Dad’s Journal- 27/04/2016
Those who have been following my writing intently will be familiar with the indignities I have suffered at the hands of the damnable millennials. There was the famous 2014 incident where I was banned from the music purchasery after some young punk with inappropriately bright and bizarrely coloured hair (ginger) attempted to talk to me about something called “M83” and I had no choice to perform my meticulously practised, highly informative 2 hour lecture on the merits of Jethro Tull. Then of course, there was the incident last week where a newspaper but on the iPad tricked me into considering the existence of trans people and I was forced to spend 3 days in the Crying Bunker.
Such insults to my person I have managed to bounce back from. This is only natural for someone of the older, hardier generation. You won’t find me or my peers clamouring for such limp-wristed pats on the head as “medication” or “human affection”. The power of our generation is in the quiet self-respect of having a full-on emotional breakdown at any degree of empathy being shown to individuals who don’t vividly resemble Des Lynam and in posting irate twelve paragraph Facebook screeds about the state of fashion these days. Please don’t get me started about the ridiculous shirts I imagine 20-somethings wear now. Ghastly bubble text that reads “Dads are bad” and pictures of reality TV roughians disrespecting the Magna Carta I can only presume.
Obviously, I am not mad. I mean I am mad, incredibly so, but I’m not. When I turn beet red and begin frothing like a Mr. Whippy machine at the mention of films made after 1959, I pay my timely evening visit to The Gentleman Moron. The Gentleman Moron is my local of exceptional repute, no matter what these namby pamby health inspectors say about the building “succumbing to termites at an alarming pace” or “the dangers of wiping the glasses with the same rag you use when fixing cars”. I could only scoff at the melodramatic whining of the young pleb who had been pinned to the revolting, filthy floor by a fallen support beam. When I was a kid we called that a splinter. Of course we can’t use that word today either, as my infant daughter Tabigail informs me that Splinter is now the name of some sort of unacceptable cartoon rat humanoid. I remember when science invented useful things like a TV that would deliver 240V to your body when you twiddled with the volume knob or the threat of imminent extinction by global thermonuclear war.
The world today is quite simply one big case of health & safety gone mad. In my day we used shooting each other as a form of currency and seasoned our unpleasantly well done steaks with arsenic, and there was no great flap about it. Take speed limits for example: absolute bippygosh! And no, I will not apologise for swearing, this is not one of your university campus hugboxes. Offended!!? Deal with it! ;) Anyway, Fronk, my good friend of many years, had a Ford Badcar that could travel from Cambridge to Cambridge (60% of places were called Cambridge in my day and it was a far superior naming scheme) in .5 microseconds and he died as the result of 200 separate car crashes between June 5th 1969 and June 6th 1969. Today he is absolutely fine.
When I was a young man fatal trauma to the head and neck was just a part of daily life and it toughened us all up. That’s not just the result of maintaining a stiff upper lip in the face of adversity either, our generation ate better. Big handfuls of dirt pulled right out of the ground instead of gorging ourselves like children on “Music Star” pep-up drinks and “M & M & Ms”. Are these vile candies that hurt Dad’s teeth made by the Thin Shady man whose intolerable songs forced me to enter the fetal position while purchasing the dullest socks I could find at the petrol station? If so, disgusting.
But I am rambling, I have forgotten my point (mind shot due to arsenic poisoning). All I can tell you is that kids these days are more interested in their Tumblrs (still don’t know what this is as I threw my PC into the rubbish after it showed me a blurry picture of the words “living wage”) than their tumblers (full of £1,000 rancid whiskey which are good because I’ve decided they are). My clearly exasperated wife will certainly be hearing some unabashed rage at my rapidly vanishing youth and increasing irrelevancy in the world thinly disguised as sociopolitical opinion tonight.