Crinkle Cuts

I am designating this Old People Week, shiver-me-timbers.

Actually, I’ve got a soft spot for the old buggers, so I feel comfortable bashing them because they know I love them really.

‘You can’t bash them too much,’
a person from the E.U. might say, from their office in Brussels.

And they’d be absolutely right. Which is why I’ve decided to deliver several small blows instead, which is not technically a mugging because I’m robbing them of their dignity and not their cash.

The good thing about Old People is they generally know where they aren’t allowed. Ugly People and Poor People are always at the heels of life’s more fortunate but Old People don’t give a fig about other societal groups, feeling only safe amongst their own kind.

They collectively seek gloom, finding it in diminutive flats with lights just below the necessary level for cheerfulness.

Old people keep out of fashionable restaurants and whole postcodes of London, preferring to herd in enormous, depressing tearooms and in the walking tours of stately homes.

No Old Person has ever set foot in Joseph. And today’s youth culture is successfully clearing them out of shopping areas too, via a Daily Mail campaign where, on a good day, they promise only to swear and smoke and snog each other.

But Old People are often wafting around my consciousness, having strong links as I do to certain Southern sea-side resorts, where they find their natural habitat.

Plus, there were the philanthropic ‘Age Concern’ years, in which every wily pensioner for whom I selflessly stewed a cup of P.G., singularly failed to leave me 20 pence in their will*

Not all people of advancing years are Old People and not all Old People are of advancing years. They are a complete sub-genre of person. And yet there is clearly a correlation between octogenarians and a love of organ music.

It’s tempting to think that Old People were young once. In fact, they’ve never been near to helping a friend be sick in a club toilet.

As society gorges itself on Omega-3 eggs and gets wise to the abject misery of parenting, the socio-demographic pyramid is inverting, so soon there will probably be an Old Person shuffling near you and potentially spreading their condition.

If the food pyramid flips at the same time, then it matters little who is shuffling around anywhere as I, for one, will have taken residence above a French pastry shop.

But if it doesn’t, some insight into how our aged brothers and sisters operate may be useful, before you wake up one day and find that you too have napped through the end of Neighbours for the second time that day.

The rest of Old People Week intends to provide this.

*Jim, John, Phyllis: that was an off-colour joke in poor taste and I didn’t care for it either. What does blogging on the internet mean? It’s like leaning over the fence talking at your neighbour without having to pretend to listen to their stories. And the fence is actually a giant wireless with a television screen. Yes, it is new-fangled and hard to take to. Right you are, I’ll put on Countdown. Certainly, Carol Vorderman was as pretty as a picture and very clever and it’s not going to be the same without her.


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