I’m 49, so a spring chicken in TheAfterword years. However:
– When I was about 14, I noted that the first year kids at school seemed to be getting smaller every year
– In my late 20s, I started to not really understand the latest music releases any more
– In my late 30s, I noted that the England football team looked worryingly young
– I was 40 when I became a dad, and observed the worryingly youthful appearance of the doctors on the maternity ward
And now tonight there’s been an appointed peer on Newsnight, and he’s younger than me.
What’s the next step in this process? What looks worryingly young when you hit your 60s / 70s? Is the answer ‘everything’? Or do you find a way to keep moving the goalposts? Asking for a friend…
>>> Unleash your observations and wit…
There’s a fine line between “falling over” and “having a fall”. I’ve past it.
Also you think you look fine in the half light when looking in the bathroom mirror until your partner turns the light on. And “you ache in the places where you used to play:
Interesting typo there, revealing some inner Freudian turmoil. Whilst the spellczech nazi might seem the obvious culprit, with past for passed, one can still sense the agony in the subtext, surely screaming I’m, not I’ve.
That’ll be 30 guineas, please. No cheques.
He meant “parsed”. Duh.
Thank you @retropath2 for your concern it could be that I was staring into the void, screaming into the abyss but frankly I was tired and didn’t contact my inner pedant and cheque through my post.
Pretty sure I first felt old in ’76, when the Sex Pistols happened. I was, ooh, early twenties, and all of a sudden I felt left out what was happening. The first time I hadn’t been on board for a change in youth culture. I also thought it was just horrible noise, a real “get off my lawn” moment.
I’m at the age now, ooh, early seventies, where I’m fine with the passing of the years. I’ve never been a handsome dude, and old age is a natural, weathered look (think the foxed pages of an old library book, with much underlining) I don’t find offensive. My brain is a steel trap, but my body is an Airfix kit coming unglued (think cockpit cowl crazed with glue, seams splitting, wheels falling off). I’ve sown my wild oats and it’s Bran Flakes for me from now on.
So I’ve felt old for, ooh, fifty years now.
If its any consolation I felt the same way when the ‘Pistols’ were on ‘So It Goes’ and I was only 14.
I remember very clearly the next day at school saying to my mates “Did you see that godawful band on the TV. Now I know how my Mum feels when she says she thinks modern music is just noise’. Or course I didn’t know what wonders were about to appear around the corner, and by the time of ‘White Riot’ 6 months later I had shaved off my hair, ditched the ‘flares’ and was fully on-board.
This is a timely post as I’m on my way home from an evening spent enjoying The Lemonheads, who were very much my band when I was 14 years old, but who have unaccountably morphed into their own parents. One of those bittersweet gigs that is rich in the warming buzz of shared history but low on novelty and breakthrough youthful energy. A “how did we get here” gig.
So I was already well on my way to thinking about this stuff…
Young is when you’re filthy rich with time, and a profligate spender because you can’t imagine the account will ever be overdrawn.
Young is being absolutely certain about the world, even though – and perhaps because – you have no idea who the fuck you are or what your place in it ought to be.
Young is foolishly and wholeheartedly believing that being understood would make you happy.
Young is seeing things too clearly and feeling things too intensely, but expressing things too obliquely, no matter how much you talk.
Young is still being in possession of all your boundless potential, and the deep personal liberty that goes hand in hand with such a state of grace.
Young is desperation for the world to accelerate, and in doing so deliver you to some as yet unspecified final destination.
Old is wishing the world would slow down, because there are no final destinations, just sights along the way, and they’re starting to blur.
Old is learning to take care of yourself under duress.
Old is accumulating a knowledge you cannot share.
Old is trading the ability to constantly feel for the ability to occasionally understand.
Old is the dawning realisation that it’s actually going to happen to you, that it’s going to be brutal, and that your illusions will not protect you.
Old is letting go of your aphorisms and the urges that once drove you into their arms.
All the rest: your body, your interests, the lines on your face, the music you listen to, the clothes you wear, your life – all the markers of age that people worry so much about – ultimately have little to do with it. They’re just a bunch of stuff that happens to you, and that will happen to everyone at a slightly different clip. You can be 13 and old, you can be 40 and young; there is no obligation to follow the assembly instructions.
But no matter what you do, one day you too will be stood watching your own personal Lemonheads, next to that little blonde kid from up the road, who has carelessly left his hair at home and whose clock is slowing a second a day. Both stood staring at Evan Dando from amidst a sea of middle age children, wondering where the the fuck that went, why it didn’t become apparent sooner how terrible it would be for beauty to last forever, and whether you too will one day be forced to grow a beard.
Oh I say! Bwaveaux!
But were they any good? I decided against going, feeling 2018, or whenever,it was they were last here, should have closed the door, discreetly and permanently. And I love Dando.
I prefer Beany myself.
I don’t think this comment has had the recognition it’s due.
Dando/Beany.
We have a Beezer.
He was a mess on stage when I saw them in the 90s, almost 30 (THIRTY) years ago. Now that does make me feel old
That’s actually a difficult question to answer.
He wasn’t a mess, by any means – I got the sense he was relatively sober. But he’s certainly an oddball, and that quality lands differently in a slightly grizzled 60 year old as compared to a beautiful 20-something.
Three piece band, came out hot and absolutely tore through one crowd pleaser after another. No song seemed to last more than 2 minutes, every song joyfully received by the audience. Minimal to no chat, just hopping from one tune to the next. It gave wonderful nostalgia, but I was reminded of Kieran Culkin’s legendary heckle from the Scott Pilgrim movie: “not a race, guys”.
The bulk of the material, naturally, was from It’s A Shame About Ray and Come On Feel. There was not a single young person in the room – my eldest had been meant to join us, but homework put paid to the opportunity to get a view from the youth.
Somewhere south of halfway through,the rest of the band departed the stage, Dando brought out the acoustic and delivered a dozen or so ramshackle but occasionally lovely versions of his own and other people’s songs. In between, he occasionally offered mumbled, largely indecipherable commentary. Then the band came back out for Alison’s Starting To Happen, If I Could Talk I’d Tell You and Into My Arms.
The gig ended with Dando alone onstage, performing an entirely acapella version of Frank Mills, with the audience shouting along to every word. He’d played for 2 hours and got through at least 30 songs, none of which was Mrs Robinson (which was fine by me).
Was it any good? I honestly couldn’t tell you. If I’d walked in off the street with no prior knowledge of the band I’d probably have said it was no more than fine.
But I’d somehow never seen the Lemonheads before, and I love all these songs, and – as a friend recently remarked to me – I have a terrible habit of finding the good in everyone and everything. So, to me it was great. Because they played Drug Buddy, they played Frank Mills, and most of all because I got to watch Evan Dando, alone onstage, slow things down and perform a ragged but lovely version of Gram Parson’s A Song For You, and in those three minutes pretty much everything seemed good in the world.
Fine summary, Bingo, of markers.
I would offer the opinion that being Old is also a time when you are certain of the world and feel that you have earned the right to say it out loud (whatever the consequences). And you will announce the right to speak your mind. No filter.
Oh God, that’s reminding me of my dad in his latter years.
My late mother-in-law got very disinhibited in later life. We took her to one of our kids’ school concerts, and while we were waiting for it to start she said loudly, to no one in particular, ‘Don’t black girls have lovely big bottoms?’
On being shushed by both of us, she doubled down. “Well they do,’ she yelled defiantly.
Mrs F had a big birthday last weekend. I’m 56 and a half and she’s 3 and a half years older than me, so “you do the math” as the young people would say.
We are simultaneously still young – I listen to pop music, FFS – and old. Offspring The Elder is only about 18 months younger than I was when I met Mrs F, and is still a child. Albeit one starting a Masters.
I was in the new university Physics department building a couple of weeks ago, and in the Gents there are some bright white LED lights and huge mirrors behind the sinks. As I was washing my hands, there was a very wrinkly old man staring back at me. I’m sticking with the 40W tungsten bulb at home…
Evidence for the prosecution: we’re buying a campervan.
Feeling old? Pah! Try having grandsons and attempting a conversation with them. The eldest has just moved up to senior school and the only answer I can get out of him is “yeah”. All he wants is games or videos on his smartphone. He’s not interested in the fact this old man went drinking with a band called the Sex Pistols after a gig almost 50 years ago.
Mind you neither are his daughters.
I remember when new Crown Court Judges began to seem remarkably youthful.
That’s nothing! I remember when Crown Court was on the telly!
And Marked Personal!
And Muffin The Mule was considered suitable entertainment for children!
A peculiarly timely post, as I am looking long and hard at the bizarre notion I will be 70 next year. It seems ridiculous, not least as, in the pitch dark, I don’t look a minute different from the eager eyed owl of a half century ago. Of course, I knew nothing then, knowledge only slow to accumulate, largely from the school of trial and error, learning by the many mistakes made. All in all, I prefer now to then, far comfier in my sagging skin. I may have specs, electronic ears and dodgy knees, I may be on at least 2 hospital waiting lists, but these are my failings, my infirmities, earnt along the way. I’m lucky. I’m old. I’ve got here and hope the ground ahead won’t be too bumpy. And that my hoping aids won’t run out of battery.
@retropath2I see you are still trying to hang out with the kids though using the informal ‘earnt’ instead of the correct usage of earned. 😃 😉
That’s me, old timer!!
A group of contemporaries meet up every six months or so – all mid 60s. The question was raised whether anyone had yet been offered a seat on a bus/train. One poor fellow gingerly raised his hand.
0n a plane last week, a whippersnapper offered to take my bag out of the overhead locker. I stared at him with contempt. I then remembered my dicky back. “Thank you, young man.”
I see young people are rioting in France. I was wondering to myself whether you could be the cause?
Lycée Students are revolting.
Apparently the classrooms are too hot or something
It’s spelt “lychee”, you ignoramus. I think anyone who studies fruit is probably a bit weird.
Lychee is a nut, you ignoramus. I think anyone who studies nuts is a psychoanalyst.
Old is 10 years older than my current age, been like that since I was about 20.
I am generally told that I don’t look my age, full head of hair that is still much more brown than grey. However when obtaining various age related discounts in stores and I offer to show the sales clerk (who is invariably about 20) my driver’s licence for proof they normally tell me not to bother
It started with me 11 years ago, when I was 49. I was among an audience of pensioners watching Monty Python’s O2 arena film at a local cinema. No, it wasn’t a coachload of OAPs on a nice day out from a local old folks’ hone. This is what the audience for something like that looks like – and I am one of them.
About 3 years ago I was walking through the city and had the thought that most people who run things are younger than me.
It’s mainly a relief – people really don’t expect alpha male stuff from you anymore. This is good because I was rubbish at it anyway.
I am 60 next year.
I am on a waiting list (again) for another Orthopedic appointment.
I have a hearing aid.
I own a campervan.
Footballers look like children.
So do some politicians.
I (to my slight shame) have increasingly less interest in discovering new music myself, although if someone recommends something then that’s great.
No further questions m’lud…
Point of order: anything you haven’t heard before is new music. THat’s what I tell myself, anyway.
Oh I completely agree, it doesn’t just apply to younger “new” artists, it applies to older established ones too, as well as older ones I just haven’t heard before. Admittedly I am probably more likely to like (or at least engage with) something if it’s by someone I already have an “ongoing listening relationship” with, gained over the years, than by a young group I’ve never heard of. Don’t know why this is, but it’s definitely got worse more recently.
When I became 60, an attractive young lady in the chemist appeared shocked when I told her I now qualified for free prescriptions. Fast forward 5 years and a male pharmacist asked me if I paid for my meds. He then looked up at me and said, “oh sorry, of course not”.
Now that’s old.
I’ll be 60 early next year and will start to get some of the financial benefits – my phone contract will reduce to $5 a month from the current $20, there are discounts on one of the days (I cant’ remember which – must be getting old). I guess I’l start feeling old then.
I always used to say that I was old when the Blue Peter presenters were younger then me. But I don’t think that exists anymore, so not sure what the equivalent would be…..
When you are older than Jack Hargreaves’s?
Do you mean Jack Hargreaves?
I did, even tho’ it appears I may be suggesting his trousers, his dinner or the child he had with his secretary, alongside his 3 marriages.
Bunty James was a challenging wank.
Now Susan Stranks…
Ah rhyming slang.
I believe one of the current Blue Peter presenters is a puppet. I wonder if it will be allowed to climb Nelson’s Column without any safety equipment.
I’ve got to the age where old people seem young.
I’m so young I still have to call an assistant over to authenticate my purchases of bottled beer, and it’s bloody 0.5% for heaven’s sake.
That’s the rule here for 0% beer too. I don’t understand why.
Simply top up your glass of alcohol-free beer with a measure of vodka to turn it into a zesty and satisfying beverage!
My local Waitrose checks when I buy paracetamol. You actually can’t buy two packs or tablets and some cough mixture. Nanny state gone mad.
We bought four packets of paracetamol in Cromer, because we we about to run out. Mrs F wasn’t allowed to buy more than two, so she finished her purchase, handed me her debit card, and I bought the other two. Rules is rules, innit.
I’ve been round twice to get the cough mixture.
I bought Nightnurse and Lemsip Max together on Friday and expected an alarm to go off.
In Poundland packs of paracetamol are part of a ‘3 for £1’ offer. Confused I am.
Depends how many are in the packet.
Not everyone is as drug-savvy as the wise old heads on here. If you’re taking Nightnurse, Lemsip Max and plain old paracetamol, it’s easy to accidentally kill your liver if you’re not reading the labels and doing the adding up.
(Back in your box, Fitter…)
I am very dull, so I always read the labels. Lemsip Max (well, Boots own-brand equivalent) contains paracetamol. Once I was past streaming snot, I switched to Sudafed Blue (well, Boots own-brand equivalent) and paracetamol. A week later and I’m still on it. Urgh.
And now Mrs F has a sore throat. “What’s mine is yours…”
I thought pseudoephedrine, the active ingredient in Sudafed, had been withdrawn, along with the brand. Vile stuff and can give bad rebound to those who abuse it, but the nose drops were handy for kids with bronchiolitis. Meringue, @uncle-wheaty?
Still available, I think? But now “under the counter”, as it were – something you have to ask for. And yes: the rebound effect makes you wonder whether it’s worth taking it at all.
The nose drops were phenylephrine, I think? And yes, very handy.
I couldn’t see Sudafed Blue but Boots own brand is indeed pseudoephedrine. It works for me but I don’t take it for longer than I have to. One pack of 12 tabs is 3 days worth and the full course. I wasn’t allowed to buy another pack to put in the medicine box at home, because I had one tablet left in the blister pack. Mrs F isn’t allowed to take it because she’s on blood pressure stuff.
pseudoephedrine in the old red coloured Sudafed tablets was widely abused and was discontinued in the late 1990s I believe. Then they changed the drug to xylometazaline but kept the brand name.
Quite right too! (Bloody hippies…)
Tell you what though. My mum used to give me Dr. Collis Browne’s Chlorodyne with the wonder ingredients chloroform, morphine, cannabis and laudanum. Very possibly the most beneficial (and enjoyable) medicine ever manufactured. Also Terpin Antitussive, with added codeine, very popular amongst cash-strapped hedonists in the sixties. Kids today?
When I first started work, there were still addicts who spent their days sourcing Colly B by going round multiple pharmacies. All day, every day.
Mmmm.. Kaolin and Morphine.
Soothes the tummy, especially if you filter out that chalky rubbish.
Can you get it today? I rather doubt it. Add to the burgeoning file labeled “This is why we can’t have nice things”
I’ve used the Turkish barber to remove excess nasal and ear hair, I’ve just looked down and I see my right knee is now more hirsute than it ever was. It’s always been smooth and now it resembles a lightly haired scalp. Do I shave it, wax it, depilate it, tweezer it, or abrade it?
I think you’ll find sandpaper should do the trick.
What’s the best grade?
How’s the left one? Sometimes they compete.
Are you sure you’re looking at your knee and not your head?
The left has slightly less hair as to my head I’m still lucky to possess a full head of hair.
Oh fuck off. I hate you people.
A recent photo.
That’s David Sylvian.
Leon Russell?
“Oh bother! I’ve broken my comb again! That’s the third this week! Still, you’re lucky, that’s an expense you don’t have.”
Mentally I think I still feel young but my body regularly reminds me that I’m not. I think the big landmark was when I stopped playing football regularly at 59. I played over an hour last St Stephen’s Day and was okay after it but my fitness has really deteriorated over the last two years. I’ve had a few health dramas which are also a reminder of age and same-aged have had worse.
I suppose the counter to feeling old is having three young children aged 7, 10 and 11 at an age when most contemporaries have grandchildren. So I’m still watching kid’s TV, reading the Beano, dealing with school stuff and the moods of three developing lives. Having kids late in life led many to comment “it’ll either kill you or keep you young”. So far it’s the latter.
If I could make a more general comment on staying young, I think play is the key. When your life is all business and seriousness, you’re old before your time. Trite but true.
I agree with this. I also became a father at a relatively late stage and I’ve found that having young kids means that you have a lifestyle which is younger than your age, if that makes sense.
I’ve also found that it makes me look after my health a bit more. It sounds a bit weird, but I don’t want to be the old guy on the school run. If we need to run to catch the bus, I need to be able to do so.
Just remembered this* i was at Cropredy with a friend on the disabled platform, with the same people on every day.
She had to go back home to see to the dog. I got talking to one of the other residents on the platform. He asked if my friend was my daughter because of our noses looking similar. I had to inform him she was a friend and seven years younger than me.
Either I look old or she looks young.
* it’s an age thing.