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!

Old Farts' Reunion

Last night I had a trip down Memory Lane.

Every year, there is a reunion in a small pub in Heaton Mersey in Stockport. It is a reunion of old work colleagues and a couple of my mates attend every year. It usually occurs on the Friday before Christmas.

I have been invited but am usually unable to attend because it coincides with another event that is also annual and traditional – my workplace’s Christmas pub crawl around Didsbury – which usually takes place the day before, on the last Thursday before Christmas.

As much as I love beer, it usually too much for me to take in both events – there is only so much beer you can drink at my age, so I attend the Didsbury crawl – and have done for the last ten or so years.

This year, however, the Didsbury crawl will take place next Thursday and I was delighted to hear that the Heaton Mersey reunion would be a week earlier. In fact, it took place yesterday afternoon – and I went.

The pub is about fifteen minutes’ walk away from my house, and as I braved the snow and rain, I started thinking about who might be there. One of my mates jokingly refers to it as “The Old Farts’ Reunion” because at the age of 54, he is one of the younger people there.

I walked into the pub and it seemed empty, but then I heard some raucous laughter from a room at the back. I walked in and was astounded to see around twenty guys that I have not seen for years – some of whom I last clapped eyes on about twenty years ago.

I was slightly overwhelmed and blurted out:

“Bloody Hell – I haven’t seen some of you old buggers for YEARS!”.

This exclamation was greeted with laughter. It was four thirty in the afternoon and some of them had been there since three o’clock; most were slightly inebriated.

I was the youngest there – at the age of 49 – and some of these guys remembered me as a spotty faced little idiot joining their project team way back in September 1984. I was still a youngster to most of them.

The conversation flowed, with lots of names popping up that I had not heard for years. My very first software team leader was there as was my first supervisor, who greeted me with the following words:

“How are you, lad?”

I liked that – “Lad” – as if I were still a pasty-faced 21 year old filled with innocence.

We chatted for a few hours and over several pints, reminiscing about how life had changed.

I was reminded of a three way bet involving football that apparently was still in place. I foolishly pitted my team, Walsall – a shit little club languishing in League One, against Manchester United and Bolton Wanderers, the teams supported by the other two guys. The supporter of the team that finished lowest of the three in their respective divisions would have to buy a pint for the other two.

I support a team that is (and let’s be kind here) – absolutely pathetic and I have lost every year almost for the past twenty or so years.

“You owe us about twenty pints,” I was told. “Get your money out.”

Another guy who last saw me when I was married was astounded to find out that I had divorced. Another guy who had seen me just after the divorce said,

“How many women have you had since then, Dave?”

What followed was a very amusing character assassination and my claims that Mrs PM was and is the only woman I have been involved with since the divorce were hurled aside in favour of banter with me as their target. 

"It was thirteen years ago," I said but my claims fell on deaf ears.

And it was hilarious – I thoroughly enjoyed being savaged by these guys.

Another guy said “How old are you then?”

“I’m 50 next year,” I said.

“Farkin’ hell – you MUST use cream on your skin. You haven’t even got any grey hair. I’ll bet you’ve been using products for twenty years.”

More raucous laughter followed by more piss taking at my expense.

It was sad to hear about people I knew as a young man who had died – a melancholy diversion from Memory Lane – but overall it was brilliant to see some of these guys again. As the evening drifted on, Mrs PM’s words echoed in my head:

“Don’t get shit-faced. It’s my Christmas party tomorrow and you are coming whether or not you are hungover.”

So reluctantly I had to go, leaving behind a handful of die-hards sipping more beer and chatting about age, work and the past. I thoroughly enjoyed this little trip down Memory Lane and promised that I would do my best to come back next year.

And as I wobbled back home in the snow and rain, the one clear thought that shone through the alcoholic haze was this:

I will keep that promise.