The Decrepit Old Git

Everybody keeps reminding me of my age.

Even I remind myself of my age by doing stupid things.

While I am quite content to be over fifty, there are times when I want to slap people who feel the need to constantly remind me that I am not getting any younger – and that includes myself.

For example, an insurance company (which shall remain nameless) has employed a much-loved British national treasure to try to sell insurance to over fifties. I am, of course, talking about Michael Parkinson, a man who has interviewed many famous people and has a place in the hearts of many older people who look back on his shows with fondness.

In the advert, he uses his past triumphs as an introduction into the most patronising and guilt-inducing pile of verbal diarrhoea that it has been my misfortune to hear, in order to get you to buy insurance – to leave money for your loved ones after you have popped your clogs. His condescending blurb goes something like this:

“I’ve met a gazillion truly remarkable and fantastic people in my lifetime,” he says, “and my brain is full of unbelievably magnificent memories.“

At this point you think, “Bloody show off!”

He continues.

“But if you, a mere peasant, want to leave your family much more than just happy memories of your existence on this rock that circles the sun, perhaps you can buy this insurance policy. It doesn’t ask for a medical so even if you are a decrepit old walrus on your last legs, you will be accepted. It will enable you, a mere pauper compared to me, the guaranteed lump sum so that your equally poor family can pay for YOUR funeral – or possibly even swell their pathetic bank accounts because you will almost certainly not have saved enough money.”

And the final insult?

“You will get a free welcome gift.” 

The gifts are a little telly, a tiny camcorder, the cheapest Satnav on the market or £50 to spend in a famous chain of shops specialising in clothes and gizmos for old people.

Actually, that’s not quite the final insult:

“You get a FREE Parker Pen – just for enquiring.”

And the last kick in the teeth? This plan is aimed at ME – because it is the OVER 50 PLAN.

Such adverts are shown during daytime TV right alongside other adverts offering to get me compensation for being a clumsy great oaf.

Other similar adverts suggest that being over 50 means that I have to go on holidays with old aged pensioners being ferried around a weird country in a coach.

Or I can get over 50’s fashion. I may not be the most fashion conscious person in the world, but at my age, don’t these people think that I don’t know what to wear?

Cheap car insurance – “because after driving around for so long, surely I must be a good driver by now!”

And at work, I am constantly reminded that “stepping on my soapbox and ranting” is a typical trait of an old man “because people get grumpier as they get older”.

I am my own worst enemy.

Having younger friends doesn’t help me. When I am asked to burn the candle at both ends and come out on a night out with youngsters, which involves consuming excessive amounts of alcohol or just plain stupid alcoholic concoctions with ridiculous names, I actually hear myself saying “Nah! I’m too old for that kind of shit!”

I mean who wants to drink a Jaeger Bomb? Don’t answer that question.

I am content with sitting in a pub for a couple of pints and then going home between 9 and 10, not staying out until 3am “downing shots” and drinking myself into a coma.

There might be the odd exception but generally I don’t do anything that is likely to hurt. Two nights out on the trot are a definite no no!

And then there is the forgetfulness. I used to have a great memory – I still do, but I find myself walking into a room with no idea what I walked in there for. I look around like a bewildered goon and actually speak the words: “Now what did I come in here for?”

My failing memory let me down again today, this time at the supermarket. In the past I have chastised Mrs PM for forgetting important stuff like a bunch of bananas. Now to you, a bunch of bananas may not be important but to me, a banana for breakfast is the law.

So please, dear reader, help me to understand why today, I forgot to buy bananas. I have never forgotten to buy bananas.

And tell me why I actually remembered that I had forgotten my bananas (if that makes sense!) when I was almost home?

Another thing a younger work colleague said to me today:

“People become more conservative when they get older, Dave, so by next election you will be voting for Boris Johnson; before long you will be goose-stepping up the office with a funny moustache saying ALL HAIL THE GREAT PLASTIC MANCUNIAN!”

That I don’t believe; I hate Boris Johnson.

But this is the nature of what I have to deal with from my work colleagues who constantly remind me of my age.

I was recently received a long service award – a lovely designer watch that I chose myself.

Was I congratulated? Well – yes – but then the banter started.

“You know, Dave, I was still at school when you started working here.”

“How long have you worked here? I wasn’t even born!”

Well, dear reader, enough is enough!

I am over fifty – so get over it. I am happy and I don’t need anybody to keep reminding me.

Michael Parkinson, you should be ashamed of yourself trying to make people feel guilty about kicking the bucket with insufficient funds get the nicest mahogany coffin that will only get chomped by worms anyway.
I don’t want a Parker pen “just for enquiring!”

And I’ll tell you something else (and I am talking to The Plastic Mancunian himself here!):

STOP TELLING PEOPLE YOU ARE A DECREPIT OLD GIT!

It’s bad enough without being your own worst enemy.

Now then, what did I come into this room for?

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.