Relativity

One of the more common phrases I’ve started using in the past few years is “You’re a child”

I am not talking to children when I say this, nor am I insulting the person to whom I am speaking; it is all to do with relativity, i.e. our relative ages.

My oldest friends are all around my age or older. The rest are mostly younger. At work recently, one lad was beating himself up about his age and younger colleagues, sensing blood in the water, did their best to pour flames on his despair.

As I watched this from afar, I found myself starting to feel the inner frustration that only age can bring until finally I had to act.

“Stop feeling sorry for yourself,” I yelled across the office. "When you’re over 50, sure, you can start contemplating what life is like for an older man. But until then, stop whining. You’re still in your thirties; YOU'RE A BLOODY CHILD.”

Laughter erupted and insults were hurled my way about my own age, deflecting attention from this youngster so that he could wallow in self-pity at the prospect of entering his forties.

Part of me would LOVE to be his age again; yet, paradoxically, the other part is absolutely delighted that I am sitting comfortably in my mid-fifties. Now that may sound strange to youngsters (and by that I mean those under fifty), but it’s true.

I have wandered this planet for fifty four years, some of it on my hands and knees, when I was a toddler or inebriated in my twenties, and loved almost all of it. My brain is full of experiences that youngsters today cannot really appreciate. However, despite the jokes, they do actually appreciate it, I think.

Here is an example.

A couple of really young colleagues from work have formed a quiz team at a local pub. My own son is also part of that quiz team. All of them are in their twenties. Until recently, they weren’t doing very well at all. At the end of the quiz, the quiz master usually announces the top three only and they had not featured in that lofty position.

The next day at work, I walked into the kitchen to make a cup of tea and two of them were discussing the previous night’s defeat. One of them went to university with my son, hence the reason my son comes to the quiz too.

“Those questions were really hard,” one of them said. “How are we supposed to know who was a Prime Minister in the 1970’s or who starred in a film in 1956!”

I asked what the questions were and then, to their amazement, answered them.

“You should come to the quiz and join our team,” said one of them.

“Nah,” I replied.

Soon afterwards, I got a text from my son, asking me to be part of the team.

“Come on,” he said. “Show us how much you know!”

Reluctantly I agreed to go and found myself sitting around a table with people who were half my age and younger. On that first week, we finished one point outside the top three – a lofty position for them.

The next week we tied for first place – and I won the tie-break question meaning that we had WON! Our prize was a certificate giving us money off food and drink on our next visit. I have now turned up four times to the quiz and we have won TWICE now, the most recent victory coming on Wednesday of this week. Since I have been part of the team we have a 50% success rate,

They are now almost begging me to turn up every week.

To be fair, it isn’t just me; it is the age range. I have no idea about some of the question being asked, particularly questions about celebrities, pop music of the 2000’s onwards and knowledge about the latest crazes. However, my brain is full of golden knowledge nuggets that I have collected over the years and I am very strong on older stuff.

One thing saddened and amazed me the other week at the quiz. The question was:

“Which comedian released a song called “Funky Moped” in 1975?

I immediately said “Jasper Carrott”.

Now I appreciate that foreign readers may not have heard of him, but he was a very famous comedian from Birmingham from the early 1970’s, probably until the mid to late 1990’s. I’m originally from Walsall, near Birmingham, so I know Jasper Carrott very well and have actually seen him live. He is very funny and his Birmingham accent reminds me of my home town.

Not one of the other members of my quiz team had heard of him.

“WHAT???” I said incredulously. Aware that I might give the answer away, I starting hissing at them like a snake with a frustrated whisper.

“YOU’VE NEVER HEARD OF JASPER CARROTT?” I hissed.

“SSSSHHHH!!” they implored. “You’ll give the answer away.”

I didn’t care. I ranted in a silent hissing whisper for about five minutes, almost causing us to miss the next question.

The other teams must have thought that we were impersonating a group of deranged anacondas!

I was appalled, so much so that I have mentioned it to people my age who are equally amazed that the youngsters of today have forgotten or never heard of one of the best British comedians of the past few decades.

To be fair, they have also been amazed that I have never heard of various other modern celebrities, comedians included.

It’s all relative you see.

Never mind, at least between us we stand a great chance of winning on quiz night.

Mind you, that doesn’t stop my own 23 year old son hurling ageist abuse at me. Last week we were in Liverpool, where I went to university. We passed a pub called The Swan Inn that I and fellow rock music lovers had frequented in the early 1980’s because it had great beer and a jukebox that played heavy metal classics.

“Look at that!”  I exclaimed. “I was in there drinking beer and listening to Iron Maiden in my youth.”

“Really,” he said, looking at the sign. “It was founded in 1898. Were you there for the first opening night?”

This is what I have to put up with, dear reader. I don’t really mind. What I do mind, is that Jasper Carrott is lost on the youth of today.

He is still around today so I would like to make sure that my quiz team know who he is. Here he is discussing, coincidentally, growing old in the 1990s.

I hope you can understand his accent.

The Ugly Stick

While on holiday recently, I woke up, prematurely, thanks to jet lag, and stumbled into the bathroom to answer a call of nature. 

It was 3am and pitch black.

I was in that weird state of limbo when you have woken up but your brain is trying it’s best to catch the train back to dreamland. Reality exists but it is tinged with a dreamlike trance created by your subconscious mind and you basically have no clue what is going on, driven only by natural instincts - in my case, the instinct to pee. 

With one hand on my head, scratching through the forest of hair that was sticking up all over the place, the other hand groped the wall outside the bathroom in the hotel room, searching for the light switch. My face was drawn in one of those massive vociferous yawns – you know the type – a yawn that makes a peculiar wailing noise, like a bear with a headache.

My brain registered the yawn and tried to ignore it.

I found the light switch and stumbled into the bathroom, blinded by the sudden brightness. I squeezed my eyes tightly shut, opening them fractionally in a futile attempt to get them used to the painful brilliance.

I didn’t have my glasses. My eyesight was worse than Mr Magoo’s.

After a couple of minutes, my eyes adjusted to the light and I looked around the bathroom searching for the toilet. I had only been in the room once and it was totally unfamiliar to me.

And then I saw it; a blurred image staring at me, grimacing like a grotesque gargoyle. Its skin was pale and wan and I could just about make out two dark orbs tinged with red. Its head was huge – a caricature of a human being with a monstrous entity moving menacingly on its head like the serpentine style of Medusa.

My ears were filled with a horrific wailing. 

And then the door burst open and in walked Mrs PM.

“What the phark are you screaming about?” she shouted.

It was as if somebody had slapped my face with a wet fish.

I realised that the horrific wailing was my own terrified cry. More embarrassingly,  I realised that the monster that had freaked me out was in fact my own reflection in the mirror as seen through my useless eyes.

“I … er …I …er “ I stuttered, like a gibbering imbecile.

“You scared me half to death,” wailed Mrs PM. “I’m going back to bed. You’re a bloody idiot.”

I returned to the bedroom briefly to pick up my spectacles so that I didn’t annoy Mrs PM any further by missing the toilet bowl. 

Yes I am that blind without my glasses.

I returned to the bathroom and answered the call. When I had finished, I stood staring at my reflection again. I asked myself one question.

“When did I get beaten so badly with an ugly stick?”

My hideous hair was all over the place. My eyes were bloodshot through lack of sleep. But my face was drawn and haggard and, worst of all, jowly. A close inspection revealed a network of wrinkles, highlighted by the brightness of the mirror light and various blemishes peppered my face.

And then to my body – when did I start looking so chubby? I’m not fat – just slightly overweight – but the mirror revealed various pudgy portions of the body that, as a youth, I used to think was skinny but acceptable.

Of course, being a 50 year old man, what else can I expect? I realised many years ago that I am not Adonis. My problem is that while I have always made jokes on this blog about my own appearance being very similar to that of an orang-utan, the image that stared back at me in that hotel mirror resembled a primate more than any other reflection had in the past.

When did that happen then?

It got me thinking. I returned back to bed and lay there unable to sleep and listening to Mrs PM making her own bear noise as she snored and started to pinpoint the moment when my already monkey like visage started sagging.

Regular readers may know that I have always been terrible at chatting up women. In the dim and distant past, I have tried too hard and ended up making a complete arse of myself. On a couple of occasions, though, some women have been brutally honest:

“I just don’t fancy you!”

“Your mate’s far better looking than you.”

“What? Me go out with you? Do I look like I’m into bestiality?”

Maybe I always aimed too high. 

Thankfully, some women have in fact been forward enough to ask me out so I have figured that perhaps I am not as unpleasant to look at as I used to think. Certainly when I look back at photos of myself when I was younger, I don’t look too bad. I’m nothing special – just plain – but not offensive to the eye. 

I’ve always had the feeling that I have been pursued throughout my life by an evil little entity brandishing an ugly stick. Whenever the little monster has had the chance he has given me a sound thrashing with it, each blow removing an element of attractiveness. 

Now I am older, it is more difficult to outrun the little bugger and the thrashings are becoming more frequent. 

Some call it ageing; I know the truth.

However, with ageing comes wisdom. 

With wisdom comes acceptance and contentment. 

Yes, my blurred reflection, a bloated mass of blubber with mad hair and red eyes, might have scared the living daylights out of my jet-lagged mind but at least I can be grateful that there is a woman who still loves the monster she shares her life with.

If I didn’t know any different I would swear that The Beauty and the Beast was loosely based on our relationship.

You can’t outrun the little beast wielding the ugly stick but you can put your own mind at rest. Next time I grimace while examining my crumbling countenance in the mirror I shall thank my lucky stars that I am wiser and happier than I was in my youth. 

I will look the vile ugly stick wielding goblin in the eye and say:

“Come on then – give it your best shot! By the way – can you lay off the hair? I think it’s had enough.”

Ultimately, beauty is in the eye of the beholder.

I am so pleased that Mrs PM believes that.

Time Flies

I was born in 1962 and it seems such a long, long time ago – a really really really long time ago. When I was born, JFK was still President of the USA and Dr No, the first Bond film, was released.

I’m so old.

Recently younger friends have made me very aware of my age with cracks like:

“You were ALIVE when England won the World Cup? REALLY?????”

I’ve recently been going to a few quizzes and, with one exception, my team mates are children. When I say “children” I mean aged between mid to late 20’s and early 30’s.

I was recruited because there is an awful lot of crap that I have collected in my head over the years and it does come in useful sometimes. When it comes to the music round, I fill a massive gap. The youngsters quite literally don’t know anything about music earlier than 1995. Here’s a typical conversation:

PM: I can’t remember who sang “Downtown”. Was it Petula Clark or Dusty Springfield?

CHILD 1: Who are they?

PM: You are joking, right?

CHILD 1: No – do you know who these singers are?

CHILD 2: No. I’ve never heard of them. Are they bands?

PM: BANDS???????

One of these children didn’t recognise the Beatles – THE BEATLES for Pete's sake.

Of course, when it comes to the modern end of the music spectrum, I am utterly hopeless and this is where the children rise to the challenge. Between us, we clear up on the music round.

They are also amazed that I know stuff from the 60’s to the 90’s – not interesting stuff … WEIRD stuff.

My head is filled with this garbage because I was alive at the time and that hurts a little.

Once upon a time, I was child myself and I was a right royal pain in the arse to the older generation. When I was a young man starting work and thrust into an environment full of older people, I was merciless to them.

“How old are you? 40? Bloody hell, shall I help you across the office?”

I was ageist – ruthlessly ageist. And now, dear reader, all my puerile banter over the years has come back to haunt me and bite me on the arse.

I am an old git myself and subject to all manner of ageist jokes.

Whenever pensions are mentioned, the abuse hurled my way is relentless. I’m not even 50 yet but to these young whippersnappers I am a decrepit and grumpy old ogre.

“Cheaper insurance for you soon, eh Dave?”

“Are you going on one of those Saga holidays with the other pensioners this year?”

I get my own back, of course, by mutating their ageist remarks into a brand new species of abuse:

“What’s up with you? Has nobody changed your nappy today?”

“Want a lollipop, sunny boy?”

“Put your hand up before you ask me a question.”

What’s incredible about the inevitable trek towards the knacker’s yard is that it only seems like yesterday when I was a twenty year old student hurling gallons of beer down my gullet, dancing from dusk till dawn and chasing young women as if they were becoming extinct.

I have vivid memories of each decade of my life and I can barely believe that 48 years have flown by so damned quickly.

I remember the moon landing in 1969.

I remember Hey Jude being in the charts.

I remember Lost in Space and the original series of Star Trek

I recall the school disco dancing to Tiger Feet by Mud. I could even do the dance.

I have fond memories of watching Walsall beat Manchester United in the F.A Cup in 1973.

I remember every single Dr Who apart from William Hartnell.

I wore flairs.

I remember Elvis Presley dying.

We had a street party on the Queen’s Silver Jubilee in 1977.

How could I possibly forget having a massive crush on Linda Carter?

What about the rise of punk rock?

I remember when Michael Jackson looked like a normal human being.

I have vivid memories of Margaret Thatcher, the milk snatcher (aka Attila the Hen) and the rise of alternative comedy.

I remember Lady Diana Spencer marrying Prince Charles.

I remember Kevin Turvey.



I remember Space Invaders and Pacman.

I remember video jukeboxes appearing.

I had a mullet.

I recall shoulder pads and big hair.

I was married in 1988 – the year I lost my mullet.

I could go on into the 90’s but all of a sudden I feel quite old. It is quite incredible to me that I have somehow managed to stumble through the 60’s, 70’s, 80’s and 90’s and that I survived the millennium bug and am still acting like a complete arse over ten years late in 2011.

When I look in the mirror, I still see that bespectacled blond kid of the sixties, clutching a Thunderbird 2 toy and flying it through the air with cries of “This is Virgil Tracy – THUNDERBIRDS ARE GO!”.

The image of this young child with a strange, rampant imagination makes me remember what it feels like to be young. Mentally, I think I stopped developing at the age of sixteen; there is still a child within desperate to get out – just ask Mrs PM.

And it is that inner child that keeps me going. I still have puerile thoughts and act like an immature buffoon. I giggle at childish things and have been told on quite a few occasions to “grow up” – even by my own kids.

I don’t care. I simply believe that people should hold onto their inner child and never let that child go. The moment you do is the moment you admit defeat and allow yourself to slide inexorably towards pipe, slippers and Antiques Roadshow.

I shall endeavour to watch time continue to fly and enjoy myself without thinking of whether my activities are immature or not.

That is the key to happiness, I think.

Father Time might win in the end but I shall go down fighting.

By the way, the answer was “Petula Clark” – and of course I got it right.

A Touch Of Grey

Well they’ve done it again: those guys from “Just For Men” have produced yet another miracle that has left me speechless with shock.

The good news is that they seem to be acknowledging the fact that grey hair does not necessarily turn a man into an ugly old codger who is repulsive to women.

The bad news is that they are still exploiting the deep innermost fears that most men have in their middle age.

I was eating a bag of crisps when I saw the commercial for the first time today and now my telly screen is covered with half-chewed potato product. Why? Because once again I ranted with a mouthful of crisps and poor Mrs PM had to endure my tirade.

“Who do these people think we are?” I yelled. “When a man becomes grey, does he bloody well lose his marbles?”

She actually agreed with me that this particular commercial was ridiculous, before making me put away my soapbox and clean the telly.

I would embed the advert into this blog to show you how utterly dreadful it is. However, I simply can’t bring myself to do it. I just can’t – it is so awful. If you are desperate, you can find it on YouTube.

Picture the scene.

A man is sitting on a psychiatrist’s chair. His hair is almost grey but there is evidence that the war against nature has not completely been lost. The narrator says:

“Sooner or later you and your grey hair will face an identity crisis”.

Now for me, the words “identity crisis” say “midlife crisis” and any man feeling inadequate will be punctured by those words.

The man in the advert morphs into two versions of himself; one has a full head of jet black hair, the other has a full head of grey hair that is pretty close to being white.

Sitting in the chair facing him is a sexy female psychiatrist who is staring at the morphed men with a professional air, and not in the least bit surprised that there are now two men in front of her.

The grey-haired version of our hero says “My hair says experience”

The black-haired version of our hero sneers and says “My hair says energy”.

At this point I said “Bleeuuurrghhhh!!!”

As with all “Just For Men” commercials, the miracle cure was then introduced:

“Touch of Grey – Best Of Both”

We then see the original semi-grey man, combing some goo into his hair and our narrator says:

“…combs away a little grey without getting rid of it all. Never too much; just right”

We then see the two men re-morph into a single man with black hair but just a little grey here and there and he says the following (please make sure that you don’t have a mouthful of food when you read this – your computer screen will never forgive you):

“Now I look like I know what I’m doing – and can still do it.”

And what of the professional female psychiatrist? Instead of running from the room, screaming about men splitting into two people and then rebonding, she turns into a fawning bimbette, obviously in awe of the mutant who has appeared in front of her.

Am I the only one who despises these kinds of advert? I’ve ranted about them before but they are getting worse. They are preying on our fears, guys. They are trying to make believe that you can mutate into a successful good looking man who only has to wink at a women to ensnare her.

It will not work. Instead of looking like a grey-haired man you will look like a muppet. Don’t believe them. If you are in the middle of a midlife crisis this is NOT what you need.

We are being exploited again, guys. There IS no elixir that will make you irresistible to women or turn you into a successful businessman.

Don’t forget – if you have wrinkles and grey hair, you will look normal. If you have wrinkles and jet black hair you will look like a goon.

Worse still, if you think that “Touch of Grey” is middle ground, then consider this scenario:

What if you run out of the goo before you have completed the job? You will end up with one side of your head black and the other side grey. You will look like this:







You be a complete arse and have to shave the whole lot off, which will age you even more and kick your self-esteem in the nuts.

Don’t go there – I implore you. Please, just grow old gracefully.

Guys - Grow Old Gracefully

Does the fountain of youth exist? Is there a way for a man of my age to take a liquid of some kind and use it to rejuvenate myself?

Allow me to let you into a secret. I have discovered such a substance. And I didn’t have to trek to the deepest and most dangerous parts of the Amazon to do it. I merely switched on my TV set.



The miraculous product is readily available and is in fact advertised on the TV regularly. Yes, that’s right – it is actually available to buy in the shops for a mere £4.99.

You may have seen the advert yourself. It is heart-warming and creates a buzz inside that almost brings a tear to the eye. Picture the scene:

Two little girls stumble tentatively into a living room whispering to each other. One of them says “Dad?”. They are holding hands, clearly nervous. The music in the background is the kind you would expect to hear on a True Movie where somebody has overcome a major trauma to make them a better person. ”It’s time,” says the girl.

The camera moves to the settee where a man lowers a newspaper stares at the girls in puzzlement.

“You’d be a really nice catch for somebody,” says the other cute girl with a grin and then shows us the miracle. They lift up a box of “Just For Men” and offer it to the man imploringly saying “Please?”

After briefly explaining how this miracle works, we suddenly move to a restaurant where the man is now with a lovely woman. He takes a photo of the two of them and says “For my girls”.

Now at this point in the commercial I did three things. First I stared open-mouthed as I took in the message accompanying the advert. Then I threw up in disgust. Finally I erupted into a major (and I mean major) rant. The man in the commercial had one or two grey hairs and apart from that was perfectly normal. To me, he looked no different when he had applied the miracle cure. Furthermore, what kind of man would want a woman who only went out with him because of his youthful hair? Even worse, what would she do when she discovered the “Just For Men” in the bathroom cupboard? Can you imagine the scene?

Woman: You’ve been in the bathroom for ages. Are you alright?

Man: Er er er er – I’m fine. Don’t come in.

Woman barges in because man has forgotten to lock the door.

Woman: What’s in your hand?

Man: Noth..noth..noth..nothing dear.

Woman: Let me see …. AAARRRGGHHHH!!!! It’s “Just For Men”. It’s over, you grey-haired old fogey. How could you do this to me?????

I don’t think I would want a woman like that.

The commercial is, without doubt, one of the worst I have ever seen in my life. And believe me, I have seen many dreadful adverts (usually for products just like “Just For Men”). You can even get “Just For Men” for your beard! Here’s what I say – shave the bloody thing off.

I mean, come on. Do the people who make this really believe that eliminating one or two grey hairs on man’s head turns him into some kind magnet for gorgeous women? It makes me sick. As we grow older, men are being exploited by companies like this who prey on our fears. The same has, of course, been happening to women but I would like to focus on men (mainly because that's what I am and I don't understand the female psyche sadly).

I have a question to ask. Why can’t we, as men, just grow old gracefully?

I have monitored the effects of age on myself and to be honest I haven’t done a single thing to change them. True, I’ve been lucky in a sense because I have a full head of hair, none of which is grey. But I do suffer from the other signs of age; there are wrinkles appearing all over the place; my stomach is getting bigger; various parts of my body that used to be fine and upstanding are now drooping slightly. Losing weight is more and more difficult. My eyesight is getting worse. I'm starting to get pains in parts of my body that I never knew existed.

I don’t really care to be perfectly honest. The only thing I really want to do is to lose weight in order to be fit and to live longer. And also because I'm too tight-fisted to keep shelling out on new clothes.

As for the signs of ageing, I can guarantee that:

When I go bald, I shall not grow the hair on either side of my head longer and then comb it over the bald spot, nor will I glue it there. I will look ridiculous. More people laugh at those who wear comb-overs than anything.

When I go bald, I shall not even consider wearing a wig or toupee of any kind. I do not want to be called “Wiggy” by any of my mates.

When I go bald, I will not spray the bald patch with gunk that “hides” the spot. I’ve seen this in action and it looks absurd.

When I go grey, I will not use “Just For Men” on what is left of my hair. The chances of a man pulling a gorgeous woman simply because he has hidden a few grey hairs are, in my opinion, remote. Does any man who has a touch of grey really think that he will become an irresistable adonis if he rids himself of them?

When the wrinkles on my face become prevalent I will not use any L’Oreal product “because I’m worth it”. I will not inject myself with anything that puffs out my wrinkles and I will certainly not have any surgery that puts a permanent stupid grin on my face or stops me from opening my mouth wide.

I would urge men to grow old gracefully; embrace the signs of ageing. By all means, look good but don’t look ridiculous. You can’t fight it – why bother? We should be proud that we’re getting older, even though things do change.

I have one final thought on the subject of “Just For Men”. What happens if a woman uses it? Furthermore, what happens if you use “Just For Men” for a beard on your head by mistake (something that could easily be done with fading eyesight)? Does your hair fall out?

Maybe I’ll buy some, to satisfy my inquisitive mind. Maybe I’ll use it on one of the cats. I just hope that Mrs PM doesn’t catch me in the act.