“It takes me a day to get ready, a day to go and a day to recover!”
Anon – on getting old and still getting out there.
I was at an old folk’s conference the other day – anything for a free coffee and biscuits – with a view to seeing what the issues are that face today’s oldies. As one lady succinctly put it, if we’re lucky, one day we all get old.
It is worth considering that today’s oldies most likely grew up in the depression of the 1930’s, lived through World War Two and, in recent decades, have seen change at a pace that tests many much younger people.
So they are a pretty resilient lot
They are also in danger of becoming the forgotten generations. As a reward for a lifetime’s work – taxes duly paid – they face cuts to services on a level never seen before.
And, in our great age of communication, loneliness is one of the greatest fears they share.
One lady made a telling point regarding the introduction of self-service tills at supermarkets. Something as insignificant as a trip to the supermarket can be an older person’s only engagement with fellow humans for several days.
The value of human contact played out through a few words at the checkout is enormous; simple as it was, it stunned me to hear this.
Modern life also sees families spread far and wide. Today’s carers face the prospect of having to work well into their seventies, the state pension pushed ever further away, so we can easily forget the old, immersed in our own everyday pressures.
What was sad to discover was that there appear to be several local groups, all with the elderly at heart, but each pursuing separate agendas. Added to this is the well held view that the Council are of little assistance.
Think of this though? When you get there, who’s going to be there for you? A generation brought up on Facebook and text, incapable of looking after themselves, riddled with debt, poor diets and inactivity?
The other day at my weekly Pensioners Pilates class I offered my arm for old Tina to climb the stairs.
“It’s been a long time since a young man took me up the de stairs” she chuckled in her Caribbean twang. “And I must be old enough to be your mother!”
In our greed-driven society we are losing sight of the generations of charming people that worked to establish the conditions we enjoy. Something is not quite right; we cannot all retire to gated communities to have our arses wiped daily before sedation via Jeremy Kyle.
What chance a dignified retirement?
“Will you still need me, will you still feed me
When I’m sixty-four?”
The Beatles
Small Town Blues.
I’d managed a few hours short of almost six whole days without venturing over the threshold; time waits for no man though and just to make sure the old place was still open, I decided to take a stroll up the hill.
As I hung my jacket Smouldering Sue reached automatically for a pint glass, her bling laden fingers tickling the glass like the keys of a piano. How Ratners must love her.
“Hold on Sue” I cautioned “mine’s a coke and make it a full fat one too!”
“Bloody ‘ell” she said with a more than usually alarmed look, used as she is to the comings and goings at The Scruffy “the Viagra not working these days?”
I tried to explain my personal challenge of avoiding the dual temptations of the comfy stool and Big Al’s company. In truth I had a meeting with cricket the subject and had vowed to get out of the place well before his pre-publicised arrival just after five.
As with all cricket related discussions, matters were neatly concluded and the world remained blissfully unchanged.
By now, Smouldering had been joined by the vertically challenged Titch behind the bar; I made them both swear they had not sign hide nor hair of me as I vanished into the cold night air, unsure what the night held bar avoiding getting leathered with Big Al.
One hour later I was back, the allure of Take Me Out seemingly gone forever.
Big Al was in situ with sidekick Patch already on the stopwatch countdown and due home to get the hoovering done before The Voice. I took my stool, settled in for the night and assessed the world from my perch.
Dr David was sat in Nob ‘Ed Korna, on day release from the feisty Jill, studying the inmates for his thesis, still not finished after fifty years dedicated study.
DI Regan (Flying Squad – Bradford Branch) had returned early from Bradford City’s latest labours with the succinct summary “what a pile of shite!” No future career in sports commentary here.
There was the familiar sight of Homeless, shambling in and out between fags and beer, a testament to the generosity of our benefits system.
The rest of the inmates watched as the sporting events of the afternoon unfolded, bets lost for another week, dreams of fortunes put on hold once again.
Patch had vanished, off to warm up the Dyson, far easier than the missus he confided “…and don’t go writing that!”
By now Big Al had been made aware of my planned treachery and earlier visit by Titch The Snitch. I tried to explain that Paddy McGuinness was funnier but he was in sulk mode. His phone rang, breaking an awkward silence, as he threatened to go home.
“Who’s calling the Golden Shot?” he cooed, evidence of watching too many low rent Euro-porn films, most neatly stuffed down the back of his sofa.
It was the lovely Luckless Linda, on her way to rescue him with a No 47 with chips, New Year diets well and truly forgotten.
“I was going home anyway” he offered, like a wounded schoolboy, as Smouldering wet herself on the spot and The Snitch fell off her footstool all three feet to the floor.
By now the ale was taking effect and each time The Snitch stood on her stool to reach for another glass, Big Al and I went up in unison; the Mexican Wave had finally hit The Scruffy. It was like being on the Western Terrace.
Smouldering had left, off to polish her bling and replaced by Queen Diva, Our Jackie who promptly spat in my pint catching me chance a sneaky glance at The Snitch’s chest.
“Do that again I’ll knock you off that stool” she cussed “keep your eyes on these and these alone!” as she thrust her chest out like a mountain gorilla, cleared the wax from her ears and pulled another beer.
It was getting far too dangerous; I was either going to get knocked off or fall off my perch. With the chippy shut and not a morsel in the house, things looked bleak; maybe it was finally time for a Thai bride?
How long left till the pleasures of turned up sandwiches, dusty sausage rolls and giant bags of jalapeño crisps at the end of a long day on the cricket field?
Integration?
Surprise, surprise…Bradford is one of the least integrated places to live in the UK.
Amongst the many reasons for this could well be projects like the plans to blow somewhere between £3m to £5.5m – depending on who you believe – on redeveloping Bradford Park Avenue cricket ground all based on an English Cricket Board survey last year.
Can someone explain to me how this vanity project will actually help do anything other than further segregate the City?
Whilst grassroots cricket is on it’s arse at the moment with clubs battling for survival, the Council is also seeking to hammer clubs with a hike in rent and rates. I wonder who’s paying the tab here or is that just not cricket to ask?
As ever the ECB will use this as proof of their commitment to raising participation levels ticking a few boxes along the way. Ironically, if our brainless Council gets its way, participation levels will plummet. Make sense to you?
It is, as I have written before, a very dumb idea but combined with the idiocy at City Hall, it looks dafter by the day.
Stuffed Brown Envelopes.
Our Cricket Chairman Chiz supplied this piece from across the Pennines on the thorny subject of player payments.
The “brown envelope” used to reflect talent over and above the general standard of the rest of the team and was directed to the “Pro”. Nowadays, players of very average abilities receive payments, in many cases simply to turn up.
So here are ten tell-tale signs how to spot a club you suspect is paying the lad who’s averaging 8.4 as an opening bat and would not get it off the weed-infested square if your Mum was bowling under-arm with a tennis ball.
1 – recommended bodywear when batting on said minefield is a full suit of armour.
2 – personal hygiene is improved by staying out of the showers.
3 – Octogenarian Director of Cricket struts around ground in ECB tracksuit with clipboard and hidden cheque book.
4 – Director of Cricket insists “we don’t pay” and has no idea who is batting having just called his star signing “shit”.
5 – Players have no idea who the lonely old man in the nice tracksuit is who keeps hanging around the dressing room.
6 – English is the second language and the last team night out is honoured by a framed sepia picture on the clubhouse wall.
7 – Nobody has ever seen the picture because nobody goes in the clubhouse.
8 – The tea-lady is a myth as the species has been extinct for some time.
9 – The Super-Sopper is the Director of Cricket’s bath sponge. “We can’t afford one!” he wails as he stuffs a wedge in another pocket.
10 – Club auditors are Hans, Christian & Andersen (how apt!).
It is a race to the bottom and with an outcome so obvious you would have to be senile not to see it.
Some clubs will continue to generate the income required to plough on making payments to hoover up what talent is left; some will enjoy the luxury of an ego-fuelled benefactor; the rest will simply run out of cash.
You can only blow money away for so long but in the end mowers blow up and buildings demand fixing up. And what was a game that offered the best of company and friendships forged over generations will simply become a distant memory.
Sadly, leagues appear to have chosen to remain oblivious to this, ignoring the reality that the strength of the recreational game is the combined health of the majority and not the minority.
The Best.
Life was never the same after December 18th 2009, the day Terry Wogan broadcast his last breakfast show. Lots of words have been said and written in the last few days so, for me, a simple thank you for all the smiles and laughter.
With Terry went Janet and John, Chuffer Dandridge, Dickie “Touch” Tingles, Barnsley Chop, Dora Jarr, Lou Smorrels, Edna Cloud and many more.
RIP.
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