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?

Introducing Tonto

I recently introduced you to Captain Chaos, a nemesis of mine who, along with Captain Paranoia, strives to make my life as chaotic as possible.

You can read about him here.

Well there is a third nemesis who helps to complete this unholy trinity; his name is Tonto.

The truth is that Tonto was not part of my life until 1998; that was the year that Mrs PM and I started our relationship.

Is that a coincidence?

No – because Mrs PM and Tonto are a partnership that cannot be broken. Wherever she goes, Tonto goes. She is possessed by Tonto.

And since he came into my life, he has started to haunt me too.

So who is Tonto?

Tonto is the entity that annihilates Mrs PM’s sense of direction. And he is starting to do it to me as well. Tonto is the creature who switches off Mrs PM’s brain turning her into the world’s greatest scatterbrain.

After a few months together I began to notice things. Things like Mrs PM’s sense of direction being virtually non-existent; things like Mrs PM’s forgetful nature; things like Mrs PM’s outstanding ability to excel in the scatterbrain department.

I have met many scatterbrains before, but Mrs PM is an excellent specimen.

Here is another example of a friend of mine who is also a scatterbrain.

Tonto is a constant source of frustration for Mrs PM.  I came up with the name, Tonto, as a joke, because the Lone Ranger’s faithful sidekick was meant to be an expert in tracking fugitives – the last person on Earth you would expect to get lost or forget anything. I talk about him as if he is a real person; it would be either that or accuse Mrs PM of being a massive scatterbrain. Personifying Mrs PM’s lack of sense of direction and her forgetful nature as an imaginary nemesis is quite an amusing way to think about it.

Here is a recent example of Tonto’s work in action.

Just before the jubilee holiday, Mrs PM brought her work laptop home because she was on call. Most of us had a four day break but Mrs PM had to work on the final day of the holiday. I didn’t, so I was looking forward to enjoying a lie in. She managed to leave the house without disturbing me too much and set off for her 23 mile journey to work.

Around half an hour later, while I was enjoying a lovely snooze, the phone rang. Bleary-eyed, I answered the phone. It was Mrs PM.

“I’ve done it again!” she said.

“Done what?” I replied.

“I’ve left my laptop at home. Can you bring it for me, to save me driving all the way back there?”

So much for my lie in, I thought. Tonto had struck again. The worst part of this is that it is not the first time it has happened. On other occasions, she has had to make a 46 mile round trip to retrieve her laptop. At least now, she could avoid that.

Tonto must have been chuckling away at another triumph but he saw another opportunity to strike. I had only ever been to Mrs PM’s place of work once, so I was unsure of the exact directions.

“Bloody hell! “ I moaned. “Alright – I’ll bring it in. Can you give me directions?”

“Bingo!” said Tonto.

And this is another area of his expertise – destroying Mrs PM’s sense of direction. To be honest, Mrs PM was frustrated at her own failure, so she was a little flustered. She barked a set of instructions to me and I wrote them down.

Now this is where Tonto had his moment; instead of following my instincts and looking up the directions using Google Maps – or even using the navigator on my phone to get a set of clear and concise directions to her place of work, I left the house and set off with just a few hastily written directions.

I was tired and Tonto had exploited that.

Suffice it to say, the instructions were not quite correct. Mrs PM had mentioned a couple of roundabouts, with the instruction “go straight on to the NEXT roundabout”. What she didn’t tell me was that in order to get to the next roundabout, I had to turn left; I carried straight on.

And I got lost.

I have to say, dear reader, that my language in the car, when I realised that I was lost, was the deepest shade of blue I had ever experienced. I was using expletives that I didn’t know existed.

When Tonto strikes, it infuriates me. I am enraged by my own stupidity for not double checking directions, for listening to and trusting Mrs PM when she has packed something, rather than just checking for myself.

Lost in deepest darkest Cheshire, I had to turn around and retrace my route until I worked out where I had gone astray. How I managed to find her place of work I will never know – it was trial and error all the way until I spotted the roundabout when I tried the left turn I had missed.

By the time I pulled up outside her office I was apoplectic. I picked up my phone and dialled Mrs PM.

“Where are you?” she said.

“I’M OUTSIDE!” I yelled. I then launched into a massive rant about forgetting laptops, a lost chance to have a lie in, bad directions and getting lost. My soapbox was buckling under the strain.  Anybody who was watching me as I rocked back and forth in the car must have thought that I looked like a caged animal.

“ … AND ANOTHER THING …” I yelled before stopping abruptly mid-rant.

“Wait a minute,” I continued. “Are you LAUGHING?”

“No,” lied Mrs PM audibly chuckling.

“You ARE laughing,” I yelled. “Come down and get your BLOODY LAPTOP!”

A few minutes later, Mrs PM was at the car and I handed over the laptop with a look of fury on my face. Mrs PM didn’t dare speak; if she had she would have collapsed in a fit of laughter.

“Thanks,” was all she could say. “Tonto sends his regards.”


I didn't say a word - just allowed steam to come out of my ears.

I drove back home, gradually calming down. By the time I arrived back in Manchester, I was smiling to myself and cursing Tonto.

There are other examples of Tonto’s mischief and I will tell you about them in subsequent posts.

Suffice it to say that Tonto is a thorn in our side, particularly as we like to travel to places we don’t know.

And when Captain Paranoia, Captain Chaos and Tonto combine, the effects can be terrifying – but funny.

Over to you, dear reader.

Do you have your own manifestation of Tonto? Are you a scatterbrain who forgets things and gets lost?

I swear that I could claim that I didn’t have Tonto in my life until I met Mrs PM. And now he stalks me relentlessly.

Or perhaps I too and getting forgetful in my old age.

Mr Forgetful

Does this ever happen to you?

Plastic Mancunian: Hi there – erm – erm –erm –erm How are you doing?

Annoyed Person: You’ve forgotten my name haven’t you?

This happens to me a lot. I’m introduced to somebody and then, when I meet them again sometime later, their face remains etched in my mind. Sadly, their name has long since departed into an unknown realm never to be seen again. And try as I might, I cannot retrieve it.

The look on my face gives the game away. I smile nervously and screw up my forehead so that it looks like a ploughed field as the cobwebbed cogs of my hopeless brain send in a query. It goes something like this.

Brain: For goodness sake, Memory; it can’t be THAT difficult. You only met this guy last week. Here’s a picture of his face. Now get me the name and get it quick. We’re on red alert here, and Face is letting us down again.

Memory: Who are you? Why are you giving me random faces?

Brain: Just get me the bloody name!!!

Memory: Oh – hang on. He looks like a “Bill”. His name must be Bill.

Brain: Are you sure?

Memory: Er Er Er Er --- Yes!!

Brain: OK Mouth, we have a response. The name is Bill.

Mouth: Hi there, Bill. How are you doing?

Eyes: He’s looking puzzled. He’s looking VERY puzzled. Oh no! He’s looking angry!

Brain: Ears – report.

Ears: This coming in – MY NAME IS NOT BILL!!

Brain: For the sake of my sanity please don’t tell me Memory is wrong AGAIN!

Face: RED ALERT!! RED ALERT!! I’m going into meltdown!!!

Memory: Can I have some chocolate?

Brain: Legs – just get us out of here at maximum warp. I give up!!!

Does a similar thing happen to you?

I used to pride myself on being a bit of a memory man. I could recall all sorts of trivial nonsense; telephone numbers, kings and queens, song lyrics – all sorts.

Some of it is etched in there somewhere but the mechanism for extracting it has become befuddled with age.

If I’m watching a quiz on TV I can sometimes amaze Mrs PM with my power of recollection; there have been occasions when watching shows like “Who Wants to Be a Millionaire” or “Eggheads” that I can dive into the abyss that is my memory and immediately grab a nugget of information from within that well of blackness.

Sadly, though there are embarrassing occasions when my brain threatens to shut down in disgust.

Why is that? And how can I improve my powers of recollection?

I’ve done a little research on this and discovered that my memory isn’t actually one vast database full of pockets of information. It would appear that I have two different kinds of memory; short term memory and long term memory.

Short term memory is a tiny limited space for storing bits of transient information, for example a phone number that you just looked up or a price in a shop. Clearly the capacity of this short term memory bank is limited.

Here is something that might just illustrate short term memory:



Long term memory on the other hand is a vast colossal data bank of knowledge that has been absorbed by your brain and deemed important enough to store. In my case, all that useless information I retrieve when watching quiz shows must therefore be stored in this huge reservoir.

The problem is that, sometimes, and more often as I get older, asking me to remember the name of a person that I met for the first time last week is like asking me to nail jelly to the wall.

And I hate it.

I’ve tried everything.

Once somebody told me that I should use my senses to remember somebody’s name. I almost got walloped when I said, “Ah – I remember you; you’re Mr Smellie!”

I’ve also tried repeating their names over and over in my head like an insane mantra; the problem with this approach is that the name supersedes all others, including my own, and I find myself saying “Hi – my name is Antonio Cabrera – er sorry, I mean Dave.”

Others have told me that alcohol doesn’t help. It’s been a while since I’ve been so drunk that my memory has dissipated into the void, but I can see what they mean.

In my youth, there were times, particularly at university, when I had a modicum of success with a woman at a party and then completely forgotten about it only to bump into her several days later at the student union. In the following barely remembered conversation I play the part of the goon and the poor creature plays the part of the victim:

The Victim: Hello Dave!

The Goon: Hi there erm – erm –erm –erm How are you doing?”

The Victim: You don’t remember me do you?

Brain: Oh no! Here we go again! Memory – don’t let me down! Name please! Here's an image from Eyes.

Memory: Sorry! I’m having a pint!

Brain: Stop living in that alcoholic haze and GET ME THE NAME! Mouth – you have to stall!

Mouth: Say “Of course I do”

The Goon: Of course I do.

The Victim: I was at the party two days ago. You remember? Phil’s party?

Memory: We went to a party?

Brain: Strewth! Just get me a name!!!

The Goon: Yes! Good party eh?

The Victim: Yes. So?

The Goon: So what?

Brain: MEMORY!! We’re dying here!!

The Victim: We were going to go for a date. Remember?

Brain: MEMORY!!! Get me that bloody name now! And do you remember the details of the date?

Memory: La La La! Boom Shakka Boom Shakka! La La La!

Hormones: A date? Does this mean we may get a shag?

Brain: SHUT UP HORMONES!!! And for the sake of all that is holy - do NOT say things like that to Penis. Memory! Just a name – just one little name!! Eyes – report directly to Mouth while I try to salvage this. Face – hold it together.

Face: Oh no! Purple alert!!

Eyes: Mouth – she’s a bit of a mutt.

Mouth: OK – I’ll sort it out!

The Victim: Well? Do you remember arranging a date?

The Goon: A date? With you? Ha ha ha! I must have been paralytic!!!!

Eyes: DANGER!!! She’s looking violent!!!

Face: Oh no! MELTDOWN!!

Penis: Did someone say "shag?"

Bollocks: Incoming!!!! AARRRGGGHHH!!!!!!

I think I’ve always been doomed in the memory area and probably will always be.

Oh well, c’est la vie – or, as whatsisname says – erm, erm, erm – oh, never mind!!!