The Plastic Mancunian

Grumpiness Is Good For You

plastic.mancunian@googlemail.com (The Plastic Mancunian) — Sat, 07 Nov 2009 14:09:00 +0000

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

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

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

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

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

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

Now? Eggs are a good source of protein!!

So, am I supposed to eat eggs or not?

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

Feeling Grumpy Is Good For You

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

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

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

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

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

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

However, I am a grumpy old git.

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

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

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

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

Ill-deserved knighthoods

Politicians lying through their teeth

Strictly Come Dancing

Office politics

The state of music in the world today

Premiership footballers

The X Factor

Chirpy morning TV presenters

Radio DJs

The list is endless.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The ever increasing price of petrol.

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

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

Dreadful romantic comedies that all have the same plot.

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

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

Overpaid, cheating prima-donna footballers.

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

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

Overpriced restaurants serving crap food.

Contemporary art

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

Christmas commercials in October.

People who ask stupid questions.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Over-zealous Health and Safety.

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

See what I mean?

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

The Plastic Mancunian says:

Grumpiness Is Good

Happy ranting – you know it makes sense.

Remember, Remember The Fifth Of November

plastic.mancunian@googlemail.com (The Plastic Mancunian) — Tue, 03 Nov 2009 22:11:00 +0000

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

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

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

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

For those of you outside Britain, let me explain.

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

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

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

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

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

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

What does that mean?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And what shall we do with him?
Burn him!

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

How Can I Get Fit?

plastic.mancunian@googlemail.com (The Plastic Mancunian) — Fri, 30 Oct 2009 18:17:00 +0000

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

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

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

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

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

AAARRRGGGHHH!!! NO BLOODY MILK!

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

“I could run,” I told myself.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I am a male – I can’t help it.

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

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

“Is it free?” I asked politely.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So I am not going to join a gym.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dear Simon Cowell ...

plastic.mancunian@googlemail.com (The Plastic Mancunian) — Wed, 28 Oct 2009 20:48:00 +0000

Dear Simon,

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

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

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

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

“Who is Simon Cowell?” I asked.

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

“Not X Factor,” I cried.

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

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

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

Simon – I want to save you.

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

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

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

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

Now, how can I help you?

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

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

Here are some of your worst moments:

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

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

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

“You sounded like Dolly Parton on helium.”

“You’re too old to be a Barbie Doll.”

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

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

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

“That audition was like watching a ship sink.”

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

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

Be nice to them. Just say something like:

“I vote no. Next!!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yours Sincerely

The Plastic Mancunian

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

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

Food Glorious Food

plastic.mancunian@googlemail.com (The Plastic Mancunian) — Sat, 24 Oct 2009 15:10:00 +0000

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

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

Here goes:

1. Whats your #1 comfort food?

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

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

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

Cheese, eggs, bacon, pork and beer.

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

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

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

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

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

5. What's your ultimate food weakness?

Cheese – bad for me but delicious.

6. What food can you soooo not eat?

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

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

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

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

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

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

9. What's your favourite type of food?

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

10. Favourite Dish?

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

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

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

Fab isn't it?

12. Soup or Salad?

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

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

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

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

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

15. Do you consider yourself a good cook?

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

16. Do you know what vichyssoise is?

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

17. Who's your favourite TV cook?

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

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

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

19. Homemade or homemade from a box?

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

20. Tag three more foodies...

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

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

Use Your Imagination

plastic.mancunian@googlemail.com (The Plastic Mancunian) — Tue, 20 Oct 2009 19:23:00 +0000

I’m in the wrong job. Why? Because quite frankly, I feel that I could be a contemporary artist.

Don’t laugh – it’s true.

I was in London at the weekend, visiting friends and on Sunday afternoon, we strolled along the south bank of the Thames, enjoying the atmosphere. We came to the Tate Modern, a museum full of contemporary art. Against my initial better judgement, we decided to pop in and have a look.

The first thing that I saw was an incredible piece of art called How It Is by a Polish artist called Miroslaw Balka. Basically is a huge steel box measuring 30 metres long, 10 metres wide and 13 metres deep. Why is it incredible? Because you can go inside the box and there is absolutely no light in there whatsoever.

It is slightly disconcerting as you step inside because you see people on their way out and they are almost completely in shadow. The further you get, the more eerie it becomes because, as you approach the back wall, you see absolutely nothing and eventually stumble into the wall, thankfully covered in a soft felt-type material. As you leave, you see others coming in and that too is strange, mainly because they are groping ahead and are unsure of what they are seeing ahead of them.

You can see and read about it here.

I enjoyed it - in a weird kind of way.

From what you have read so far, you may think that I am a fan of contemporary art; you are wrong.

How it is was a novel experience and I was mildly amused by it, which meant that Mrs PM and our friends didn’t have to listen to me ranting about how useless it was.

However, I soon degenerated into my old self as we explored one of the upper floors of the Tate Modern.

I have never seen such a load of old codswallop in my entire life. As we strolled through the galleries on one of the floors, I marvelled at the audacity of the artists who, somehow, managed to convince art critics and pseudo-intellectuals that the crap hanging up was worthy of even a passing glimpse. I honestly feel that I could have done a much better job.

Basically, the bulk of the “work” was abstract daubs of paint, presumably created when the artist was high on glue or so leathered on absinthe that he was out of his tiny mind.

“I just don’t get it,” I complained to Mrs PM, keeping my voice down so that others couldn’t hear. “If you gave me a blank canvas and a tin of red paint, I could paint something exactly like that,” I said, pointing to what can only be described as a large mess on the wall.

One painting I saw was a bright red canvas with a very thin brown line at the end. That was it. A child could have produced it. I was stunned by some of the bilge I saw.

Of course, the crowd admiring the rot on the walls was mixed; some, like me, walked around with looks of pure confusion on their faces, as if they walked into a world were insane people were suddenly sane; others pretended to admire the works; the final group, the eccentrics, actually discussed the works using bizarre language. One guy was wearing a pair of drainpipe jeans that were about six inches too short, and a grey jacket with a vivid pink feather attached to his lapel. His hair was wild and he gawked at the paintings with the look of a child in a sweet factory. He was pursued by an odd looking female with a permanent grin on her face.

In one room, full of abstract oil paintings, a European tour guide was attempting to explain the paintings. Out of sheer curiosity I stood nearby to listen to what he was saying. It went something like this:

The artist has resolved to forego the concept of creating a reproduction of an object in favour of the abstract. The paradigm behind these spectacular works of art is to compel the viewer to form an idea in his head and to extrapolate that idea until it stands out and announces itself to him. Different people will obviously see different things; that is why it is a work of pure genius. Every single human being on the planet will perceive a distinct and unique entity or idea as they study the painting and become part of it. The viewer will step across the barrier into a world that only he can conceive; a world that speaks only to him; a world that is disturbing, yet at the same time exciting; a world that is unique and like no other place in the imagination of any other human being. It is a concept of humanity, yet a uniquely individual creation. Magnificent isn’t it?

I wanted to go up to the guy and say:

“It’s SHIT!!! It is absolutely dreadful. Give me a single day and a ton of oil paints and I can produce something like that. What are you talking about anyway? I’ve never heard such claptrap in my entire life.”

Of course, I said nothing.

However, one brave woman did challenge him with the simple words:

“I don’t understand what you mean.”

His reply:

Yes, it can be confusing. To see a world that you alone can create in the vast cosmos of your imagination can be overwhelming. Let’s move on.

Fearing that she would look stupid, she didn’t press him further. He would have made more sense saying:

There is a planet in a distant galaxy where cats filter coffee and wash their carts with it. Did you know that stones are multicoloured in the imagination of a stag beetle? I know; I’ve been there and challenged slugs to play cricket against giant aliens on Sunday afternoons in January. The sun flies through our hearts trailing jelly behind it.

The final straw for me was a video display. As we approached the room I was intrigued by a sign that warned us about “sexually explicit images and violence”.

A voice in my head warned: DON’T GO IN DAVE! IT WILL BE UTTER BILGE!

I ignored the voice.

In the room I found five projectors playing five different films next to each other. The first film showed a naked person with a disturbing mask, jumping up and down over and over again. Next to that, a naked lady lay on a bed as a pair of hands smeared, what looked like sauce all over her naked form. In a third film, a semi-naked man, pounded objects, as if in a fit of rage. I couldn't bear to watch the other two films.

I wanted to cry out in despair. It was possibly the worst thing I had ever seen. It was tasteless and pointless. If that was art then I am a jellyfish. It was dreadful. It was awful. It was rubbish. It was garbage. It was meaningless twaddle. It was totally useless. It was painful. It was a complete waste of the two minutes it took for me to endure it. It was the most pointless two minutes of my entire life. It was shit. It was a waste of a room. It was a waste of electricity. There was no talent there whatsoever. It was devoid of aptitude. Genius it was not. I hated it. I despised it. I detested it.

Do you understand how I felt about it or am I being too subtle?

What particularly annoyed me about it, was the fact that the artist was probably absolutely loaded and had somehow convinced somebody somewhere to allow him to display this tacky piece of nonsense for people like me to see.

I felt cheated. I felt soiled.

I was bloody annoyed.

As we left, I ranted to Mrs PM and decided that I could (and possibly should) seek out a new career as a contemporary artist. If I can persuade some pseudo-intellectual idiot somewhere that my totally useless pieces of art are worthy of display in the Tate Modern, I can live the rest of my life laughing at those dumb enough to try to explain my worthless crap to people who are stupid enough to believe them.

I’ve made a start.

Below are two pieces of work that I think will challenge people, intellectually and physically.

The first, I have called Naughty Cat and, although it is not an abstract piece, I hope that it challenges you to explore the inner child within. As you contemplate the feline indiscretion, consider you own innocent childhood and the feeling of naughtiness as you knowingly misbehaved.

The second, I have called Plastic Man, which is a portrait and urges you to confront the repulsiveness of the human form. The pathetic creature portrayed in the piece is disturbing not only because the person in the picture is quite clearly plastic; he is also the human form of a baboon.

Yes – it is me! Don’t laugh!!

Do you think I should give up my day job?

Public Toilet Etiquette

plastic.mancunian@googlemail.com (The Plastic Mancunian) — Fri, 16 Oct 2009 17:48:00 +0000

WARNING: This post discusses toilets.

I could say something pretentious like:

Please don’t read any further if you are offended by toilets.

Or something puerile like:

EURRGGHH!! Toilets!! Plop plop plop!!! (snigger snigger snigger)

But I’m not going to. You see I personally believe that people do not discuss toilets enough. Every human being in the world goes to the toilet:

The Queen of England goes to the toilet.

Gordon Brown, the British Prime Minister, goes to the toilet.

President Barack Obama goes to the toilet.

I think you get my drift.

So why are people so unwilling to discuss them? And why are people even more unwilling to discuss toilet habits?

You see, I think that people are getting away with murder in toilets around the world, particularly public toilets. There is no etiquette for proper toilet behaviour, especially in public toilets. Most people do use them responsibly and certainly do consider others when they have finished. Others have no consideration at all and do not even bother to think about:

(1) People who are in the toilet with them (Note – when I say “in” the toilet with them, I don’t actually mean that there are two people standing in the toilet bowl together nor do I mean that people should go to their own toilet in their own house and invite groups of people to accompany them and share the experience. I am talking about public toilets here).

(2) People who may use the toilet after them (Yes – people DO actually use the SAME toilet as other people though not at the same time).

(3) People who have to clean the toilet.

I am here to attempt to educate you in public toilet etiquette based on my own experience.

FEMALE PUBLIC TOILETS

Okay – let me get one thing straight. I am not the kind of pervert who hangs around female toilets with a note pad trying to research a blog post on toilet etiquette.

Men should NEVER, EVER, EVER set foot inside a public toilet intended for members of the opposite sex.

This is a law that is built into the DNA of most men.

Even when the situation is desperate, all men should resist the temptation to even peer inside when they happen to walk past if the door is open.

You can read here about the kind of thing that happens.

Guys – just don’t go there.

I made that mistake once. A group of us were in a night club many years ago and one of our number, the only young lady, suddenly became rather ill. She had had far too much to drink and suddenly announced, in a slurred voice, that she felt sick. A kind hearted male member of our party supported her and led her to the LADIES. After about ten minutes, three of us started to become a little concerned because neither had returned. We found our male friend standing outside the toilet waiting.

“Where is she?” we asked.

“She hasn’t come out,” he replied.

Apparently he had asked a couple of women to check on her but, this being a night club and most of the patrons being a little drunk, he had no success. After a brief discussion we decided to walk into the LADIES en masse.

I couldn’t believe my eyes.

Most male public toilets are worse than seventh level of Hell (see later). This particular toilet was pristine with a pervading scent of roses. We gawped around like four lemons, completely forgetting our friend.

A couple of women came in and started moaning.

“We’re here to check on our friend,” said one guy. Another, walked up to the each cubicle, tapping on each door, saying:

“Are you in there? Are you OK?”

Within minutes, female security staff descended on the toilet like a SWAT team with a set of male bouncers who, unlike us, remained outside.

“WHAT THE $%*& are YOU DOING IN HERE?” screamed a very big and very angry woman. We stood there too shocked to speak while our comrade continued to knock on the cubicle doors.

A split second before the female security killed us, our female friend staggered out of a cubicle and said in a very slurred voice. “It’s OK – they are just checking on me. I’ve been violently ill.” She then burst into tears for effect.

I found my tongue and said “Yes – we were worried. Are you OK?”

The head female security staff member glared at me. “GET OUT!!!!” she screamed. We didn’t need to be asked twice and walked out as quickly as possible with our female friend in tow, so that the male bouncers outside didn’t beat us to a pulp outside.

Actually, before I leave female public toilets, can I just ask a couple of questions?

(1) Why do women always go to public toilets in pairs?

(2) Why do women TALK to each other in public toilets?

(3) Why are female public toilets a lot cleaner in general than male public toilets?

I know, having spoken to Mrs PM at length, that female public toilets can be disgusting. She mentions “hovering” and my mind boggles.

I think we’ll leave it there.

MALE PUBLIC TOILETS

I wish I could convince women that they should never, ever, ever go into male public toilets, but I know I would be wasting my breath. You see, women have no qualms about walking into a male toilet and, worse, they never, ever get threatened with extreme violence if they do find themselves there.

Men, on the other hand, react in one of two ways if a woman walks in while nature is taking its course:

(1) They become one with the urinal in an attempt to cover their pride.

(2) They suddenly forget the basic rule of male public toilets: DON’T EVER, EVER SPEAK IN A MALE TOILET and start actually trying to chat up the woman, as if suddenly they think they are more attractive while caught in the middle of their natural duty.

I fall into category (1) and have on one occasion had to stay in the toilet for ten minutes under the hand dryer trying to rectify the obvious mistake I made.

Men’s public toilets are, in general (and let’s be kind here) absolutely disgusting places that no human being should ever see.

Why? Because there is no toilet etiquette at all in these nauseating pits of despair.

Actually, that's not quite true. Strangely, etched into the primeval database of all males, there IS etiquette when it comes to urinals. I won’t discuss this further because people like Dave Barry have done so at length and it is illustrated here:

However, there appear to be no rules when it comes to the use of the stalls, or as I prefer to call them, traps.

So, how should men behave in the traps?

(1) Do not become a bogeyman (read about it here):

(2) Always flush the toilet and, most importantly, MAKE SURE IT THAT EVERYTHING IS WASHED AWAY. Do you really think that I want to see the deposits you have made?

(3) Never, ever talk to the man in the adjacent trap. First of all, before you go about your business, ALWAYS check that there is enough toilet paper. If there isn’t then either go to the next trap or wait for another to become free. In an emergency, if you underestimate how much toilet paper you require, you must stay put until another trap becomes free rather than asking the man in the next trap to “pass you some paper under the dividing wall”.

(4) If you had a curry the night before, always carry some deodorant spray with you. I’ll leave that to your imagination.

(5) Always lift the seat if you wish to pee. Why on earth wouldn’t you?

(6) Always aim for the water and not the rim of the toilet. Again, why on earth wouldn’t you?

(7) Always put the lid down (unless of course the toilet has no lid).

(8) If you make a mess, clean it up. It is courteous and makes the toilet experience for the next person that little bit more pleasant. As a rule of thumb – always leave the toilet as you would wish to find it.

(9) Do not, under any circumstances, grunt and gasp while allowing nature to take its course. It’s bad enough listening to the noises that can’t be helped but when you start adding to the sound effects, the experience somehow degenerates into something I can barely cope with. I have started taking my mp3 player into the cubicle with me, which has led to me singing in there – an experience that is equally distressing for others. Help me out here!!

Together we can make the toilet experience a pleasant one. I know that there is nothing like your own loo and sitting on your own personal toilet in the morning, reading the newspaper; it is a strangely fulfilling experience.

At least it is for me anyway.

I told you I was weird.

Artistic Food

plastic.mancunian@googlemail.com (The Plastic Mancunian) — Mon, 12 Oct 2009 19:21:00 +0000

In a restaurant the other week, I saw an absolutely artistic masterpiece, so aesthetically pleasing that I wanted to take a photograph of it and display it on my kitchen wall as a work of art. Sadly, it was my main meal and although it was beautiful to look at, the dish in question had barely enough food to satisfy a hungry dormouse; in fact a hungry dormouse would have been able to eat it in one go (and would almost certainly have complained afterwards).

As a human being, hundreds of times larger than your average rodent, what bloody chance did I have with this meal? I’m not going to name and shame this restaurant because it is one of thousands throughout the world that change the emphasis on your dining experience. Call me boring but when I go into a restaurant, I want the food before anything else. The very fact that I am going to a restaurant means that I am hungry. The depth of that hunger will typically range from “more than a little peckish” to “so ravenously hungry that if you don’t feed me within ten minutes I will rampage through your kitchen eating anything that is vaguely edible”.

Almost all of the restaurants I choose to go to satisfy this one basic requirement: to drive out my hunger in the most pleasant way possible and leave me fully sated and happy with my dining experience. Sadly, there are a number of restaurants that shift the emphasis from eating to “a fascinating dining experience”. I will describe a typical night out in a restaurant such as this.

Picture the scene.

Mrs PM and I arrive at the restaurant for our table which is booked at 8 o’clock. We arrive early out of courtesy. We are greeted at the door by a very pleasant European maître d’hôtel who immediately charms us with his lovely French accent.

Maître d’ : Good evening, sir and madame. Do you have a reservation?

Plastic Mancunian: Yes. I have a reservation in the name of Mr Mancunian for 8 o’clock

Maître d’ : Ah, oui, Monsieur Mancunian. You are early and your table is not quite ready. Would you like a drink in the bar while we prepare your table?

Plastic Mancunian: Certainly.

We stroll over to the bar and a charming barman, also French or Italian, greets us and asks what we would like to drink.

Plastic Mancunian: I’ll have a pint of bitter please.

Mrs PM: I’ll have a glass of sauvignon blanc.

Barman: I am very sorry, sir, but we do not sell bitter. We have bottled premium lagers.

The barman then rattles off a list of lagers that I have never heard of. I opt for a weird Lithuanian pilsner called something like Kibiras.

Barman: Would you like to pay now or put it on the bill?

Plastic Mancunian: I’ll pay now.

Barman: That’s £15.

Mrs PM: Are you OK Dave? Why are you lying on the floor?

Plastic Mancunian (getting up); £15?????? £15?????????

Mrs PM pays the barman while I continue to question the price. At precisely 8pm a wonderfully charming waiter leads us to our table and presents us with our menus before departing to leave us to make our choices.

Plastic Mancunian: £15????????????

Mrs PM: Will you shut up about the bloody drink prices?

I just can’t get the price out of my head. There I am with a small bottle of Lithuanian beer that probably costs £7.50 and it tastes just like every other pretentious continental lager I've ever had. Just because it comes from Lithuania doesn’t mean that I should pay a fortune for it.

Then I look at the menu.

Plastic Mancunian (frowning): There’s a misprint.

Mrs PM: Why do you say that?

Plastic Mancunian: £10 for a bowl of soup.

Mrs PM: That’s not a misprint.

Plastic Mancunian: £10?????????????? £10?????????????????

Mrs PM (through gritted teeth): Shut up!

Plastic Mancunian: £10 for a bowl of soup????? £15 for a glass of wine and a tiny bottle of Lithuanian beer?????? That’s £35 if we both have a bowl of soup. And we still have to order out main courses.

All of the starters are roughly the same price. The main courses are even more expensive and I try not to look at the prices (fearing the wrath of Mrs PM). The waiter comes along and takes our order. I opt for a prawn cocktail starter and the “Lamb Poubelle”, the description of which makes it sound like the best dish ever, fit only for royalty and the privileged elite. It is described as follows:

A tranche of the finest lamb, lightly cooked to your liking, resting on a bed of pommes de terre puree and with the finest legumes du jour and drizzled with jus de rôti.

I try to ignore the price: £35.

I also try not to moan about the restaurant because, clearly Mrs PM is beginning to have violent thoughts. I change the conversation to something more pleasing. And then the starter comes.

I stare in disbelief at my prawn cocktail that has set me back a cool £8.

It is a single lettuce leaf, shaped like a face, with two prawns, strategically placed to give the appearance of two eyes, a single cherry tomato sliced up artistically to look like a nose and a wafer slice of gherkin forming the mouth. Carrot shavings form the hair and a little mayonnaise (two tiny pipette drops) signify the cheeks.

Plastic Mancunian: Excuse me I ordered prawn cocktail.

The Waiter: Monsieur, this is your starter.

My prawn cocktail looks like a ginger person with green skin, prawns for eyes and a red nose. I look around for flies because a tiny insect could scoop up my starter in a mouthful and still be ravenously hungry. In fact, I devour the food in one gulp. I feel as if I have just set fire to a five pound note and skimmed three pound coins into the sea. If that was a starter then I am Brad Pitt.

I look across at Mrs PM who has ordered the same. She, too has eaten her tiny portion and is looking as disappointed as I am. I want to rant; I want to storm into the kitchen, grab the “chef” and say:

“What the %*$% was that? You may be able to fool an art critic or a pseudo intellectual that what you presented them was worth eating but I tell you what, mate! You don’t fool me! How much did it cost to prepare that piece of crap? 20p? And you want to charge £8 for it? You, sir, are a thief. You, sir, are a blackguard.”

The waiter returns and takes our plates. I want to stand up and punch him on the nose.

The conversation remains stilted. Mrs PM wants to mention the starter but fears that it will be like arming a nuclear warhead. I want to stand on the table and scream blue murder but I am not sure whether Mrs PM agrees with me and I don’t want to annoy her.

The waiter returns.

The Waiter: Would you like another drink sir?

Plastic Mancunian: (thinks – GO OUT TO THE PUB ROUND THE CORNER AND GET A PINT OF BITTER AT A REASONABLE PRICE YOU THIEVING SWINE!!!!!!!) Yes, please. I’ll have another kebab.

The Waiter: You mean the Kibiras? It is a fine beer brewed for centuries by Lithuanian monks, using an 800 year old recipe.

Plastic Mancunian: (thinks – Oh is that why it costs nearly a tenner? Was the bottle flown to the UK in a first class seat? Is that why this bottle of gnat’s urine costs over a bloody fiver?). Oh, that’s interesting. Yes – a bottle of gnat’s, pi... er, sorry, Kibiras.

The Waiter: And for madame?

Mrs PM: Nothing for me.

I begin to believe that Mrs PM realises how much this meal is going to cost. The waiter returns with my beer and another waiter arrives with our main courses. With a “bon appetite”, he leaves our “main course” with us.

I will say this once (through gritted teeth). The “meal” looks amazing. There is a huge plate that could accommodate an enormous quantity of food, enough to satisfy even the hungriest Mancunian. The food itself has the appearance of an art masterpiece; the meat has been carved to the shape of a little lamb and the jus de rôti (or gravy) has been spread to make the little lamb look as if it bounding happily in a field. A small chunk of mashed swede has been carefully placed to give the appearance of the sun shining and there are no potatoes to be seen – oh hang on, they are underneath the lamb.

Sounds good, eh?

NO!!!!

It is the smallest meal I have ever seen. I eat the bloody thing in two seconds (one second to think about it).

It is a monumental rip off. It cost me £35. £35!!!!!!!

In my head I can contain myself no longer. In my head, I stand up and throw the plate at the wall. In my head, I take Mrs PM’s equally pathetic fish dish and smear it on the waiter’s face (barely covering a quarter of his cheek). In my head I tell the waiter to stuff his Kibiras up his bloody arse, preferably breaking the top of the bottle before he does so.

In reality, I tell Mrs PM to hurry up (only to find she has already eaten her “meal”) so we can clear out of the place. The waiter returns, takes our plates, offers us a dessert (to which thankfully we both say NO!!!) and gives us the bill.

Plastic Mancunian: I don’t want to see how much it is. Just pay it.

Mrs PM: OH MY GOD!!!!!! You DO NOT want to know the price.

Plastic Mancunian: Just pay it.

Mrs PM, now almost as angry as I am, pays the bill and we leave the restaurant as quickly as is humanly possible.

Mrs PM: Fancy some fish and chips?

Plastic Mancunian: I thought you’d never ask.

Of course, the above scenario may seem a little over the top, but I swear that I have been in a situation that was extremely similar. I mean, come on! How can restaurants justify giving you barely enough food to feed an anorexic ant and then charge you a small fortune to eat it, just because it looks nice? And why do people put up with and, worse, return to the place to be robbed again?

It’s like “The Emperor’s New Clothes”.

It’s time we made a stand. Some people have more money than sense.

It makes me so mad I could drink a bucket of Kibiras.

(Kibiras is used by kind permission of the Plastic Mancunian’s warped imagination. Any similarity to any existing beer, Lithuanian or otherwise is purely coincidental).

Sunday Stealing - The Magical Mystery Tour Meme

plastic.mancunian@googlemail.com (The Plastic Mancunian) — Sun, 11 Oct 2009 13:30:00 +0000

Thanks to my friend and fellow Manchester blogger, Mark (from
An Eerie Tapestry) I have decided to become a thief on Sunday and steal a meme. Anyway, you too can play here if you like - it's a bit of fun, anyway.

1. Is there anybody you just wish would fall off the planet?

Too many to mention. Here are a few: Simon Cowell and anybody to do with X Factor, Anybody with anything to do with Strictly Come Dancing, Jeremy Kyle, 50 Cent, George W Bush, Margaret Thatcher, Katie Price (aka Jordan), Paris Hilton, Britney Spears, Chris Moyles, Timmy Mallet, Ant and Dec, Boris Johnson, Naomi Campbell, Mariah Carey, Jamie Oliver, Anthony Worral Thompson, Anybody who has been a contestant on Big Brother or any other reality TV show, Ashley Cole, Cristiano Ronaldo, Diego Maradona, Alan Hansen, Clive Tyldesley

I think I’d better stop there.

2. How do you flush the toilet in public?

Bizarre question. I prefer not to allow the public into the toilet while I’m using it to be honest. Call me weird but that’s the way I think.

3. Do you wear your seatbelt in the car?

Yes I do. I would be arrested if I didn’t and that’s something I’m not willing to do.

4. Do you have a crush on someone?

Of course - Mrs PM.

5. Name one thing you worry about running out of.

Toilet paper.

6. What famous person do you (or other people) think you resemble?

The Milky Bar Kid or Joe 90 or anybody with blonde hair and glasses.

7. What is your favourite pizza topping?

Pepperami and as many different kinds of cheese as you can cram onto the top of the pizza without gluing it to the hotplate.

8. Do you crack your knuckles?

No. That is one of the most irritating habits on the planet. I hate it when people do that.

9. What song do you hate the most?

Too many to mention. At the moment, anything in the categories: rap, r’n’b, boy bands, girl bands, jazz or dance music. That’s a start at least. Oh and anything by Mariah Carey.

10. Did just mentioning that song make it get stuck in your head?

Nope. I am listening to “Under a Glass Moon” by Dream Theater so that is firmly entrenched in my head.

11. What are your super powers?

I can read minds - particularly those who read my blog posts.

12. Peppermint or spearmint?

Spearmint.

13. Where are your car keys?

Next to me on the desk (where they always are).

14. Last song you listened to?

“Pull Me Under” by Dream Theater (“Under a Glass Moon” is still playing).

15. What's your most annoying habit?

Ranting.

16. Where did you last go on vacation?

Boston and Cape Cod in the good old US of A.

17. What is your best physical feature?

Asking me that is like trying to find a diamond in a pile of elephant droppings. I would probably say my blue eyes, although certain crazy women appear to like my bum for some reason.

18. What CD is closest to you right now?

“Images and Words” by Dream Theater

19. What 3 things can always be found in your refrigerator?

Cheese, milk and grapefruit juice.

20. What superstition do you believe/practice?

None – it’s all a bunch of bunkum.

21. What colour are your bed sheets?

At the moment, red.

22. Would you rather be a fish or a bird?

A bird - which is a bit weird considering I’m scared of heights – but I would hope that the ability to fly would put paid to that.

23. Last thing you broke?

I can’t remember. Watch me break something now.

24. What are you having to eat tonight?

Pork chops.

25. What colour shirt are you wearing?

Red.

26. If you could be doing anything else today, what would you rather be doing?

I would rather be on holiday somewhere exotic.

27. Do security cameras make you nervous?

No – my ugly face usually inflicts severe damage to them.

28. If you wrote a book about your life, what would the title be?

The Mancunian Candidate

29. Last time you went to a cemetery?

In Boston, we visited the Copps Hill Burial Ground. Lots of intersting old graves dating from the 17th century.

30. Last concert you went to?

Steel Panther at the Manchester Academy.

31. Favourite musician(s)/bands you've seen in concert?

Rush, Metallica, Rammstein, Foo Fighters, Nine Inch Nails, Deep Purple, AC/DC, Judas Priest, Thunder, The Widhearts, Queen – too many others to mention.

32. Next concert you're planning to attend?

Rammstein at the Manchester Evening News Arena in February.

33. Do you talk to yourself?

No – but I talk to the cats. They are the only ones who listen to me. Actually, even the cats don’t listen to me.

34. Have you ever adopted or purchased a pet?

Yes. Jasper and Poppy were acquired from the Cats Protection League as kittens.

35. Have you ever been present when an animal is being born?

No.

Birthday Rock

plastic.mancunian@googlemail.com (The Plastic Mancunian) — Wed, 07 Oct 2009 19:59:00 +0000

Well, another year passes by. I am 47 years old tomorrow (8th October).

What’s worrying is that years seem to be flying by in an absolute blur at the moment; it was only yesterday that I was coping with the depression of turning 40. Now, seven years later, I find that I am only three years away from another bloody milestone.

I need to have a word with somebody about this – stop this bloody ageing process and let me go back to being 30 again.

Anyway, no use moping in a stew of gloominess – I am nothing if not optimistic.

I’ve decided to blast away my blues with a feast of hard rock and heavy metal. Below are 20 headbangers and fist-clenchers, many of which I have humiliated myself to in the car, on aircraft, in supermarkets and just about everywhere I’ve ever been with my mp3 player and the 5000 plus songs I have on there.

But who cares? I don’t – if music can’t be enjoyed in public then there is something wrong..

For those of you who loathe all things rock, there is a nice mellow tune at the end.

If you choose to visit the links, please think of me as you are assaulted by sonic perfection.

1. Blue Murder – We All Fall Down
2. Def Leppard – Go
3. The Hives – Tick Tick Boom
4. Iron Maiden – Where Eagles Dare
5. Judas Priest – Painkiller
6. Alice Cooper – Brutal Planet
7. Evanescence – Going Under
8. Marilyn Manson – The Fight Song
9. Metallica – Whiplash
10. Motörhead – Bomber
11. Muse – Knights Of Cydonia
12. Korn – Coming Undone
13. Nine Inch Nails – The Hand That Feeds
14. Rammstein – Links 2 3 4
15. Ten – Thunder In Heaven
16. The Wildhearts – Anthem
17. Joe Satriani – Crystal Planet
18. Nazareth – No Mean City
19. Motley Crue – Kickstart My Heart
20. Gary Moore – Over The Hills And Far Away

And here’s something to calm you down after all that rock:

Air – Space Maker

50? Bring it on!!!

Deal Or No Deal?

plastic.mancunian@googlemail.com (The Plastic Mancunian) — Mon, 05 Oct 2009 21:19:00 +0000

My television set hates me and I’m not surprised. It bears the brunt of my ranting. Mrs PM is thinking of calling in a therapist for it (and asking him for a straight-jacket for me).

Certain TV programmes ignite a spark within me, a spark that becomes a flame, then a blaze, then a nuclear explosion. My normal mild-mannered demeanour is cast aside as I mutate into a cross between My Hyde and the Incredible Hulk.

One such programme is “Deal or No Deal”.

If you’ve never seen it before then pay heed because it may have a similar effect on you. You may consider yourself to be like me, a pacifist who wouldn’t harm a fly. I reckon that by the time you have finished watching “Deal or No Deal” your TV will be cowering in the corner, crying for its mummy.

In Britain, the premise of the game is very simple; 21 contestants each have a sealed box containing a sticky label in the lid that depicts a sum of money, ranging from a penny to £250,000. One lucky contestant is selected and he then has to eliminate boxes guarded by the remaining contestants, pausing at various stages while “the banker” offers a sum of money based on the boxes left and values eliminated so far. The contestant can choose to accept the banker’s offer (“Deal”) or carry on (“No Deal”) potentially losing or gaining money as a result. If the contestant refuses the deals all the way through then effectively he gets what’s in his own box, which could be as much as £250,000 or as little as one penny.

Basically it is just a guessing game with a little bit of risk and a little bit of drama.

Incredibly this dreadful programme is shown in several countries. In Britain it is fronted by Noel Edmonds, who has somehow managed to resurrect his career because of it. From the very offset, Noel has somehow turned the show into an advert for the power of positive thinking. What is going on? This is the man who brought us Mr Blobby!!!

The chosen contestant appears with all sorts of lucky charms and, in some cases, sad tales that somehow wrench at the heart strings of those viewers susceptible to that kind of nonsense.

First and foremost, it is just a guessing game and, at best, a test of how brave or how risk averse the chosen contestant actually is.

Whenever the contestant picks a box, he is led to believe (by an unknown force) that he can somehow influence the contents of the box; if he is positive then the lower values will be eliminated. Of course, the values in the boxes are predetermined and he has no way of influencing the outcome of his selection at all. Sure he can have a “hunch” but that’s about the best he can hope for. If he is lucky then he will eliminate the low values. In reality, the odds are probably against him anyway.

However, what particularly irritates me is the “feel good” factor. The contestant convinces himself that a benign power is on his side; the remaining contestants with the boxes are also convinced that they too can help the chosen contestant achieve his goal of winning an incredible amount of money. All this is fuelled by Noel.

We hear things like:

CONTESTANT: I have a good feeling about box number 5; go on Ryan, open the box for me. 5 is my lucky number and I feel really sure it is a low number.

NOEL: I hope it is a low number. Positive thinking aids positivity. Ryan, can you open the box?

RYAN (Box Number 5): I’ll do my best.

What does Ryan mean: “I’ll do my best”? What the hell can he do? He can’t do anything but open the bloody box. Other things that Ryan might say are:

“I am WILLING this to be a low number for you mate.”

“This is a low number. I FEEL it in my water.”

Inevitably, when the box containing £250,000 is eliminated, Ryan will say something absurd like:

“I’m so sorry! I’ve let you down. How can you ever forgive me?”

The contestant will reply:

“It’s OK Ryan. I forgive you!”

AARRGGHHH!!! Am I the only person on the planet annoyed by this? Ryan couldn’t influence the contents of the box unless he was an alien with paranormal powers or just a bloody cheat! And if he WERE a cheat, if he had any sense he would wait until it was HIS turn to become the chosen contestant before putting his devious little plan into action.

STREWTH!!

Anyway, after eliminating a few boxes, the contestant then has to wait for the Banker to offer him a deal based on the remaining box values. The Banker is not seen and resides in an office off screen. We do not get to hear what he has to say because he calls Noel on the phone and speaks to him alone.

The Banker makes his offer based on a formula which is high enough to tempt the hapless contestant to accept the deal, but low enough to tempt the greedy bugger to continue in the hope that he completely blows it. To add to this, the Banker usually adds a couple of mild insults to relieve the tension (after all, we all like a bit of banter, don’t we?).

The Banker is the only sane person on the show, choosing to openly ridicule the contestant and shatter his greedy illusions. I’m sure he also gets to insult Noel Edmonds, which in my opinion would qualify it as a serious contender for the best job ever.

As you might have guessed I would LOVE to be the banker on the show.

Picture the scene:

NOEL: You still have a few boxes left, including the £250,000 and the penny. How do you feel?

CONTESTANT: I feel brilliant. I feel POSITIVE!! I really feel that I can do well. I FEEL it in my water.

TELEPHONE: RING RING

NOEL (feigning surprise): Guess what? It’s the Banker.

THE BANKER (aka The Plastic Mancunian): OK you bearded buffoon. Tell that pillock that this is just a stupid guessing game and that he stands no bloody chance of getting his greedy mitts on the £250,000. Tell him he is almost as ugly as you are and that positive thinking is a way of life that helps people to make the best of what remains of their existence. It is not some stupid made up thing that somehow influences the contents of those bloody boxes. I’ll offer the idiot £5000 and tell him he can be thankful for that. By the way, Noel, did I tell you that you are a bearded buffoon?

NOEL: HA HA HA HA HA HA HA! He’s such a mischievous imp. He says he wants to see you go home and that your luck has run out.

THE BANKER (aka The Plastic Mancunian): No I didn’t you weird beard. Tell the man the truth you and stop trying to raise his hopes. It’s a bloody guessing game. Tell him to take the five grand and be thankful. By the way, did I tell you that you are a bearded buffoon?

CONTESTANT: HA HA HA. My luck hasn’t run out. I feel positive. This whole place is filling me with a positive sense of certainty. I WILL win that £250,000. You can tell the Banker ... NO DEAL!!!

NOEL: Well done. He won’t be happy with that!

THE BANKER (aka The Plastic Mancunian): STREWTH! Never mind, weird beard. At least it pays my wages – oh and you exorbitant fee too. By the way, did I tell you that you are a bearded buffoon?

Noel has in fact leapt onto the positivity in the show and actually written a book called “Positively Happy: Cosmic Ways To Change Your Life”. Clearly something has worked for him.

In America, the show is very similar to the show in Britain but the contestants are absolutely bonkers. Gone is the positivity; it has been replaced by the razzamatazz that exists in American TV shows. If you were to take your average British contestant and pop him with so many happy pills that he rattled when he walked, you would have the contestant that I saw on the show during my recent visit to Boston. This was TV that was so incredible that I simply couldn’t take my eyes off it.

The contestant was dressed in an orange shirt that was so bright, I had to wear a pair of sunglasses to shield my eyes from the glare. His confidence was surpassed only by his arrogance; this man was the best of the best of the best of the best (in his world only of course). His hairstyle was incredible, a mullet that had been permed somehow. I like mullets but that hairstyle would have sent me to the hairdressers screaming “Cut it off! CUT IT OFF!!!!”

And, guess what? The guy was a HAIRDRESSER!!!!

The boxes in the British version were replaced by suitcases but the game was almost identical. There were one or two differences though.

First, there were two glamorous assistants who had two purposes, as far as I could see:

to take the suitcases off the remaining contestants when they had revealed their contents and also to let us all know, out there in TV land, how we should feel. Whenever a suitcase revealed a low value, the assistants would laugh and jump up and down clapping their hands. When it was a high value, they would look sad and pout mournfully. Whenever the orange contestant cracked a wild and unfunny joke they would laugh and whoop as if they had just heard the funniest joke in the history of mankind.

In addition to the empathic assistants, we had an audience that had been overdosed with Red Bull and Coca Cola; they were whooping, clapping and screaming continually, so much so that I could barely hear the presenter when he tried to speak. They were in a state of constant frenzy, which fuelled the orange contestant even more.

I was expecting the TV to explode.

In a similar way to the British contestants, the guardians of the suitcases were saying things like:
“I will MAKE SURE that this is a LOW value!”

One guy said:

“If this is a low number I want a FREE HAIRCUT!”

The orange contestant shouted:

“WHOO!!!! You got it, man!”

The guy must have known it had a high number otherwise he would never have taken a chance with his hair.

We actually saw the Banker in silhouette in the American version and he managed to ridicule the orange contestant. He must have read my mind because he remarked on the guy’s haircut being dreadful despite the fact he was a hairdresser.

Now, you may think that I consider the American version to be worse, but to be honest, it has one thing that makes it slightly better than the British version – the host is NOT Noel Edmonds. In the show I saw, he remained calm and tried his best to contain the arrogant craziness of the orange contestant, carefully explaining to him that he had to think about what he was doing rather than riding on a wave of frenzied enthusiasm.

I liked him.

In fact, I was thinking of applying for the position of Banker on the US show; my only problem is that people may guess who I am from my silhouette:

Do you think I should apply?

American TV Commercials

plastic.mancunian@googlemail.com (The Plastic Mancunian) — Thu, 01 Oct 2009 14:52:00 +0000

I’ve just returned from a very pleasant trip to the United States and, I tell you something, I’m glad I didn’t fall ill over there. If I had succumbed to an illness that required drugs of some kind I am certain that I would have perished as a result of a horrific treatment related side effect.

Mrs PM and I arrived in Boston around ten days ago and, whilst unpacking, I switched on the TV and started to flick through the channels, searching for something to watch as a background activity. It took a while because every single channel had a TV commercial on it – I was beginning to think that Americans had given up on the idea of watching TV programmes in favour of an endless loop of adverts.

Of course, we have commercials in the UK but in the US, they have millions of the things. I was drawn away from the necessity of packing and sucked into the world of advertising American style. Mrs PM seemed immune and unpacked, making sure that her clothes were impeccably hung up or popped into drawers. I simply watched the TV like a hypnotised idiot.

Here are a couple of commercials that grabbed my attention:

First, a very scary man, with a beard that made him look incredibly sinister, tried to convince me that I could use his services to make sure that the IRS (Internal Revenue Service) would not overtax me. I couldn’t drag my eyes from his beard; it was so perfectly coiffured in perfect harmony with his hair, that for a second I thought I was watching a talking doll. The expression on his face never changed and neither did the tone of his voice. Was he a robot? He certainly scared me into thinking that I should engage his services (otherwise I would have to pay the taxman millions of dollars) – and I’m not even a resident. But he was scary looking and I mean SCARY, so scary in fact that I later had a jet-lagged induced nightmare about him, picturing him as an immigration officer, accusing me of not paying my taxes.

Next came a dreadful advert for fast food with camera close-ups of seafood drowned in a weird looking sauce, all available for the cool price of $1.99, including a bucket of coke (and I mean a huge bucket). There were kids involved and parents smiling as they bit into this horrible looking gunk, with a catchphrase that made me cringe, a catchphrase that somehow stuck in my mind, causing me to suggest trying it for dinner later. Thankfully, Mrs PM hadn’t seen the advert so she replied “WHAT? ARE YOU MENTAL????”

Other products and services were being advertised with a phone number being drilled into the viewer’s skull by being repeated endlessly throughout the commercial:

Call 1-800-BUYJUNK. That’s 1-800-BUYJUNK. By the way, did I tell you that you need to call 1-800-BUYJUNK? If I didn’t then don’t forget to call 1-800-BUYJUNK. That’s 1-800-BUYJUNK. Have you called 1-800-BUYJUNK yet? Why not? Why haven’t you called 1-800-BUYJUNK? Are you insane? This is a once in a lifetime chance for you to call 1-800-BUYJUNK.

However, there was an advert that genuinely terrified me.

As you may know, I have suffered from hypochondria in the past (read about it here). Imagine my shock at seeing a US advert for a drug that could cause more harm than good. For non-American readers, let me explain and give you a detailed description of the commercial. I won’t use the real name of the drug – instead I’ll make on up; for the sake of the description, let’s call this wonder drug Phawxx.

Picture the scene. A smiling middle-aged woman is sitting on a sofa, looking at old photographs. Then she starts to describe, in painful detail, the dreadful medical condition she has and how Phawxx has saved her life.

“Phawxx has helped me live my life again,” she says. She is accompanied by music that, quite frankly, is so melodramatic that it either makes you want to sit there saying “AWWWWW” or (in my case) makes me feel like throwing up.

“Since I discovered Phawxx,” she continues, “I now have a reason to live. Suffering from Dragwart Syndrome is so debilitating it has made me question my very existence.”

“Dragwart Syndrome?” I ask myself. “What in blue blazes is Dragwart Syndrome? Is it some exotic disease I can catch in America? What the hell will happen to me if I catch that?”

I make a note of the name “Dragwart Syndrome” in my notebook, promising to look it up on the internet at the next available opportunity. I also start to plan to buy Phawxx – just in case.

She then goes into great detail about how the wonder drug, Phawxx, has made a difference. We see her in a sun filled garden laughing contentedly with her children; we see her lying in the arms of her devoted husband, both smiling adoringly and staring into each others eyes as if they are love struck teenagers. And the dreadful music plays on.

And then the warnings start. The commercial has lasted around six seconds until this point; the remaining twenty four seconds are devoted to the side effects of Phawxx. A voice over appears and then spends the remaining time warning you what can happen when Phawxx goes bad.

Always consult your doctor before using Phawxx. Possible side effects include: pregnancy, blindness, headaches, vomiting, diarrhoea, stomach cramps, deafness, hair loss and loss of toes. If your skin starts to turn crimson, stop using Phawxx. If your breathing becomes shallow or you fall asleep while walking, stop using Phawxx. In extreme cases, Phawxx can cause Dragwart Syndrome-related death. In some cases, you may grow an extra eye in the middle of your forehead. In others, your left leg and right arm may both wither and drop off unexpectedly. Do not take Phawxx if you have blonde hair, are Chinese, wear purple spectacles or own a cat. If you are male, Phawxx may turn you into a woman. Do not give Phawxx to children under the age of forty. Do not take Phawxx if you are receiving any other treatment for Dragwart Syndrome as the two treatments will combine and turn you into a fish. Ask you doctor about Phawxx.

And all the time, the voiceover man is telling us the ways in which Phawxx can mutate human beings, the nice woman is sitting in her comfy chair, smiling like an angel and laughing with her family. And the dreadful music plays on.

Of course, for any fellow hypochondriacs out there, Dragwart Syndrome is in fact a figment of my imagination (at least I hope it is).

I could go on all day about adverts on American TV but I will leave you with a complaint.

In the UK, on commercial channels, we are warned that adverts are about to come on. Let’s take the sitcom “Friends” as an example of how adverts are shown in the US and the UK.

In the UK a typical episode of Friends, a man will introduce the show and one set of commercials will appear about halfway through the show. A couple of commercials are also broadcast before and after the show.

In the US a typical episode of Friends will be split into about three hundred parts with commercials appearing every few seconds. Adverts will appear between the opening credits and the first part of the show, numerous times during the show and then just before the last scene and the end credits. For a foreigner like me it is impossible to know where the show starts and the adverts end. Even when Joey and Chandler are chatting, there are banners at the bottom of the screen advertising the next show to be ruined by adverts. Incredibly, just before the show ends, you get “close captioning for Friends was brought to you by Phawxx, the wonder drug for Dragwart Syndrome”.

Annoyingly, I was actually watching a sitcom I had never seen before and stupidly left the room and completely missed the final quirky scene.

“That was the best bit of the show,” said Mrs PM.

“Bollocks!” I said.

To be honest, I hate TV commercials as a rule. British commercials are awful but American ones are far worse on the whole. In Britain we at least inject some humour into them to make them a little bit interesting whereas humour is largely omitted from US adverts – either that or they simply aren’t funny.

If it were up to me, I would remove all TV adverts. The BBC is a commercial-free zone and it is small wonder that on the whole more viewers watch it than the other 3000 channels we get over here. The only things the BBC advertises are other BBC shows. That’s good enough for me.

I can do without “Just For Men” and “Phawxx the wonder drug” thank you very much, for my sanity at least.

This post was brought to you by The Plastic Mancunian. Warning - Do not read The Plastic Mancunian after consuming Phawxx as it may turn you into a baboon. Phawxx was brought to you by the weird and sordid imagination of The Plastic Mancunian and should not be taken ever - particularly if you suffer from Dragwart Syndrome.

50 Silly Questions

plastic.mancunian@googlemail.com (The Plastic Mancunian) — Sat, 19 Sep 2009 15:46:00 +0000

I will be away for around ten days from Monday 21st September as me and my good lady Mrs PM are flying off to the United States to visit Boston and Cape Cod. This will be my seventh trip to America but my first Boston.

If you happen to be in Boston or Cape Cod for the next ten days or so and see a dark blonde Englishman looking lost, looking confused in a car as he tries to get used to driving a car on the wrong side of the road again and sporting a short crazy haircut then it could be me, so please say hello. I will probably be in a bar at some point enjoying a bottle of Sam Adams.

And guess what? This is just the start of my invasion of America; Mrs PM’s dad has persuaded us to go on holiday with him next year to the west coast of America and Canada, taking in Calgary, Vancouver, Seattle and Alaska (amongst others). I really hope that I don’t bump into Sarah Palin.

So, dear American readers – you therefore have to suffer me twice in the space of nine months.

In the meantime, I thought I let you learn just a little bit more about me by answering 50 silly questions that I shamelessly stole from somebody else’s blog.

I didn’t steal their answers by the way.

See you in ten days:

1. What year was the best year of your life?

Probably 1984, my final year at university. The music of that year was excellent and I somehow managed to acquire an honours degree, a job and a girlfriend. Weird stuff happens sometimes.

2. One animal or insect that Noah should have left off the ark?

Wasps – without question. I hate the bloody things. I always have and I always will. Give me the power to wipe out one creature on this planet and these yellow and black buggers will cease to be.

3. Do you make a wish before blowing out your birthday candles?

I don’t blow out birthday candles any more. There are so many of them, that the cake would be a fire hazard and in these crazy days of excessive health and safety I would most likely be arrested for breach of a stupid rule; either that or pushing the birthday cake into the face of a health and safety officer.

4. Do you generally open your bills on the day that you receive them?

Yes. But then I ignore them for as long as I can.

5. How many pillows are on your bed?

One for me (one of those foam things that helps me sleep without cricking my neck) and two for Mrs PM. That makes three (I told you I was clever enough to add up).

6. Favourite ice cream flavour?

Häagen-Dazs Chocolate Chip Cookie.

7. What is the most dominate colour in your wardrobe?

Blue.

8. Have you ever seen a ghost?

Possibly. Shortly after my dad died, I could have sworn that he was in my room. I woke up in the middle of the night and it was freezing cold (bear in mind this was August) and I couldn’t move. I then heard a voice in my head that said “It’s only me, Dave”. I have been spooked by it ever since – though it could have been a dream.

9. Would you rather go to a carnival or circus?

If I was forced to I would choose a carnival

10. Favourite meal: breakfast, lunch, or dinner?

Dinner, definitely.

11. Your favourite fictional animal?

Donald Duck.

12. Have you ever flown first-class?

No. I’ve flown Business Class a couple of times (having crawled to the airline staff for an upgrade) but never managed to get beyond that.

13. Would you go on a reality show?

Most people who appear on reality TV shows are total arses who want to be famous for doing absolutely nothing. So the answer is no.

14. Are you more optimistic or pessimistic about the future?

Definitely optimistic about the future.

15. Pancakes or waffles?

If I have to choose, I’ll go for waffles.

16. If you could own a home anywhere in the world, where would it be?

I would own a house on or near to Victoria Peak in Hong Kong. If I had the money to buy such a house I would almost certainly relocate there too.

17. Your favourite Soup of the Day?

Chicken and mushroom.

18. What site is a must see for all visitors to your city?

Manchester’s not exactly a tourist destination but there are many interesting things to see. I would probably go for the Museum of Science and Industry, simply because it is so interesting that you can spend an entire day in there.

19. Can you recommend a good restaurant in your city?

My favourite restaurant in Manchester is the Yang Sing, a superb Chinese restaurant.

20. You go to the zoo; What is the one animal that you want to see?

Lions; I love them but they scare the hell out of me.

21. Potatoes, rice, or pasta; Which is your favourite?

Pasta

22. What is the best movie that you've seen this year?

Star Trek.

23. One of your favourite books when you were a child?

My granddad bought me a book called “Every Child’s Answer Book” because I was a painfully inquisitive child. It had answers to questions like “What is the largest number?” and “Why is the sky blue”. I think he did it go get some peace.

24. What in your life are you most grateful for?

Mrs PM and my two wonderful sons.

25. You are home alone and use the bathroom; do you close the door?

Of course – otherwise one of the cats will stroll in and laugh at me.

26. What is your favourite small appliance?

My toaster.

27. Salty snacks or sweet treats?

Salty snacks.

28. Are you usually a little early, a little late, or right on time?

It depends. If I’m meeting somebody in a pub for example, I’m usually about five to ten minutes late. If it is a movie or something like that I will be very early.

29. What is the most daring thing that you have ever done?

Taken on my fear of heights head on and climbed the Sydney Harbour Bridge. My fear of heights won. I will never do anything that stupid ever again.

30. Have you ever met someone famous? If yes, name one.

I’ve met Richard O’Brien, author of the Rocky Horror Picture Show.

31. What was one of your favourite games as a child?

Monopoly.

32. At what age have you looked your best?

I’ve never looked my best but I’ve looked the least unattractive when I was in my mid thirties, just before middle age started to set in, causing everything to start drooping. It’s all downhill from now on (quite literally).

33. One person that never fails to make you laugh?

Billy Connolly.

34. What was the first music that you ever bought?

Fanfare for the Common Man by Emerson, Lake and Palmer.

35. If you could change one thing about your family life when you were a child, what would it be?
I would have loved a brother. I was outnumbered as a child by my two younger sisters. A brother would have levelled the playing field.

36. What is the one thing that you cook that always receives compliments?

I’m not a good cook at all (despite what Mrs PM says), but I can whip up a decent pasta dish.

37. From what news source do you receive the bulk of your news?

Usually the BBC (both TV news and the web site).

38. In the last calendar year, how many people have you told that you love them?

Two.

39. Who received your first kiss?

A girl called Brid. I was five or six years old.

40. The single most important quality in a mate?

Intelligence. An air-headed bimbo would be nice to look at but I need decent conversation and, frankly, the intricacies of soap opera plots would not be sufficient.

41. What do you value most in a relationship?

Humour. Mrs PM makes me laugh and I make he laugh too. The problem is that she actually means to make me laugh whereas I do it by accident.

42. Do you believe that you have a soulmate? If yes, have you already met?

Yes – Mrs PM.

43. Do you consider yourself well organized?

Not totally, but I’m getting there. My war against procrastination is in its early days and I am improving as a result.

44. On average, how many times a day do you look at yourself in the mirror?

Once in the morning to see what awful state my hair is in and then once after I have beaten it into submission. And probably once more before I go to bed.

45. Did you ever make a prank phone call?

Yes. I rang up a taxi firm and sent a taxi to a stranger’s house – just for the hell of it. I was sixteen and stupid.

46. What one quality do you seek in a friend?

Fun. You have to be able to have a laugh with a mate. I struggle with people who are too serious.

47. Have you ever killed an animal?

Yes – lots of wasps. Do I feel guilty? Not a chance!

48. When you were twelve years old, what did you want to be when you grew up?

An actor. I would still have a go if the opportunity arose (though I would struggle with my fear of public speaking).

49. Do you believe in an afterlife?

Tough one. I’m a Roman Catholic and as such, I was indoctrinated by the concept of Heaven, Hell and Purgatory. I would like to believe that when we shuffle off this mortal coil, we drift away somewhere and live happily ever after. However, having a scientific mind, the idea of life after death is impossible to prove so I am therefore depending on the teachings of religion and faith. So the answer is really “I hope so” – though the thought of spending time in Purgatory repenting for my sins doesn’t feel like it would be a pleasant experience.

50. What would you like to accomplish with the remaining years of your life?

I want to write as many books as possible (I’m battling with one at the moment) and see as much of planet earth as possible, one little bit at a time. If I win that lottery tonight I will be ready to make a start as soon as I return from Boston.

The Hypochondriac

plastic.mancunian@googlemail.com (The Plastic Mancunian) — Wed, 16 Sep 2009 20:43:00 +0000

I’ve had every disease and medical condition known to man.

Well, when I say “known to man” I really mean “known to me”. I’m much better now. Do you know why?

Because I used to be a hypochondriac.

When I was a young lad, my parents bought a book entitled “The Home Medical Encyclopedia” and foolishly left it lying around so that a stupid, young idiot like me could read it.

I opened the book and started to read and within minutes I had started to panic.

The title of the book should have been called “You Are Going To Die Painfully and Horribly Within The Next Two Days and Here’s How.” By the time my parents found me twenty minutes later, I was gibbering wreck.

“I’ve got scabies,” I cried.

“What?” yelled my dad. “Give me that. Why do you think you’ve got scabies?”

“I’m itching,” I wailed.

My dad then read the entry for scabies and started laughing.

“That so-called spot you have on your face is a zit, you idiot,” he laughed.

“But it could be a nest of insects and monsters burrowing under my skin,” I wailed.

He hid the book but, being a tenacious little sod, I found it and read it from cover to cover. By the time I’d finished I was convinced that I had malaria, sleeping sickness, chickenpox, smallpox and cancer. Not only that, I had a heart condition a brain tumor and a fractured skull. I was dying even though I could still run around like a deranged lunatic.

I swear that if somebody had told me that an alien virus was wreaking havoc in England, I would have been checking myself for symptoms. Imagine this:

“The symptoms include turning green and growing an extra arm. In the latter stages your hair will turn blue and you will start croaking like a frog. Death will follow when your brain explodes out of your ears.”

Most people would have laughed. I on the other hand would have believed that garbage and examined my skin convinced it was turning green.

Of course, I have never had any of the ailments that I read about in that evil book; it was all in my mind. My normally wonderful and reliable imagination had run amok and let me down magnificently.

The truth is that I wasn’t ill as a child and, in reality, I have hardly been ill at all. As a very young tot, I had measles and mumps but that’s about it. If you don’t count colds and flu and the odd stomach upset, I’ve had a relatively disease free existence.

Nevertheless it has been difficult to convince myself that I am healthy. When I was nineteen I humiliated myself at the doctor when I tried to convince him that a prickly heat rash was in fact a flesh eating virus devouring my skin. As I spoke to the doctor, I was desperately trying to stop myself from crying like a baby.

The doctor was professional and kind but I know that he was thinking “you bloody idiot, wasting my time”, even though I’m sure that’s what he was thinking.

I am so glad that I decided not to become a doctor; I would have spent the last twenty years in mental anguish every time I discovered a new microbe or virus. I would have been the world’s worst medic, with patients running screaming from my surgery as I chased them shouting:

“Bugger off! It’s ME that’s ill, not you. Look at me! I’ve got an alien virus that’s turning my skin green.”

Thankfully, I got over hypochondria after that to a certain extent, mainly because I forced myself to stop reading medical tomes. Ignorance was bliss.

I did have a little bit of a relapse when I bought my first home computer about fifteen years ago. And before you think I am a complete moron, I can confirm that I didn’t consider it possible to catch a computer virus that would erase my brain.

The cause of my relapse into hypochondria was the internet. As wonderful as the internet is, it introduced me to yet more diseases, conditions and syndromes and allowed my colossally vivid imagination to work overtime.

Whereas home medical books listed ailments in alphabetical order, the internet with all of its powerful search engines and splendid web sites allowed me my hypochondria to flourish.

For example, on one site I have found, you click on the symptom and it opens a door to a wondrous list of possible causes, most of which are harmless. The problem is that a lot of them are not. Through websites like this I have discovered many hundreds of new ways to depart this life in the most painful and unpleasant way possible.

If you click something as common as “headache”, you uncover 149 possible causes.

149!!!!

That’s enough to keep a hypochondriac gibbering for life. What can cause a headache? How about migraine, allergic rhinitis, flu, whiplash, stroke, depression, meningitis, brain aneurism, pneumonia, concussion and premenstrual tension and that’s just for starters.

Thankfully, years of self-induced panic and stress have taught me that my symptoms are probably due to my own stupidity and I am no longer concerned about illness. Perhaps I should be, but I know that the moment I start reading about diseases and medical conditions I will be back at the doctor’s screaming blue murder.

Mind you, as I get older, I have noticed that there are more odd aches and pains appearing. And my eyesight’s getting worse. And I’m slowing down. And swine flu is around. Maybe I should stop this post right here before I am tempted to look up the symptoms. Or perhaps not.

Be calm, Dave, be calm. There is no flu that turns you into a pig.

Men's Problems - Women

plastic.mancunian@googlemail.com (The Plastic Mancunian) — Sat, 12 Sep 2009 17:51:00 +0000

I like to live dangerously and this is probably as dangerous as it gets. If I haven’t alienated the female members of the human race already, I certainly could do after this post.

I want to talk about women, yet again, but this time I want to discuss how the fair sex can be a problem to men. As much as we love them, they can be a major headache for us - sometimes.

As I have said before, I really struggle to get my head around the female sex, but I know that I am not alone. In fact, I will go further and say that no man alive really understands women. Any man who claims to is a fibber, and a big one at that.

I have moments of delusion when the antics of Mrs PM and other women appear to make perfect sense. When such moments occur, I celebrate and say to myself: at last, finally, I know what goes on in the female brain. My euphoria is usually short lived because Mrs PM stuns me by reacting totally different to expectation, crushing my jubilation to an embarrassing pulp.

But it’s worse than that because understanding women is not the only problem for men; it’s the whole female package. What do I mean by that? Allow me to elaborate.

Like most men, I love to admire a beautiful woman. I do so subconsciously, my eyes driven by a primeval force that I can’t control. Most men are the same.

Many years ago, when I was a young idiot, a female friend and I were chatting when the conversation drifted towards a mutual acquaintance.

“He’s a nice guy,” she said, “but he is a total letch.”

“A letch?” I asked. “What do you mean? What’s a letch?”

“Well when he’s talking to me, he doesn’t look at my face.”

Puzzled (and stupid) I probed further.

“That’s a bit rude isn’t it? Or maybe he’s just shy. I’m a bit like that – I tend to look away sometimes when talking to people.”

“Oh he’s definitely NOT shy,” she said. “When he talks to me, he just stares at my boobs.”

“Ah!” I stuttered.

And my eyes were suddenly drawn to her boobs. I couldn’t help myself; I was a young testosterone-fuelled male, listening to a female complaining about a man who stared at her like she was an object of lust – and I was doing exactly the same. I tried to force my eyes upwards to her face but all I could focus on was her cleavage. It was as if I had two devils sitting on my shoulders.

“Cop an eyeful of those,” growled the demon.

“Look at her face; she will despise you,” said the angel.

In my defence, I couldn’t help myself. Any heterosexual man who claims that he doesn’t stare at attractive women is an absolute liar. That’s a bold statement but I consider it to be absolutely true.

In my youth, I would walk down the street analysing every single women who walked past me, eyeing each one up and down; her hair, her face, her boobs, her figure, her legs, her overall shape and imagining how wonderful it would be to be walking next to this attractive creature with my arm around her waist, smelling her wonderful perfume. My imagination sometimes ran amok.

Even though I was in a relationship, I simply couldn’t help myself. Having listened to my female friend complaining about lechers, I became self-conscious and forced myself not to stare. But sometimes (most times if I am perfectly honest) I failed spectacularly. When confronted by a hideously ugly bloke with his tongue dragging on the floor, leering like a starving bulldog leaving a trail of dribble behind like a monstrous slug, most women simply looked away. Others glared with venom in their eyes and violence in their thoughts.

Nowadays, of course, I don’t look like some manic sexually charged animal; however, I still appreciate a beautiful woman and although I am in my mid-forties I find myself occasionally appreciating the beauty of women in their twenties. It can be embarrassing though if my eyes rebel and drift up and down their bodies as they are talking to me. I try my best to look into their eyes – but that too can get me into trouble. The only thing that has changed since my youthful days is that I still find many women in their forties gorgeous as well.

You will often hear the old adage that says that men think about sex approximately every seven seconds. This is utter bilge; when I was young I never ever stopped thinking about sex; every young woman I met was a potential conquest. It was just a pity that I didn’t have the means to win those battles. If a woman were to somehow manage to get past my ape-like features, my “witty banter” poured forth like a wave of demented twaddle. I didn’t know how to talk to women so how could I make one love me?

Of course, as you have probably gathered, I managed to find myself a woman crazy enough to put up with me (something else I have never understood). Once I had overcome that barrier I was delighted. Something slotted into place within and I became a different person.

Thus, I moved from being an idiotic sex-crazed baboon to being a contented young man happy to settle down with a woman who loved me; and a new challenge arose and slapped me across the face.

Living with a woman is a massively rewarding experience and I wouldn’t change many things. I would however give anything to solve the particular problems that the experience of living together creates. They are not massive problems by any means but I do feel powerless to react. I’m an educated person who loves to solve problems; but I am frustrated because the solutions to these particular conundrums elude me.

Here are a few examples:

Why does a woman dress to impress other women instead of other men? I discovered this disturbing trait fairly recently. We were going out with a couple of friends and all of the women complemented each other on how they were dressed. Mrs PM had changed her clothes several times before going out and each time I said “You look gorgeous. What’s the problem?”

She confessed that she had to look better than her friends – or at least as good as them. As a man this was a completely alien concept to me. I would have gone out in jeans and a T-shirt if I could have done and I wouldn’t have cared one jot what my mates thought about my attire. Yet she, and all the other women were desperate to impress each other and not the guys who were there.

Why do two men chat to each other on the phone for about twenty seconds and women for about twenty hours?

Why does Mrs PM hide clothes that she doesn’t want me to wear? Mrs PM feels a desperate urge to approve any clothes that I buy. If, for some reason, I manage to escape to a clothes shop without her being present, and then buy something she hasn’t vetted, I can guarantee that if she doesn’t like it, she will remove it from my wardrobe and hide it somewhere. And she will lie to me as well.

Me: “What do you think of this shirt?”

Mrs PM (through gritted teeth):”It’s … erm … nice. Why did you buy it?”

Me: “I like it. Why do you ask?”

Mrs PM: “Erm no reason”

A week later you can guarantee it has gone missing.

Me: “Where’s that yellow shirt I bought last week?”

Mrs PM: “What yellow shirt?”

Me: “The one I bought last week that you said was nice.”

Mrs PM: “Yellow doesn’t suit you. Put on the blue shirt.”

Me:”You’ve hidden it haven’t you?”

Mrs PM: “No!” …”Yes! I hate it! It makes you look like an anaemic window dummy!”

Another bone of contention is doing stuff around the house. I’ve learned that little things really matter. For example, if a man spends the whole day decorating the room, he can suffer because he has only done one thing. Why for example, didn’t he do the washing up? This particular problem may not be true of all women, but I do know that if on a Saturday, I get up and spend two hours hoovering , cleaning the kitchen and loading the dishwasher, Mrs PM will be happier than if I spend three hours washing the cars. Why? Because I have completed three tasks instead of just the one.

I’m sure that not all women are like this but some, like Mrs PM, definitely are.

What about when you say the wrong thing? Mrs PM and I don’t argue very much at all but when we do it is usually because I have somehow put my foot in it by saying something I think is perfectly reasonable and totally truthful, yet somehow it pushes the anger button within Mrs PM’s psyche. The end result is that I am berated for something I simply do not understand; when I protest my innocence it is like trying to put out a fire with a nuclear warhead. The snowball effect has nothing on these arguments.

I’ve learned to shut up and let Mrs PM burn herself out. And then, most of the time, I can repair the damage with a bunch of flowers, a box of chocolates or a cuddly toy.

See what I mean? Women can sometimes be so illogical that they give men an horrific headache.

Regular readers will probably be thinking:

“For heaven’s sake, Plastic Moron! Women aren’t that difficult to understand. Are you completely deranged? Are you just stupid? Will you please stop going on about women?”

To those people I say this:

I may be stupid but I need to understand women. The theme of this post implies that women are a problem for men. They are definitely not – not really - well sometimes.

What I am trying to do is to draw your attention, dear female reader, to the fact that we simply do not understand you and, that you simply do not understand us back.

We stare and gawp at gorgeous women because we love looking at the beautiful female form. Although some of us may be lechers, the majority are not but are driven by a primeval urge. Our goals are different from yours.

When we live with women, they think that we are lazy good-for-nothing emotionless imbeciles with no compassion who simply want to drink or watch and play sports. There is some truth in that but again we can’t help it. While a bunch of flowers or a box of chocolates will make ladies happy, just letting a man go to the toilet with a newspaper for ten minutes will make him happy. While you want to spend three hours on the phone chatting to your best friend about emotional issues, we are quite happy to get a mate round and watch the big game with several cans of beer and testosterone-fuelled aggression.

When your man screams during a football match because his team have just conceded a goal, don’t scold him because he has spilled beer on the floor. Embrace him and make him feel better. Don’t ask stupid questions like “which team is winning?” or “who’s playing?” or “what a good goal that was. Was that your team?”

When your man hoovers the house, don’t scold him for not loading the dishwasher and filling the washing machine. He will do it next time if you thank him.

When a man stares at you in the street, it is because you are beautiful, not because he is a lecherous drooling baboon (even if I am – I can’t help it).

We should embrace our differences and try to understand each other.

If any women are annoyed by this post, please understand that this is not my intention. I adore women and I respect them with all my heart. Women are beautiful, kind, intelligent creatures and I love you all to bits. I have also ignored something a friend of mine once said:

“All women, without exception, are mad.”

He simply has bigger problems than me understanding the fairer sex. Don’t be too hard on him – he is a goon. That sentiment certainly does not exist on this blog (although it may seem the case sometimes).

I’m off now to watch the big game. I will require the following items:

A TV and a can of beer and a lot of patience (for when Mrs PM comes in and asks me why I didn’t dust when I hoovered earlier today).

The Grilled Mancunian

plastic.mancunian@googlemail.com (The Plastic Mancunian) — Tue, 08 Sep 2009 19:22:00 +0000

I’ve been cooked several times in my life and I’m bloody sick of it.

Having blond hair and fair skin is seen by some as a blessing. Phrases like “blonds have more fun” may give the impression that we are rampant extroverts with a party animal mentality and can make any social occasion memorable.

Unfortunately the truth of the matter is that blonds are cursed. I won’t even begin to discuss the common myth that blond people are stupid. You’ve all heard the jokes:

How do you make a blond’s eyes twinkle? Shine a torch in their ear.

Actually, blond jokes are geared towards airhead blond women (at least that’s what people telling blond jokes tell me) so I like to think that people don’t consider me to be stupid just because of the colour of my hair.

How are we cursed then?

We are basically allergic to the sun (well excessive sun at least).

So does that make us vampires? In a way, it does. I’m not saying that I am an evil undead monster who sleeps in a coffin all day and then marauds around at night, attacking young female virgins and bleeding them dry. Last time I checked, a cross didn’t burn my skin and the closest I get to drinking blood is when I have a medium rare steak. Besides, I quite like garlic.

The sun has a similar effect on my skin as it does on your average vampire. I don’t burst into flames and crumble into ash. However I do cook, albeit very, very slowly.

When I was young, like most stupid youths, I considered myself to be indestructible. I would jump around like an idiot, climbing trees, throwing myself off walls and leaping into water from great heights. I was a moron (okay maybe I was a true blond in those days). And I actually thought that I could spend a whole day in the sun without getting sunburnt.

The first time I remember being cooked, I was on holiday in Bala, a lovely little town on the edge of Bala Lake in mid Wales. I was eighteen and four of us were discovering the glory of alcohol and more importantly freedom from our parents. It was my first real holiday with them and I was ready to take the next stupid step.

On that fateful day, we drove to the lake and hired a boat. It was a gloriously sunny day and, being a complete and utter bonehead, I chose to sail on the lake without a shirt. I still don’t know why I did this. Even my mates suggested that perhaps I should wear a T shirt. I wouldn’t mind but my physique wasn’t exactly worthy of parading to other sailors. I was so skinny that I resembled a living skeleton. Arnold Schwarzenegger I wasn’t.

What was I hoping to achieve? If any young women had seen my bony body they would have either fled in disgust or called an ambulance. Either that or tried to play me like a glockenspiel.

I stepped onto that boat looking like a milk bottle. I stepped off it, three hours later, looking like a strawberry milkshake with a blob of chaotic cream on top.

I burned really badly. When I pulled on my T shirt, I screamed like a little girl. There were tears in my eyes as we travelled back to the cottage. I didn’t sleep a wink for the entire night. My whole upper body felt as if it was infested by tiny microscopic devils pummelling my skin with pneumatic pins.

Worse was to come. I came to terms with my stupidity, thinking that the red skin would gradually become brown. It’s not so bad, I thought. At least in a week or two I will look like a tanned hunk and the girls will throw themselves at me.

Wrong!

My red skin began to peel. Having never seen this phenomenon before, I began to panic. My dad reassured me saying that it would be all over soon (as he struggled not to laugh). It was as if I was covered in layer upon layer of cling film. I peeled off great swathes of skin. I could have made curtains for the whole street out the skin. There was almost enough to create another human being. One time, I pulled skin off my entire torso and arms like a jumper.

As the initial pain diminished, it was replaced by a terrible itch all over the exposed and grilled area. I scratched and scratched and ripped off handfuls of skin. It was horrific – just like the incredible melting man. You’ve seen “The Fly” with Jeff Goldblum? That was a picnic compared to me.

And what was the colour of my skin after I had shed more coats than a rampant snake? You've guessed it - white!

Since then I have been very careful. I love to travel to very warm and sunny places and laze on the beach; now I sit in the shade and cover any exposed bits of my body in factor 3 million sun block.

Many people ask me why I bother going to hot places if I come back looking like a ghost. I love sitting in the shade watching people, reading, listening to music; the only difference is that I don’t have skin like leather with more wrinkles than a ninety year old man. My fair skin makes me look younger than my years and I am often mistaken for a man in his mid-thirties.

That said, I have accidentally been grilled a few times.

At the Monsters of Rock festival a few years ago, I foolishly neglected to take a bottle of sun block. As I watched the various rock bands, I was unaware that I was gradually roasting in the sun. The only problem was that the sun was constantly on my right hand side, so I acquired a rather lopsided burn; the right hand side of my face was red raw as was my right arm. My left hand side was milky white.

I looked utterly ridiculous for weeks.

Another time I was caught out was at a cricket match in Manchester. The sun was intense and I burned quite badly. I was wearing sunglasses and when I returned home, I looked at myself in the mirror; a red and white panda stared back at me.

Even though I am proud that I have milky white, fair skin that has preserved a semblance of youth, I am envious of those who simply look at the sun for seconds and turn a lovely bronze colour. In my youth it always seemed to me that bronzed men attracted the best women; of course in my case bronze skin probably wouldn’t help because a bronze baboon isn’t the most attractive beast on the planet.

So what is the worst place to fry? Well in my experience, the backs of the legs is a pretty nasty place because you simply cannot sit down. On one occasion I burned the bottoms of my feet – that was very unpleasant.

But the worst place? Well I’ll leave it to your imagination but suffice it to say I am glad that I am not a naturist.

An Englishman On Holiday

plastic.mancunian@googlemail.com (The Plastic Mancunian) — Sun, 06 Sep 2009 09:40:00 +0000

I am a proud Englishman and I am a proud Briton. I love my country and I love my island. I love the Welsh and Scots who share the island with me and I love the Irish who live on the neighbouring island.

However, there are times when I try my best to avoid other British people, something you may think is difficult considering the fact that there are 60 million of us crammed into an area of roughly 81,000 square miles (that’s 750 people per square mile).

It’s not the British people on the island that I worry about; it is a minority of my fellow countrymen who travel abroad.

A lot of Brits are perfectly sane people until they arrive at the airport to go abroad. Once they pass through customs and find themselves airside, a switch flips inside the brains of a few and they mutate into something that can be quite embarrassing - the British tourist.

Most people in the world let their hair down a little bit when they go on holiday (I have been known to once or twice). The only problem is that there are a few British people do so with added gusto. Of the remaining sensible British tourists, there is another bunch that are either naïve or live in a bubble of Britishness, making them behave like obnoxious arses.

For some people, common sense is tossed aside; our normal reserved nature is discarded in favour of a rampant drunken beast. Others simply forget that there is a massive difference between Britain and the rest of the world and approach other cultures in the same way as Godzilla would approach a city on a day he was feeling particularly destructive. To them, the rest of the world should be like Britain.

I have travelled to many countries and I am humbled by the differences between cultures. I embrace them and I respect them. I try to become part of them. If I travel to France, I try to speak French; if I travel to a European country where I do not speak their language, I use a phrase book to get my message across. I have travelled to many diverse countries, including many European countries, Thailand, Russia, Australia, South Africa, Canada, United States and China. In each country I have welcomed our cultural differences and tried my best to be an ambassador for my country.

Sadly, a few of my fellow countrymen are not willing to try to blend in and, worse, others contribute to the ever increasing bad reputation of “Brits abroad”.

The worst offenders I have seen have typically been in Europe. Great Britain is part of Europe, whether we like it or not (personally I love it) and in my humble opinion we should be thankful that we can pop over the sea and find ourselves in fabulous countries like France, Belgium, Holland, Spain, Portugal, Sweden and Norway. Travel a little further and we can enjoy Greece, Italy, Switzerland, Germany, Denmark and many others. They are quite literally on our doorstep.

So why do we have such a problem? Let me give you one or two examples of what I’ve seen and perhaps all will become clear.

I travelled with a group of friends to Palma on the beautiful island of Majorca, in order to celebrate a friend’s 40th birthday. We had a few beers, we had a few meals and we visited some of the lovely places in and around the capital city. One day, we opted to go to Magaluf, mainly out of morbid curiosity. For those who have never heard of Magaluf, it is a seaside resort in Majorca that basically becomes little Britain during the summer months. Throughout that period, fleets of charter flights full of young nutters descend on this small resort with one aim: to drink as much alcohol as they can for as long as they can and cop off with as many members of the opposite sex as they can.. Young men and women mutate into the worst kind of party animals and turn the place into a throbbing drunken cesspit of debauchery. Those who avoid the place call it Shagaluf.

Our party took a couple of cabs to Magaluf after breakfast at the hotel and as we approached I was horrified to see a fish and chip shop with the bold claim “Fish imported from Britain”. I was stunned and remarked on this to one of my friends. The cab driver, with a look of sadness on his face, said “Magaluf is an English colony in Majorca. It is horrible.”

I was disturbed by this. We arrived there and found the place almost deserted, which amazed me. It was 11 o’clock and there were only a few people around. “Where is everybody?” I asked. And then it became clear; if you had been up all night partying then you would be in bed. Fair enough, I thought. You can lie in on holiday. But then I noticed the number of clubs and bars; and they weren’t Spanish bars – they were pubs – English and Irish pubs.

And even worse there were pubs boasting that people could watch their favourite soap operas there, beamed in on satellite dishes especially for those who have no desire to become part of a foreign culture, preferring instead to create a pocket of Britain.

“Don’t miss Eastenders or Coronation Street”, it claimed and there were people there watching TV. There was another bar that beamed episodes of “Only Fools And Horses” on an endless loop. People were actually sitting in there laughing at a British comedy show in a bar on a Spanish island.

At lunchtime, we decided to have a beer; we searched around the place for an authentic Spanish bar; we failed and opted to pop into a pub. I marched up to the bar and was greeted by a dark haired tanned barmaid, who I assumed was Spanish. The beers in front of me were all British. I scanned the taps and discovered a Spanish one.

“Cinco cervezas y una coke, por favour” I said in very bad Spanish.

“Which beer do you want?” came the reply is a Cockney accent. I pointed to the Spanish beer, disappointed that I hadn’t had the chance to converse with a Spaniard. The pub was owned and run by British people.

After beer and food we wandered around Magaluf and I saw very few Spaniards. All we saw were British people; if it wasn’t for the sun I would have sworn that we were in Brighton or Margate. I saw cafes and restaurants serving English food; fish and chips were everywhere and people were sitting in pubs watching their favourite TV programmes beamed in from Britain.

The plan had been to spend the day in Magaluf and visit a couple of bars in the evening. By 5 o’clock the party animals had risen and were preparing for another night out. We had had enough so we caught cabs back to Palma to seek out Spanish bars and restaurants ans immerse ourselves in Spanish culture once more.

As we travelled back I thought to myself; if you are going to come to Spain why the hell would you eat fish and chips? Can’t you live without crap TV for a week? What is the point of coming to Spain and demanding all the comforts of home? Why bother travelling all the way to Majorca just to sit in an English pub all day watching endless repeats of a British comedy show? You could stay at home and do that and it would cost you absolutely nothing.

On another occasion, I was working in Amsterdam with a Belgian colleague called Eric. We had selected a traditional Dutch restaurant for our evening meal and sat down prepared to enjoy some Dutch cuisine. As I read the menu and chatted with my Belgian friend, I heard a loud English voice from the other side of the restaurant and cringed.

“Excuse me! EXCUSE ME! Do you have any Worcester Sauce?”

My Belgian friend stared at me in shock. I shook my head in shame. The loudmouth hadn’t finished.

The restaurant was packed and we had been lucky to get a seat. Consequently the waitresses were very busy and couldn’t attend people as quickly as they wanted. However, this vociferous English goon continued.

“I SAID EXCUSE ME!!! CAN I HAVE SOME WORCESTER SAUCE?????”

I looked over and saw a middle aged man, now standing up, and waving his hands in the air like a demented windmill.

“He’s English isn’t he? Are all English people like him?” remarked Eric.

I watched the reaction of the other diners; some laughed at him; others shook their head in disgust; most were shocked and appalled.

Mr Loudmouth hadn’t finished. Clearly he thought he was being ignored so he walked over to the nearest waitress and, tapping her on the shoulder, butted in as she was taking an order.

“Do you have any Worcester Sauce?” he asked rudely, ignoring the couple at the table, his voice still annoyingly loud.

I was totally embarrassed; I was sorely tempted to stand up and say:

“Sit down and have some patience you obnoxious arsehole. You’re giving British tourists a bad name.”

I resisted, mainly because it would have made me look bad and possibly made him worse.

“I’m really sorry,” I said to Eric. “We’re not all like that!”

The waitress, clearly eager to get rid of this muppet, walked over to the kitchen area and rattled a few bottles looking for Worcester Sauce. She found one and handed it to him. Mr Loudmouth must have noticed that he now had a captive audience. Instead of slinking back to his table in shame he held up the bottle of Worcester Sauce in triumph.

“Lea and Perrin’s", he shouted. “The pride of England – guaranteed to add a touch of class to any meal.”

What an utter arse! He failed to realise that most Dutch people speak perfect English and that he had insulted their cuisine by insisting that it required an English sauce to make it worthy to eat. The same waitress returned to her customers and said something in Dutch; the people laughed and stared at the goon.

She then wondered over to our table. Mr Loudmouth had made me so ashamed that I was barely able to place my order for fear of being associated with the obnoxious idiot. I spoke very quietly and then added: “We’re not all like that you know!”

Eric laughed and the waitress smiled kindly.

My final example was again in Spain, this time on a trip to Madrid with Mrs PM. We were sitting at a restaurant and a man walked up and said to the waiter: “Do you sell fags?”

Now then, dear American readers, “fag” is English slang for cigarettes (I realise that it means something completely different in the States), so please don’t imagine that I am going to steer the post in a bizarre direction.

The waiter looked puzzled and said “Que?”

“DO YOU SELL FAGS?” he shouted. “YOU KNOW FAGS! DO YOU KNOW WHAT A FAG IS?”

I stared at Mrs PM and she began to giggle. I was mortified.

“CAN I HAVE SOME FAGS?” his voice was getting louder as if the volume of his voice would somehow make the Spanish waiter somehow, miraculously, be able to speak English.

“FAGS!!!!!” he yelled, miming the act of smoking.

In the end, the waiter asked somebody who spoke English and the man walked away with a packet of cigarettes, muttering something about “bloody foreigners”.

As I said earlier, I travel to foreign places and embrace the culture; I am usually armed with a phrase book; I sample the local cuisine; I imbibe the local beer and wine; I visit places of interest and respect my foreign friends.

It’s a crying shame that a few British people adopt a superior attitude and simply refuse to mingle with interesting foreign cultures. Worse are the young thugs who go on holiday to get drunk and create mayhem.

One of my favourite bands, Thunder, wrote a song inspired by this last group called An Englishman On Holiday. I’ll leave you with the lyrics to that song, which, as funny as the lyrics are, sadly, do ring true.

Laying down in this Spanish bar; that last slammer hit me like a car
I've got the 6 a.m. Balearic blues, can't even focus on my own tattoos
I had a fight with this German guy, I saw him give my little girl the eye
While he was trying hard to be so cool, I hit him with a stool
Oh yes, alright, I'll be going all night
Gonna drink 'til they take me away, I'm an Englishman on holiday
Every year I get to do the same, I meet the boys and get on the plane
We like to sing and shout out "here we go"
'Cos they're the only words that we all know
We've got the loudest shirts you've ever seen
We're gonna take the beaches like a team
We've got so much duty free to drink, enough to float a ship
Oh yeah alright, I'll be going all night
So light the paper, get out of the way, I'm an Englishman on holiday
We never look for trouble at the start, but it always comes our way
We've got our pride and we just can't walk away
This morning I woke up inside a cell
They dragged me screaming out of my hotel
I don't remember what it was I did
But I've got this drummer banging in my head
I've got to get out 'fore I miss the plane, next summer I'll be back again
I'll be fighting for the Union Jack, if they let me back
Oh yes, alright, I'll be going all night
Gonna drink 'til they take me away,
I'm an Englishman on holiday...

Women's Problems - PMT

plastic.mancunian@googlemail.com (The Plastic Mancunian) — Mon, 31 Aug 2009 13:09:00 +0000

How many women with PMT does it take to change a light bulb?

The answer is 2.

Why?

BECAUSE IT DOES!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

This is a dangerous post. I am balancing precariously on that fine line between providing an educational post for guys and at the same time incurring the wrath of the fairer sex.

As you may have gathered, I am going to be discussing PMT (or premenstrual tension) or PMS (premenstrual stress/syndrome).

Being a guy, I’ve never really understood what goes on in a woman’s mind. Moreover, if I did manage to understand what was going on in a woman’s mind, everything I had learned would be cast aside during that dreaded time when PMT takes over.

First of all, let me give you an overview of what PMT is. Of course, I am addressing these words to guys because women know exactly what it is.

PMT is a term that scientists have conjured up to cover an affliction that strikes some women approximately a week before their monthly period. My quest to understand women more has taught me that hormones play a huge part in unravelling the puzzle that is the female psyche. Under normal circumstances, these hormones are balanced and women behave in the fabulous way that I have come to love. However, when PMT strikes, it is a bit like throwing something into that hormone pool. For some women, it is as if a mischievous imp has plopped a pebble into that pool causing ripples that have a few unpleasant physical effects such as cravings and irritability.

In the worst cases, however, the mischievous imp becomes a demon who hurls a bloody great boulder into the mix causing a tsunami of hormonal imbalance which turns the poor victim into a raging monster.

I’ve tried discussing this with Mrs PM on two occasions. The first time, she wasn’t suffering from PMT and she openly told me how she felt.

“Sometimes it’s fine and, although I’m a little edgy I’m OK. I get a slight headache, I’m tired and I fell hungry a lot. Other times I feel a little emotional and weepy, but I’m usually fine.”

The second time, she was well into the PMT period.

“How are you feeling?” I asked with a smile.

“HOW DO YOU THINK I’M FEELING?” she snapped.

I tried to pacify her by saying:

“I’m sorry. I just wanted to enquire. I’m thinking of writing a blog post about PMT …”

“What do YOU know about PMT? YOU’VE never suffered from it. YOU’RE A BLOKE! You don’t know what it’s LIKE!” she yelled.

“I, er, I just …” I stammered.

“You just what, exactly?” she retorted.

I decided not to probe further.

“Would you like a cup of tea?” I asked trying to change the subject.

She simply glared at me. I wandered into the kitchen and put the kettle on. Before I knew it, she was in there with me, sharpening a knife.

“Do you know the worst thing about PMT?” she continued, growling like a hungry lioness. “Men just don’t understand it. Men seem to think that every day is the same and it is. But for WOMEN it is a nightmare. Once a bloody month I suffer – and I mean SUFFER! I don’t know whether I’m coming or going. I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. I ache; I’m tired. And I’m hungry. I crave chocolate and sweets. And I put on weight because of chocolate and the bloating. I FEEL LIKE A WHALE! I LOOK LIKE A WHALE! AND I JUST WANT TO KILL EVERYBODY! LOOK AT ME! I’M A FAT, BLOATED, BEACHED WHALE!”

She emphasised here points by shaking the knife.

“And you’re irritable, I guess,” I squeaked.

“YES I AM BLOODY IRRITABLE!”

I stood there making tea while she ranted about how awful it is to be a woman. If I had been a braver man I would have rushed to my desk to get a notebook and written it all down ready for this post. Sadly, I am an utter coward and I tried my best to appear sympathetic, nodding and agreeing, keeping one eye on the knife and subconsciously covering my groin.

Since that time, I’ve tried to understand this affliction. I’ve also tried to spot the exact time that Mrs PM succumbs to PMT.

The other week I was out shopping with her and I noticed that her normal levels of tolerance had plummeted. I did a brave thing:

“Is your time of the month?” I asked.

Mrs PM surprised me – or maybe I shocked her hormones into a stunned silence by recognising the fact that they were totally volatile.

“Yes – how did you know?” she said (with the smallest hint of a smile).

The signs were there for all to see. She snapped at me whenever I disagreed with her; she yelled at me when I missed a parking space; she wasn’t shopping for clothes “because she felt a bit bloated”; she snarled at a cashier.

For the rest of the trip, her tolerance levels were in the danger zone. Being the faithful companion, I tried to make her relax as much as possible. I treated her to a coffee and cake and every time she snapped at me, I put my arm around here, kissed her gently on the cheek and whispered “hormones”.

And it (sort of) worked. The one time it didn’t was when she said “If you say the word “hormones” to me once more I will throw you through that window.”

Actually, that last threat is untrue although she did say “Please stop saying “hormones” to me.” I was overjoyed that she had used the word “please” and not threatened an act of mindless violence.”

So guys, I hope you are more aware of what happens to some women during PMT. And ladies, apparently there are a few ways to ease the symptoms. I’ve done a little research and discovered that you can reduce PMT with the following guidelines:

(1) Avoid stressful situations
(2) Eat less salt, which helps reduce water retention
(3) Try not to eat chocolate or sugary food
(4) Don’t drink alcohol (or at least cut down)
(5) Avoid caffeine – caffeine makes me jittery so I can imagine the effect it has on an irritable woman.
(6) Take plenty of warm baths and relax.

To be honest, I’m not always precise when guessing when PMT hits Mrs PM but I am getting there. I’m tempted to mark the days on my calendar; the only problem is that if she sees what I’ve written (“It’s Monster Time”) her lack of tolerance may make her hormones turn her into the female equivalent of the Incredible Hulk. I think I’ll cast that idea into the rubbish bin (even though “Monster Time” is rather apt).

By the way, my dear sweet Mrs PM. If you are reading this post and it is PMT time then I’ve gone away for a couple of weeks and taken the cats with me. I’m suffering from another form of PMT - "Plastic Mancunian Terror”.

And if you are reading this and you are another woman suffering from PMT, I don’t live in Manchester and my name is not Dave. I do in fact live alone in Siberia in a place that cannot be reached by humans; so travelling to Manchester with a pick axe, to teach me exactly what PMT is, will be a pointless exercise.

How Cool Were The 80's?

plastic.mancunian@googlemail.com (The Plastic Mancunian) — Tue, 25 Aug 2009 21:49:00 +0000

The 80’s made me the man I am today, which some of you may think is a bad thing.

I entered the decade as a spotty little 17 year old with wild hair, no common sense, romantically inept, naïve in the extreme and woefully immature. That decade turned me into a man and it was the most exciting period of my life.

I am fiercely nostalgic for those times. I have so many fond memories that I am moved almost to tears when I think about what I achieved and how I developed.

Why am I mentioning the 80’s? Well, today I read an article about a music festival that happened over the weekend in Henley-on-Thames where 30,000 people were whisked back in time to see 25 music stars of the 80’s belt out a bunch of classic songs from that decade. It would appear that there is a little bit of an 80’s comeback and I for one welcome it with open arms.

I’m not a child of the 80’s at all; I grew up in the 70’s. Nevertheless, after leaving school and spending three years at university, getting married, finding a good job and travelling, the 80’s laid the foundation for everything I am today.

So many things changed:

Hair

I know I go on about my hair a lot but bear with me on this. In 1980 my hair was long, fuzzy and totally unmanageable. I looked like a mad scientist. When I started university in 1981, with hormones belting around my body I decided that I needed to do something. So I became a New Romantic. That’s right, for a couple of years my hair was short but looked pretty stupid. After university in 1984, I embraced rock music and grew a Joe Elliott mullet. In 1988 I got married and a vicious evil hairdresser hacked off my locks making my hair short and, I suppose, manageable. I haven’t really changed that hairstyle since.

Fashion

When I started university I flipped between two styles: the pseudo rocker, complete with denim jacket, black T shirt and jeans and, at night in the clubs, I blossomed into a member of Spandau Ballet complete with stupid shirt, stupid jacket and stupid pointed shoes that crippled my feet. Many guys my age wore make-up on these occasions – you would never catch me doing that (he says trying to draw your attention away from the Kiss make-up to your right).

I considered myself to be the best dancer at every night club and I would even embarrass myself by trying to "moonwalk" to "Billy Jean". I was no Michael Jackson and I imagine that I looked like a total buffoon.

I grew out of that stupidity (thank heavens) and became more of a metalhead, wearing a leather jacket and jeans. Bizarrely I still have an 80’s leather jacket today – Mrs PM is desperate for me to get rid of it but I refuse.

Music

I loved the electronic music of the early 80’s and made a complete arse of myself dancing in night clubs to bands like Tears For Fears, Adam Ant, Depeche Mode, Blancmange and The Human League. By the mid 80’s I had grown tired of pop music, mainly because the charts were being filled by utter bilge, so I embraced heavy metal once more. I loved the cheesy rock groups like Bon Jovi, Def Leppard and Europe. The 80’s was the decade I discovered Rush – I have never looked back.

Travel

At the beginning of the 80’s I had barely left Walsall. By 1984 I had been on two three to four week tours of Europe, by 1988 I had worked in Amsterdam and Trinidad and in 1989 I spent four week touring the United States. I wouldn’t say that I was bitten by the travel bug that decade – I was savaged by it. If I won the lottery I would give up everything to travel the world – that’s how much the travel bug mauled me in the 80’s.

Women

When I think back to the 80’s and the women in my life at that time, I recall the pleasure and pain of relationships. Pleasure because that was the decade I lost my cherry but pain because of failed relationships, making a complete arse of myself and learning how and how not to deal with the fairer sex. To be fair I still haven’t learned much about women but I do know that, at university, one woman broke my heart into bits. It was the first time I had actually sobbed over a girl (and probably the last time if I think about). Do you know the worst thing about it? She didn’t even know the profound effect she had on me. I made a complete fool of myself in front of a bunch of mates, as this girl refused to dance with me, choosing her best mate instead. I stood there at the edge of the dance floor, my heart torn to shreds, humiliated beyond belief as the two girls made a huge show of making me look like a complete arse. My mates laughed and mocked me mercilessly. I went back to my room and cried my eyes out for two hours.

Ironically, in Manchester in 1985 (two years after the event), I happened to bump into this girl’s best mate in a pub, you know – the one she had chosen to dance with instead of me. She was with her boyfriend who was a friend of a friend. I didn’t recognise her and she didn’t recognise me, but somehow we got talking. When we discovered that we both went to Liverpool University, I asked what course she did. When she told me, I told her that I had had a major crush on a girl who studied the same degree. At that moment a deep hidden subconscious memory began to surface and as it rose through the ether I suddenly recognised the woman I was talking to. I was horrified as her features became clear in my mind. I saw the sarcastic smile on the two girls’ faces as my life crumbled on the edge of the dance floor.

I was amazed that she didn’t recognise me. I had to get out of there before a similar memory bubbled up in her mind. As I started to leave, she grabbed my arm and pulled me back down next to her and said:

“Tell me this girl’s name.”

I simply couldn’t bring myself to do it; I was still in pain. And do you know what she said to me?

“It’s a real shame. I probably know her, you know. You’re a really nice guy and I think you’d make a great boyfriend.”

That cut me like a knife. I felt as if my heart had been torn from my chest and jumped on by a thousand devilish imps in front of my disbelieving face, while a thousand more poured salt into the gaping bloody hole in my chest.

I was devastated and had to leave the pub. I’ve never seen either of the girls since.

Happily, I found myself a girlfriend shortly afterwards; she was a mate at university and we kind of hooked up. She became my wife in 1988. Sadly things didn’t work out but I certainly learned a few things.

Life

In 1980 I was an innocent, pizza-faced little pillock, driven by hormones, clueless, directionless and unsure what life held for me. I left Walsall and after three years in Liverpool, settled in Manchester where I have lived ever since. Through a series of embarrassing and educational incidents, I somehow managed to find a path and stick to it. The blurred uncertain world of that spotty adolescent clarified over the ten years and I suddenly saw potential and possibility in a life that I thought was hopeless. My father died in 1981, one month before I started university. I came from a working class background and nobody from my family had ever dreamed of going to university. Thankfully, he found out before he died and he was so happy; I’m glad that happened. I still think about him today and how proud he would have been. The 80’s built the foundation for the man I am today – this arse whose blog you are reading. I still have ambitions but they are the fruits of embryonic dreams I had in the 80’s – and I aim to fulfil them.

If somebody came up to me and said

“Hey, Plastic Mancunian! I have a device that can return you to any day in your life so that you can live that life again. Where do you want to go?”

I would immediately go back to my 18th birthday on October 8th 1980. I would relive my life from that point onwards.

Finally, being a huge fan of the music of that decade, I would like to list some of my favourite songs of that era:

First, pop music from the early 80’s. The following songs have special significance to me and I love them to bits:

(1) The Human League – The Sound Of The Crowd
(2) Blancmange – Living On The Ceiling
(3) Frankie Goes To Hollywood – Two Tribes
(4) Godley & Creme – Under Your Thumb
(5) Tears For Fears – Change
(6) Spandau Ballet – Instinction
(7) Adam and the Ants – Ant Music
(8) A-ha – The Sun Always Shines On TV
(9) Talk Talk – It’s My Life
(10) Visage – Visage

Remember all those? How about these 80’s metal hits?

(1) Whitesnake – Still Of The Night
(2) Yngwie J Malmsteen – Heaven Tonight
(3) Bon Jovi – Bad Medicine
(4) Van Halen – Hot For Teacher
(5) Def Leppard – Animal
(6) Lita Ford – Kiss Me Deadly (I had such a crush on Lita Ford!!!!!)
(7) Europe – Halfway To Heaven
(8) Kiss – Reason To Live
(9) Rush – The Big Money (Well I had to put a Rush video in there!!!)
(10) Ozzy Osbourne – Bark At The Moon

If anybody ever tells you that the 80’s weren’t cool, just ignore them. I’ve been on this planet for the best part of five decades and I can honestly say with my hand on my heart that the 80’s were the best.

I could go on for pages about the 80's but I'll stop here (for now): Frankie says: “no more”.

The Book

plastic.mancunian@googlemail.com (The Plastic Mancunian) — Fri, 21 Aug 2009 17:22:00 +0000

The campaign against procrastination continues.

After battling for a week, I think I am on top. Rather than wasting my time getting savaged by strangers on Mario Kart, watching tripe on TV and generally messing about like a complete arse, I have attempted to take control of my life. And the fabulous news is that after a week I have successfully completed all the tasks I set myself.

The question is: can I keep it up?

Well, now comes the biggest test: the book.

After last week’s declaration of war, I set myself the target of deciding exactly what I wanted to do and coming up with a rough plan of action.

I’ve decided that writing a work of fiction is a little too much for me at the moment because not only do I have to come up with a decent plot, I have to invent characters and trawl the sickening depths of my innermost thoughts in order to come up with a monstrous story that would make me happy. I’ve not dismissed the idea – I just don’t consider myself to be ready yet.

I’ve therefore decided to write a book about life; a work of non-fiction that is hopefully quite funny. It will be an extension of the odious poppycock that I write in this blog and will therefore serve three purposes:

(1) It will allow me the freedom to comment on the insane world we live in.
(2) By posting excerpts of the book on this blog, I will combine writing a book with the continuation of “The Plastic Mancunian” (I don’t want to concentrate on the book at the expense of the blog).
(3) It will allow you, dear reader, to pass judgement on the drivel that I write.

The book hasn’t got a title but a rough one (until I think of something better) is “The Plastic Mancunian’s Guide to Life” – I will change it, but the title isn’t important at this moment in time.

The good thing about the idea, for me at least, is that I am a grumpy, opinionated old goon who can use the book to let off steam about the insanity that life throws at people; a fully fledged rant, if you like.

Thus I have put my cards on the table and told the few readers who stumble onto this blog about my plans; ergo I have to complete the book in order to save face.

I will let you know how I am getting on and how the campaign against procrastination progresses.

Wish me luck.

Curb Your Enthusiasm

plastic.mancunian@googlemail.com (The Plastic Mancunian) — Thu, 20 Aug 2009 16:57:00 +0000

Have you ever sprayed beer onto the screen in the back of the seat in front on a long distance flight?

I have once.

It was last year on my way back to England from Johannesburg. The meal had arrived - if you can call it a meal – I would prefer to call it a steaming pile of crap that is so hot it can burn through the roof of your mouth into your brain. I’ve had a lot of these meals – that explains a lot I guess.

Anyway I digress. I had put a forkful of the molten tripe in my mouth and was cooling it down with a swig of beer when I howled with laughter at what was on the screen. As well as beer, the screen was peppered with semi-chewed gunk.

The person next to me glared at me. I tried to control myself but I simply couldn’t stop laughing.

What was I watching? I’ll tell you – “Curb Your Enthusiasm” starring Larry David. It was the first time I had ever watched the show and I was struck by the laughter bug.

You know when something makes you laugh? I mean REALLY makes you laugh, so much so that anything and everything else suddenly becomes absolutely hilarious? That’s what Larry David did to me.

If the pilot had interrupted the programme telling us all that the wings had fallen off and we were all about to die, I would have crashed into the African subcontinent in a ball of flames, guffawing at Larry David’s exploits.

The episode in question, if you are a fan of the show, was the one involving Larry David having to buy a bra for his housekeeper. The plot lines in the episode are so brilliantly woven together that I simply howled with laughter.

Here is a clip from that very episode – be aware that it contains a couple of swear words:

As soon as I got home, I looked up the show and told Mrs PM about how I totally embarrassed myself on the plane. I was even more shocked to discover that the show is completely ad-libbed – there is not script, just a vague plot. The actors simply take the story along and make up the dialogue. And it is so funny. How brilliant is that?

So why am I writing about it now? Well, I’ve discovered that it is being repeated from the beginning here in the UK every Sunday night/Monday morning. There are around six series so I can watch it all. I don’t stay up to watch it, but I do record it and watch it the next day. For those of you who haven’t seen it yet I urge you to give it a go. It is on “More4”.

For those of you, from England, who haven’t seen the show Larry David plays a caricature of himself who is a sort of cross between Victor Meldrew and David Brent. If he doesn’t like something, rather than keeping quiet he will say or do something outrageous, speaking his mind without fearing the consequences or just making completely the wrong decision; and like David Brent, you want him just to shut his mouth – of course he doesn’t and he ends up in a complete pickle.

I love the show and now I have a new comedy hero. I am looking forward to the next few months.

Here’s a little more:

I want to be more like him.

Procrastination - The War Begins

plastic.mancunian@googlemail.com (The Plastic Mancunian) — Sat, 15 Aug 2009 20:33:00 +0000

I have declared war on procrastination. Let battle commence.

“What is procrastination,” you may ask.

This short video sums it up perfectly:

Basically procrastination is the inability to perform tasks on time (if at all), preferring to defer them until later. For example, I have been planning in my mind to sit down and write a book. Each time I sit down at my PC, I become distracted with email, games, music, looking at my feet, polishing my desk, reading about the effect of rainwater on gravel and end up spending an unproductive hour wasting my time doing anything but writing.

The word “procrastination” comes from the Latin “pro” (for) “crastinus” (tomorrow), i.e. put off until tomorrow and that’s exactly what I do. And tomorrow never comes.

For me, it is not just writing a book; I know that certain other tasks need to be done but instead of getting up and doing them, I find something else to do, something mundane, something pointless, in fact anything but the task at hand.

Recently I’ve been asking myself why I procrastinate and, quite frankly, I simply cannot answer the question. I am utterly clueless. Why do I sit down at my PC with the best intentions, yet five minutes later end up playing my fourth game of “Bejeweled”? Why do I mentally prepare myself to write a chapter of a book and end up watching repeats of Blackadder?

I’ve even sat there tidying my desk. Why would I do that? Am I insane?
I don’t suffer from this annoying affliction all of the time. When I’m at work, I almost always achieve the deadlines imposed upon me and attack problems with gusto and professionalism. I am commended for it. I wouldn’t go as far as saying that I am a workaholic (far from it) but I do achieve what is expected of me; if I were to procrastinate at work I would suffer – so I don’t.

Yet when I get home, I will sit and watch TV rather than start my blockbuster. Why?

It’s not as if I have a deadline. I’ve not told myself that I need to write a book within a year. I don’t have anybody telling me that I should sit down and write the bloody thing. I want to do it for fun. I want to do it as a hobby. I’m not even sure that I will get as far as trying to publish it. The book is for me and me alone.

So what is wrong with me? Here are a few other things I procrastinate over:

(1) Mrs PM and I decided two years ago to take up dancing. Have we done it yet? No!

(2) I convinced myself after a visit to France that I wanted to retire there. Mrs PM speaks very good French. My French is pretty bad and I need to improve a lot. I decided a year ago to enrol in a French course in the centre of Manchester. Have I done it yet? No!

(3) I haven’t done any real exercise for four or five years now. Two years ago I decided to cycle to work at least twice a week during the Spring, Summer and Autumn months. The distance from home to work is approximately 5 miles. It would keep me fit, save petrol (and therefore money) and reduce stress. Have I done it? Once or twice. ONCE OR TWICE!!

What the hell is wrong with me?

I’ve had enough. The only thing that I have managed to keep up outside work is the maintenance of this blog. For some reason, I actually look forward to writing drivel for people to read, criticise, comment on or even ignore. I need to capture the feeling I get from blogging, merge it with the drive I have at work and then apply it to those areas that fester or die due to procrastination. I have done some research and I think I understand the problem. Here are the main culprits:

(1) Disorganisation and bad time management - I am totally disorganised. At work, I keep a “to do” list and manage to maintain it. At home, however, I keep no lists at all and I do not set myself deadlines.

(2) Distraction - I am easily distracted. If I start surfing the web for research, I will invariably stumble across a blog that interests me that has nothing to do with what I am doing. I will spot a game that is just dying to be played; I even end up reading stupid articles about how to take over the world armed with a cat, a pitchfork and a bag of sausages. If Mrs PM is in the other room watching TV I will actually strain my ears to discover what she is watching. I have even stooped so low as to abandon writing and researching to watch Gok Wan on TV. How utterly stupid is that?

(3) Fear of failure – I’m writing a book for myself, not for anybody else. So am I going to read it and then say “Well that’s a pile of crap, Dave!!”

(4) Feeling overwhelmed – Writing a book is not easy. I know – I’ve read books about it. Part of me feels like I have to climb a mountain with a blindfold in the middle of a hurricane.

(5) Indecision – If I am a true Libran, how can I decide what to write a book about? Do I write a horror story or a massive science fiction space opera? Do I write a thriller or romance novel? Or do I write humorous observation?

(6) Low frustration tolerance – I easily become frustrated if something is not working for me – and then I end up swearing and ranting and taking out my frustration on innocent people worldwide by trying to annihilate them on Mario Kart. But I can’t because I’m crap and that makes me even more frustrated.

(7) Paranoia – Will people like my book? Will I like my book? Will people talk about me because my book is crap?

Reading that list back makes me feel really stupid. Do you know why? Because each of the causes above can easily be overcome. I cope with this at work so why can’t I cope at home? Honestly, I feel like a wretched idiot who is making up excuses to feed the procrastination monster within; he is so full of pathetic excuses that he is obese and can barely lift his fat bloated body.

So here’s what I am going to do. I am going to declare war on that fat, ugly bloated monster within me called “The Procrastinator”. The first assault has just begun – this blog post. I am going to tackle each of the problems above as follows:

(1) Disorganisation – I will set myself deadlines and a list of things to be done by certain dates and I will try my utmost to stick to them.

(2) Distraction – I will reward myself for meeting my deadlines by allowing myself to do bits of fun stuff like getting my arse kicked on Mario kart. I will plan football matches into my schedule as well as Mrs PM time and other fun stuff. I will not allow myself to be distracted until a task has completed.

(3) Fear of failure – I am failing by not writing a book. My book is for me – if nobody else likes it, who cares? I will have achieved something even if it’s the worst book in the world ever.

(4) Feeling overwhelmed – I have a superb book about how to be a writer with tips about how to plan your work, so I am going to follow the advice in it. That way I will be able to tackle the huge amount of work by breaking it down into bite size chunks. There is no time limit on my book (I don’t have a publisher to drive me) so I will take my time and conquer the beast slowly.

(5) Indecision – I have an idea or two, so I will allow myself some time to decide and then simply go for the best option at the end of that time period.

(6) Low frustration tolerance – I appreciate that walking away from a problem or a mental block can be therapeutic. However, rather than yet another Mario Kart grand prix I shall go for a walk with my camera and then return to the problem at hand, hopefully refreshed and not frustrated.

(7) Paranoia – who cares if nobody likes my book? If I like it, that’s all that matters. If I don’t like it I will write another one.

So, dear reader, that’s it. Let battle commence.

If you have any tips or tricks to help me, I would be delighted to hear from you. Have you overcome procrastination? Do you suffer from it yourself? Please share your thoughts, no matter how trivial or pointless you think they may be. Every wise snippet will help (as will any funny ones).

I will let you know how the war progresses – starting tomorrow.

Men's Problems - Baldness

plastic.mancunian@googlemail.com (The Plastic Mancunian) — Mon, 10 Aug 2009 14:50:00 +0000

If I allow my hair to grow unchecked it will become a marauding mass of mayhem.

Suffice it to say that I will probably never grow bald, unless I suddenly become possessed by the same urge as Britney Spears and decide to shave my mop clean off.

I can be blasé about my hair but there are many men out there who are envious of the potential forest that can grow on my head.

“How can that be?” I hear you cry. “How can any man be jealous of your wild and untamed hair? Haven’t they read Bad Hair Day?”

These men are envious because they are fighting a losing battle against Mother Nature. In her infinite wisdom she has deemed that certain men will lose their hair – and they don’t like it one little bit. Some of these guys accept Mother Nature’s judgement; others fight back.

A few years ago, I was sitting in a barber’s chair with my glasses off, staring at a blurred unkempt mess of dark blond hair, waiting to be trimmed. The man who was going to fight my mop stood behind me and said

“What do you want me to do with this mess?”

“Can you attack it with scissors around the back and sides and then bring out the big guns and thin out and hack the explosive mane on top please?”

“I’ll do my best,” came the resigned reply.

As he set about the task at hand, I started to moan:

“I hate my hair. I bloody well hate it. Every morning I wake up and stare in the mirror in utter horror. It’s all over the place and can only be tamed with copious amounts of water and a bucketful of patience. Did you know that my missus is trying to make me use products to control it? I ask you – PRODUCTS!!! Can you imagine the amount of bloody styling mousse or wax that I would have to rub into the forest of hair perched on my bonce to contain it even slightly? I’d need to take out a second mortgage and have it delivered in a tanker. I wish my hair was less of a bloody mess”

He stopped cutting.

I assumed that he was laughing at my quips.

He wasn’t.

As I stared at his blurred image in the mirror, something dawned on me. I could see the reflection of light in his head. He was almost totally bald.

“Stop bloody moaning about your hair,” he snarled. “At least you have some.”

I gulped and decided to remain quiet as he finished the job. I’m sure he purposefully dug the scissors in my head a few times as he continued battling my hair. As he hacked and sawed I became paranoid, thinking that he might just shave off my locks out of spite. Thankfully, he was professional and when he had finished, I put on my glasses and stared at my now tame (and still intact) hair.

“That’s fantastic,” I said smiling.

“GRRRR!!!” he snarled.

Actually, the barber’s hair didn’t seem too bad to me. He was in his forties and had black hair at the sides and back but he was completely bald on top. His shiny pate was totally hairless and the lights really did reflect off his head. I almost put my foot in my mouth and remarked on this but I decided that I wanted to leave his establishment alive and with my new haircut intact. I remained tight-lipped. I haven’t been back since.

Men who are going bald or receding, deal with their problem in one of the following ways:

(1) Allow nature to take its course and stay bald, making sure that any hair left is short and complements the baldness. A prime example of this type of man is Patrick Stewart, otherwise known as Captain Jean-Luc Picard from Start Trek. If I were going bald, this is the man I would emulate.

(2) Shave all of your remaining hair off. From a personal point of view, I would look stupid with absolutely no hair. There are certain people, mostly black guys, who look magnificent with bald heads – it suits them absolutely. If I had no hair, I would look like a wrinkled thumb with a face.

(3) Grow the remaining hair really long and try to cover the baldness. Now this isn’t that much of a problem if the bald spot is on the crown rather than the front of the head. The problem arises when the hair doesn’t cover the bald spot and drifts off to the side or, far worse, the hapless and desperate man grows his hair long at the side of his head and combs it over the bald spot. Not only does it look ridiculous normally, it takes on a whole new life of its own on a windy day, making the man look utterly stupid. This is the kind of thing I mean:

(4) Spray on hair or hair thickener. This stuff is meant to thicken your hair and cover bald spots. Having not seen any of this goo first hand, I can’t vouch for whether it works or not. I wonder whether it simply paints your bald spot and makes you look idiotic or whether it runs in the rain leaving a trail of black liquid running down your neck. Here's what I mean:

(5) Wear a wig. There are several well known celebrities in Britain and abroad who allegedly wear a wig. Personally I believe that wearing a wig is a very bad idea. I have often wondered how men get away with this. One day they leave work with a massive bald head and then return the next day with a full head of hair. I mean, who are they trying to fool? What’s worse is that every man I have ever seen wearing a wig looks exactly like a man wearing a bloody wig; it is that obvious to me.

(6) Have a hair transplant or hair replacement therapy. The Australian cricketer Shane Warne has had laser treatment to restore growth in his hair and, to be honest, the results look impressive. The only problem I guess is that such treatment does not come cheap.

I can guess that any bald or receding guys reading this may react in the same way as my (former) barber did. If I have upset you, allow me to make you feel a little better: here are two photos of me wearing ridiculous wigs and one of my hair as it is. See if you can spot which is which:

The correct answer is (of course) number three is my real hair - though I hasten to add that

(a) it had recently been cut

(b) if allowed to grow unchecked it would look more like the first of the three.

My Life ... According To Rush

plastic.mancunian@googlemail.com (The Plastic Mancunian) — Wed, 29 Jul 2009 20:28:00 +0000

A friend of mine set me (and a few others) a challenge on Facebook:

Using only song names from ONE ARTIST, cleverly answer these questions. You can't use the artist I used. Try not to repeat a song title. It's a lot harder than you think!

I’ve chosen to take the challenge on this blog instead of doing the Facebook thing (though I may do that later). My mate chose the Red Hot Chilli Peppers and came up with some clever answers. I’ve chosen Rush – my favourite rock band on the entire planet. Anyway here goes:

Pick your Artist:
Rush

Are you a Male or a Female:
New World Man

Describe Yourself:
The Analog Kid

How do you feel:
Driven

Describe where you currently live:
Between Sun and Moon

If you could go anywhere, where would you go:
A Passage To Bangkok

Your Favorite form of Transportation:
Red Barchetta

Your Best Friend is:
Tom Sawyer

You and your best friends are:
In The Mood

The weather is:
Chain Lightning

What's your favorite time of day:
Fly By Night

If your life was a TV show, what would it be called:
Ghost Rider

What is life to you:
Finding My Way

Your last relationship:
Something For Nothing

Your fear:
The Necromancer

Thought for the day:
Show Don’t Tell

How I would like to die:
Between The Wheels

My soul's present condition:
Closer To The Heart

My Motto:
Stick It Out

Well that was trickier than I thought – but fun. Feel free to have a go and let me know if you wish.

Women's Problems - Cellulite

plastic.mancunian@googlemail.com (The Plastic Mancunian) — Sat, 25 Jul 2009 15:44:00 +0000

The other day I was having a chat with Mrs PM about the trauma of being a woman. She was arguing that women have it bad; I mean women have it really bad. Women have far too many problems and the fact that I don’t understand women stems from the fact that I don’t understand women’s problems.

“Take cellulite, for example. Do you know what it is?”

“Of course,” I replied. “It’s that stuff you put wallpaper up with isn’t it? Why is that a problem?”

“That’s POLYCELL you moron!!” she snarled before leaving the room in utter disgust to search for a blunt instrument to wallop me with.

To be fair, I was trying to lighten the mood because whenever we discuss the differences between men and women, in particular the problems that women have, Mrs PM’s starts to lose her temper.

However, I do have a genuine confession to make: I had never heard of cellulite until some time in the 90’s (when I was in my thirties!!!). I was watching a TV programme that was making fun of American women’s obsession with beauty. Cellulite was mentioned but they never actually defined it. And for an embarrassing period afterwards I did get “polycell” and “cellulite” mixed up:

“I’ll pop off to the DIY shop to get some cellulite,” I once said, before receiving a violent slap.

And then, all of a sudden, I started seeing headlines in moronic tabloids stating that famous female celebrities had massive cellulite problems, together with photos of them on a beach taken by some low-life paparazzi armed with a telephoto lens.

To me, they still looked lovely. Only a complete imbecile would think less of them for having a little cellulite.

So now I really know what cellulite is. To consolidate my knowledge I’ve looked it up. Guys, I’m helping you out here – it is a condition in women where the skin on the legs and bum become “dimpled”. I’ve seen it described as “orange peel skin” or “mattress” skin.

And what’s more – this condition is almost exclusive to women – which means that I will never ever get it. Not ever.

The purpose of this post is not to be sexist or to make fun of women who might suffer from this condition. If anything, it is to bring this to the attention of any men who don’t know what it is (just like me).

So guys – do not ever mention cellulite unless you have to. It is best to feign ignorance though beneficial in some ways to know about it.

As for any ladies who may read this post: please examine your urge to travel to Manchester armed with a nasty torture instrument to drive home to me exactly what cellulite is. I am simply trying my best to educate ignorant men (and they don’t come more ignorant than me). Also, help is at hand because, in my research about cellulite, I have managed to stumble across techniques for reducing it:

(1) Drink plenty of water.
(2) Do some exercise.
(3) Reduce fat, sugar and calorie intake.
(4) Take vitamins and antioxidants (whatever they are)
(5) Try body brushing (what the hell is that??)
(6) Embrace the body you have.

Now none of these points come from me so please don’t blame me if body brushing tears your skin to tatters (personally I wouldn’t try that – my imagination is running amok just thinking about it). The picture at the start of the post is apparently a body brush!

To me the above points are necessary anyway for a healthy life and I’m sure that lots of women already follow the advice.

The fact that I lived well over thirty years of my life in blissful ignorance must surely demonstrate that men don’t really care whether women have a cellulite problem or not. From my own perspective, it really doesn’t matter one iota. Men just don’t care; most, like me, don’t even notice.

Finally, I’ve decided to write a few more posts in the future about how both men and women suffer. I will use my own experience for the male side and ask Mrs PM about female problems. Mind you, regular readers of this blog may already know that I suffer from more than my fair share of male problems – I have so many to choose from (mad hair, embarrassing beard growth, an ever-increasing beer gut, rampant ugliness – to describe just a few).

I only hope that Mrs PM doesn’t assume that I am a complete and utter moron as I ask her questions. If I stop posting suddenly for three weeks or so, you can assume that I have gone too far with MRs PM and that I am in traction in the Manchester Royal Infirmary. Should that happen, you can visit me if you like – though if you are female I will insist on having a metal detector at the entrance of the ward in case you decide to bring any nasty torture tools to remind me about cellulite.