Purveyor of Bollocks to the Crowned Heads of Europe
Wednesday, 28 March 2012
I often think back and try to recall if I ever showed any signs of experiencing a mid-life crisis when I approached middle age, but I can honestly say I cannot think of any.
The obsession with glass and candlesticks can be put down to the onset of old age, I believe, and although I still find myself having inappropriate thoughts about girls who are young enough to be my daughter - or even grand daughter - I never act on them and only verbalise them when drunk. That can probably be put down to a fear of rejection which has never left me since I was about 14, though, and not an innate sense of dignity.
In any case, I do not have the resources to maintain the sort of lifestyle that any of my young potential victims would like to lead, so in that respect, I am saved. There's no fool like an old fool.
When I was about 40, I suddenly found myself hankering to learn how to play the drums because, I believed, I would be good at it. I approached a professional drummer friend of mine (ok, so I've got a lot of friends, alright?) who is a sought-after session man and often tours with all the big names in rock, and I asked him if he would teach me. Although he readily agreed, I had a rare moment of lucidity and suddenly perceived my drum-playing ambition as the first sign of an embarrassing condition related to my age, so I wisely backed out. Drums are definitely not a solo instrument anyway, and I could not see H.I. tolerating me practicing in our compact but adorable city apartment, let alone any established band wanting me on stage with them, so I think I made the right choice.
I had (another) relatively filthy dream involving one of our barmaids last night, and I always wake up from them feeling slightly wistful and melancholy.
I once said to one of these beauties - having drunk a few beers - "If I was the only man left in the world, would you shag me?"
She stopped what she was doing and looked thoughtful for about 3 seconds before replying, "No."
So I sighed and took another sip from my beer, then a short while later, I asked her, "How much money would be the smallest amount you would want to shag me?"
This time, she paused for quite a lot longer and seemed to look through me as she assessed the sort of maximum realistic figure that I could possibly raise in cash within about a week, and replied, "£15,000."
It was the relatively small amount she quoted which hurt me the most. Any successful man of 60 should surely be able to raise more than that - and she knew it.