Diary of an up and coming sociopath

I considered, as I sat alone waiting for Nikki, Tom and Ian to come back from ordering food, that the pub which we were in (The White Horse in Headington) was seemingly filled with old people, all the other youngsters having opted to sit outdoors in the scenic roadside beer garden, and I silently mocked their choice of seat. Later on, as I stood in the queue, sandwiched between stringy old women and a toothless old man, listening to them complain loudly that Oh The Pork Isn’t Ready Yet That’s Not Very Good Is It and How Long Have You Worked Here Because Last Time We Ate Here 9 Years Ago We Dished Up Our Own Veg, it crossed my mind that maybe inhaling car fumes wasn’t such a bad idea.

Old people are frequently annoying. Now, I’m not suggesting that all old people are, nor am I trying to reinforce a stereotype, but the more I encouter pensioners in the wild, the more convinced I am that geriocide isn’t so much a crime as a blessing in disguise. The older you get, it seems, the more entitled you are to complain about everything in life. Perhaps the old just become bitter, or they just stop caring. Perhaps it’s just a desperate cry for some attention from a world that has passed them by. Frankly, I’m not that bothered. When I worked at the Dairy, even for those few brief months, I notied a trend long since confirmed by many of my peers, in that all old people begin their complaints with “I am [insert age here]” like it somehow adds weight or sympathy to their claim.

“I’m 82 and I haven’t had my milk arrive yet, even though it’s 5 past 9.”

“I’m 91 and the only way I can get myself some human contact is to phone up and find someone to whinge at.”

“I’m 102 and I didn’t take shrapnel in the ass so that you could let this country collapse under the weight of niggers and coons!”

Sad that people should end up so bitter, but maybe that’s because they spent their entire life being annoying and indignant and they’re finally getting just deserts. I dunno. As Ian put it, maybe the problem with the old is that they confront us with our own mortality. I know it’ll happen to me one day, but to be honest, I think I’d prefer to be dead before I get to that state. Maybe I’m already at it, given the most prevaent issue in my mind right now is to complain about how old people complain.

Still, it’s not like it ruined the day. The food was nice, the weather was nice, and the after-eight Ice Cream I recently bought because it was on offer is actually, incredibly nice. On Saturday, I bought comics. Well, rather, I bought Comic. Tomorrow, I shall go to Stratford and buy a whole bunch more. I don’t normally drive home, but I’ve got work on Tuesday and it’s a good reason to go. Seems like this year I’m scooting up and down the country more than ever. Only last week I was back down in Leamington, and here I am about to go again. Kind of makes up for the whole not being home over Easter thing, I suppose.