Not ageing but drowning

Greetings blogs akimbo,

Last week, my rapid descent into beige, tedious, baggy eyed, overworked, underwhelmed adulthood occupied my thoughts. I was driven half to distraction until I managed get hold of myself (not like that, you pervert), drink a warm coco, wrap a soothing blanket around myself and honk on some crack. All of which settled me right down.

Despite finding my inner peace (down the side of the sofa, with some loose change and a lighter) I've been pondering anew my perspective on the world as I get older, grumpier and more likely to push somebodies eyes back into their sockets with a spoon until it makes a pleasing 'pop' just for stealing the last of the office milk. If my perception of the world has altered towards the end of my twenties, imagine what I'm going to be like in my 60's or my 70's? Or my 80's? Actually, that shouldn't be a problem, mainly due to the record breaking amount of rum that I've "disappeared" in my life probably claiming my liver way before then, or the fact that, if I'm still stuck on this evil, rancid and bitter planet after 80 years, I'll have probably become a foam mouthed, bum wiping, lunatic who spends his days chatting up curtains or milking candles, rather than repositioning my world view.

Recently, the magic eyed, pork pie faced, dead man walking Prime Minister, announced a government initiative to encourage pensioners to stay in their homes for longer after retirement. The free home care they will receive isn't going to be paid for my magic wood fairies or a car boot sale in Westminster, but by 'death tax', which provided the Daily Mail with plenty to rabble rouse over for a few days, while their readers beat their fists on the table before wondering if it will be 'final salary' death or if they can fiddle it.

I'm anticipating the elderly finally realising the potential of the numerical advantage they are gaining over the young. By the time I'm 60, over half of the population will be over 50, meaning that, so long as we avoid the Third World War (Iran's working on it...), or a global pandemic of 'ant flu' or the like, the balance of democratic power wont be held by YouTube baiting, Skins watching, street talking politicians, but ones who might have to stop patronising us long enough to let us hear the silence when anyone asks about their policies. There'll be no political mileage to be had from going on the futuristic equivalent of Piers Morgan's chat show, pretending to be a regular guy, or from peering out at us from leering campaign posters looking like the teacher you had at school who desperately wanted to be 'cool' but came across as a borderline paedophile.

Suddenly, pensioners will be the ones taking to the streets in rage, organising protests, forgetting what they were upset about, then remembering again... but was it last Thursday? No it was definitely today we were meeting up, but is Henry coming? Is Henry coming? No he's bad. He's on his way out. What about that one... you know... her... with the leg... her.... oh you know, her son was in the forces, lost his sight after some kids threw a Mars bar out of a taxi and caught him right between the eyes when he was walking his dog... . The streets will be like 28 days later, only with more convincing zombies and the whiff of urine and Vicks.

The day will come when the generation after us will be sat watching documentaries called "I love the 2000's" hosted by Ant and Dec from Bath chairs and a totally unchanged Simon Cowel (forever youthful on account of his pact with the devil) reminding us of the ridiculous days when the world had fuel and light and heat, before Brighton was lost under the waves, when Countdown wasn't prime time television and the national dish wasn't Werther's Originals.

I for one can't wait for old age, when the shackles of social awkwardness and grace are replaced by petty theft, making people give you their seat and sporting a natty moustache. If you push on through to about 70, you're on borrowed time and you can finally give in to drink, drugs and wigs without fear of recrimination:
"What's for breakfast?"
"KEBABS"

It's going to be a wall to wall festival of vice followed by a snooze, then throwing bricks at the local youths, lowering the suspension on your mobility scooter and snorting a line in time for Antiques Roadshow. This carries on every day until your liver disintegrates inside you like a Wicked Witch in a thunderstorm and you are immortalised forever as a low-res, black and white Jpeg staring up from an 'Order of Service'.

For me, the biggest thrill will be finally being able to ramble on and on, semi-sensically to anyone who'll listen for as long as I can keep drivelling on and have words rattling around in my brain capsule. If only I some forum in which I could do that now, oh, how my life would be complete...

Byelids xx