On August 23rd the old git was 80. It was a long time coming. One minute he was 34 with all his teeth, a mop of curly hair, a motorbike, acting jobs coming out of his ears, and a fancy car that you had to slip into. And then kaboosh it’s a second hand Golf, a shopping trolley and whatever gets you through the night, anything that just does the trick.
When you get beyond the last box on the list it’s whatever does the trick that is ticked. Like eating less, not until the bellie’s full but just enough to get the energy to walk up 13 stairs without wincing. Like sleeping until the eyes open voluntarily. Like not giving a monkeys about missing anything that you used to give a monkeys about missing. Like not mithering about’Love Island’ and all the other trashy shows. Like not losing sleep over the fact that Nadine Dorries has gone and Grant Shapps has arrived. Like not giving a shit if Rishi Sunak has a kniption.
Although I do get a volcanic rush when I think about the twats that think nothing of sending kids back into crumbling schools. And I do give a smidgen about The Sunak standing in the wings when he really should be centre stage. The tactical choices of when he does actually bother to show he cares, with his school boy intentions and his insufferable ability to irritate with every sibilant sentence he utters does give me heartburn.
But caring less has now become a health requirment. If you can change something then there’s no point in worrying, if you can’t change something then there’s no point in worrying. We now know us ‘untermenches’ will always end up paying the bill. Although history is resetting itself, ‘Bibby Stockholm’ did the work for us. It’s unusable so sayeth those boat people, the truth is beginning to reveal itself out of the mouths of the deceitful. Fires in Canada, and suddenly you can’t argue global warming as the embers are singeing your doorstep. The penguins looking for a slab of ice makes ‘Happy Feet’ look like a cartoon. Mouldy flats whilst the homeless stay in tents, even if both grown ups have jobs, is now the norm. Just tell the stories and let the uproar roar louder. I couldn’t give a tuppeny fuck about ULEZ and air pollution let GBNews show the selfish demonstrators who ignore the lungs of kids in pushchairs breathing in the fumes at exhaust height. I walked through the demo on Tuesday, a handful of women sucking on Rothmans and fat men honking horns as they crossed their arms over their fat bellies. They will die from obesity before they see the results anyway.
Still we’ve got the Blue Badge, in an envelope, stuck to the kitchen door although we still forget to take it with us when we go shopping for tofu and purple sweet potatoes. Fancy meals don’t work anymore better to be frugal and live another seven years.
So the octogenarian had a do last Friday. Apologies to all the wonderful people I forgot invite, although we still had a good crowd turn up with cheers and wine. An eclectic bunch of well wishers. The food was courtesy of the dawter and friend, cutlery and desserts from the Godmother. The Irish and the Germans came on the Thursday night and a lot of tears were shed when the Swedish contingent turned up. Some folk left before the entertainment and some stayed well into the evening. The Northern man was flanked by his girls, sitting on a cardboard embellished thrown with golden glitter and a crest of two lions. The lawn looked huge, a bit like the Queens Garden Parties. With a cluster of jews round a round table, Neighbours under the Magnolia, a mob of ageing musicians on the long table and a huge circular table covered in a huge circular cloth with all manner of food from Chinese chicken from Jamie, lamb from Annie, and unknown quantities of finger food from the chefs.
Entertainment was provided by me on a broken busking amp, the dawter and her muso friend Julian, who sung a song the old git had written 40 years ago. A demonstration of how to make a bacon sandwich from a woman from Winchelsea – his favourite food – that’s the bacon sarny the Winchelsea wench – a speech from the Godmother and a speech from the surrogate son which made everybody ooh aah and cry.
We borrowed two fridges and filled them with all sorts of booze. We forgot soft drinks for the kids but who cared. Not I! I wandered round barefoot in the grass and spent just enough time with each person so as not to be rude. All his years crammed into an afternoon, and then, birthday cake candle alight, the old git was crowned the ‘King of the World’ as he blew out the one candle.
Since then I’ve done a voice over for Channel 4 on Horseferry Road, a tv appearance in the kitchen on zoom, a self tape for an advert, had a Tuina massage and a Thai one today. My eyes are nearly closed, and my trust in humanity is ambiguous. My lovely family and friends who stepped up to the plate and my distrust of anything that smells of Tory Rule.
Fingers need to be pulled out of ossified arses, conservators need to be shown up and silenced. Starma- bags need to recognise that the old way should not be the new way, the new way needs to be the way of genuine compassion. Money can be found to help those who need it and Whitney should be tannoyed from every roof top warbling…. I BELIEVE THE CHILDREN ARE OUR FUTURE. Money should be taken out of the hands of the bleeding rich and thrown like confetti onto crowds of the needy, make Tick-a Tape from £20 notes whilst the warmongers are herded into the middle of Wembley’s football pitch and are snogged by Luis Rubiales, because ‘All you need is love’. Ain’t that right? All you ever need is love.