Tuesday, 2 May 2017

The Elderly

Before I start, I just want to be clear that I am very grateful to a generation that went through many hardships and plenty of peril in order to secure our freedom. 

A large section of this generation however, is a complete pain in the arse.

You no longer have to work, your time is your own and you are comfortably retired. So why the bloody hell are you up and out the house by 5.30am every morning? These grey-faced, toothless creatures litter the bus routes up and down the country at rush hour, taking an eternity to climb the 3 small entry steps to flash their pension book at the driver. Do you really need to be at the indoor market by 7.00am? You went yesterday, and the day before. What do you think you are missing out on by arriving a bit later!? All those commuters who actually need to get to work are squashed like sardines down the front of the bus, frantically trying to stay upright by gripping on to a thin loop of plastic attached to the ceiling, while you lot are sitting comfortably at the back, reminiscing about Dame Vera Lynn and Casablanca, with nowhere to be!  To my knowledge the war is over, so why do all of the elderly bus ladies still insist on wearing saggy stockings made of old knitted tea cosies? And why are all of the elderly bus men always dressed for gardening at church?

I suppose if they’re on the bus at least they’re not causing mayhem on the roads. Travelling at 15mph in their baby diarrhoea coloured MG Rovers, cutting up traffic and mowing down babies in prams as their mothers cross the road. I’m sorry your eyesight is not what it was, but if you cannot identify there is a problem when all of the other traffic is driving TOWARDS you then perhaps it is time to hand your licence in. See: confused pensioner driving the wrong way down the fast lane on the M5

Even when they’re on foot they cause trouble. I get that you’re not as nimble on your feet as you were in 1931, but please can you step out of the way so I can get by! I have an hour for my lunchbreak, not a bloody decade. Instead they stumble along in pairs, side by side forming an impenetrable barrier of sticks and metal walking frames refusing to budge. They shouldn’t use barbed wiring on prisons and important government buildings any longer, just pop down Help the Aged and pick up a load of second hand walking aids. They’ll do the job.

The connection with apparatus controlled by the living dead, leads me nicely on to my final point. If I’m in the supermarket and I feel the painful blow of another shopper’s trolley on the back of my heel, I know, without turning around that the driver of said trolley will be over 65. Very rarely do you get an apology either, just a glaring stare of death because you’ve dared interrupt their quest for a tube of Fixodent and 5 tins of peaches. (By the way wrinkly, it’s 2017. These now come in the fresh unrationed variety). 
Ultimately, they won’t change and they’ll be here until a nasty fall. They deserve our respect but Christ they’re a pain in the arse. I hope I have the chance to get old (and grumpier) one day, pissing everyone off in my church gardening gear.  

No comments:

Post a Comment

The Supermarket