Humour – Page 4 – Middle Age Fanclub

Irrational hatred or reflex loathings?

For some time now my family, and even some of my friends, have sometimes referred to me as being a bit grumpy. I’ve even heard the phrase ‘grumpy old man’ flung in my general direction on occasion. It’s the kind of label that I’ll readily dispute.

For a long time I just put it down to the fact that I have a low tolerance for certain things. If you’re rambling on I’d rather you just got to the point. If you’re singing along to a song I like and you happen to be horribly out of tune, I’ll most likely let you know. My face still changes when I look at my pay and cast my eyes over how much tax I have to pay. If I’m grumpy, then I assume everyone else just loves paying tax. And if we’re at work and you’ve had what I feel is a terrible idea then, although I’ve mellowed considerably, I’m still likely to let you know. After all, a shit idea is a shit idea, right? Nothing grumpy about that.

Then one day I was reading a book and happened upon a term that would perhaps put an end to all accusations of grumpiness. Well, at least for me anyway.

It was nearing the end of a Year 7 English lesson. We used to do a thing called ERIC Time, which meant that ‘everyone reads in class’. So for the last twenty minutes of a specified lesson, twice a week, we’d be reading as a way of relaxing, learning something different and, well, promoting reading.

I was sat in my usual place at the back of the room, half reading and half keeping an eye on other readers; looking for pages turning at relevant times. And it was here I met a kindred spirit in the writer Bill Bryson. I was reading Bryson’s fantastic book, ‘The Road to Little Dribbling’ about his adventures wandering around England. Now Bryson, it has to be said, can come across as a little bit grumpy. Not to me, you understand – I empathise completely with his everyday frustrations. But it was he who introduced me to the idea of reflex loathings, which he describes in the book as being something people “dislike without having to justify or explain to anyone why they don’t like them.” Bryson recommends that we be allowed ten of these reflex loathings, although as he invented the term, he gives himself a few more. Fair enough.

So first of all, I will be offering some explanation as to my reflex loathings, mainly because a list of things I don’t like but won’t explain wouldn’t be much of a blog. It wouldn’t be very funny either and at the very least I was hoping to raise the odd smile with people. So, in no particular order, here’s my list of current reflex loathings and at the very least, a brief explanation. Is it a complete list? I very much doubt it, but any more than ten might make people think I’m just a grumpy old man.

The lights being left on in the house…FOR NO APPARENT REASON. Ok, so clearly I’ve turned into my dad, which is frankly regrettable. However, as I get a bit older I find that I am left flabbergasted by the sheer amount of times I walk into a room in our house to find no one there, yet all of the lights on. It’s not a money thing; we can pay the electric bill. I just find it astounding that someone (my kids generally) can leave the room, the landing, the hallway or wherever and not give the slightest thought to how empty it is, yet how light. Who needs that light? I feel like I walk round my house channelling my dad and muttering stuff like, “It’s like bloody Blackpool Illuminations in here!” I’m right though.
The ridiculous names they give to paint. I’m not going to explain, but let’s try something. Can you spot the false paint names in the list? Elephant’s Breath, Rose Madder, Ian’s Armpit, New Gamboge, Squirrel Tail, Moonlight Romance, Armitage’s Parsonage, R2D2 Blue, Broccolli Brown, Broccolli Green, String, Smelly Bumbum, Burnt Tofu, Savage Garden, Jennifer’s Hen Do, Well Green Innit, Blue…Just Blue, Orgasmic Purple, York Spinster and Auntie Hazel’s Having A Hot Flush. No, me neither. I actually looked some paint names up, but got carried away making my own up and now I can’t tell which are which. You get my point though, right?
People knocking at my door. Neighbour, salesman, delivery driver, whatever…I’m not interested and I will hide behind the armchair in order to avoid you. Your persistence will be rewarded with my ridiculous, childlike behaviour!
Clothes being left inside out when put in the wash. Aaaaaaaaaagh. Luckily, I don’t need to explain it as it’s just a reflex loathing.
The Mistreatment of Books. Maybe this is just my problem entirely. I think books are precious. As a kid we didn’t have a lot, but we always had books. And I was an avid visitor to the library too. A genuine teenage bookworm; yep, that cool! What it meant though is that I always valued books. As such, even now when I finish a book it more often than not has the look of one that’s just been taken off the shelf. So, to find dog eared books in my classroom, see people breaking the spines, see the pages being turned over instead of using a book mark…my blood’s boiling just thinking about it!
Glory Hunting Football Fans. I’m sure these people are present around lots of sports, but as a football fan, this really winds me up. Simple rule; if the club isn’t vaguely local or you weren’t born there, then that’s not your club. These sort of fans seem to be more accepted these days and I’ve heard the argument that ‘it’s a global game’ more than a few times, but put simply, it’s not and you’re wrong. You can’t argue that you have the same connection with that team if you were born miles and miles away. Your support is based around the pursuit of glory, nothing else. However reflex this loathing is, it is in my opinion, 100% justified.
Local Radio DJs. You’re not funny, you’ve probably got a stupid voice, your material is likely to have been stolen and re-hashed from someone else and I loathe what you do. Terrible jingles, a nickname you probably made up in order to look popular and a world full of awful catchphrases. Oh, and did I mention you’re not funny? (I think I need a lie down).
The Dressing Habits of Young Men. I feel sure that this is solely a British thing, but let’s get it out there anyway. I am the father of a daughter. I dread the introduction of boys into her life. And yet, a bit of me can’t wait. I’ll be the dad that turns them round on the doorstep if and when they’re not good enough. Off you pop fella. Not today. Not near my daughter. One of the things I dread most is a sight I see regularly. There’ll be a couple out and about and while the girl or woman has obviously made the effort with her appearance and most likely looks great, the boy will be invariably wearing a tracksuit and scruffy trainers. In the U.K. he may even be walking around with a hand down the front of his tracksuit bottoms. His hand, just to clarify. I look at these situations and my heart bleeds for the poor girl. She has probably spent hours getting ready to go out. He’s slung on the first thing he found on his bedroom floor – this is what this chap thinks of you. I have genuinely already warned my daughter about this type of thing! Please, don’t stand for this lack of effort and level of disrespect. And please lads, have a tiny bit of pride in your appearance.
People who don’t hold the door open. Holding a door open takes little effort at all, but it’s just a nice thing to do. And still, people just let the door slam in your face. I don’t care what or who you are, there will always be a sarcastic comment from me in these instances.
Supermarket Dawdlers. Don’t. Just. Stop. That tin of tomatoes doesn’t need your scrutiny. That aisle isn’t a place for you and the neighbours to park trolleys (badly) and have a natter. By all means take your time, but please, at the very least walk in a straight line so I can get past. There are no imaginary cones for you to be weaving through!

So, there you have it. A list of my Reflex Loathings. In the course of making the list I’ve discovered that I have quite a long list! But I decided to leave lots out as what should have been a vaguely humorous blog felt like it was turning into a rant. And someone somewhere reflex loathes ranters and their rants!

I hope you enjoyed the post. Maybe you have a long list of reflex loathings of your own? Feel free to let me know what yours are as well as what you thought of mine. Am I right or just a very grumpy old man?

Poetry Blog: An Ode to Donald.

It’s been roughly a couple of hours or so since the news broke that Joe Biden was being declared the new president of the United States of America. I’d started a poem so I sat down to finish it as quickly as possible. I mean the subject matter means it’s too hard to resist, right? And there would be little point in giving it too much thought and then putting something up on the blog in a couple of days. No, better to strike while the iron’s hot.

Now I am in no way a political expert. In fact, I get so frustrated with the general dishonesty and lack of thought from politicians that it just wears me down giving it much thought. But Donald Trump is just one of those characters that piques the interest. Just when you think he’s conquered Mount Ridiculous, he finds a new way to climb it. It’s safe to say that he doesn’t seem like a particularly nice human being. In fact, it’s safe to say quite a lot of things, but I’m not here to offend. Bit of a dick though, isn’t he?

Anyway, I wrote a poem about him and I hope you like it. Or hate it…nothing like polarising opinion!

An Ode to Donald

Donald. With your explanation defying hair like genetically modified Shredded Wheat and that red MAGA hat ruining any attempt to look neat, your last four years like the proverbial bull in a china shop, it’s probably only fitting that they might have to restrain you to get you to stop.

After all, what’s a supreme court challenge because you didn’t get your way, when you’ve spent your whole term in office denying that porn star roll in the hay. With over four hundred White House staff lost there’s been quite some drama, and that’s before we even think about the memoirs of your First Lady, Melania.

Many’s the weekend you’ve spent playing around at Mar-a-Lago, when perhaps the best idea might have been giving running the country a go. Instead, there was that crazy business about building a wall, Four years? I know a bloke – cheap, reliable – could do it in no time at all.

What with frequent cries of fake news and disinfectant cures for Covid-19, grabbing pussy, Twitter outbursts, what a four years it’s been In the end, it was not so much ‘Houston we have a problem’, more, ‘Washington, wave goodbye to that doylem’.

Hope you like the poem. Hopefully people don’t take it too seriously because really, when it comes to politics my views don’t matter. It’s just a bit of fun, albeit at the expense of a complete mentalist. I’m sure he’s got enough money in the bank to enjoy retirement and not get too worried about a daft poem. That said, feel free to let me know what you think…and that includes you too Donnie.

Poetry blog – ‘This trend for naming storms is fooling no one…’

I’m not particularly sure how it all started, but at some point, somewhere, someone made the decision that we should start referring to storms by name. Human name. It wasn’t really a new thing; we’d been doing it with hurricanes for years, but this was just going to be for high winds and heavy rain. Whichever way I looked at it, it all seemed a bit unnecessary. I mean, if the weather presenter told me that we had to stay indoors because Storm Graham was on the way, I wouldn’t worry at all, which I’m guessing isn’t really the point.

Apparently there is some reasoning behind the naming of storms. The Met Office claim that the naming of storms will aid communication about the storms. Apparently, if it has a name we’ll be better prepared when it comes to keeping property safe! And if you don’t believe me, you can go to the Met Office website and have a read for yourself. Now, I can’t speak for everyone, but if a weather warning was issued and it said that a terrible storm with very high winds was going to hit my area, I’d be fully aware of its potential to cause damage.

Name or no name, the storm was going to do some damage. It wasn’t any more accesible because it had been in some way humanised. I wouldn’t be able to stand in my garden and plead with Gareth, Clive, Grace or even Serenity to not blow my fence down. The naming seemed like a nonsense. Surely, if you’re going to name the very dangerous storm then at least give it a name that did it some justice. Storm Mad Bastard, Storm Angry Nutjob, Storm Violent Fencekiller – surely they’re far more effective in getting the point across? I’d definitely be more wary of Storm I’m Gonna Blow Your House Down, than Storm Terry. Anyway, I wrote my thoughts down in the form of a poem.

This trend for naming storms is fooling no one…

Despite the efforts to make you seem more warm, friendly and cartoonishly cuddly, this trend for naming storms is fooling no one. You’re still a storm after all. You still bring a garrulous reign of terror, like you’ll never, ever shut up. Alphapebtising you and christening you with Disney monikers like Elsa, Mary and Hamish does not lessen your power to disrupt my day. Sleepy, Dopey and Bashful wouldn’t even help as far as that’s concerned.

Bernard still has the potential to severely damage my fence, bringing with him the middle class nightmare of finding a tradesman. Margaret is also no friend to my shrubbery, deflowering as she does the camellia, the hyacinths and God forbid, the showpiece rhododendron. And Theodore, you can be sure, will up-end potted plants, seedling trays and even a half-full water butt, blowing them right across the patio or maybe even as far as the neighbour’s drive, bringing the need for fawning apologies and a false face of shame.

This no doubt, focus group, think tank driven naming ceremony will not lessen your power to keep us indoors for days and, I’ll have you know, something else has already taken care of that so in continuing your path of destruction, with or without a name, frankly you’re taking the piss. It will not help me sleep through a wind that sounds like waves crashing on a shore I hitherto knew nothing of and during the cleaning up process afterwards, it will not allow me to take solace in the fact that it was all caused by a Samantha, a Florence or even an Alice.

I don’t think a great deal of explanation is necessary for this poem. It’s a bit of fun, really. I think the explanation given for the naming of storms is a bit of a nonsense and I hope the poem makes that quite clear while retaining a bit of humour. After all, there are worse things in life that we should be worrying about.

So, as always, I hope you like the poem. I’m sure there’ll be another one along soon. Let me know what you thought in the comments and thanks, as ever, for reading.

Poetry Blog: Prince

Album review: Prince's '1999′ keeps on giving in 2019 - Chicago ...

During lockdown many important things happened. People had birthdays, weddings, funerals even, and all were dealt with in as appropriate a way as was possible, given the circumstances. A notable thing that happened in my world was the anniversary of Prince’s death in April. He’d been gone for four years. What a loss. I loved him when I was younger. His music was ace, never failing to make me smile or want to dance or sing along. As a short skinny fella when I was younger, Prince’s legendary swordsmanship reassured me that you didn’t have to be a conventional ‘hunk’ to get any attention off the ladies. I later learnt that while not being a conventional hunk wasn’t always required, it probably really helped being Prince though! What a guy! So, I wrote a poem for him. As is kind of usual for me, it wasn’t particularly serious. I’d like to think that he’d have the kind of sense of humour that would have appreciated it. Maybe he’d call me up, invite me to Paisley Park to just hang out…

We’re four years down the road without you in a world now where unscrupulous retailers sell hand sanitiser for 19.99, Isolation’s brand of selfishness, a terrible crime. No funk, no sex dwarf to admire and no soul. Everyone’s stopped lovin’ to search for toilet roll. We need a multi-instrumentalist psexopath who used baby oil, not water when he was having a bath, A man turned on by a raspberry beret, a walking erection at any time of day. You told me to jerk my body like a horny pony would, Well, I’d try anything if you said it was good. Purple suits, stack heels and an Errol Flynn ‘tache,a sexy motherfucker, shakin’ that ass. An encyclopedic knowledge of sexy time know how, impregnating anyone with the suggestive raise of an eyebrow. With twenty three positions in a one night stand, that’s sexual flexibility like a rubber band. Lockdown might have been made for you, Prince, but adapted to incorporate a harem and no social distance. PE with Joe, telly, snacks, the odd role in the hay, you put the right letters together to make a better day.

Some Notes

I wrote the poem because I genuinely loved Prince and I was surprised that it had been four years since we lost him. As a much younger man, in a band, we’d been quite heavily influenced by his music, spending hours listening to albums like Lovesexy and Sign ‘O The Times and debating what we thought the lyrics were or what they meant. I wanted my poem to be affectionate, but with a sense of humour. And it had to reflect the times that we were now living through. I couldn’t help but wonder what someone like Prince would have made of being locked down.

That first line about hand sanitiser is referring to the fact that people who had it when it was in short supply were selling it at inflated prices – if you were into awful puns you could say it was a sign ‘o the times…

Is it possible to hear tumbleweed on a blog? I also wanted to reference a Prince song – 1999 – and I never actually saw any hand sanitiser at that price!

I think the term sex-dwarf came from either the comic Viz – and very English institution – or a radio show that I used to listen to. I can’t remember which, but I’ve always remembered it and thought of it as affectionate and amusing, rather than offensive.

The line about toilet roll is again referencing selfishness during lockdown. In the UK some people went panic buying as we were locked down, buying trolleys full of toilet roll, as if chronic diarrhoea was the thing that might get them, rather than a flu-like virus.

I came up with the word ‘psexopath’ and it really made me smile. Prince had a bit of a reputation as a ladies’ man, so I liked the idea of him just running round frantically having sex with anything that moved…when he wasn’t making music! It’s definitely how I like to think he lived his life and as a young man in the late eighties it was a lifestyle that just seemed to be a great choice! Thre are a few other references to his sex life in the poem too, none of them meant to be judgemental and all written with a smile on my face.

Finally, because I loved his lyrics, I wanted to get some of them into the poem. I managed a few, but I really like the line ‘jerk your body like a horny pony would’ from the rap in Alphabet Street, so I wanted that in the poem, albeit slightly paraphrased. It’s always fascinated me where that idea came from and always made me laugh a little bit.

I hope you like the poem. I hope it made you smile because that was very much the intention – a light-hearted tribute to someone I very much admired. I’d love to hear what people thought, so feel free to leave me a comment.

I have some questions about music…

I listen to a lot of music. Always have done. When I was a kid it was vinyl and sometimes cassettes. I even managed to take in eight track cassettes via my parents’ collection. MTV then brought an abundance of these new things called music videos and around this time I started going to gigs too. Then came the compact disc – let’s skip past mini discs – and finally the time when you could magic music out of thin air with downloads and then streaming – or witchcraft as I still call it!

It’s safe to say that I fell in love with music at an early age. I was fortunate enough to have a record shop in my town – Music Box – and could regularly be found in there going through the racks of vinyl albums and singles looking for treasure. Another favourite haunt was the library where there was a music section that I was always borrowing from in order to copy the music on to cassettes. It was by borrowing records from the library that I discovered artists that it probably would have taken me far longer to discover otherwise. I think we must have had a librarian with their finger on the music pulse!

As I’ve got older this love has remained and although my tastes have developed, I’ve stayed loyal to many of the old favourites too. And with over 40 years of active listening and gig going behind me it’s only right that I have some questions. Lots of questions. So many in fact that I intend to make this a bit of a series of blogs. So I’m going to ask them three at a time. They’re all serious of course…

So here we go.

1. Was James Brown as deaf as a post? Now before we start, although this question mocks Mr. Brown, I mean no disrespect. For me James Brown’s music is and always has been incredible. However, I’m sure he must have been hard of hearing and although I adore it, listening to his music often makes me think of conversations with my dad.

My evidence here best lies within Brown’s most famous track – ‘Get Up (I Feel Like Being A) Sex Machine. The amount of repeated questions that Mr. Brown (he’s always Mr. Brown) asks on this track is quite incredible. As the track approaches the bridge, he starts. “Bobby, shall I take it to the bridge?” Bobby (and a few others) replies straight away with an enthusiastic “Yeah!”, proving that Bobby and pals do not have the hearing problem and also that they absolutely love a bridge. Mr. Brown, however, asks again – maybe this is just to confirm though. But no, he actually goes on to ask about the bridge four times in total. Four times! By the time he’s asked it a fourth time and they’re actually heading towards the bridge I imagine Bobby and friends are more than a little irked. Possibly, what you can’t hear as the track surges to the bridge finally, is Bobby himself saying to a backing singer, “Can you remind me to change the batteries in Mr. Brown’s hearing aid when we’re done?”

But it doesn’t stop there. Later on in the song, Brown asks, “You wanna hear it like you did on the top?” and when the fellas reply “Yeah!” again, he clearly misses it and just asks again. No doubt Bobby is, by this point, is praying that Mr. Brown doesn’t start hankering after the bridge again.

And then, as the song draws to a close, Mr. Brown simply cannot hear anything anymore and proceeds to ask if the fellas want to “Hit it one more time like we did at the top?” three times before finally shouting, “Can we hit it and quit?” four more times. Every time, his gang are screaming “Yeah!” and every time he just doesn’t seem to hear them. A bit like when you ask my dad anything if he’s watching one of his programmes. So while musically he has nothing to prove, I think you’ll agree I’m onto something and James Brown may well have been a little bit deaf.

2. Is it actually possible to sing along to a David Bowie song using anything other than a bad David Bowie impression? The answer, for me , is a categorical no. Try it. Ask Alexa to play Space Oddity, Life on Mars, China Girl or any other of Bowie’s brilliant collection of music. If, like me, you can’t remember lyrics, get them on your phone and away you go.

Now, as a Geordie (someone from Newcastle, a city in the far North of England, if you don’t know) I have quite a strong accent. So changing that can require quite a lot of thought and vocal dynamics. However, as someone who reads aloud quite often for a living, I can manage. But it is never easier than when listening to Bowie and I literally cannot manage to sing along in anything other than a bad Bowie voice.

And along the same lines as this I give you Mr. Mick Jagger. You know I’m right. I defy anyone to sing along to a Stones song without their Jagger voice. And their moves like Jagger. Put me in the kitchen with ‘Jumpin’ Jack Flash’ and hear me ‘Jagger’ while I mince around doing air claps and pouting. Why? Because it is not possible to do anything other than this.

Oh, and just to blow your minds re this question, I give you ‘Dancing In The Streets’ by David Bowie and Mick Jagger. I dare you to try it…

3. Does every middle-aged man believe he can do a credible moonwalk? Surely it can’t just be me again? No, I think there must be loads of us. Perhaps we should form a club?

This question came to me again while listening to James Brown. I was cooking tea for my kids and as such, couldn’t leave the kitchen. You see, I’m quite the simple fellow and if I leave the kitchen I will undoubtedly find myself getting side-tracked and probably by something ridiculous. Before I know it, tea will be burning and so I’ve learnt to become a little more disciplined in my approach. My kids aren’t food critics, just whingers!

However, while listening to James Brown it was inevitable that I would start to dance. And dance I did. But when you’re out of moves, you’re out of moves. So what better to try than the moonwalk? I mean, it can’t be that difficult for a man with my skills, right? After all, my dance trademark is The Running Man and not everyone can pull that one off. And so, moonwalk it was.

I have to admit, that long after the music had finished, I was attempting to moonwalk. Practising like a good ‘un! I think, in a typical middle-aged man kind of way, that I’ve managed to perfect a reasonably convincing moonwalk too! But that’s the point though, isn’t it? Have a I just proved my own question right? Of course I think I can moonwalk! Of course I would watch a video of Michael Jackson doing the same and be convinced that we speak the same dance language. But of course, put under scrutiny, I can’t really moonwalk. Can I?

Most likely – and I’d say this is the case for most of us who presume that we too can actually pull off this move – I can just slide backwards across the floor. The slippery floor. While wearing just my socks. On my feet that is. But, as a middle-aged man and a father, I don’t think I’d be doing my job properly if I actually admitted defeat.

So there you have it. My first three questions about music. Not my first three ever, you understand? I hope you enjoyed them and that you found yourself nodding along. Let me know what you thought. And, furthermore, if you have any of your own questions about music, let me know and I’ll do some digging on your behalf!

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