the prospect of the Burj Khalifa.

“No way,” I said.

“You’ll be inside,” she said. “There’s no way you will fall.”

My answer was “NO” and it stayed “NO”.

That was, until I considered it. And that’s why I am an idiot. I persuaded myself this time. This is how my thought processes ticked over:

This is a once in a lifetime opportunity. You’ve climbed the Eiffel Tower, the CN Tower, the Empire State Building and you have survived. The Burj Khalifa is a masterpiece of architecture – a modern wonder of the world. You will be safely screened behind glass and you cannot possibly fall. You will not be outside. You will not die. The views will be spectacular. And besides, you will be accompanied by Mrs PM and Sarah, another friend. What could possibly go wrong?

Before I go on let me tell you about the Burj Khalifa.

It is the tallest building in the world and also the tallest free standing structure. It is over 820 metres tall – that’s over four fifths of a kilometre.

In a moment of madness (and I am very prone to such impulsive bouts of insane stupidity), I said “Yes” – and Mrs PM booked it online.

And now to the trip.

As we approached Dubai in the car, I peered out of the window searching for the skyline. I spotted a couple of tall buildings and thought “That’s not too bad”.

And then I saw it. It looked small at first but as we approached, it seemed to grow, like a mad grizzly hulk raising itself to full height. Adam, our friend who was driving said:

“There’s the Burj Khalifa”.

“It’s not so big,” I said.

“It bloody well is,” he replied. “We’re still miles away from it.”

As the building seemed to rise out of the ground, I shrank into a little ball.

Was it too late to back out? Of course it was. My ego, a little voice screaming out in a crowd of utter chaos, cried:

“YOU HAVE TO DO THIS! EVERYBODY WILL THINK YOU ARE A TOTAL COWARD”.

Captain Paranoia said:

“Did you know the building moves in the wind? It will blow over and take you with it.”

Our hosts, Adam and Abbi, opted to wait for us in the adjoining shopping mall because they were climbing the Burj Khalifa at a later date, while Mrs PM, Sarah and I found our way to the “Climb to the Top of the World”.

The very phrase made my legs tremble.

“Are you OK?” asked Mrs PM.

“Yes,” I lied, allowing my ego to lie on my behalf.

“So did Tom Cruise really hang off this building with just wires?” asked Sarah making casual conversation as we queued up for the lift.

“Yes,” said Mrs PM. “He did all of his own stunts.”

I watched Mission Impossible: Ghost Protocol in the cinema and remember one thing about the section of the film in Dubai – watching Tom Cruise on a big screen and feeling vertigo, watching him throw himself about at insane heights.

We entered the lift and as it set off at high speed, I began to feel my ears pop. Accompanying this disconcerting feeling, the count of the floors raced upwards so fast that it had reached 124 before I could blink. The fast lift was accompanied by the deafening soundtrack of a rocket taking off.

“How many floors does it have?” asked Sarah.

“160,” replied Mrs PM.

“So we’re not at the top then,” said Mrs PM.

That was a relief.

And then the doors opened. And although we were inside protected from the outside by huge panes of glass, I saw a sight that made my legs almost cave in:

A revolving door leading OUTSIDE to an OBSERVATION DECK.

AAAARRRGGGGHHHH!

I blindly followed Mrs PM and Sarah through the door and felt the wind, unimpeded by any other tall buildings, blowing a gale. There was glass protecting us from the very outside but when I looked up, all I saw the rest of the building - and it looked like another skyscraper! I was suddenly caught between a serious bout of vertigo and inverse vertigo. You might think that they cancelled each other out - they didn't.

Instead, my poor brain reeled in total confusion and disorientation.

That was it. My knees buckled, my heart lurched, a massive dizzy spell slapped me in the face and I stammered an apology to the girls as I lurched back towards the revolving door.

“I’m going inside,” I almost screamed.

I watched as Mrs PM and Sarah went right up to the glass and peered out, marvelling at the cityscape below.

I very nearly shat myself.

I managed to stand inside some six feet from the window and enjoy the view with trembling legs.

I slowly walked around the inside observation deck and my thoughts went back to Tom Cruise and his fearlessness. And if you doubted his fearlessness – here he is right at the very top of the building.

Back inside, Mrs PM spotted an ATM machine for gold. Such is the opulence in the United Arab Emirates that it is possible to buy gold from an ATM. Mrs PM thought it would be a good idea for me to pretend to be buying some as it might make a good photo.

Sadly, the gold machine was a little too close to the window, so with my heart in my mouth I posed for her again.

Here is the photo.

That was the second attempt. Here is the first, which gives you some indication how terrified I was as I yelled “JUST HURRY UP AND TAKE THE BLOODY THING!”

Thankfully, I lived to tell the tale and can now add the Burj Khalifa to the many huge structures I have stupidly climbed.

Here’s a photo of where I would prefer to be in relation to the building – at the bloody bottom!

I was actually scared of being in this photo too because inverse vertigo had kicked in. Here is the building in its pure, unadulterated and terrifying glory.

So dear reader, there you have it. I am stupid.

And I just want to make a statement, for myself, for Mrs PM, for Captain Paranoia and my idiotic ego.

If anybody, anywhere builds anything taller than the Burj Khalifa – I AM NOT CLIMBING THE BLOODY THING!!!!

Golf Is Rubbish

noreply@blogger.com (The Plastic Mancunian) — Fri, 16 Mar 2012 17:13:00 +0000

It’s official – golf is rubbish!

I apologise to any Scottish people who may be reading or any sad individuals who love to watch or play this so-called sport, but that’s the way I feel.

I’ve always wondered what the point of golf is and in order to educate myself I’ve done some research.

My conclusion?

Golf is DEFINITELY rubbish.

First of all, golf is described as “sport”. But it isn’t really a sport, is it? If you describe the act of walking around a golf course with a bag full of bats, occasionally whacking a little white ball in the general direction of a little hole in the middle of a mown area of grass, anything other than utter tedium then you are quite frankly delusional.

So what is golf? What do you need to be a golfer? What qualities should you have to be able to endure watching or playing this monotonous, mind-numbing, dreary and pointless activity?

Here are some things that golfers need to know:

An expensive set of golf bats

Golf bats (or “clubs” as golfers call them) are just metal sticks with a lump at the end that is needed to hit the ball. These bats come in different forms:

A wood – a bat with a wooden stump for whacking the ball a long distance.

An iron – a bat for hitting the ball smaller distances.

A hybrid – an abomination produced by the union of a wood bat and an iron bat – for Libran and other indecisive golfers.

A wedge – a bat to hit the ball short distances from sand for example (a sandwich or is that "sand wedge"?).

A putter – a bat to hit the ball into the hole – “put” the ball in the hole if you like.

Golf bats cost a bloody fortune and they usually come in a big heavy bag. It might be good exercise to carry such a bag around a golf course – but golfers, being lazy old men, usually employ what’s known as a caddy (or “slave”) to carry them round for them.

Stupid clothes

People who like golf have no dress sense whatsoever. These men and women wear the most ridiculous trousers – presumably so that other golfers can aim at them on the golf course.

Golf balls

Golf balls are tiny and difficult to hit. When you hit them up towards the sky you can no longer see them. Neither can TV cameras. All of a sudden you see a golfer swing his bat and the next then, spectators (and the golfers themselves) are searching the clouds for any trace of their ball. And then, when the ball lands (amongst other lost golf balls) the golfer can claim that the one nearest the hole is his, even though in reality, the one he hit is probably stuck in a tree or has landed in the middle of a lake that is conveniently located in the middle of the fairway.

All golfers are therefore cheats.

Lots of money

Golfers are usually businessmen who like to grease each other’s palms and give each other funny handshakes while strolling around batting balls into little holes and cheating. To become a member of a golf club you need to wait for approximately one year on average and then pay a fortune to stay there.

Knowledge of weird words

Golf terms are funny. Here are some I discovered, with translations:

Par – apparently each hole has a an average number of shots taken to bat the ball into the little hole. This is called the par – for example – this is a par three hole.

Fore – when aiming at the other golfers, you are supposed to shout “FORE!” to them to warn them that you have batted the ball in their general direction. I think you are supposed to do this before the ball actually hits them.

Bogey – one over par for the hole – NOT something that comes out of one nostril.

Double Bogey – two over par for the hole – NOT something that comes out of both nostrils.

Birdie – one under par for the hole – NOT a little bird.

Bunker – a conveniently located lump of sand meant to trap balls – NOT somewhere to hide.

Albatross – three under par for the hole – NOT a big bird with massive wings.

Driver – A big bat for clobbering the ball – NOT a man to drive lazy golfers around the course on those little buggy things.

Follow through – Part of the action when a golfer bats the ball – NOT an accident when farting.

Conclusion

Clearly some people like golf. These people have lots of patience or are excited by watching paint dry or studying grass as it grows.

Normal people think it is a waste of time. I have had to endure a golf championship in the company of Mrs PM’s dad who likes golf. I was comatose by the end of it. Some guy called Tiger Woods won it – I thought he was just a rich man who had been caught doing naughty things – I didn’t realise he was a man who spent all of his time whacking balls and being paid a fortune for it.

“What do you do for a living Mr Woods?”

“I hit little white balls in the general direction of other people on a nice patch of grassy land and then at some point put the ball into little holes. I have a big leather bag full of sticks (or “bats” if you want to use the technical term). I also wear stupid clothes and am paid enormous sums of money for it. And I get the odd birdie – but that’s another story.”

Crikey – how hard can that be? And he earns a bloody fortune.

I think I may take it up.

Actually, on second thoughts, I won’t.

There is no way that Mrs PM would let me wear those ridiculous trousers.

Room 101

noreply@blogger.com (The Plastic Mancunian) — Sat, 10 Mar 2012 14:27:00 +0000

George Orwell’s 1984 is one of the few novels I read at school that made me sit up and say “now that was a good read.”

I love the book – but one of the things I like best is the concept of Room 101, a room where people are subjected to their worst nightmares.

In the UK it has spawned a comedy panel show, also called Room 101, where celebrities try to convince the host (currently Frank Skinner) to dump the things they hate into the aforementioned room.

Being a grumpy old so and so I think it is time that I nominated things for Room 101; I just hope the room is big enough to accommodate everything I have planned for it.

In fact, such is the vast number of things I want to cast into an abyss that I have to do it in tiny chunks.

I will therefore pepper my normal inane posts with lists of things that simply must be locked away from humanity – for their own good.

Movie - Highlander 2 – The Quickening

I loved the film Highlander and that is the main reason why I want to hurl this garbage into Room 101. It is a sequel that makes no sense and is the worst film that Sean Connery has ever agreed to make. If you have seen and enjoyed Highlander, I implore you (for your own sanity) not to watch this film EVER! You will rant so much that you might just explode – I know I nearly did.

Celebrity – Piers Morgan

Why this man is a success is beyond me. He is one of the few humans alive who I actually want to torture – preferably by subjecting him to a day in his own company. I first noticed him when he was editor of a tabloid called the Daily Mirror – an odious profession if ever there was one – and now he presents a major show in the US. How? Why? He is an enigma; he is so loathsome yet so successful. How can that be? Into Room 101 you go.

Clothing – Baggy arsed jeans

Kids these days wear jeans that hang so low they may as well not bother. I was sitting down in a bar in Manchester and I turned around and my face was inches from a young git with baggy arsed jeans and “cool” designer underpants. I wanted to stand up and yell at the fool.

“PULL YOUR PHARKING JEANS UP! PEOPLE CAN SEE SKID MARKS IN YOUR UNDERPANTS!”

I couldn’t – but it would have scared him half to death.

Food – Rhubarb

I have posted about rhubarb before. It is the most repulsive foodstuff known to man. It tastes so bad that my stomach heaves when my brain tells me there is some in the vicinity. When rhubarb appeared on the school dinner menu as a child, I was forced to eat it – and I wanted to kill the teacher who tortured me in this way. I simply cannot begin to describe the taste – it is so awful. I hope that Piers Morgan is forced to eat it for ever in Room 101 – mind you, he’d probably like it.

Pop Music – Cliff Richard

The man who gave us “Mistletoe and Wine”, “Saviours Day”, “Wired For Sound” and, the crowning turd on the compost heap, “The Millennium Prayer”. I am ashamed to say that I actually saw the so called Peter Pan of pop live in a show called Time in the late 1980’s. I went to the West End of London and watched it, not knowing that Cliff Richard was in it – and I almost wept in shame. Worse – every year, there is a calendar showing pictures of Cliff topless – AT HIS AGE!!! Get in there and start singing to Piers Morgan – mind you, he’d probably like it.

TV – The X Factor

Every bloody year – EVERY BLOODY YEAR – I have to suffer this utter tripe that is overhyped, filled with cliché and hosted by idiots. Why is it popular? All that I see is a terrible karaoke show watched over by Louis Walsh, Simon Cowell and a couple of other equally talentless judges – and at the end of it, another talentless individual is crapped out and thrust upon the world with a “guaranteed Christmas Number One” only to sink back into obscurity a year or two later. Get rid of it immediately.

Animals – Wasps

Yet another creature I have ranted about. They serve no purpose whatsoever other than to sting human beings and make an absolute nuisance of themselves on a beautiful sunny summer day. They are horrible, vindictive creatures that turn human beings into jabbering wrecks.

Books – The Mayor of Casterbridge by Thomas Hardy

When I was a young man at school, I was introduced to English Literature – and was forced to read this novel – and then write at least two essays about it. I hated it – and it got me into trouble several times. Our homework was to read three chapters and then discuss them in class and I simply could not bring myself to do so – it was so tedious. Invariably I was caught out when after two seconds it was clear that I hadn’t read any of it and had to spend yet another detention reading the bloody thing. I wanted to read Jules Verne, H.G.Wells and George Orwell – but no – I had to read this tripe – and then write utterly pointless essays about it. It almost killed my love of books and that is a crime I simply cannot forgive – so it has to go into Room 101 where Piers Morgan should be forced to read it over and over again. Mind you, he’d probably like it.

Politicians – Boris Johnson

I am tempted to put ALL politicians into Room 101 but instead I will pick on just one; the Mayor of London – Boris Johnson. This man is a bumbling oaf and it amazes me that he can get dressed in the morning, let alone run the capital of England. He struggles to speak because he constantly has his foot in his mouth and has the ability to embarrass himself because of his appearance and his irritating voice. I used to think he was just a joke and now he is the mayor, who knows where he can go? There are even fools who want him to be our Prime Minister. He must go into Room 101 where he and Piers can spend eternity pissing each other off. Mind you, they probably like each other.

China – Chinese Toilets

Regular readers will know that I love China but despise Chinese toilets. Many people think it is better to squat rather than sit but to be honest, that is a recipe for disaster, particularly in public Chinese toilets. I have almost thrown up several times when approaching them, particularly the worst kind – a public toilet on a building site. Thankfully I have stayed in hotels that have pristine, shining western style toilets – and I figure that if I put Chinese toilets into Room 101 then the Chinese will invest in proper loos that don’t make me throw up my breakfast. And of course the added bonus of Chinese toilets being in Room 101 would be that Piers Morgan would have to use them. Mind you, he would probably enjoy that.

And furthermore, Piers Morgan would probably enjoy living in Room 101.

What would you put in Room 101, dear reader?

How To Be A DJ

noreply@blogger.com (The Plastic Mancunian) — Sat, 03 Mar 2012 16:50:00 +0000

I would love to be a DJ – but in a parallel universe, where the rules and environment are completely different from what we have to endure in this universe.

Let me explain further.

It is possible to become a DJ in this universe and you can do so in the following easy steps:

(1) Learn to love the sound of your own voice. It’s bad enough having to listen to commercials on the radio, but it might be better if at the end of yet another dreadful advert, another song was played. Instead, all you get is what sounds like a buffoon talking utter crap for about ten minutes. I didn’t think it was possible to talk nonsense every day for a few hours – but it is. Here’s an example:

(2) Fake enthusiasm. DJ’s sound like the happiest people on the planet laughing raucously at even the most mundane garbage.

(3) Acquire a massive ego. A lot of DJ’s consider themselves to be the best of the best:

“Listen to me – I’m great! I may really be a fat offensive egomaniac but nobody loves me as much as I do – and since I’m great that’s all that counts. Now give me lots of money while I offend everybody.”

(4) Invent stupid phone-ins. I have never understood why people phone in to give their opinions on mundane subjects spouted forth from the mouths of DJ’s. Even DJ’s on rock radio stations do this. For example:

“We asked you to give us names of songs that sound like bodily functions. Here’s Frank Plank from Stockport. Hi Frank – what have you got for us?”

“Hi Dave – I’ve got three.”

“Three? This should be good. Come on Frank.”

“First – WEE are the Champions by Queen”.

“HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH! Nice one Frank! And the next?”

“Next – Fart for Fart’s Sake by 10cc”

“HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH! Even better Frank – he said FART! Did you hear that listeners? You are so funny, Frank.”

“Last – Poo are you? by (wait for it) - THE POO!!!”

“HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH! Frank – I think you are the funniest man I’ve ever spoken too.”

(5) Sell your soul to the music industry. Most people have a broad spectrum when it comes to musical taste but radio stations tend not to allow us to explore available music. A DJ in this country is restricted by the playlist – a list of songs and artists that are acceptable to invisible music moguls and the radio station. How else do you explain this load of old crap?

Both the song and the video are just WRONG!

I would refuse to play that and face the consequences. I think I would rather pop my eyeballs with a carving knife.

You can practice becoming a DJ by getting a job as a presenter on a shopping channel. That will give you excellent preparation for talking about nothing for hours and hours:

“This biro is fantastic. Look at the sleek shape? You can even write letters with it. Can you believe that? Here – let me show you. See how the ink comes out smoothly as I write my name? You don’t have to write MY name – you can write YOUR OWN name. That’s how versatile it is. You can write any words in the Oxford English Dictionary with this biro. And even make up YOUR OWN words – like BOGGLEDYFART! See what I did there? And look at the colour of the ink. Blue. Really useful. And how much does this biro cost? £4.32. And we are GIVING it away for that price; GIVING IT AWAY. You should phone now – we only have a few left. Demand is high. And I will spend the next hour talking about how fantastic this biro is – and then I will sell more of them tomorrow. Because demand will be so high that they will go. Get this bargain now – while limited stocks last. Phone the number on the bottom of your screen to get this excellent bargain. For those of you who can’t read – the number is 12124322322383726274646. And the price? £4.32 – you are robbing me. Come on – while I’m in this mad generous mood. You know it makes sense …”

And on and on and on and on and on it goes.

Even my local rock radio station winds me up. When it started, the claim was “No boy bands on our radio station.” Which may be a great claim – but once you have listened to the shows for a few weeks, you end up hearing:

The same adverts played over and over again ad nauseam.

The same inane banter between “the team” repeated over and over ad nauseam.

The same crazy phone-ins repeated over and over again ad nauseam.

When they get round to playing songs (around once every half an hour), it is the same songs I heard yesterday – and the day before – and the day before – and the month before.

I’ve decided that if I can find a way to open up a portal into an alternate universe, I will become a DJ and guarantee that I expose as much music as possible to my listeners.

Adverts will be banned.

I will not have a single phone-in.

I will minimise talking.

And I definitely will NOT play Macarena.

Dishwasher Etiquette

noreply@blogger.com (The Plastic Mancunian) — Fri, 24 Feb 2012 22:58:00 +0000

A dishwasher changed my life.

People who owned dishwashers predicted this and I didn’t believe them – until I moved into a house that had one. Until that day, I lived in modern new houses where the kitchen was barely large enough to swing a saucepan around.

When modern architects are looking at houses that can accommodate people with my salary, they think:

“Ah – they won’t need too much kitchen space – let’s make it just about big enough for a family of four cats.”

These people don’t live in the real world. How can you cook in a kitchen that’s so small you end up smashing your elbows on the walls and preparing the food on the floor?

But I digress.

Suffice it to say that until 1998 all of the houses that I lived in had tiny kitchens; there was quite literally no room for a dishwasher – let’s face it, there was barely enough room for one human being.

And then I moved into a house with a bigger kitchen – and a dishwasher.

And I have barely ever looked back.

These machines are magnificent and very easy to use.

Nevertheless, I think that some people have some strange ideas about exactly how to use them.

For example, I have never understood why people insist on washing dishes BEFORE they put them into the dishwasher. In fact, guests in my house have actually said to me:

“What are you doing? You need to rinse the plates before you put them in the dishwasher.”

Correct me if I’m wrong dear reader, but I think that is stupid. If you are going to rinse everything you pop into a dishwasher, you may as well wash them up and not bother having one.

The dishwasher cleans plates with detergent and water blasted at them at temperatures of up to 75 °C. How is rinsing going to make a difference? My dishwasher has removed all the paint from several mugs and pint pots over the years so I know that it is quite capable of removing the dried remnants of food from plates.

The problem is that people have weird ideas about dishwasher etiquette.

For example, I’ve been to a house where the owners have allowed their pets to climb into the dishwasher and lick the plates.

Apologies if you do this, dear reader; but it just doesn’t seem right to me. I know the dishwasher will blast all traces of dog and cat saliva from the crockery but there are some places that animals aren’t meant to go - and inside a dishwasher is one of them.

Other people insist on loading the cutlery in a certain position with knives sticking out dangerously. I just dump them in, in the safest position. The dishwasher will clean them just as well.

I have had some problems though – some due to my own stupidity.

The twirly water blasters can be a source of frustration if, for some reason, something slips when you close the dishwasher and blocks the motion of the rotation.

On the model I have, the little tablet container, that is supposed to release the dishwasher tablet when the water blasters are at their highest velocity, sometimes gets stuck and the dishes aren’t cleaned properly.

I do take risks as well. I close the door and push the start button only to spot a fork or plate that I missed. I have a few seconds when I know that I can open the door and the dishwasher will stop – but if I mistime it (as I often do), I open the door and get a face full of water.

Has that ever happened to you or have I just humiliated myself again?

One source of contention amongst dishwasher owners is:

Who's turn is it to load and unload the dishwasher?

Mrs PM and I have an agreement when it comes to loading and unloading the dishwasher, Well, when I say “Mrs PM and I have an agreement” I really mean that Mrs PM has come up with a plan that I have to follow – or her fury will know no bounds.

I’m kidding of course.

Mrs PM’s orders are:

Whoever cooks dinner doesn’t have to load and unload the dishwasher.

I have a problem with this because I hate cooking – and I hate loading and unloading the dishwasher.

If I had my way, Mrs PM would cook AND be the dishwasher handler.

Sadly, she threatens to set Liqourice the hellcat on me so I have to comply.

When it’s my turn to cook, I tidy up as much as I can so that my dearest lady only has to unload and reload the dishwasher. I even take the saucepans over to the sink so that she doesn’t have to carry them.

Sadly, she doesn’t follow my example.

When Mrs PM has cooked, the kitchen looks like an explosion in a food factory. There are vegetable peelings all over the place, the saucepans are scattered to the four winds and I spend the first five minutes staring in disbelief, amazed at how she could of made such a mess in such a small amount of time.

When I return, having spent approximately four hours cleaning up the mess in the kitchen, she asks

“What took you so long?”

I am so enraged, I get the yips:

“The k…k..k..kitch…kitchen looked as if a nuclear war…war…warhead had been det…det…detonated in there. WHAT ON EARTH WERE YOU DOING IN THERE? COOKING THE FOOD WITH NAPALM???? WHY DID YOU LEAVE SUCH A MESS????”

“I cook – you wash up,” she says as if I am a gibbering imbecile.

“BU...BU…”

“But nothing! That’s the agreement. Liquorice – FETCH!!”

And at that point I give in and sit down stewing in my own juice, watching the hellcat who is looking for any excuse to rip my face off.

Actually, that is a bit of an exaggeration – Mrs PM doesn’t set the hellcat on me really.

I wouldn’t be sitting here typing this, if she did.

The Art Of Bullshit

noreply@blogger.com (The Plastic Mancunian) — Sat, 18 Feb 2012 22:01:00 +0000

Welcome the best weblog in the world. If you are new here, where have you been?

Never mind, you are here now and I guarantee you a rollercoaster ride through the very nature of existence.

You’ll laugh. You’ll cry. You’ll never be so high.

The Plastic Mancunian will clarify the very essence of life and transform the course of your continued existence into an enhanced, extraordinary and exceptional paradigm of precision and pleasure.

I can do that for you.

What a load of old codswallop that was. I am not very good at spouting bullshit as you can tell, which is why I don’t work in marketing .

If I did, I would be sacked for driving people away from the product I was trying to sell.

I work in IT and often receive emails from various software companies using catchy slogans and false promises in order to grab my attention. There are stock phrases and words that crop up repeatedly using expressions conceived in other disciplines – like motor racing for example.

If you sit and watch a motor race, marvelling at the speed of cars as they race around the track it is possible to enter bullshit mode and immediately think of catchphrases based on what you are seeing, that you can apply to even the most mundane garbage.

Here’s another thing I could cough up, like an annoying extra sticky piece of sputum, to make this blog seem worthy of your attention, based solely on racing:

The Plastic Mancunian accelerates your entertainment to new levels, fuelled by sharp, cutting humour that leaves all others behind in the race for excellence.

Does it bollocks! All this blog really contains is the inane ramblings of a grumpy old fool.

We could try X Factor references. How about this?

The winning blog, The Plastic Mancunian, will lead you on a journey to fulfilment, leaving you wanted more. It is so relevant that you must take the risk; it will pay off. I can guarantee this, one million per cent.

Or how about from music adverts or reviews?

The Plastic Mancunian writes from his very soul, leading you into a world of pure ecstasy that will leave you gasping. It is the most poignant and moving masterpiece and guarantees to make your heart weep and plead for more.

More horseshit!!

Clearly I haven’t mastered the art of bullshit. But what amazes me is that we are all seduced by such crap – me included.

I am very cynical and yet I might consider a software product that offers to “accelerate my innovative success” or will “take conceived technological miracles and make them reality” over something that just does the job I want.

No more.

I am fed up of people sugar-coating crap in order to sell it to me or make me buy it in preference to another piece of crap that has a slightly less annoying slogan.

I may not be able to master the art of bullshit but I can certainly recognise it.

That’s why you won’t see any on this blog.

Instead, it will provide a fast-track to a celestial plane of innovation and intelligence.

And that’s the honest truth.

Random Lyrics

noreply@blogger.com (The Plastic Mancunian) — Mon, 13 Feb 2012 23:01:00 +0000

Another day, another stolen idea.

I’d like to apologise and thank Pandora (at Pandora Queen of Denial for sewing the seed with her Random Lyrics post.

I have in my possession an mp3 jukebox jammed full of songs, mostly rock and heavy metal. And in that collection there are some moving, funny and thought-provoking lyrics – even from the heavy metal section.

So without further ado, here are five sets of lyrics from five rock maestros:

Alice Cooper – It’s The Little Things

You can burn my house
You can cut my hair
You can make me wrestle naked with a grizzly bear
You can poison my cat, baby, I don’t care
But if you talk in the movies I’ll kill you right there.

Now I fully understand how Alice feels when he sings this song. To me, the basic message is, there is only so much shit you can take and while you may cope with the horrible things that life throws at you, it might just be the little things that push you over the edge and make you explode with rage. I know that I have a tendency sometimes to bottle things up.

In the past, I have allowed the pressure to reach boiling point and then flown into a rage when confronted by something simple, like, say a piece of cat shit on the carpet. The good thing is that I think I can let off steam a little better these days – I’ve mellowed considerably with age. Nevertheless, tiny little things can sometimes irritate the hell out of me.

That’s what my soapbox is for.

It is a pressure cooker outlet valve.

Def Leppard – From The Inside

So you play the joker and I’ll play the clown
And I’ll laugh while you’re up there and I’ll laugh while you’re down.
Though your screams break the silence, they won’t make a sound.

I love this song.

It is about drug addiction but from the point of the drug itself.

My drug of choice is alcohol and I certainly relate to how alcohol may react to the full cycle of getting drunk and then paying the price. A drunken night out starts off happily enough, with the alcohol loosening those tight strings that harness the extrovert that exists in all of us.

And as the extrovert escapes, all inhibitions are lost and end up having a wonderful time – in your own eyes of course. If you go over the top, you see yourself as an indestructible force that everybody else loves.

The alcohol must see you as a buffoon and laughs because it knows what’s coming. It’s almost like selling your soul to the devil.

Ultimately you pay the price and as you wake up with a hangover, an unknown assailant battering your head with a hammer as your stomach rebels and makes you throw up air, you can imagine the alcohol laughing at you.

And nobody else cares – you brought it all on yourself.

Metallica - The Unforgiven III

How can I be lost, if I’ve got nowhere to go?

I’ve been in a bad place; I guess everybody has at some time or another.

Your life seems to have no direction and you are at your wit’s end.

It takes something to haul you out of that bad place – a loved one, a steely determination that lies deep within yourself.

I’ve managed throughout my life to somehow find something to cling onto when I am lost – so I have always had somewhere to go.

I still have.

Rush – Witch Hunt

Quick to judge, quick to anger, slow to understand.
Ignorance and prejudice and fear walk hand in hand.

Of course – there had to a song from Rush, my favourite band.

The thing I like about Rush is that most of their songs have amazing lyrics.

And this one is all about prejudice. The basic message is that some people are terrified of things that they don’t understand and lash out rather than trying to overcome that barrier. I’ve always been tolerant of differences between people. The human race is a marvel and rather than blaming other cultures and for the ills of the world, we ought to try to embrace those differences. This is one of the primary reasons I love travelling; to immerse myself in a new country and its customs. I may not always like what I see but that’s no reason to hate people for it.

We are all different – why not enjoy those differences?

Nine Inch Nails - Every Day Is Exactly The Same

I believe I can see the future, cos I repeat the same routine.

We’ve all been there, living a life that seems to be like a scratched record, repeating itself over and over again. Work is like that for me sometimes; I go to work on Monday, feeling pissed off because I still have five days of frustration to go and gradually as the week reaches its peak on Wednesday lunchtime, I start to feel better. It’s like climbing a mountain and then launching yourself off it towards the weekend when you can relax for a couple of days – before Monday morning blues slap you in the face again.

The good news is that although there are tedious aspects to my mundane work life, I do occasionally find the work interesting and the prospect of a trip abroad keeps me interested enough to cope.

But I would dearly love to break the cycle and just escape; one day it will happen. I can see the future – and the future looks good.

Well, that’s it. Thanks to Pandora for the idea. I might do this again in the future.

I have provided links so you can listen to the songs; of all of them, the Def Leppard and Metallica songs will surprise you as they are uncharacteristically mellow songs that do not conform to the stereotype.

Have a listen – and tell me what you think.

Spending a Penny

noreply@blogger.com (The Plastic Mancunian) — Thu, 09 Feb 2012 18:32:00 +0000

Today I did something that I do quite a few times a day.

I went to the toilet.

Yes – this is another post about toilets – I am not obsessed, honestly.

If you are in anyway offended by toilet talk – please stop reading.

For the rest of you …

I was chatting to my work colleague and he was explaining something to me and it looked like it was going to take a while. And my body was urging me to go to the loo.

So I interrupted him and said:

“I’m just off to answer a call of nature.”

And while I was answering that call, I started thinking about some of the bizarre euphemisms people use when they explain that they are off to the loo.

Yes - I am THAT weird!

I know that you are curious, dear reader, so I have done some research on your behalf. I used your name – I hope you don’t mind.

Here are some common euphemisms that tickled my interest and some that people have said to me.

I need …

… to spend a penny.

... to answer a call of nature.

... to visit George. (This was used by W’s father and I honestly thought for a while that he was going out to visit a friend. Yes I am THAT stupid sometimes.).

... a Jimmy Riddle.

... a pit stop.

... a comfort break.

... to see a man about a dog.

… to point Percie at the porcelain.

… to water the trees.

… to water the tulips.

… to shake hands with an old friend.

... to see a man about a horse.

… to free Willy.

… a tinkle.

… to take a leak.

… to powder my nose.

... to water the porcelain.

... to siphon the python.

... a squirt.

… a slash.

… a whizzle.

I think my favourite was said by eldest lad when he was about six.

“Where are you going?” I asked.

“I’m going for a short one, he replied.

It took me a few seconds to work out what he meant – a short one as opposed to a long one.

I wonder who taught him that one?

It wasn’t me.

Do you know any strange or funny euphemisms, dear reader?

I'll bet you do.