The Last Laugh?

The time was approaching when I needed to renew my passport. I had been putting it off until the resolution of Brexit, hoping against the odds that the new document would have “European Union” emblazoned in gold on the cover. However, since the ‘negotiations’ were looking likely to drag on indefinitely, I decided I had better get on with it. The renewal required an up-to-date mugshot, which I opted to have taken at a local photo shop rather than DIY on my laptop. So, having first visited the barber (one likes to look one’s best), I handed over a tenner and sat, sombre-faced, while a young girl took the snap. It was done in an instant. “Is that OK?” she said, showing me the digital image. I tried not to show disappointment, though the person I saw in the photo looked much older than I had expected. I suppose I am used to the younger version of me in the expiring passport, looking bright-eyed and keen, like someone about to embark on an adventure. This newer version looked more like a jet-lagged old grump who had just spent two hours in the border-control queue. “That’s fine,” I said. “Thanks.”

That evening, I attended a fund-raiser for the homeless, a stand-up comedy-cum-poetry performance. I had deduced from the publicity material that the audience would be predominantly young but, looking around the bar before the start of the show, I realised that it was, in fact, exclusively young – apart from me and my companion. We exchanged pleasantries with the acquaintance who had sold us the tickets, said hello to a couple of her friends, then retreated to the auditorium, where we sat in the back row, so that my white hair would be less conspicuous. Not that I feared being an object of ridicule; I just didn’t want to put the performers off their stride. I need not have concerned myself about that. The material was all centred on one, over-arching topic – their dread of approaching the age of thirty.

And so we listened patiently to the angst-ridden musings of a generation preoccupied by sex, drugs, rock’n’roll and career progression. There was plenty of talent, some of it raw, and quite a few jokes that transcended the age-gap. We did our best to respond appreciatively, though we could not get into the obligatory “whoop!” that was required with each round of applause. However, there were aspects that I found wearing: the constant use of profane and foul language – not that I disapprove, but such spice is more effective when administered in small doses; the relentless emphasis on what seemed to me a very narrow set of issues; making fun of their ageing (fifty-something) parents; and a long, mocking account of “some old bloke in his seventies” that really made me squirm. Fortunately, the last item came just before the interval, at which point we were able to make a strategic escape and return to our own time-warp. It’s not that I resent getting older, but a little bit of empathy is always appreciated.

I may, however, have the last laugh. The following evening, I watched a documentary that my barber had recommended. Eat, Fast, Live Longer (BBC Horizon series) outlines scientific research into the bodily effects of intermittent fasting, which points to potential benefits to the ageing process. Fasting, they say, stimulates various systems that are then activated to renew cells, including brain cells, thereby shielding against diabetes, cancer, cardio-vascular disease and Alzheimer’s. I need to give it a try, obviously, so that I don’t end up on multi-medication in my latter years. If it works, I look forward to turning up at future young-person events, looking smug. I might even have to get the passport renewed once more. If so, I hope it will have “European Union” emblazoned in gold on the cover.