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.

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.

Grow Old Disgracefully

I’ve been lucky when it comes to growing old. People who meet me for the first time are shocked when I reveal my age, some of them visibly.

It’s been great.

I have a full head of hair and a young complexion, thanks to my sensitive skin that normally turns to fire when exposed to a little sunlight. Lessons have been learned along the way and I no longer spend any time in the sun if I can help it. Instead I sit in the shade and am mocked by those wrinkly old sun-worshippers with leathery skin and I simply don’t care – I am reaping the benefits of avoiding the sun.

I have a lot of friends who are younger than me and some of them are jealous. One friend said just a few days ago:

“I’m nearly forty and I look about five years older than you. How old are you now? Forty seven? You make me sick!”

Looking younger than my age has made me act a little younger too. I have been told that I can sometimes behave very immaturely (usually by my two teenage lads) and to be honest I don’t think that’s a bad thing. I have often said that I am a middle-aged goat with a teenager trying to escape from within. You may find that description a little peculiar but it is totally accurate.

And the good news is that by looking so young, I have been able to get away with it.

Until now.

Something has happened and I am a little shocked.

Before I reveal all, let me tell you about a little argument that I had with Mrs PM.

Some background first:

Age milestones can be traumatic – I know, I’ve been through a few myself.

My twentieth birthday was horrible. I was at university and I realised that I was no longer a teenager; all of a sudden I was supposed to start acting like a grown up human being. After a couple of pints I thought to myself “Bollocks to that!” and so began my battle with age.

On my thirtieth birthday I refused to bow to the pressure of settling down and continued to behave like an idiotic young arse despite people my age telling me that I was acting like a juvenile imbecile.

On my fortieth birthday I really struggled to cope with on-coming middle age and beat myself up daily in the months leading up to the big day, compensating for middle age by dressing up in young clothes and doing even more stupid things.

Thankfully, I came to my senses and grew up a little. Nevertheless, coming to terms with my age has turned me into an unsympathetic bonehead when it comes to others reaching similar milestones, responding harshly when people have said things like.

“Oh no – I’m old! I’m thirty next week.”

“What do you mean old?” I have replied, oblivious to their trauma. “I tell you what, when you are forty seven like me then you can start to bloody worry about your age. Thirty! THIRTY!!! What’s wrong with you? You’re still a child! No – you’re a BABY! It’s been so long since I’ve been thirty that I’ve forgotten what it felt like. Thirty – honestly. Do me a favour and go and moan about it to somebody who is twenty five. That’s the only way you’ll get a sympathetic ear. Worried about being THIRTY? STREWTH!!!”

To be honest, I do feel bad about giving people a hard time when they have wandered off feeling depressed, because I remember being afflicted by the same depression at the time myself.

Unfortunately, my insensitivity towards younger people reaching milestones came back and bit me on the arse yesterday. Why? Because Mrs PM is forty this year; that’s why we had an argument.

It started off as such a nice day. I returned home from work and found Mrs PM sitting in the garden, enjoying a wonderfully sunny day.

“Shall we eat out?” she said.

“Yeah,” I agreed. “Let’s go the pub and have dinner in the beer garden!”

We strolled to one of our local pubs and were enjoying a wonderful meal with a pint or two of the landlord’s finest ale in the lovely June sunshine, when the subject of age reared its ugly head. The conversation went something like this:

MRS PM: I’m forty in August.

PM: I know.

MRS PM: I don’t want to be forty. I’m slightly perturbed about it.

PM: It’ll be fine. Nothing will change. I was forty almost eight years ago. I’m fine.

MRS PM: I remember when you were forty; you were distraught.

PM: Yes, I know I was – but I was stupid.

MRS PM: What do you mean “stupid”?

PM: I mean what I say. I’m quite happy now, all these years later. I don’t know what the problem was. One minute I was thirty nine, the next I was forty. Nothing changed. Nothing dropped off. I didn’t die. I didn’t suddenly become old. I was fine. I am fine. I was a stupid bloody idiot.

MRS PM: You’ll feel the same when you turn fifty.

PM: I can assure you that I won’t. I’m absolutely delighted to be forty seven years old and I wouldn’t have it any other way. I’m very happy, thank you very much. I don’t know why I was so idiotic.

MRS PM: Well I feel down about it.

PM: Well that’s stupid. I know that everybody who reaches a milestone like that suddenly realises that they are getting old, but so what? Nothing will change. Everybody who worries about it is being daft.

MRS PM: Are you saying that I am stupid?

PM: No – I am saying that you are BEING stupid worrying about it – just like everybody else who worries about such things. I was stupid too.

MRS PM: YOU ARE CALLING ME STUPID!!!

At this point, a few people started listening in. I think I saw one person go to the local shop to get some popcorn. Of course, I was oblivious. I was on a roll. I was being a total dickhead.

PM: Look, sweetpea, there is nothing to worry about. Think about it. What’s wrong with being forty? What is so different about being forty? You’re not going to become an ugly, fat old bat overnight. If you think you are then you are being stupid.

It was a sunny evening and all of a sudden the atmosphere changed, as if a dark cloud had appeared above. I was oblivious to this because I was in full flow, ranting away about things that I shouldn’t even be pondering.

Sometimes I can be such a moron. I should have stopped; I didn’t.

PM: When a twenty nine year old comes up to me and says “Dave – I’m worried about being thirty”, I just want to scream at them. They are YOUNG at thirty. It’s ridiculous. It’s STUPID.

MRS PM: WILL YOU STOP CALLING ME STUPID?

PM: I’m not calling you stupid. I am saying that you, like me and every other bugger who has beaten themselves up about entering a new decade, deserves a slap to bring them to their senses.

At this point, the audience winced, presumably anticipating the pain to come. I stopped my rant briefly to look into Mrs PM’s eyes.

They were red. They were fiery. She was angry. She was going to kill me.

A little voice popped into my head and said “FOR CRYING OUT LOUD – SHUT UP!!”

So I did.

But it was not over – not by a long way.

MRS PM: HOW DARE YOU CALL ME STUPID!!!! Do you know, you can be right arsehole sometimes and you're being one now.

Were some people applauding?

MRS PM: I know that turning forty won’t change anything …

PM: But …

MRS PM: SHUT UP!!!! I want to be in my thirties. I want to stay young. I don’t want to be forty but I know I will get over it. I just want some sympathy. I don’t know why I bothered trying to get any from you. You are such a pratt! I ask for sympathy and YOU CALL ME STUPID!!

PM: I didn’t call you stupid, I …

MRS PM: SHUT UP!!!! I haven’t finished.

There was definitely some applause and a little mocking laughter. I turned around to see who it was.

MRS PM: STOP IGNORING ME!!

At this point I deservedly had to suffer a tirade of abuse. I tried to make amends by smiling and nodding. I endeavoured to reiterate the fact that I didn’t think she was stupid at all but my pleas fell on deaf ears. She lectured me about feelings, age and all sorts of things related to what an uncaring, cold-blooded, heartless, callous and cruel barbarian I could be. Her words struck home and I decided to take one for the team. I sat there and allowed her to chastise me.

And then I switched off.

Her words flowed over me and I tried to filter out the key phrases that would allow me to put my foot in the door and try to regain a place in her affections. I was humble. I hung my head in shame, seeking a gap where I could change the subject. I knew I was beaten.

And then it happened.

MRS PM: Hang on a second. Have you looked in the mirror lately?

The pitch of her voice had changed. She was no longer annoyed with my callous outburst. Moreover, there was a hint of humour in her voice, a hint of mischief – the tables were about to be well and truly turned. I decided that now was the time to lighten the mood with some self-deprecating humour.

PM: Of course, not. I don’t look in the mirror. You know that I am scared of baboons. And if I survive the ordeal I’m worried that the mirror might not. I’ve had enough bad luck over the years.

MRS PM: (now laughing): I think you should look in the mirror.

PM: (now slightly worried): Why?

MRS PM: You’re going grey!

PM: Nonsense.

MRS PM: Honestly – there are flecks of grey in your hair at the side.

PM: Rubbish! When the sun shines on my hair, it looks more blonde – not grey.

MRS PM: I’ll prove it.

PM: How?

The audience had their popcorn at the ready as Mrs PM gently reached into the hair at the side of my head.

PM: OUCH!!!!!

Mrs PM handed a hair to me – a genuine, bona fide grey hair. I was flabbergasted. I was shocked. It had grown out of my head. A bloody great big thick grey hair!!!

Here is the proof:


So you see, ladies and gentlemen, age is finally catching up with me. For those who are wondering what happened after Mrs PM’s fantastic revelation, we walked back home with Mrs PM chuckling to herself as I did my greatest Victor Meldrew impersonation: “I DON’T BELIEVE IT!!”

Mrs PM has forgotten about the trauma of reaching forty because there is now visible evidence that I am a middle-aged git and to her that is funny enough to allow her to forget the approaching milestone - at least for now.

And I can imagine what you are thinking - IT SERVES YOU RIGHT - and you are of course totally correct.

Dear reader, I am no longer the Peter Pan of the blogosphere. My hair, which has irritated me ever since I can remember has now climbed to new heights of annoyance.

But, fear not – I won’t let it bother me. I shall continue to grow old disgracefully – the only problem is that I may now start looking the part.

I no longer have an excuse to act like a pratt.

But one thing’s for sure – I will definitely, definitely, definitely not be buying “Just For Men”.

46 Years Young? Yeah Right!

The inexorable slide towards fifty continues, bringing with it more jowels, another chin, a further inch around my gut, possibly a grey hair, another millimetre of receding hairline and ageist jokes from my younger friends.

Yes – I am forty six years old tomorrow.

So why do I act like a seventeen year old? Why do I feel like a teenager trapped inside an old man’s body?

Middle age is a pain in the arse. I no longer have an excuse to get away with the things I love doing and my body is rebelling against me.

Take rock music for example. I adore rock music but when I go a heavy metal concert I find myself surrounded by kids who are old enough to be my own son. I don’t go to them as much as I used to.

If I drink a beer too many the hangover really does kick me in the skull. Waking up with a massive headache, upset stomach and no energy is bad enough. But when you feel the same the day afterwards, something is very wrong. “But I only had four pints” I find myself wailing.

My dress sense is rapidly vanishing and I find myself browsing around the slipper section of department stores. Thankfully Mrs PM stops me before I buy something totally embarrassing. I can no longer shop for clothes alone. I dread to think what I would buy if allowed to go out on my own.

My memory is fading. I swear that I have been introduced to a man recently and within an hour had completely forgotten his name. How can you have a conversation with a person while you are desperately trying to remember whether his name is Fred or Gladys?

More and more parts of my body ache if I over-exert myself. I ache in places that I thought it was impossible to feel pain. My back is starting to hurt more regularly. I’m turning into a wreck.

And I’ve discovered that my very first optician lied to me. At the age of eight, I was told that I was extremely short-sighted.

“Don’t worry,” the liar said. “As you get older, your eyes will improve.”

I could always read books with or without my glasses. Now I have discovered that I am becoming more long-sighted. If I am wearing my glasses I cannot easily read the newspaper. What is going on? I will have to wear bi-focals or vari-focals or even two pairs of glasses.

I’m falling apart.

I’ve talked before about embarrassing hair but at least I’m not bald or grey. However, hair is sprouting out of parts of my body that I thought should remain hairless forever. My ears are so hairy that I have to shave them. That’s right, I shave my ears. And what possible reason is there for hair to suddenly start growing out of your nose at the age of forty? It’s embarrassing. When I go for a haircut I don’t want to say “short back and sides and while you’re on take an inch off my nose hair.”

I said that I felt young but am struggling to be understand the younger generation. My fifteen year old lad tries his best to keep me informed but is exasperated by the fact that I don’t understand what he’s saying to me. I try to keep my hand in by playing on their consoles with them. Just last week I was utterly humiliated playing a racing game on the Wii games console called “Super Mario Kart”. My fifteen year old son beat me repeatedly. I needed to massage my bruised ego so I challenged my other son, aged twelve. He walloped me repeatedly. I couldn’t face this. My pride was being mauled. I challenged them both to a fighting game. I was beaten to an absolute pulp by both of them. It was a massacre. The figure on the screen was kicked, punched, battered, bruised and bleeding. And it was me. My lads even tried to give me a chance. And I still lost. I was humiliated. And I kept dropping the Wii controller. My wrists hurt for days.

I don’t know who the hip new generation of pop stars are. I don’t understand the appeal of hip hop, rap, trip hop, dance, trance, garage, house. I don’t even know why music is named after buildings. In the eighties it was just rock and pop.

I used to love going to the pub on a Friday night. Now I find myself having a quiet drink until about eight o’clock at which time the landlord turns the music up to a volume that shatters glass and introduces the fogies like myself to hip hop, trip trap and blup blop. The youngsters descend on the place and I can’t hear myself think. So I go home, put on my slippers and watch BBC2.

Actually, although most of the above is true, I actually do like being older. I am happy with my life and my body, despite it’s constant urge to kick me in the teeth. I am forty six years old tomorrow but I look ten years younger so I can, for the time being, get away with pretending to be young when I want to. I just suffer for a day or two afterwards. Still, its worth it. I am young at heart and will probably be one of those old aged pensioners still trying to “strut my funky stuff” to Abba at the seventies revival disco at the old folks home (as long as my hip will allow me to).

I’ll finish by saying that being older does have its benefits. People expect me to moan – so I do. People expect me to be sensible – even though I am not.

And I can’t wait to get my own back on my two lads when they eventually get married.

Picture the scene: I will be fifty something dancing to Kajagoogoo’s “Too Shy” on the dance floor watching my sons cringe with embarrassment.

And I will be thinking: “Serves you right for kicking my arse at Wii Boxing”.