The Blue Rinse Brigade
So, you know,
I went to the theatre.
I do it sometimes,
I got culture.
I walks through the door,
a waft of talcum powder,
and the smell of gin,
hits me hard.
Conversation barely
to be heard over
the creaking of
joints.
I walked to the bar,
the barman looked desperate.
He was all out of lemons
and on his last bottle of Gordons.
Then! there was a rustle.
as if a parliament of owls
had heard that the mice
were having a party downstairs.
And slowly, as slowly as
the sea creeps in over
the mud at Weston,
the grey tide began to move.
The doors were open,
zimmers used with grim
determination, the
crowd took its seats.
The play was pleasant enough
although somewhat marred
by the whistle and chirp
of adjusted hearing aids.
And after, as we stood outside
talking about how clever
the Oscar Wilde chap was,
I got all sad of a sudden.
I mean they were ALL so old!
more than one hadn't made it
through the play, although
the theatre staff seemed used to this
and had a hearse ready round the back.
And it's the same at the concerts,
it's the same at the opera,
it's the same at the wildlife lectures
it's the same at the library.
I'm not against old people having fun,
they are right to grab every
entertaining moment while
they have the chance.
It's the young people who,
notable by their absence,
from all things worthwhile,
worry the pants off of me.
So come on Young'uns!
Join the crusties!
You're not going to catch anything
you haven't already got.
And even if you don't enjoy
the show, comfort yourself
with the thought that you
will always be at the front
of the icecream queue
in the interval.