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Bits and Pieces

Random thoughts on sex in old age, Pete Murray, and Jimmy Young
By martin kelner on Sep 18, 2006 - 1:37:00 PM

I quote from the Daily Mirror: “Sex can be just as good in your 70s as it is in your 20s. Taken from her new book, Defying Age, Dr Miriam Stoppard explains why orgasms can be more intense when you’re drawing your pension.”

Now, although the old age pension has undoubtedly gone up in real terms under New Labour, as Tony Blair was saying during Prime Minister’s Questions only the other day, and the cold weather payments are indeed a welcome bonus, I would dispute Dr Stoppard’s claim that elderly folk are actually being brought to a state of sexual nirvana while collecting this windfall from the Post Office, although it would explain why I have to wait so long to buy a book of first class stamps.

I have not, of course, read Dr Stoppard’s book, life being only of finite length, and wishing to save some time for lovemaking in my twilight years, but I am afraid I am deeply suspicious of it.

“Make love somewhere other than in bed such as a chair or sofa,” she writes. “Give each other a massage with scented body oils.”

Ask yourself, are these tips anything more than another blatant attempt to cash in on the so-called grey pound? Coming soon, the Stannah love seat; and massage oils smelling of Werther’s Originals, or Bournvita, or the war. Mark my words.

Or could it be that Dr Stoppard is involved in something more sinister? It is clear the elderly have become a drain on the national purse, so what could be more plausible than a top-secret government “think tank”, including Dr Stoppard and other prominent intellectuals of the day, deciding how we might, ahem, rid ourselves of the problem?

“I’ve got it,” one of these intellectuals – Edwina Currie, possibly - might shout, “The ones we don’t poison on their cruise ships, or lull into the sleep that never ends with Gerry and the Pacemakers and Frank Chacksfield on Saga Radio, why don’t we get them to shag themselves to death?”

Well, the message from my elderly Uncle Jack is: “Beware, Dr Stoppard. We’ve seen Soylent Green, and we know what you’re at.”

**********************

I am an avid reader of the obituary columns, and note with pleasure the absence from them of the actor and disc jockey Pete Murray. Apart from his ridiculous insistence in the latter years of his career on being called Peter rather than Pete, this charming man never did any harm to anybody and we wish him many more years of happy retirement, assuming he is happy and indeed retired.

Jimmy Young, on the other hand, was a pestilence suffered in silence by those of us who grew up in the sixties, and were forced to listen to his “singing” on the radio, while waiting to hear the latest release from The Beatles.

As if that weren’t enough, he used to talk in some sort of code he had obviously picked up during the war; BFN and the JYProg and all that nonsense, which was profoundly disturbing to people tuning in for a little light music, hoping maybe to forget the recent hostilities.

Then there was JY’s habit of always putting the stress on the least important word in a sentence, as in: “Jack Straw there, the Home Secretary, and now, here they are, as ever was, Diana Ross AAAND the Supremes.”

I realise that the elongated conjunction and redundant phrases may have been something he picked up at disc jockey school, where they train students to talk over every second of the instrumental introduction of every record; but surely they were not responsible for that funny little rug Jimmy used to wear when he appeared on TV.

JY, in case you are interested, now lives in Dunjockin’, the home for retired disc jockeys set up by the BBC in a disused Victorian hotel near Hastings, where he is being well looked after.

Every morning, one of the nursing staff announces that it is “twenty-four big minutes before the hour of eleven o’clock,” and residents are served tea and biscuits, while Simon Bates tells them a lachrymose story about a couple who pledged undying love to each other before one of them died of cancer, and then he plays them an awful record by Peter Cetera.





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