7th February 2010

Having just re-read my last blog entry, it seems I’ve officially joined the ranks of the Grumpy Old Men. This suspicion was confirmed earlier in the week while watching Grumpy Old Women on TV, a show I thoroughly enjoyed, not least because I found myself nodding furiously in agreement with most of their bellyaching.

But I fear I may have taken this cantankerousness one step further. I’ve begun to suspect that I shouldn’t even be blamed for my crusty outlook. After all, the younger generation can’t seem to do anything the right way anymore, that is, the way it used to be done, the way it should be done, the way I would do it. Society nowadays seems to thrive on catastrophe and incompetence. It delights in hearing about things going disastrously wrong, ideally with no one taking responsibility. News reports, headlines, and discussion panels are swamped with disasters, scandals, and a general sense of doom, all, apparently, for our entertainment.

We’ve reached a stage where it’s not only acceptable to whinge, it’s practically encouraged. Whole TV shows now exist where wrinkly people vent their spleen on anything that gets their goat, all while the rest of us nod and mutter, “Too right!” Yet the unspoken rule is that we moan and move on, knowing full well that nothing will change.

Well, not me. I’ve taken a stand. I now actively refuse to watch or read anything containing the words: Disaster, Nuclear, Afghanistan, Royal Bank of Scotland, Election, Sleaze, Ministers, Pirates, Salt, Floods, Global Warming, or John Terry. Life is too short to be consistently irritated by predictable idiocy.

Shortly after this noble resolution, I stumbled upon a film called Hustle & Flow. Based on the plot summary I read online, it epitomised everything I despise about the modern film industry: moral decay, glamorised crime, and a plot built around a drug-dealing pimp with ambitions to become a rap artist (I hate rap music). Naturally, I watched it.

Djay, played by Terence Howard, was a character I should have written off immediately, a pimp to three “ladies of the night” (one of them pregnant), peddling drugs and dreams in equal measure. The storyline casually treated this lifestyle as normal and acceptable. I braced myself for a slog.

And yet… I found myself empathising. Terence Howard, damn him, is a fine actor. The supporting cast was excellent. The story gripped me from beginning to end. And worst of all, I found myself tapping my foot to the rap music. Worse still, I began rapping along. I realised (too late to save my dignity) that rap isn’t all inane drivel. There’s often a message buried in the rhymes, a reflection of real lives. I was converted. It was horrifying.

Meanwhile, Sue has returned to school and worked three days last week, with another three lined up. She thrives on being busy; it’s her personal Nirvana. While full-time teaching brings endless paperwork, supply teaching delivers just enough chaos and camaraderie, without the dreaded forms. She and Sarah went to see Darwin at the Film Club on Friday and both reported back favourably.

Sarah, enjoying a day off while the sixth form were grilled in Target Setting interviews, went window shopping in Leicester with her friends. At the weekend, she went rambling with the Air Cadets, proof, if needed, that teenagers are not all glued to screens or grumbling in doorways.

Jamie, now a qualified forklift truck driver, is thoroughly enjoying his new role, although his work clothes carry a distinct and lingering aroma of Eau de Stale Oil and Old Warehouse. In a bid to combat this, I installed a motion-sensitive air freshener by the back door, which gives a discreet squirt of Freesia whenever someone enters. The first time it went off, Jamie jumped a foot in the air, convinced we had a haunted hallway. The house now smells delightful. How Jamie explains his flowery fragrance to his mates is a topic we’ve agreed not to explore.

Each morning, I cycle off-road through the sodden Leicestershire countryside, scattering pigeons and rabbits as I go. This week’s adventure ended with my bike wheels clogging solid with mud, grinding to an undignified halt in the middle of a field. I had to haul it to a nearby hedge and perform emergency surgery with a stick. Two fields later, it happened again. Eventually, plastered in mud and panting like a Labrador in a heatwave, I reached the canal towpath and limped home. Fortunately, thanks to the drizzle, no one witnessed the spectacle.

On Saturday, I headed to Worcester with friends to watch Harborough 1st XV narrowly lose to Worcester Wanderers. We stayed to watch the Premiership clash between Worcester Warriors and London Irish (Worcester lost), before retiring to the club bar just in time to see England beat Wales. For any ex-rugby player, that’s a golden Saturday.

As for Nan, she had to fork out £100 for a new charger for her mobility scooter, as the old one had packed up. I thought that was a ridiculous price and have instructed her to let me know before she splashes out on anything else. It seems you have to be extra careful when you get old. Not that I’m looking forward to it…..