Did you read T.S. Eliot’s new poem, ‘The love song of John McCain and Brigitte Bardot’? Thought not…

(‘ So happy together‘ or ‘They look just like two gurus in drag‘…?)

 

Ah yes, it’s time for another mad white coat alert:

‘We become happier when we grow older, according to scientists who claim our best years do not arrive until our late seventies and eighties.’

Right.

Well, perhaps they are right – if they are a bit creative with their control group.

On most happiness scales being in your late seventies and eighties would look good when set against…

 

- crib death

- puberty

- dementia praecox and

- being married to an ABBA fan at any other age…


…but really, your best years will be those when you wear a hairpiece at one end and adult nappies at the other?

When your only chance of having a (be it limp) one night stand with a significantly pretty other is if you have the power, wealth and buffoonery of a Berlusconi?

When you stop meeting up with your friends at your old local but just happen to catch up with them in your proctologist’s waiting room?

Look, I’m not dissing old age. For instance, I’m seriously looking forward to being too deaf to hear any ABBA song played in public any longer but the best years of your life?

Call me an ageist spoilsport but I don’t quite see this new popular TV show with a bunch of eighty years’ old John McCain and Brigitte Bardot look-alikes getting commissioned, called ‘The Wonder Years’.


(For ultimate bliss: Flash forward seventy years…!)

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