'Is Sean your friend?' I asked. 'Sorry to hear that he's poorly. Has he got this cough that's been doing the rounds? Tell him to get his mum to buy him some Benylin.'
My concern was met with a face full of sneering guffaws as my obvious ancientness was cruelly exposed: it turns out that this Big Sean chap is a rapper. And he's not ill either: sick means cool apparently. How distasteful. How wrong. How SICK. Proper sick! Ill-sick! Get them all to boot camp and teach them slang that doesn’t give me rectal itching, if you please.
2. Youth attire. Pull your fucking trousers up or at least wear some nicer underpants. Why would you wear your britches around your ankles? Surely it must be like running the three legged race by yourself? And that’s just STUPID. And if they're not wearing their jeans halfway down their legs, they're wearing 'skinny fit' jeans, which is also an abomination if they're a bloke. IT DOES NOT LOOK GOOD. I'm all up for equal everything, but I draw the line at leggings, which is what they look like.
3. I have just reviewed the Top 40. I can hum ONE song. And that’s the Little Mix song, which I know because I am a rubbish gay. The rest is just noise. NOISE, I tell you. So much shouting over a tune-free backing. What on earth has happened to the HIT PARADE? And this Drake fellow that everyone goes on about? I'm not sure I get it? He sounds like a Darlek after a few tequilas.
4. Technology has left me behind. My touch screen phone is that complicated that answering the phone is stressful enough to induce a minor stroke. It does things that I don’t want it to. Eg. It tells me the weather when all I want to do is text someone. Or I’ll be on the phone (to Help the Aged, most probably) and it will decide to put me on hold and then dial someone else. The only way I can remedy the problem is by turning everything off, removing the battery (whilst sweating profusely and swearing like a navvy) and then turning it all back on several hours later when I’ve got my breath back… I yearn for simpler times. Yoghurt pots connected with cotton. Carrier pigeons. Ice pops. Rationing. Crisp sandwiches. My Aunty Eileen’s jam tarts that taste of sawdust and induce an asthma attack even if you don’t have asthma. A Ten pence mix that now seems dangerously unhygienic on reflection… Hmmm.
5. I make the old man sound when I sit down. You know the one: one part death rattle, one part mediocre orgasm, one part wet fart, two parts creaking yelp.
6. The realisation that I’ve been alive in five decades… 1970s, 1980s, 1990s, 2000s, 2010s. Fuck and bugger. I bought my first record (There Must Be An Angel Playing With My Heart) thirty two years ago… I can feel the buzzards circling above, I swear…
7. I MUCH prefer Radio 2 and LBC to Radio One and Capital, which just broadcast SHOUTY NOISE. And I secretly love a bit of Magic FM.
8. The idea of going clubbing makes me itch. And not in a good way… All that DUFF-DUFF-DUFF rubbish (by Big Sean or Drake, most probably.) You can’t hear what people are saying to you. And I quite like being in bed at a reasonable hour.
9. My middle age spread has come early. Nothing to do with being greedy. Nothing at all. Uh uh. No way, etc. My thyroid is perhaps shagged. Or is my prostate? Or is due to damp weather?
10. Incontinence. Oh.
Does anyone have the telephone number for Dr. Euthanasia?