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!

Signs Of Age

I am aware that I am not getting any younger and I realise that I can’t do anything about Father Time’s obsession with transforming me into a shrivelled old prune.

I know that many people cannot accept their fate and the inevitable consequences of living for decades. Some people go to extraordinary lengths to do battle with the inexorable slide into old age and look even more ridiculous as a result.

I have chosen to embrace the mutation into a withered old wreck. After all, I can’t fight it – why bother?

Many people say that I look young for my age and while that is true, the signs are there for all to see (if you are brave enough to get close enough to me that is).

Let’s look at the evidence.

Baggy Face: My face is beginning to droop like a sack of sludge with a couple of holes. I have compared my face with that of a younger more vibrant version of myself and it is quite shocking to see the difference. My cheeks look like I have stuffed cotton wool into them and I somehow seem to have acquired more skin. I would say that my skin is growing but I know that isn’t true. If I didn’t know any better, I would say that my face is slowly melting. I am beginning to look like John McCain with a wig:

Grey Hair: My lovely blond locks have darkened to a dirty brown and the pigment is marching towards boring old grey. I could persuade it to reverse I suppose by applying liberal amounts of a product like “Just For Men” that is supposed to turn an old fart into a dark haired Adonis (but in reality makes them look ridiculous). I will let my hair change colour and, I guess, ultimately I will look like a grey owl:


Actually that may not be the case: people with blond hair tend to turn white. So maybe I will end up looking like a white owl:



Moobs: I can’t deny it - I have small moobs (or moobies if you prefer). Purely in the name of research, I have just, stupidly been cupping them in my hands as Mrs PM walked in and now I feel like a right berk!

“What the hell are you doing?” she has just asked.

“Research for a blog post!”

Now Mrs PM thinks I am even more of a weirdo and I have some explaining to do (“Read the post” doesn’t seem to have worked).

Thankfully my moobs really are tiny and only visible if I am stupid enough to wear a tight T-Shirt. But they are there, dear reader. I can see them and soon they will announce themselves to the world despite my attempts to hide them. I will have to start investing in baggy T shirts.

Double chin: Under a certain light I can see that I have a fledgling second chin. I can’t possibly see the use for an extra chin and I imagine if it gets any bigger it will make shaving a right pain in the arse. I fear that unless I deflate it somehow it might become the first of many. My chin is spawning, dear reader!

Hair sprouting everywhere: Regular readers will know that I have a problem with my hair. It is an unmanageable mess at the best of times. Now, the rest of my body has decided to join in, thrusting hair out of all sorts of weird orifices.

Why on earth would I want monster clumps of hair hanging out of my nose?

What possible purpose can they achieve?

Worse, when I go to get my hair cut, the poor woman who battles my monstrous locks now has to shave my ears.

MY EARS for Pete's sake.

Why at the age of forty does Mother Nature decide to cover my ears with hair? I’m turning into a yeti:


Eyesight: I’ve always been as blind as a bat and now my eyes have decided to kick me in the teeth by making me long-sighted as well as short-sighted. I have to wear varifocals now which means that I have to peer through the bottom of the lenses when reading. Why would Mother Nature do that to me? It’s bad enough having to wear glasses since the age of eight without them suddenly becoming useless at the age of forty five.

Mother Nature certainly has a sick sense of humour.

Wrinkles: My fair complexion is fine and from a distance my face looks as smooth as a baby’s backside. Get closer and you begin to see the flaws. Crevices, fissures and ravines are beginning to appear. And they are getting worse. Mrs PM keeps telling me to stop frowning because my forehead has deepening cracks. It could be worse but I know that it won’t get any better. If my hair decides to throw in the towel I could end up looking like one giant wrinkle.

It is inevitable that I will probably end up looking like this any one of these three guys:

As I said, I’m not Benjamin Button and neither is anybody else, so why would growing old worry anybody? I don't like it but it is inevitable, dear reader. I will live with it and get some blogging mileage out of it too.

I know that I am not suddenly going to become a heart throb with features so handsome that women swoon when they see me - in fact, women have NEVER swooned over me so why would growing old be any different?

Mind you, I guess it is possible that older women might find me attractive, simply because they will be as blind as I am.

Besides, who would want to become younger? Crikey – we would have to go through puberty again and the thought of that makes me cringe – it was bad enough the first time.

And yes, dear reader, I HAVE gone through puberty (despite what you may think).

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”.

Guys - Grow Old Gracefully

Does the fountain of youth exist? Is there a way for a man of my age to take a liquid of some kind and use it to rejuvenate myself?

Allow me to let you into a secret. I have discovered such a substance. And I didn’t have to trek to the deepest and most dangerous parts of the Amazon to do it. I merely switched on my TV set.



The miraculous product is readily available and is in fact advertised on the TV regularly. Yes, that’s right – it is actually available to buy in the shops for a mere £4.99.

You may have seen the advert yourself. It is heart-warming and creates a buzz inside that almost brings a tear to the eye. Picture the scene:

Two little girls stumble tentatively into a living room whispering to each other. One of them says “Dad?”. They are holding hands, clearly nervous. The music in the background is the kind you would expect to hear on a True Movie where somebody has overcome a major trauma to make them a better person. ”It’s time,” says the girl.

The camera moves to the settee where a man lowers a newspaper stares at the girls in puzzlement.

“You’d be a really nice catch for somebody,” says the other cute girl with a grin and then shows us the miracle. They lift up a box of “Just For Men” and offer it to the man imploringly saying “Please?”

After briefly explaining how this miracle works, we suddenly move to a restaurant where the man is now with a lovely woman. He takes a photo of the two of them and says “For my girls”.

Now at this point in the commercial I did three things. First I stared open-mouthed as I took in the message accompanying the advert. Then I threw up in disgust. Finally I erupted into a major (and I mean major) rant. The man in the commercial had one or two grey hairs and apart from that was perfectly normal. To me, he looked no different when he had applied the miracle cure. Furthermore, what kind of man would want a woman who only went out with him because of his youthful hair? Even worse, what would she do when she discovered the “Just For Men” in the bathroom cupboard? Can you imagine the scene?

Woman: You’ve been in the bathroom for ages. Are you alright?

Man: Er er er er – I’m fine. Don’t come in.

Woman barges in because man has forgotten to lock the door.

Woman: What’s in your hand?

Man: Noth..noth..noth..nothing dear.

Woman: Let me see …. AAARRRGGHHHH!!!! It’s “Just For Men”. It’s over, you grey-haired old fogey. How could you do this to me?????

I don’t think I would want a woman like that.

The commercial is, without doubt, one of the worst I have ever seen in my life. And believe me, I have seen many dreadful adverts (usually for products just like “Just For Men”). You can even get “Just For Men” for your beard! Here’s what I say – shave the bloody thing off.

I mean, come on. Do the people who make this really believe that eliminating one or two grey hairs on man’s head turns him into some kind magnet for gorgeous women? It makes me sick. As we grow older, men are being exploited by companies like this who prey on our fears. The same has, of course, been happening to women but I would like to focus on men (mainly because that's what I am and I don't understand the female psyche sadly).

I have a question to ask. Why can’t we, as men, just grow old gracefully?

I have monitored the effects of age on myself and to be honest I haven’t done a single thing to change them. True, I’ve been lucky in a sense because I have a full head of hair, none of which is grey. But I do suffer from the other signs of age; there are wrinkles appearing all over the place; my stomach is getting bigger; various parts of my body that used to be fine and upstanding are now drooping slightly. Losing weight is more and more difficult. My eyesight is getting worse. I'm starting to get pains in parts of my body that I never knew existed.

I don’t really care to be perfectly honest. The only thing I really want to do is to lose weight in order to be fit and to live longer. And also because I'm too tight-fisted to keep shelling out on new clothes.

As for the signs of ageing, I can guarantee that:

When I go bald, I shall not grow the hair on either side of my head longer and then comb it over the bald spot, nor will I glue it there. I will look ridiculous. More people laugh at those who wear comb-overs than anything.

When I go bald, I shall not even consider wearing a wig or toupee of any kind. I do not want to be called “Wiggy” by any of my mates.

When I go bald, I will not spray the bald patch with gunk that “hides” the spot. I’ve seen this in action and it looks absurd.

When I go grey, I will not use “Just For Men” on what is left of my hair. The chances of a man pulling a gorgeous woman simply because he has hidden a few grey hairs are, in my opinion, remote. Does any man who has a touch of grey really think that he will become an irresistable adonis if he rids himself of them?

When the wrinkles on my face become prevalent I will not use any L’Oreal product “because I’m worth it”. I will not inject myself with anything that puffs out my wrinkles and I will certainly not have any surgery that puts a permanent stupid grin on my face or stops me from opening my mouth wide.

I would urge men to grow old gracefully; embrace the signs of ageing. By all means, look good but don’t look ridiculous. You can’t fight it – why bother? We should be proud that we’re getting older, even though things do change.

I have one final thought on the subject of “Just For Men”. What happens if a woman uses it? Furthermore, what happens if you use “Just For Men” for a beard on your head by mistake (something that could easily be done with fading eyesight)? Does your hair fall out?

Maybe I’ll buy some, to satisfy my inquisitive mind. Maybe I’ll use it on one of the cats. I just hope that Mrs PM doesn’t catch me in the act.