Mr Squeamish (Part Two)

 

About nine years ago, I wrote a blog post about being squeamish. You can read it here: 

Mr Squeamish 

Over those nine years, you may have thought that I had finally overcome my squeamishness or at least tried to cope with it. The truth is that I haven’t. 

If anything I am worse now. 

What has made it so bad for me is that these days more people seem to relish talking about their ailments, their operations and various bits that are going wrong with their bodies and, worse, they seem to want to go into great detail, even for the trivial things. 

Picture the scene. I am sitting in an Indian restaurant with Mrs PM, her father and her step mum. We have ordered our food and are currently snacking on some poppadoms with various tasty dips. Mrs PM’s dad and step mum are a lot older than I am (and I consider myself to be an old git) and they know a lot of people their age. The topic of conversation has invariably led to the ailments of some of their friends. 

Now, before I go on, I don’t mind hearing that somebody has been to hospital to have a minor operation; I just don’t want the full gory details. The conversation started getting into the nitty gritty of medical issues and procedures. And I mean getting really down and dirty with all of the gory details. Being polite, I allowed this to go on uninterrupted while my inner Mr Squeamish told me that they would change the subject soon. As I crunched through my poppadum, Mrs PM’s dad told us about something that had happened to him. 

He used to be very active but due to one thing and another, he can’t walk very far now (he is approaching his mid 80’s). This means that occasionally he has to use a mobility scooter. One day, he had a little accident. There was a mechanical issue and it collapsed under him when he sat on it resulting in a part of it scraping his skin. We all sympathised until he went into more detail about the aftermath. The wound took a while to heal and he insisted on going into all of the gory details, which I won’t repeat here lest I throw up all over my keyboard. 

I even tolerated this, dear reader, because it had happened to him. But then, as the main course arrived, I internally shook my head in horror as Mrs PM (who should know better) started talking about an eye operation that she had heard about or watched on one of those horrific medical programmes she insists on watching. 

That was too much. Mr Squeamish screamed at me and I went into full blown rant mode. Of all the body parts I have a problem with, eyes are the worst. 

“THAT’S ENOUGH!” I yelled, possibly too loudly. “I’ve heard about Mrs Smith’s operation and I’ve heard about Mrs PM’s dad’s minor mobility accident. You’ve been talking about cysts, people being sliced open, blood and other monstrous body incidents for twenty minutes now. And now you want to talk about EYES! Unless you want to see me be violently ill on this table, please, please, PLEASE change the subject.”

What was the reaction? 

They all burst out laughing. Mrs PM’s step mum said:

“OOOH! I’d forgotten how squeamish you are.”

Thankfully they took pity on me and changed the subject, but not before a couple of witty barbs were hurled my way. 

This highlights an issue that I am noticing more and more, possibly because people around me, friends and relatives etc. are all getting older and with that age increase there are more ailments to talk about because more people are getting them. 

And I hate that. 

I wouldn’t mind if people just mentioned it so that I knew; people insist on the entire gory details. I hate that. People are even talking about their pets in this way. 

“Oh little Tiddles had to have a massive boil lanced from her paw. When the vet cut it with the scalpel, all this yellow pus came out but that wasn’t the worst bit. After that …”

STOP IT! 

All I want to know is that Tiddles went to the vet for a minor procedure. 

Why do I need to know what that procedure is? 

Is Tiddles okay now? 

Yes? 

Fine! 

That’s enough!

I know that this is going to get worse but you can rest assured, dear reader, that if I have to have an operation, be it major or minor, I will not mention it on this blog. There will be no photographs of wounds or scars and no elaborate descriptions of the procedure or the aftermath. 

AND THERE WILL DEFINITELY BE NO TALK ABOUT EYES!

I wouldn’t put you through that trauma. 

Why? Because Mr Squeamish doesn’t just live inside me; he lives inside many people. 

Treat him with kindness. 

The Couch Potato

I have a routine now that I am retired but occasionally I have to summon some willpower so that I don’t fall into the trap to becoming a couch potato and spend the whole day in a stupor in front of the television watching daytime TV. 

The thing is that most people who watch daytime TV are also retirees like myself and at the moment I only reserve 45 minutes during my routine for watching daytime TV on Monday to Friday. The programme I watch is a quiz show called Countdown and is on Channel 4 in the UK at 14:10 in the afternoon from Monday to Friday. 

Countdown is a game where contestants try to make the longest words from nine letters within 30 seconds. For example the letters might be:

R L T C R A E E A

A contestant who makes the word LACERATE would beat another contestant who makes the word CATERER because LACERATE is longer. There are several rounds of the letters game and a couple of numbers games which are equally challenging. 

I watch the show because I can play along and it helps keep my mind sharp. 

However, there is a problem. Channel 4 is a commercial channel so I have to suffer adverts in the middle of the show. I have grown out of the habit of watching commercials since streaming and recording has taken off but in the case of Countdown I watch the show as it is aired (to fit into my routine). 

Generally, the people who watch TV at the time Countdown is on are older people like myself who have retired. And the adverts are targeted at us and boy are they depressing. This is the sort of thing I mean:

I was happy when I started watching Countdown and all the commercials are trying to remind me that I am an old git who will shuffle off this mortal coil and should therefore start planning my funeral right now!

So you choose to destroy any happiness I might have by thinking about the time when my body decides to release me to the afterlife? 

How utterly depressing. 

It’s not just funerals they advertise during daytime TV. We get insurance adverts, medical adverts and adverts for contraptions that miraculously make you able to walk better if your legs and feet are too old to cope with your body falling apart, for example:

I know I’m an older man do I need to be reminded of that on a daily basis?

I also think that they portray older people in a strange way. As you can see from above, you’ve got the active grandad up the ladder but you also get old couples who are acting like they are teenagers in love. 

I mean, really? 

Okay – enough about commercials. I must admit that there are some daytime TV programmes that start to draw me in if I decide to watch a little telly in morning with my breakfast. One example is Homes Under the Hammer is on BBC1.

For those of you who don’t live in the United Kingdom, Homes Under the Hammer is a programme about property development. An “expert” goes to a house that is for sale at an auction and tells us about it and the surrounding area. The house is sometimes in a dilapidated state and requires a lot of work and he or she make suggestions about what needs to be done to it. The house is then sold at the auction and the “expert” interviews the buyer asking what they are going to do to it. Later in the show, we move forward magically in time and see for ourselves how the buyer turned the wreck of a house into something that you can move into and what the buyer intends to do with it. And, of course, how much money the buyer could make. 

The show is quietly addictive, in the sense that you get drawn in and find yourself waiting to see how the house was transformed and before you know it, an hour has gone by. I have to dig deep into the depths of my willpower to switch it off. The good news (or bad news?) is that because Homes Under the Hammer is on BBC1 there are no TV commercials to remind me that perhaps I should be up and about instead of festering on the couch.

There are lots of similar (and sometimes more inane) programmes for example: 

A Place in the Sun – an expert takes a couple to Southern Europe to help them buy a holiday home.

Bargain Hunt – Two teams buy antiques and try to resell them at an auction for the biggest profit. 

Money for Nothing – an “expert” takes people’s junk from tips and tries to make some money out of it by modernising or repairing it. 

Escape to the Country – similar to A Place in the Sun but this time with city dwellers trying to buy a house in the country. 

Come Dine With Me – five contestants take turns cooking for each other and marking the efforts of their competitors.

Four in a Bed – Bed and Breakfast (B&B)  owners compete with each other to see who has the best B&B.

Most of it is inane drivel but there are occasions when I have been sucked in and ended up watching an episode without actually realising that I am completely wasting my valuable time. 

To be honest, I think watching daytime TV or even streaming decent shows in the daytime is a bad thing for me. Countdown aside, I don’t want to spend all day lolloping on my sofa when I could be doing something far more productive. 

Maybe that’s the role of these terrible commercials. Whenever I see one, my immediate thought it to rant and moan but then I realise that it is targeted at an idealised version of me that probably does spend all day on the couch watching adverts about getting deals for my own funeral. And that is a kick up the arse and makes me think – “Right! I’m still young (in mind) – let’s get up and do something constructive before it’s too late.”

In a weird way – they actually help. I hope that other people similar to me realise that talking about funerals and wishing your life away is totally depressing and counter-productive. 

I’m old – but not THAT old. 

Thank goodness I have a teenager in my head who screams “BORING!”

Skinny Jeans

So there I was in the changing rooms in a men’s clothing establishment about to try on a pair of jeans. This is something I have done  many times before, usually with great success because I am average in every way – average waist and average regular trouser length.

I don’t want to scare you all by getting into too much detail but suffice it to say I had to take off my shoes and trousers in order to try on the new pair (try not to picture me in my shreddies, dear reader – you can’t unsee an image like that).  After all, it would be pointless trying to haul a pair of jeans over another pair wouldn’t it?

Not even I am stupid enough to do that.

The exercise was supposed to be straightforward; I pull on the new jeans, check that they fit my slightly expanding waistline, check that they are not too long or too short and see if they actually look good on me, rather than making me look like an abnormal alien creature.

It all sounded too simple – until I actually attempted to get the things on. Being an old coot, I didn’t really check them well enough. There seemed to be an extra dimension – a “fit”.

I had heard of things like “boot cut”, “loose”, “straight”, “tapered”, “slim” and “skinny” and I knew my limits.

Sadly, a malicious, evil and possibly incompetent buffoon had mixed up the jean “fits”. I can imagine the evil sneaking satanic swine swapping the trousers, putting the “boot cut” on the “tapered” section, the “slim” on the “tapered” section and sniggering as his victim took the wrong pair.

The jeans themselves had no warning of what was to come – no sign that said “wear these jeans at your own risk”.

I had picked up what I thought were “tapered” jeans. There was no sign to tell me otherwise – only the price tag, the waist size and the leg length.

I thought I would slide my leg in easily.I was wrong – horribly wrong.

My pushed my foot in expecting an easy slide to the hole at the end of the leg and it got stuck so suddenly that I stumbled and almost overbalanced, hurtling forward towards the curtain before I managed to reach for the wall.

Imagine if I had lost my balance completely and fallen out of the room in my underpants?  No – please don’t do that.

I was so relieved that I managed to lose a little more common sense.  I know that new jeans can be a little stiff but I was determined to win. Part of me thought that my leg had grown so thick in my old age that even tapered jeans were a struggle to peel on.

Reason gave way to more stupidity. I was overcome by a sense of competitiveness that is unusual for me; I would pull these jeans on if it killed me, if nothing else to prove that I wasn’t just getting bigger in my old age. The denim would slacken as I wore them, I figured. I didn’t consider that I would look ridiculous in tapered jeans that were too tight.

I had to sit down.

I have fairly big calves anyway (I do a lot of walking) and once I had got my foot past further in, I had to apply immense force to peel these bastards onto my leg.

“Stop it,” screamed an inner voice. “They don’t fit.”

I ignored this inner voice of reason and persevered, groaning as I hauled the leg of the jean over my knee and upper thigh.

“Are you okay in there?” came a voice from outside.

“Yeah,” I said thinking that I sounded nonchalant.

I tried the next leg and the struggle was possibly worse. I found myself standing there with a pair of jeans halfway up my upper thighs. With more crazy resolve, I pulled the jeans the rest of the way, somehow managing to slide them over my arse.

I looked at myself in the mirror; I was bright red and sweating like a pig that had just run a marathon.

I managed to fasten the trousers at the front and button them up – but it was hard, dear reader. I could feel my circulation being cut off and I won’t even describe the feeling around my nether regions.

I turned around and I looked like a sack of potatoes perched precariously on two thin branches.

At least they weren’t those low slung jeans that don’t cover your underpants; that would have been far worse.

There was enough room to walk around a little in the cubicle and I tried, dear reader, I tried. These bloody jeans actually squeaked as I moved and I let out at least two involuntary high-pitched squeaks of my own.

The pain of walking around in these satanic jeans focussed my mind.

“What the bloody hell are you doing?” I asked myself.

With much relief, I sat down to take the things off but in a moment of manic madness I realised I had forgotten to unfasten them.

How I didn’t squeal is a miracle to me. I had to stand up again.

It took me ten minutes to peel the bastards off – it felt like they had been superglued to my legs.

Eventually I got them off and with much relief I put my old ones back on again. I left the changing room, still red with the effort of extricating myself from their clutches and, as I handed them back to the man looking after the changing room, he smiled knowingly.

“A bit too skinny for you?” he asked.

“Skinny?” I asked. “I got them from the tapered section.”

He looked at me as if I had gone mad. “Can’t you tell?” he asked sniggering.

I was so embarrassed that I left the shop in shame.

As I wandered around trying to recover from the humiliation and assault by a pair of skinny jeans, I noticed that a few young lads walking around the shopping centre were wearing them.

These things had nearly castrated me and here were young 20 year old males with skinny legs walking around in jeans that were around four times too small for them.

And I swear, dear reader; every one of them squeaked!

The Pros and Cons of Growing Old

It’s taken me a while to admit it but, at the age of 55, I am a middle-aged man. In just over four years’ time I will achieve the aim of having been on this planet for 60 years. And at that time, I guess I might also have to admit to being an old man.

I don’t really have a problem with that. A couple of good friends of mine have recently turned 60 and seem to be embracing this new era in their lives with gusto. They are excited about the prospect of retiring and one of them is absolutely delighted with the news that she is about to become a grandparent.

It seems that growing old is great, but not all people agree.

Anyway, to balance the two views, I thought I would prepare a list of the pros and cons of growing old based on a little research and my own philosophy on life.

CONS

(1) Your body starts to let you down.

My eyesight has always been terrible. I used to be short-sighted but now I have to wear varifocals because I am struggling to read. Nobody warned me about that. Also, I have to look forward to illness, deafness and bits of my body that were firm starting to succumb to the effects of gravity and drooping like a water starved flower.

(2) You are not as good looking as you used to be.

Every time I look into the mirror I am convinced that I am becoming uglier. I was hideous to start with and now, with greying hair and wrinkles appearing, I look worn out. Mind you, older people probably think I look fine because their eyesight is getting worse.

(3) Fashion for the elderly is absolutely awful.

The other week I was shopping for a new shirt and wandered into Marks and Spencer. Why, I don’t know – perhaps my ageing brain told me to because I am almost an old git. I looked around the department labelled “Men’s Fashion” (the word “fashion” used in its loosest possible way) and immediately walked out again. The clothes were awful. The only people browsing were old men wearing similar clothes. What person decided that once you get old you should wear clothing that is so dreadful it actually ages you even more?

(4) You start to feel out of touch with young people.

These days I find myself ranting at young people who have no knowledge of the things I used to love when I was their age. They love it and wind me up even more (apparently I am really funny when I rant). When I ask them about their passions and loves they bamboozle me with music, TV programmes, games and all manner of things that I have never heard of. When it comes to youth culture I am totally clueless.

(5) You start going to more funerals than weddings.

Old people are always talking about people who are seriously ill or have died. The cloud of death seems to hover over them and becomes a major topic of conversation. I am a hypochondriac and when I hear that old Bill from up the road has died I have to seriously stop myself from browsing the internet to find out about what killed him. When I am old, all talk about diseases of the aged will be banned.

(6) You start to forget things.

I used to pride myself on having a fantastic memory. Nowadays, it is worse. I am not that bad but I do find myself forgetting simple things. It is infuriating.

(7) You start to slow down.

When I was younger I used to run everywhere, bound up and down the stairs and play sports for fun. These days, I look at young people jumping around, running about and hurling themselves into energetic pastimes with envious eyes. I simply cannot keep up.

PROS

(1) You will be free to do what you like.

I can’t wait until retirement  and I am already making plans. At this moment in time I have no idea what I will do to occupy my time but I don’t care. I will find something. I can write a book, learn a new language, join a club, travel – anything really. By the time I retire I shall have a grand plan and be as rampant as a man in his sixties can be.

(2) You care less about what people think of you.

I used to be a sensitive soul but over the years, I have become immune to people who have insulted me or taken the piss. I usually make fun of myself such is my contempt for my own sensitivity. If someone were to say to me “Why are you going home early? You’re turning into a boring old fart!” I would say “Yes I am – and I am bloody proud of it!”

(3) You are wise.

Older people have had a lot of experience and can generally help and advise anybody. I do this all the time with my two lads and many other young people I know and work with. I have been asked to join a quiz team because of the amount of trivia I have stored in my brain.

(4) You are able to watch your kids grow up.

I have two great boys and am lucky enough to have watched them grow into young adults with minds and personalities of their own. I regard them both as mates as well as sons and we get along famously. I look forward to seeing them have their own families (though I’m not ready to be a grandparent myself yet).

(5) You may be better off.

I quite like the idea about getting pensioner discounts because I am an old git. Sadly I have to wait another few more years before I can enjoy free travel, discount cinema tickets etc.. Also, given how long I have been running the irritating rat race, I would hope that I will be reasonably well off in my twilight years. Thankfully Mrs PM is younger than me by a few years so we should be okay and she can look after my decrepit old body (don’t tell her I said that).

(6) Your experience can stand you in good stead.

Whatever I choose to do when I finally retire, I fully intend to start writing down my thoughts and life experiences more prolifically. Whether the Plastic Mancunian will survive and become a medium for my rants is yet to be decided – but I shall scribble things down for my kids and family to read in the years after I have finally shuffled off this mortal coil. Even now, I like to tell youngsters about things I have experienced – and it’s fun.

(7) You can be as grumpy as you want.

The phrase “grumpy old git” is there to be embraced. I have been practicing for years and am very good at it. “What are you moaning about now?” is a question I am asked a lot. There is so much – just picking up a newspaper can set me off even now. What do you imagine I shall be like it 20 years?

AND FINALLY …

As I said earlier, I have a few years to prepare for being an old man and I hope to embrace the pros listed above while minimising the cons.

I think I can do that … if I’m not too tired and can remember.

10 Years

I’m interrupting my End of the World series of posts to highlight a little milestone in my life.

Wednesday 21st March is the 10th Anniversary of “The Plastic Mancunian”.

Yes, that’s right – I have been posting inane drivel on this blog for ten years.

Can you believe that?

On Friday March 21st, 2008, I wrote and posted my first tiny little missive about the trauma involved in supporting a third rate football team called Walsall.

Although it wasn’t a particularly auspicious subject, sadly the same sentiment rings true today. I still support Walsall Football Club, my home town team, and they are still shit, threatening to ruin Saturday afternoons for me in the football season with their sometimes totally inept performances. Sometime, however, they do me proud and actually win games.

Enough of that nonsense – I don’t want to depress myself.

So what has happened to the blog since that first post?

Basically, I‘ve written 720 posts (including this one), mainly involving small essays. I have ranted mercilessly about things I don’t like, tried my best to introduce my wonderful musical taste to the world, talked about my travel exploits and skirted around the things that have popped in and out of my life.

Some of it has been funny, some of it has been controversial and some of it has been rubbish.

I’ve steered away from certain subjects such as my job. One day, when I finally quit or retire, I will let rip about my career – there is a lot of material there – but for now that subject is taboo – lest I get into trouble. I think that deserves a blog in its own right to be honest.

Anyway, back to the subject at hand; I have enjoyed writing these mini articles – even the bad ones.

The truth is that in the last few months I have been debating whether or not to call it a day – and the bad news is that I have decided, for now at least, to carry on for a while.

I’ve enjoyed the interactions with people from across the globe; UK, America, Australia, Europe and even places like Russia – it’s a truly global thing.

I’m also happy to have stamped a little of my inner thoughts on the vast universe of the internet – even though future generations might put me down as being a bit of a goon.

I don’t care really.

So what’s changed in 10 years?

I have become older, wiser, fatter and more grumpy but, ironically more happy with life. My work still irks me but now I can see the light at the end of a long and frustrating tunnel.

My hair is still mad and I now have grey streaks at the side. My eyesight is worse – I now wear varifocals and am even more frustrated about wearing spectacles than I was as a child.

I’ve learned a lot of stuff from reading other blogs – some amazing stuff in fact, written by some very funny and very interesting people with the same desires to put a little bit of themselves out there into cyberspace. You know who you are.

I’ve written about 75% of a rather terrible novel that needs a lot of work but may one day see the light of day (after approximately a thousand rewrites).

I’ve done a fair amount of travelling too, including weird and wonderful places like Brazil, Japan, Canada, USA, Iceland, Turkey, United Arab Emirates and Oman as well as a lot of European countries.

Mrs PM and I are celebrating 20 years together this year – and I am still a slave to two very old but very demanding moggies. All of them have been with me for the past ten years.

My two boys are now adults – one of whom is travelling to Australia on Friday for what I suspect might be the beginnings of a life-long love of travel. I'm proud of them both.

However, they do make me feel quite old – but I also feel quite young too in a bizarre way. People tell me that I don’t look my age. Judge for yourself.

Here I am in 2008 when the Plastic Mancunian first arrived.

Mrs PM and I in Hong Kong in 2008

And here I am now.

A selfie in Abu Dhabi taken last Friday

Regular readers (if there are any) will probably cringe at this next sentence – here’s a beautifully mellow song by one of my favourite bands to finish off (I love to end on a song). It's by a band called Riverside and is called "Towards the Blue Horizon" and is in many ways quite apt.

I’ll see you soon for the next post which will discuss the next instalment of the End of the World.

Perhaps I should have reconsidered that topic if I'm trying to be positive.

The Weapon

There is a song I by Rush called The Weapon and some of the lyrics are particularly relevant:

“And the things that we fear are a weapon to be held against us”

The media thrive on it and also use it to make us (a) buy their paper (because they claim to tell us how it is) and (b) force their political agenda on to us.

Here are some headlines related to Brexit that came from The Daily Express - one of the worst papers on the entire planet:

“New EU Rules Wreck Pensions”

“Each Illegal Immigrant To Cost Us £1million”

“Britain 40% Surge In Ethnic Numbers”

“No Job Unless You’re Polish”

All of these headlines are meant to scare gullible people and persuade them to alter their thinking.

I don’t believe a single word of them. And if you read closely they are written by people with a deep political agenda. Of course, the same is true on the other side of the political spectrum too.

Moreover, fear is used as a means to sell us things that we don’t necessarily need. Salesmen use it all the time. Let me give you an example.

The first property I bought was a brand new three bedroomed semi-detached house that was just a lump of dirt when we actually reserved it from the house building company. We were so proud when we eventually moved in to this brand new estate with similar young people. I was 24 years old.

And then the vultures appeared.

We were swamped by door to door salesmen trying to acquire what little money we had left. One in particular sticks in my mind.

He arrived at 8pm and tried to sell us a burglar alarm. We stupidly let him in and allowed him to demonstrate his device to us. After an hour of his high pressure sales pitch he offered us a piece of paper to confirm the purchase.

“It’s too expensive,” I said. “We’re not interested.”

He was one of those middle-aged salesmen who refuse to take no for an answer. At first he offered us a package where we could pay in monthly instalments and when we refused that, he offered us a deal.

“I can get you 10% off the asking price,” he told us. “My boss will have my guts for garters but I’ll do it for you.”

“What part of “NO!” do you not understand?” said my (ex) wife.

 He tried another tactic.

“Do you care about your family?” he asked me.

I was taken aback by this.

“Of course I do,” I replied.

“It doesn’t seem that way,” he replied. “If your wife came back and surprised a burglar, who knows what could happen? With this alarm, that will never happen because no burglar will get past you front door.”

I didn’t like this one little bit.

“Get out,” I said, now quite angry. “I’m not interested.”

That didn’t deter him. He then started talking about another scenario where my brand new house could be wrecked, my wife injured and my property destroyed.

He was trying to scare us both into giving him money so that our house would be protected. My ex-wife was also not taken in by this. She actually got up, opened the front door and said “Please leave!”

“Are you sure?” he asked me again.

“Yes,” she said, answering for me. “Now go before I call the police.”

She gave him a taste of his own medicine because he said “No need to be like that!” before leaving.

It taught me a lesson about dealing with salesmen, particularly those high pressure types who squat in your house until you sign the bit of paper just to get rid of them.

If you think about it, there are certain companies that use fear to con you into buying things you don’t need. As well as the home security example above, we have things like:

Products that make you look younger. Obviously there are a plethora of anti-ageing products for women that will get rid of those wrinkles but for men we have hair-dye that miraculously turns a decrepit grey-haired old man into an Adonis who has to beat off women with a shitty stick. Like this load of old bollocks:

Products that stop you catching a disease. We all know that if you catch a bad cold, you may need to take a day off work. But certain adverts imply that without their flu remedy you will have to take days off work and probably be sacked as a result. As a hypochondriac, I feel particularly vulnerable when it comes to disease prevention. These bastards are targetting me.

The media. Yes, I know. I feel that I am constantly moaning about the newspaper companies using lies and sensationalist headlines to make us buy their newspapers and even influencing the way people think as I mentioned above. I am certain that they invent stories to scare people and when you actually get down to the nitty gritty of them, there is no substance.

Insurance companies. Mrs PM and I were conned into buying pet insurance for our cats. And then, when I thought about it, and did all the maths, I realised that that I would only save money if the cats became very ill once a year and had to be dragged clawing and screaming to the vet. I am glad that I cancelled it because Jasper and Poppy are now fifteen years old and I shudder when I think about how much pet insurance would have cost in the meantime. There are some insurance policies that you need, for example home and car insurance (but even then home insurance is preying on your fears of being burgled). But do people really need to insure their body parts, for example?

Jennifer Lopez and Kylie Minogue have supposedly insured their arses; Julia Roberts has insured her teeth; Mariah Carey has insured her legs; Dolly Parton and Madonna have insured their boobs; Keith Richards has insured his hands.

I wonder what body part I should insure? Actually, there are no bits of my body worth insuring. At my age, most of it is defunct and drooping now anyway.

Progressive Thoughts - Day 28

Today’s song is another from the brilliant Porcupine Tree called Sentimental.

This is a rather sad song about young kids not wanting to grow old and somehow stay as young as they are but with the added feeling of having wasted their life so far.

I remember when I was a kid that I really wanted to stay young and play forever, but the overriding issue that I realised would remain was the lack of money. As far as I was concerned, with money came freedom and if I had that money I could do what I wanted.

Sadly, a thirteen year old can’t always get the money they want. My parents looked after us but we weren’t rich by any stretch of the imagination. Unfortunately I went to, what was considered, the best school in Walsall, and consequently a lot of kids with rich parents also attended. The big difference was that a lot of them were pampered by their parents who gave them enough money to buy all the latest gear, whereas I missed out. I could see the unfairness of life and I think that this shaped me politically and certainly changed my outlook.

What I saw was that my own parents immensely proud of what I had achieved but some of the other kids I knew were pushed by already successful parents and really struggled to cope.

I was happy with where I was going but I didn’t like the environment I found myself in, particularly when I was at the mercy of rich kids who showed off their treasures and mocked me for not having the same wealth.

My only option was to get a job to get extra cash and it was the best thing I ever did. It was a simple job, in a newsagent but I was able to buy stuff and fight back against the more privileged kids. I worked at the newsagent from thirteen to eighteen, assisting the manager with delivering newspapers, setting up all the paper rounds, collecting money, stock taking, shelf-stacking and, towards the end, selling stuff from behind the counter.

It was all menial work but I thoroughly enjoyed the job, so much so that the manager of the shop tried to persuade me to ditch the idea of university and consider a career as a manager in the chain of shops.

Sadly that wasn’t for me and I had to disappoint him.

However, what all of this taught me was that working for money was a good thing and while it interfered with my social life a little, it meant that I did have some freedom and the ability to laugh in the faces of the pompous arseholes at school who flashed their daddy’s cash around without having earned it.

The job prepared me for a real career and when I actually started work after university, I embraced it with gusto.

Regular readers will know that I am now sick of the rat race but the truth is that I am not a kid anymore and, having worked in IT for over thirty years, I want a change. Whether I achieve my new goals in the years to come is questionable but at least I am happy being the age I am and looking towards the future as an old man with some pleasure – as long as I am physically able to cope of course.

But that thirteen year old kid is still in my head and occasionally surfaces.

I love that and don't ever want that to change.

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.

Mr Mildly Obsessive

I’ve just returned from what seems to be becoming my annual business trip to China and this particular trip made me realise something about myself that I have suspected for a while.

I am a mild sufferer of OCD or Obsessive Compusive Disorder.

I looked up the definition of OCD to get a handle on what it actually means and I found this:

“An obsession is an unwanted and unpleasant thought, image or urge that repeatedly enters a person's mind, causing feelings of anxiety, disgust or unease.”

It’s something that I think is getting worse as I get older.

Here’s an example.

Yesterday, I left my hotel room in Shanghai for the final time and checked out at reception. I jumped into the shuttle bus to take me to the airport and then had a wild thought that I had left my flight boarding pass in my room and my passport in the room safe. These were the two things that would enable me to get home and, if my worst fears were true, would result in my having to return to the hotel making me potentially miss my flight. I actually panicked and opened my rucksack to double check that I had the required documents.

The truth is I did have them – of course I bloody well had them!

Also, because I am obsessed with the fear of being so late that I would miss the flight, I had checked out so early that I could have easily made the return trip to the hotel (possibly twice) and still had plenty of time to catch the flight.

And the stupid thing is that in the shuttle bus, I checked my passport and boarding passes three times! THREE BLOODY TIMES!

I actually scolded myself the final time, saying rather loudly "You bloody idiot!” which brought a stare of disapproval from another passenger who thought I was referring to him.

Worse, when I got to the airport, I was so early that I had to wait for the check in desks to open. When I finally got through security, I checked my documents a further few times even though I knew that they were there.

I’m the same when I leave the house, generally. I am convinced that there is a window left open, a door left unlocked or a burglar alarm still turned off and on one or two occasions, I have actually returned to the house to double check.

I blame two things for the evolution of this embarrassing peculiarity.

The first thing is my terrible memory. As I get older, I forget things. Everybody my age says the same thing. I look at a person I haven’t seen for a while and say to myself:

 “What the bloody hell is that guy’s name???”

I suffer from all of the typical age-related memory-loss features, such as:

Walking into a room and having no idea why I went there.

Forgetting where I put things. This is particularly frustrating and I have developed a regime to counteract this infuriating problem. I always put things in the same place. However, Mrs PM sometimes decides to have a “tidy up” and moves them, which leads to me turning the house upside down looking for things, convinced that I have lost them.

Such things are affectionately called “senior moments” and many people I know around my age and older complain about this.

The second thing I have to blame is my beloved Mrs PM.  She is the love of my life but she is one of the most scatter-brained people I have ever met. For example, she has driven all the way to work and left her laptop at home. That wouldn’t be so bad if the journey wasn’t about twenty miles, usually through heavy rush hour traffic. She has also left her laptop at work when she has to do some work at home and had to make the journey back. You may think that this is okay if it’s just a one-off but it isn’t; she has done it several times.

Also, I have come home and found windows open and doors unlocked. I find myself being OCD for her too.

“Have you got your laptop?”

“Where are your keys?” 

She also drifts away into her own little world and on occasion has set off for a journey for the shops only to drift into what she and I both call “Mrs PM World” and find herself on her way to work.

This is something that she has had to put up with most of her life but, unlike me, she doesn’t beat herself up about it.

“I know,” she’ll say with a laugh. “It was another Mrs PM moment.”

When such things happen to me, I am furious with myself, which is why my evolving OCD has manifested itself to protect me against my own memory.

I also make lists of things to take with me on holiday and trips generally to make sure that I don’t infuriate myself with my poor memory. And Mrs PM does the same, so it helps her although she has still managed to become a victim of her herself. For example, no list could have stopped her from leaving a coat in Manchester airport or travelling all the way to Alaska, one of the coldest places in America, having left her winter coat hanging up in the bedroom next to her suitcase!

She has improved, mainly due to my own OCD. As she says, I have saved her on numerous occasions with just a couple of simple questions.

I’d rather make sure that everything is fine and make sure that I don’t have to enrage myself with my own shortcomings.

Perhaps mild OCD is a good thing.

I just hope that I remember to post this all on my blog.

At least my daily readership will go up as a result, even if it is only me making sure, four or five times today, that I submitted the post.

Oh crap – maybe that’s why most of my hits come from Manchester!

The Meaning of Life - Time After Time

You will be pleased to know that this is the last post in the current series mirroring Karl Pilkington’s “The Moaning of Life”.

I think that this post needs a soundtrack – so here’s a good song to listen to while reading it.

Three weeks ago, I had a university reunion in Liverpool, the first one for twelve years and this included a man I hadn’t seen since leaving university in 1984, over thirty years ago.

Initially it was a surreal experience, seeing a bunch of blokes that I had been so close to. When I first met these guys I was 19 years old and, being young men, we were all desperate to make our mark on the world with a cocktail of alcohol, stupidity and a general sense of indestructibility that meant we were willing to do anything.

Of course, by the end of university we had matured slightly and were more prepared for life.

The problem is that when we all got together between 1981 and 1984, we did all of the stupid things that young men do.

Fast forward to a cold and rainy lunchtime November in 2015 at Lime Street Railway station in Liverpool.

I arrived first on a local train from Manchester and clutching a steaming coffee, I awaited the intercity train from London. Two of the guys got off the train and I recognised them immediately, a little greyer and a little chubbier but still the same guys I knew so well. I’ll call them Sam and Colin (to protect the guilty!).

We were expecting two more later, one from Birmingham and one from Liverpool  - this was the guy I hadn’t seen for over thirty years. I’ll call them Oscar and Andy (again to protect the guilty!).

Sam, Colin and I decided to be tourists and explore the city. I have been back to Liverpool often; after all it is only about 35 miles from Manchester. Sam married a Scouser (person from Liverpool) and he came back fairly regularly to visit family.

Colin had not been back to Liverpool since he left in 1984.

Oscar turned up an hour later. He had lost his hair completely apart from some grey bits at the sides. We didn't mention it.

The four of us spent the afternoon visiting the Tate museum, to avoid the heavy rain before having an afternoon snack in a coffee shop where we chatting about what we had all been up to, including, jobs, family, kids etc. over cups of coffee and tea. It was all very sophisticated.

We checked into our hotel and, as I was unpacking and freshening up for a mice meal, I was struck by one thing. Thirty years ago we were like rampant animals making fools of ourselves and acting as if we were indestructible.

Now, the four of us were talking about careers and kids, visiting museums and being totally sensible.

I felt a little sad; it was almost like being out with their dads.

Shortly afterwards, Andy rang and we arranged to meet him in a city centre pub that we had frequented as students.

It was still there and hadn't disappeared like a lot of the pubs from that time.

Andy turned up and he too hadn’t changed. It was really strange chatting to a guy I hadn’t seen for so long.

I looked at my watch as I supped that first beer. The time was six o’clock.

And this was the point that the sensibility disappeared.

“One more?” 

“Yeah – one more!”

Before I knew it, the alcohol had woken something up inside of all of us. We were sensible enough to find a restaurant but that’s about it. The rest of the evening descended into party time as five middle aged men wandered around the city centre, refuelling on beer, and becoming more and more boisterous. As more alcohol was imbibed, the years were stripped away and we became five young men again.  The dads were gone and my mates from the early 1980's were back.

I loved every second of it.

Tales of old were told and we guffawed like teenagers as we recalled the scrapes we got into all those years ago. Oscar's lack of hair was the main topic of raucous conversation for about twenty minutes. Don't worry - he gave as good as he got.

Thankfully, our ageing bodies protested enough to keep us in check – or at least I thought they had. We had wobbled out of the famous Cavern Club, where the Beatles used to entertain the Liverpool crowds, and into an Irish bar and somehow found a table where we could sit down. Before long, a barman came over and told us that the pub was closing. I checked my watch.

“It’s three in morning!” I yelled, although I think the words came out as “Ish three clocksh!”

We staggered back to the hotel and again I was saved by my body urging me to quaff as much water as my stomach could take before going to bed.

The next morning, we met for a late breakfast and, all a little fragile, made a pact to do exactly the same next year.

The whole episode made me think about time.

Although our bodies age around us, the deep inner core of our being remains. As we get older, our outlook on life changes but deep down inside all of us, the young person who wanted to unleash himself on the world, with a seemingly unlimited amount of energy, who existed all those years ago is still there.

The fire of my youth is definitely still  present under the sensible old git that I have become – and I’m delighted about that.

I can find him and I intend to take him out every so often for a breath of fresh air (though perhaps next time I will avoid using alcohol as the transport mechanism).

We can’t win the war against time – but we can win the odd battle - and have massive fun with our small victories.

How about you, dear reader?

Is there a young version of you hiding inside you?

Can you find him or her?

If so, how do you do it?

The Inner Child

My eldest son Stephen graduated on Friday. At the same time, my youngest son, Michael,  is about to embark on the same journey, starting his own university course in September, hopefully.

I am fiercely proud of their achievement, particularly Stephen, who will soon be settling into a new job.

His adventure is just beginning.

At the graduation ceremony, I watched as lots of people were honoured, all dressed in gowns and hats surrounded by loving families and friends. As I applauded each and every one of them, I looked around at the other proud people smiling and clapping – and one minor negative thing was gnawing away at my delight.

It was a thought and it grew stronger. The thought was:

“Boy, am I getting old!”

I see younger colleagues at work with young children, each of whom are doting parents of children ranging from new born babies to those just about to enter their teenage years. And I remember when my two boys were that age.

It seems like a lifetime ago.

My lads are grown men, with their own outlook on life, their own opinions, their own likes and dislikes and their own plans for the future.

Three Men and a Lady

I am so proud of them but at the same time, I miss that childlike innocence that made me laugh yet at the same time allowed me to become a child again. Seeing the two of them in suits on Friday made me realise that I no longer have an excuse to allow my mental age to manifest itself into physical behaviour without looking like a complete idiot.

What’s more, in my fifties I am aware that the next major stage for me is retirement. Okay, that is quite far away – a good fifteen years – but when that happens I will officially be an old git.

Me in fifteen years?

I looked around some old blog posts and when I started writing this drivel I was forty five years old (it’s amazing that I am now in my eighth year of bloggery). 

What has happened to the time?

In another eight years I will be in my sixties. All my droopy bits will droop even more. My wild and feral hair will look like a mad old tribble and my old face look like the Grand Canyon.

My hair in my sixties?

How scary is that? 

I do have one advantage though. I don’t actually look my age so maybe – just maybe – people won’t think I’m a pensioner. The other benefit of having a young looking face is that my two lads have both inherited by youthful countenance. As I stood at the bar on Friday having just bought a celebratory round of drinks, both of my lads were questioned about their age. 

“Does that annoy you?” I asked. “It used to annoy me.”

Stephen just laughed as he put his driving license away.

“I’ve been used to it for four years now,” he said. Michael agreed but at the age of nineteen, he shrugged and said “And I’ll still have to get used to it I suppose.”

While the ageing process may seem depressing, I think it’s a good thing to keep the inner child alive, the one that has made me embarrass my own kids by behaving immaturely. I am still young enough to just about get away with behaving like a child sometimes and I love it when I am able to.

Mrs PM constantly reminds me of my immaturity. 

I think that it’s fun to release that inner child every so often and I don’t ever plan to stop. I think that as long as you have a youthful outlook on life your mind and body will follow and make you appear to be younger – which is an added bonus for me because I don’t look my age.

I just hope that I don’t suddenly wake up one morning having aged drastically overnight. 

Actually, scratch that! I don’t really care. As long as I’m happy and I can still walk around without pain I’ll be delighted.

Even if I can’t walk around without pain, I’m sure that I’ll be able to lift up a laptop and release my inner child on this blog.

That will do nicely.

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?

It's Over

It’s official; I am past it!

My life as a human being is over and I should be put out to pasture along with the other old fuddy-duddies.

My life as I have known it is over.

Well, in my opinion my life is far from over but there are people in the world who think it is – or should be.

These people are everywhere – and they are called ( I can barely bring myself to type the word …):

YOUNGSTERS!

Youngsters think that I am too old to partake in any activity that they consider an infringement to their domain. Youngsters think that I should spend my Saturday nights sitting at home in my slippers watching mind-numbing television programmes like Strictly Come Dancing, or discussing with other oldies what life was like before Playstations, Justin Timberlake and Jaeger Bombs.

If I were a horse I would be in the Knacker’s Yard desperately trying to avoid being turned into glue.

Why am I on my soapbox about youngsters? Let me tell you.

Last Friday night I went to my second rock concert in two days (how many youngsters do that?). The band was called Within Temptation and they were playing at the Apollo Theatre in Manchester. This is what they sound like:


I was with two like-minded individuals who love the band, one is in his early forties, the other is even older than I am – he is fifty six.

We stood watching the band with a fairly eclectic mix of people of all ages. And it was superb.

However, I discovered that a young lad who works with Mrs PM was there as well and he is twenty five years old. He was there because his girlfriend loves the band.

I was intrigued to find out what he thought of the concert, as a person who wouldn’t normally have gone to see Within Temptation.

Did he like the music?

Was the show good?

I asked Mrs PM to find out his opinion. Here’s what he said (paraphrased of course):

“They were better than I thought they would be. But I tell you what was funny – there were so many fifty year olds there in leather jackets and trying to cover their beer bellies with Within Temptation T-shirts. It was really funny. ”

“WHAT?” I said. “I was one of those fifty year olds!”

The implication was that there should be an age limit where only young people should be allowed to go to rock concerts.

“The cheeky little bugger,” I ranted. “What’s he saying? That people like me shouldn’t go to any more rock concerts because we’re too old?”

“I used to think that, when I was his age,” said Mrs PM. “I used to think that it was all over when you reached forty and that you should just stop doing young persons’ stuff.”

Of course, now that Mrs PM is over forty herself, she no longer has thoughts like that, especially since she is living with somebody who is even older.

Not all youngsters think such absurd thoughts. When I was a youngster, I didn’t care about anybody’s age. My own lads don’t care either – as long as I don’t rain on their parade.

My eldest lad, Stephen, was quite happy to come with me to see German rock band Rammstein, along with a similarly eclectic audience – and my fifty six year old mate!

I am not suggesting for a moment that I should get up to all of the nefarious activities I used to enjoy in my twenties – but I will not be judged by kids who think I am too old to do the things I like doing.

There is no way I will go to a night club, for example, or drink stupid amounts of alcohol, or hurl myself off a cliff with an elastic band tied around my ankle. I will never drink a Jaeger Bomb, no will you ever see me at a Bieber concert.

But if I want to play a computer game, see a decent heavy metal concert go to the pub with my mates or hang around with people of any age – I bloody well will.

There is a large group of youngsters who consider people like me to be too old to have fun. If it were up to them, I wouldn’t be allowed to do anything that they consider cool – the reason being, presumably, because once an old git like me has a go at it, the deed is no longer cool.

And before you start thinking that I am going through some kind of midlife crisis, dear reader, you couldn’t be more wrong.

I am still doing the things that I have always loved doing and, as long as I can do, I will continue to partake in such activities. The truth of the matter is that I recognise the limitations imposed by my age and actually cut down on pastimes that I feel I can no longer achieve.

In fact, if anything, I embrace activities that are more suited to my age. I would never start jogging for example because I fear the impact on my joints might be too severe – but that doesn’t stop me walking two miles a day during my lunchtime and walking much further at weekends when the opportunity arises.

Instead of going out for lots of beer and dancing like an idiot until the wee small hours, I tend to stroll to the pub and enjoy just a couple of pints.

But if I want to go and see a band I love, I will bloody well do so, and if I overhear any youngster saying that I am old fuddy-duddy who shouldn’t be at a gig like this, I will launch a tirade on my soapbox that will shock him into submission.

And if you think I am stuck inside on a Saturday afternoon with my slippers then think again. Actually, I am – but I will be off to the cinema with Mrs PM, my twenty year old son and his nineteen year old girlfriend to see the new Spiderman film in about an hours’ time before going for a meal – where I shall drink beer!

Sadly, I may struggle to stay awake for Match of the Day and may end up in bed by 11:30 – but that is a purely physical reaction to my age.

I may be fifty one years old but my mind is as sharp as it was when I was twenty one – sharper even.

It is most definitely not over!

So there!

Half Century

I’ve been keeping a secret.

It wasn’t really that much of a secret because most people knew about it. I was just relying on the fact that they might forget.

I can now reveal the secret.

On October 8th 2012, I turned 50.

Why did I keep it a secret? The reason is that I really feel uncomfortable being the centre of attention and I really didn’t want an over the top celebration. Mrs PM was under orders not to throw a surprise party or organise anything without consulting me first.

But now, almost a month later, I can and will reveal my age, though regular readers may have guessed anyway.

As I enter my sixth decade I can look back at my life so far with some satisfaction, a little sadness, a little regret, a fair amount of embarrassment but, ultimately, a feeling of total and utter contentment.

Because 2012 was a milestone year, I took a look back through my life in January accompanied by a soundtrack of music that has been quite special, in a series of blog posts, one a day. I recently read some of that back and was quite surprised by how open I was.

Maybe twenty or even ten years ago, I would never have dreamed of doing that. The fact that I feel comfortable and satisfied with my first fifty years has led me to open up to the world a lot more. Or perhaps it’s just age; my addled brain no longer cares about how people react to me any more.

I have to say that although I tried to keep my birthday low key, I didn’t get away with it totally without embarrassment.

A good mate of mine, also called Dave, was 50 in September, and it seemed like a great idea to go away for a long weekend as a joint celebration. We did something similar when we were both 40. On that occasion, we were still clinging on to stupid youth and, together with six other lads, took a trip to Madrid where we ate, drank and generally over-indulged. I think at the end of that particular trip, I realised that I was getting old.

For our 50th birthday, Dave and I opted for Rome and, again, eight of us took the short trip across Europe to one of the most beautiful cities in the world. This time, however, we took our better halves, and the eight lads out for a good time became four lads and their wives/partners, for a weekend of good food, great sight-seeing and, of course, a modicum of beer and wine.

The couples were PM and Mrs PM, Dave and Shelagh, Ian and Chris and, last but not least, Nigel and Janet.

However, because women were involved, they weren’t going to let Dave and I get away with a quiet weekend.

We flew from Manchester at around 9 am. As I sat listening to my iPod, I noticed a stewardess walking down with a bottle of champagne.

“Bloody Hell,” I thought. “What pissheads have ordered champagne at this time of morning?”

Imagine how mortified I was when the stewardess stopped at our row handed over the champagne to me and said “Happy Birthday, Mr Mancunian. Shall I get some glasses?”

Here are photos of Mrs PM, Chris and I enjoying champagne at stupid o’clock, with Dave and Shelagh also joining in.

We arrived in Rome and spent the first day strolling around and embracing the beauty of some of the wonderful sights of Rome – like the Spanish Steps, Trevi Fountain, Parthenon and Piazza Navona:

In the evening, in a pizza restaurant, we were joined by two more companions: Arthur and Eric. Here is Eric with Dave:

And here is Arthur, meeting Eric across the table.

Yes, Dave and I were made to carry rubber chickens with us for the remainder of the trip. Sadly, Arthur, my rubber chicken, lost his squeak after a drunken altercation with Nigel and felt too unwell to enjoy the whole trip.

On the next day, we visited the Vatican Museum and St Peter’s Basilica:

In the evening, unbeknownst to Dave and I, the girls had booked an evening meal in a restaurant and we were both forced to wear badges:

We had to wear them for the rest of the evening.

On our penultimate day, we visited the Colosseum and Forum, with Eric, before the girls went shopping and the boys enjoyed a football match in an Irish Bar:

At the start of that day, Mrs PM and I were getting ready and but I failed to notice the image emblazoned across her top. It was only when we met the other girls that I noticed. Why? Because this was what they were wearing:

I actually got into trouble for not noticing. If you can’t see the picture, it is an image of Dave and I, presumably slightly the worst for wear, with our arm round each other enclosed in a heart, with the caption Happy 50th BirthdayYou Old Gits.

As flattering as it may seem, it was also highly embarrassing and noticed by quite a few people as we wandered around ancient monuments.

Thankfully, that was the only trauma I had to endure and no other surprises appeared.

Here's a picture of everyone in the evening of the last day:

I'm missing, of course - I was taking the photo.

And now I am 50. It sounds really weird to be honest and when I look at myself in the mirror, I don’t see a 50 year old staring back. I see the 15 year old child, the 21 year old man, the 30 year old settling down and the 40 year old, shocked at becoming an old man.

You see, turning 40 was a big deal for me; I fretted as I stepped over the line from 39 to 40, thinking that my youth had gone and part of me had faded away. Acceptance came a year or two later and now, I am happy.

Passing the 50 barrier has caused no additional distress or suffering and I am quite happy to be where I am today.

There is something I have come to realise. Inside my head I am still a teenager.

And I love that.

I hope that feeling stays for the next 50 years because, dear reader, I plan to live forever.

Well – you can dream can’t you?