Grumpiness Is Good For You

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

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

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

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

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

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

Now? Eggs are a good source of protein!!

So, am I supposed to eat eggs or not?

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

Feeling Grumpy Is Good For You

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

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

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

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

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

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

However, I am a grumpy old git.

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

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

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

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

Ill-deserved knighthoods

Politicians lying through their teeth

Strictly Come Dancing

Office politics

The state of music in the world today

Premiership footballers

The X Factor

Chirpy morning TV presenters

Radio DJs

The list is endless.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The ever increasing price of petrol.

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

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

Dreadful romantic comedies that all have the same plot.

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

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

Overpaid, cheating prima-donna footballers.

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

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

Overpriced restaurants serving crap food.

Contemporary art

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

Christmas commercials in October.

People who ask stupid questions.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Over-zealous Health and Safety.

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

See what I mean?

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

The Plastic Mancunian says:

Grumpiness Is Good

Happy ranting – you know it makes sense.

Remember, Remember The Fifth Of November

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

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

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

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

For those of you outside Britain, let me explain.

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

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

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

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

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

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

What does that mean?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

And what shall we do with him?
Burn him!

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

How Can I Get Fit?

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

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

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

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

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

AAARRRGGGHHH!!! NO BLOODY MILK!

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

“I could run,” I told myself.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I am a male – I can’t help it.

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

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

“Is it free?” I asked politely.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So I am not going to join a gym.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dear Simon Cowell ...

Dear Simon,

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

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

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

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

“Who is Simon Cowell?” I asked.

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

“Not X Factor,” I cried.

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

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

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

Simon – I want to save you.

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

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

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

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

Now, how can I help you?

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

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

Here are some of your worst moments:

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

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

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

“You sounded like Dolly Parton on helium.”

“You’re too old to be a Barbie Doll.”

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

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

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

“That audition was like watching a ship sink.”

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

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

Be nice to them. Just say something like:

“I vote no. Next!!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yours Sincerely

The Plastic Mancunian

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

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

Food Glorious Food

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


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

Here goes:

1. Whats your #1 comfort food?

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

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

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

Cheese, eggs, bacon, pork and beer.

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

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

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

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

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

5. What's your ultimate food weakness?

Cheese – bad for me but delicious.

6. What food can you soooo not eat?

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

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

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

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

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

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

9. What's your favourite type of food?

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

10. Favourite Dish?

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

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

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

Fab isn't it?

12. Soup or Salad?

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

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

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

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

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

15. Do you consider yourself a good cook?

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

16. Do you know what vichyssoise is?

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

17. Who's your favourite TV cook?

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

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

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

19. Homemade or homemade from a box?

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

20. Tag three more foodies...

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

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

Use Your Imagination

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

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.