Growing old is s***e!


Advertising’s idea of the over-50s

The reality

I’m a mature traveller. They are usually defined as 50 or 55 and over – and I’m a bloody long way over 50 – or 55 come to that. Apparently it’s the fastest growing group of consumers in the industry, with tour companies promising greater attention to health and mobility concerns.

Frankly, it terrifies me. Not the fact that I’m knocking on a bit, but that in the unlikely event that I should – God forbid – go on a holiday with one of these groups, they would be more concerned about my ability to shuffle around without a Zimmer frame than pulling that neat bit of totty that has just celebrated her half-century. Believe me, from my perspective, she’s a bit of a spring chicken.

Fortunately, I need never worry about going on one of these over 50s group hols, because even I was offered one as a freebie I’d turn it down, on the premise that

a    I’m an intolerant old sod and can’t abide being shepherded around in a group,

b    like Groucho Marx, I wouldn’t want to be part of a group that would have me as a member, especially one that is supposedly bent on jollification, and

c    the only time I went on a group holiday, almost thirty years ago, I ended up having to slip out the back door to avoid the group of hand-holding ninnies that couldn’t order a cup of coffee for themselves in a French caff without a deep consultation and a professional translator – or me if there wasn’t one around.

These holiday companies all have names like Eldertrecks or Elderhostal or Senior Cycling. I am old, but I don’t need to have it friggin’-well rubbed in my face just because I’ve reached the point of no return. I think I’ll start a travel company called ‘Intolerant Knackered Old Bastards Hapless Holidays’ and offer such exciting possibilities as ‘Getting Rat-Arsed in Amsterdam Weekend’ (which means getting drunk, to non-English English speakers) or residential courses such as ‘How Not to Look Like a Total Dickhead if You Actually Do Pull That Nifty Fifty Year-old and Can’t Raise a Smile’. At least they’d be honest. And I wouldn’t use photos of some silver-haired, sveltely-tanned pair of retirees in while linen, either. I’d rather use models from the Ugly Agency. Probably fat ones with shaved heads and tattoos. And I’d probably use blokes that look the same. (Boom boom!)

If you would like to know more about Spain, visit my web site, , and Spain Uncovered. Articles and books can also be found at Digital Paparazzi.


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