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This month I have mainly been thinking about getting older. A lot of people I know have a big problem with getting older, obsessing about wrinkles and grey hairs and the like, and many people seem to do everything in their power to stave off the inevitable, much to the delight of the snake oil salesmen in the beauty clinics. Whereas I'm the complete opposite. The older I get, the more I like it, possibly due to being cursed with a chubby little baby-face.
By the time this article goes to print, I'll be approximately two weeks
away from my 35th birthday, which is a milestone in as much as I'll go
up an age bracket when filling in forms and such like. And, for
whatever reason, I admit it sounds an awful lot older than 34 for some
reason. Some people I know are already complaining about the fact that
they've found at least 3 grey hairs, which, naturally they immediately
plucked out, probably accompanied by much wailing and gnashing of
teeth. But every grey hair I find is cause for celebration, and not
just on my head or in my beard, but on my magnificently fury chest. To
me, being older just seems more ...more manly is the only way I can
describe it, and I'm genuinely looking forward to my 40's and 50's,
particularly if I get that great salt and pepper mixture of grey and
brown hair that I think looks superb. I've been reading up on the
ageing process a bit lately and apparently there's not a whole lot
(medically at least) to look forward to, unless you're really into
having weaker joints and bones, a shitty immune system and freezing to
death at home in the winter, coupled with dementia.
As an aside, I
don't buy into the whole winter sob story of the elderly huddling round
a candle for warmth because they can't afford the heating. If they're
so poor, why are there legions of pensioners buying expensive food in
M&S and getting in my bloody way when I go to buy a lunchtime
sarnie? Strangely, I think more people worry about the purely cosmetic
issues of ageing, rather than the fact that you'll just get ill a lot
more, then die. The first rule of thumb, for men and women, is ‘if it
can sag, it will sag’, not to mention the fact that old men's ears keep
on growing and growing and growing. I think the ladies have a harder
time here, as their tits soon start looking like a Spaniel's ears if
they don’t have them done (breast augmentation, I think they call it),
whilst all men have to worry about is their scrotum sack dangling
around their knees by the time they're 70. To be fair, with my
testicular imbalance (my left clacker is, and I quote: "Like a f ing
hen's egg!"), I'll probably end up suffering more than most . I've
actually got it in my head that I'll look something like Roald Dhal's
‘Big Friendly Giant’ when I get proper old, but with a much larger
ball-bag. Ears? “You should see the size of my bollocks, luv, and you
wouldn’t be b o t h e r i n g about my ears!” I think I've worked out
why women worry more about ageing than men, and that’s because men age
so much better than women. That may be a contentious statement, but I
firmly believe it to be true. And, after you see the irrefutable
evidence below, I'm damned sure you'll agree with me. Women get haggard
as they get older, while men simply get more rugged. Men can luxuriate
in growing a fine beard and/or moustache, while women have to
constantly battle their encroaching facial hair to stop themselves
looking like a frightening parody of my aforementioned scrotum.
Women
have to buy trusses and holdins and Tena-Lady pants because they keep
doing a wee-wee in their massive knickers, while men simply choose
themselves a nice cardigan to sit by the fireside in. While some women
do seem to age quite well, we all know this isn't without a shit load
of effort, expense and definite surgical procedures, which half the
time leave them looking like a trout in a Dali painting. Men, on the
other hand, have Sean Connery to aspire to. Sir Connery is surely about
500 years old by now, yet young women still want to shag him. Now I’m
thinking hard, but I honestly can’t think of any women in their 80's
that I'd want to bone. Christ, I'd probably knob Connery after a few
pints myself, though I'd definitely be gentle with him, in case I broke
his hip or something. One of my favourite actors, the great Stephen
Lang, is another good example. Just take a look at him in h i s younger
d a y s , r e s e m - b l i n g some sort of paedophilic ginger ferret.
“I didn't touch her, yer honour, honest!” Only now look at him in his
latest role in ‘Avatar’ and tell me he hasn't improved hugely with age?
“No, I wouldn't fuck with me either!”
OK, so now take a look at one of
the greatest screen icons of our age, the wonderful Liz Taylor. In her
black and white days, she must have been riding the bus to Pork Central
Station every single day of the week. Whereas nowadays, you wouldn't be
surprised to see her living with a thousand cats and conjuring curses
to kill local children. Yet these are just a couple of prime examples.
However, we all know that for every Joanna Lumley, there are a thousand
Kathy Burkes. Having said that, most of us men hit 45 and immediately
become George Clooney. So this month I think I've conclusively proven
that old age is something to actually look forward to, rather than
anything to fear. Unless you're a lady, of course. What’s more, I'm
sure that I'll still be writing for this august publication when I'm in
my dotage (picking up the odd Pulitzer along the way, I shouldn't
wonder), so be sure to check back in again in 40 years time so’s you
can see for yourselves just how far down my plums are actually hanging.
Ahhh, Kingpin, me old mate. There goes ‘the voice of youth’. You’re 35
and you’re suddenly thinking you’re ‘clocking on a bit’.
But let me
tell you, lad, 35 is nowt. My squash opponent, John Jenkinson, told me
in the locker room the other day that he thought I was ‘in my early
thirties’, bless his cotton socks and ickle booties. I f ing wish!
Having said that, no I don’t, I take that back. I honestly don’t wish I
was any younger.....but I do most certainly wish I could fit into the
clothes I used to wear when I was younger (and I’ve kept the lot of ’em
as I continue to live in hope). I honestly, genuinely, never thought
age would happen to me. Mad as that sounds, I just didn’t. OK, so
mentally I’ve managed to curb getting older in preference for producing
a “childishly inappropriate mag” (see David Rigden’s email on this
month’s ‘Letters Page’). But the rest of me....Kingpin, I positively
ache, lad.
These days I have (sports) injuries that simply, seemingly,
refuse to f ing heal, which is definitely a ‘bone of contention’. I was
always going to be a Bald Eagle, so that’s never bothered me (it’s the
blokes ‘baldness takes by surprise’ that you’ve got to feel sorry for).
But I honestly never counted on....I guess just getting injured and
such injuries taking an absolute age to heal, whereas when I was
younger.... When you’re younger, you simply bounce and rebound -
whereas with age, you go down like a proverbial sack of shit). I still
find it difficult to believe that one day I won’t be here. Having said
that, if I can continue to have a relatively good innings and walk
gentlemanly from the crease having scored 78 runs....well then, I
guess, that would be something. But I don’t know. I honestly don’t.
Maybe I’ll want to live ’til I’m 85? Or 90? You just don’t know.
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