Thread: Gromen 3 - Three Score Years and Ten

Note I find that those of us who attempt self deprecating and flippant humour, be it in conversation or by writing, have ‘off ‘ days. The mental highs come to the writer almost with an equal number of lows. I suppose it is Nature’s way of keeping things in balance. To select and post only the articles showing light hearted banter is wrong because to appreciate the humour, you the reader, have to see the other side of the coin. Herewith please find the flip side.

Three Score Years and Ten

Let’s face it, if you get to your 71st birthday, and you are still standing up and able to talk coherently then you have had your ration of life. You are living on someone else’s time. SO Be grateful. Now it wasn’t because you were clever, the fact you are still alive has a lot to do with luck, who your parents were and where they lived at the time of your birth. Most likely they are already dead. You ought to take notice of what they each died of, just in case the cause was something you might be able to avoid.

Whatever, we are all dealt a set of cards when we are born: some are looking at a lucky hand and some get dealt a raw deal. Be thankful you did not know how to play cards when you first opened your eyes. Personally I was born into a country on the verge of a war with Hitler. As it turned out neither he nor his misguided cohorts got me or any of my family. He wound up as a burnt offering in a shallow hole in the ground whilst feeling pleased that the Russians had not got to him first. Whereas I have lived for a further 65 years. Luckily we never met. If I knew then what I know now and I had had the choice when I was standing the queue at the General Lying In Hospital waiting to be born, I would not have chosen as my parents either my Mother or my Father. They were young newly weds living in Central London in 1938 with the Second World War just around the corner. Life is all in the luck of the draw. I could have been delivered to a couple living in Warsaw. Still being a Londoner at least I did not have to eat cooked beetroot too often or learn to speak Polish..
Now, having reached the age of 71 perhaps it is time for me to take stock of my situation. How long have I got left? The statistics say I have a good chance of making 80, odds perhaps as high as 50%. I have a much smaller chance of making 90, by which time I’ll probably be incontinent and blind. Ugh. I have virtually no chance of making my centenary. With these predictions in mind and as a prudent man, I have to ask myself what do I want to do with the time left, for time is what we spend the most of in this life rather than money.

What we do have to be especially careful about in life is our health. It is alright for me to speculate on my having possibly 29 more years, but at what cost? There is always a cost. What is the chance of developing Parkinsons like a school mate of mine has done? Poor Michael is a vicar with faith, so I think he is better equipped to cope with his affliction than I would be, were I in his unlucky shoes.
I am unlikely to die like Father did of a heart attack brought on after a fall through a trap door and down into a cellar. He punctured both lungs which had already been severely corroded from a lifetime of smoking, I have never smoked and neither did I live in London during the Blitz amongst the dust from bomb damage. But I could fall off my horse again.

Nor will I be taking two sleeping pills which were not meant to be taken together like Mother did. She survived WW2 and then died at the age of 50 because she always kept the pills in a jar on the bedside table. Silly woman, she forgot she had already taken one, and the second pill was one too many.

Grandma caught a stroke and as a believer she was pleased to go to the next life. She had lost the power of speech which had been taken away by the blood clot. No more carol singing for her.
Grandpa never did stand much chance of living to a ripe old age. He rolled his own cigarettes
and had smoked far too many of them. He had also worked as a stoker in the town gas works. There was no way he could avoid cancer and he didn’t. He died riddled with the stuff.

Along with my genes I inherited from my forebears a bald head and whispy grey hair, but these trifles are merely a matter of appearance, However I do have a weak colon and my prostate is kept in order only by the Tami pills. The sight in my left eye is defective but it is still good enough to read and tap out onto the laptop. I retain enough of my own teeth left to chew a steak so there will be no need for falsies to be made for me - yet. The hearing of my left ear is drowned out by tinnitus but over the years I have got used to listening with one side of the brain.
But even though the list of my mechanical defects reads like a horror story, there is nothing there which should worry me too much for the next year or so. No doctor in a white coat has yet told me that I have cancer which they always refer to as something ‘sinister’ - not that the growth is always on the left hand side. There again I have stopped asking questions when I don’t want to hear the answers.

Actually my most recent brushes with death have been to do with having a Mercedes crash into the back of my stationary car, falling off my bolting horse and nearly being trampled to death by a rearing horse (not the same one). There should be enough money in the bank to see me and the wife through so long as we don’t go out and blow it all at once. We shall not be buying an expensive holiday cottage nor a fancy car. The bills should be met by the pensions and yet still leave enough cash for the occasional bottle of vino. All we have to worry about is the possibility of medical expenses, but the option is always to queue up and go through the indignities of the British National Health System, where the system usually works even though it takes a long time.

So as I enter the twilight years of my life, how does all this deep thinking help me and others through my example? Certainly I must not take up smoking which helped to kill both my father and his father. Mother’s silly mistake unwittingly taught me to be cautious about taking pills and indeed any drugs. As it happens I never take sleeping pills because I’d rather not go to sleep than not wake up.
The biggest risk to me is obviously the bloody horse. But Heh - to live forever would be boring wouldn’t it? I think the mare has rumbled that she must promise to keep in the future at least one of her four feet on the ground at all times. Of course what she does do is to stop me thinking too much, and if at my age you start thinking too deeply, it is all far too much to think about.

After this long diatribe, the only wisdom I can really offer the reader is during that first visit to the loo
in the morning, look in the mirror on the wall and hope you can see yourself looking back.
And wave your hand in case you’re looking at a photograph.

I could say that cooked beetroot is vastly superior to raw beetroot, but that’s just nitpicking.

Can’t really agree with your rationale about not taking sleeping pills; in my case not waking up is becoming vastly preferable.

Recently I asked my quack what he thought of the notion that an old person should be allowed to choose the time of their own death and he refused to discuss it with me. Nembutal and plastic bags are looking better by the day.

WRITER’S NOTE. Having written this addendum, after reading it back at first I hesitated to post it. But then I listened to a programme on BBC’s Radio 4 - so you have got it. If I write as a Grumpy Old Man - then you might wonder why.

Gromen 3 Appendix 1- No sex please I’m old

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I am disappointed Fellas. Apart from He that liveth in the Outback there has been no comment on this article be it ribald, derogatory, destructive or complimentary. I have come to the conclusion that you guys are missing the sex in my writings. There just isn’t much in Gromen 3 because there isn’t much in being over 70. It must have struck you already that it is sex and the accompanying trimmings which bring the frizzante into the repetitive monotony of working for a living. Sadly one usually stops working just as the chemical processes in the body are running down, although in my case I reached retirement quite young. Traders live off adrenaline and I suspect that adrenaline and testosterone are bed fellows. Most of the tales of daring do in my life involve sex in one way or another although, sorry Guys, I can’t write about the stories as yet. I shall leave them in the bedside cupboard to be discovered just after I gasp my last. It will be an opportunity then for any hopeful chap with a bald head, a grey/black beard, wearing glasses and who waddles like a duck, to call into the solicitor’s office, stick out his arm and say: ‘Take an armful. I am one of his. You‘ll find reference to me on page 95. How much do I get?’

I am sure my apathy is to do with the Tamulosin pills which according to the label work by suppressing the wrong type of Testosterone. I have asked myself how can there be wrong and right types of Testosterone. However once a man has need of the pills, then I assure you that he will take them otherwise the alternative is just too embarrassing. A man with an enlargened prostate has only to think of running water and he will be walking off clutching himself and looking around frantically for the door marked ‘WC‘. Filling the car with petrol can be a nightmare when all that liquid surges through the nozzle of the gun in your hand. The only way to cope is to go first, before it is your car’s turn at the pump. Although then you have to ask for the key to the loo before you have had the petrol. There is often a lecture, mostly with a female cashier, about not using the service station as a loo. In the meantime you are standing with a humped back with your knees locked together and your toes pointed inwards. Usually by the time you do get to the porcelain, it is too late. The dam is already leaking.

It is necessary to take one pill a day at the same time of each day. Some of us even have to take two pills each day for technical reasons, the explanation of which would not add to this article. The end result of all this indignity, is that the afflicted are not interested in taking their pants off unless they they have immediate access to a dry pair.

In any case if an attractive young women, say in her 40s were to get all pally then you’d wonder why. In my case for sure, she is not attracted to my firm tanned physique. I am led to believe that hairy chests, arms, legs, thighs, shoulders and bellies are not in fashion and if some chick thinks I am shaving my body - including my toes, then think again. I won’t even shave my face. Note the use of the word ‘chick’, that is a sign of optimism, more appropriate would be ‘Old Boiler’ a word which would fit better as the description of an amorous wench likely to make a pass at me. My mischievous smile, and dare I say, my caustic wit, won‘t pull anything these days - except the chain in the loo when provided. And the more articles I write on this subject, the less likely it is that my repartee will improve. A hustling huzzy making a pass at me must either fancy my very pretty mare or maybe it could be my money. But me - you have to be joking. Even I am not that gullible.

I am surrounded by women in my normal day. I keep a mare as a pet and nine out of ten horse owners are female. I will admit that does not mean to say they like men. They nearly all wear tight breeches and some go so far as to deliberately not wear knickers in case the panty line shows but it makes no difference to me. I will look at the horse’s butt before I will look at the rider’s. Of course in both cases they are going away from me rather than coming on. I will run my fingers through a horse’s long silky mane but the hair of most female riders is done up in a bun. I am also somewhat unusual in the horse world as being a male heterosexual as against homosexual (is one allowed to use that word these days?) I suppose that means to the women - aged from anything between 12 and 65 - that I am neither gay nor straight, merely incompetent (or should it be impotent?).

I was shown a photo of a giant mule recently. He was a magnificent creature with long ears. From a description of him, as given by his female owner, I think he and I would have a lot in common. Both of us only need our tackle to dispose of what we have drunk. At least the mule doesn’t ever have to wear wet knickers.

PS I think I am writing to myself, maybe I should send this as a PM.

You learn something new every day. Never in a million years would I have thought that all those ruddy-cheeked riders to hounds were a bunch of Willie Woofters. And what about Prince Harry? Is he one too?

Ox
Despite some fairly stiff oppositon to fox hunting the sport continues to flourish in the winter months - but when the current generation dies off by ageing, membership will probably shrink. The majority of modern women riders are more interested in dressage and show jumping in a confined arena.
Fox hunting is dangerous. It calls for significant riding skills and a very fit & bold horse.
Most of the 'Royals' ride. Polo is no sport for poofters. To play polo you have to be an excellent rider, part of the 'in' crowd and rich.

lol what kind of mare do you have, Divus?

i just got a 16.1hh chestnut thoroughbred gelding

not much into hunting but do love dressage and jumping

and i wear knickers under my jodhpurs, i can't imagine without

*crosses legs*

you must be doing ok if you still manage to ride at 71 years of age

Originally Posted by ash somers

love dressage and jumping

and i wear knickers under my jodhpurs, i can't imagine without

*crosses legs*

Okay, I'm not Divus, but he doesn't have my mind. You should try riding - galloping - bareback, feeling the gelding's rough warm coat rippling continuously between your thighs, and the pounding, pounding, pounding of his hooves reverberating through your body. You'd need more than knickers then.

Originally Posted by Divus

To play polo you have to be an excellent rider, part of the 'in' crowd and rich.

You need to come to Oz, my friend, and learn how we play polo here:

The Geebung Polo Club
(apologies to Banjo Paterson)

It was somewhere up the country in a land of rock and scrub,
That they formed an institution called the Geebung Polo Club.
They were long and wiry natives of the rugged mountainside,
And the horse was never saddled that the Geebungs couldn't ride;
But their style of playing polo was irregular and rash -
They had mighty little science, but a mighty lot of dash:
And they played on mountain ponies that were muscular and strong,
Though their coats were quite unpolished, and their manes and tails were long.
And they used to train those ponies wheeling cattle in the scrub:
They were demons, were the members of the Geebung Polo Club.


It was somewhere down the country, in a city's smoke and steam,
That a polo club existed, called the Cuff and Collar Team.
As a social institution 'twas a marvellous success,
For the members were distinguished by exclusiveness and dress.
They had natty little ponies that were nice, and smooth, and sleek,
For their cultivated owners only rode 'em once a week.
So they started up the country in pursuit of sport and fame,
For they meant to show the Geebungs how they ought to play the game;
And they took their valets with them - just to give their boots a rub
Ere they started operations on the Geebung Polo Club.


Now my readers can imagine how the contest ebbed and flowed,
When the Geebung boys got going it was time to clear the road;
And the game was so terrific that ere half the time was gone
A spectator's leg was broken - just from merely looking on.
For they waddied one another till the plain was strewn with dead,
While the score was kept so even that they neither got ahead.
And the Cuff and Collar captain, when he tumbled off to die,
Was the last surviving player - so the game was called a tie.


Then the captain of the Geebungs raised him slowly from the ground,
Though his wounds were mostly mortal, yet he fiercely gazed around;
There was no one to oppose him - all the rest were in a trance,
So he scrambled on his pony for his last expiring chance,
For he meant to make an effort to get victory to his side;
So he struck at goal - and missed it - then he tumbled off and died.


By the old Campaspe River, where the breezes shake the grass,
There's a row of little gravestones that the stockmen never pass,
For they bear a crude inscription saying, "Stranger, drop a tear,
For the Cuff and Collar players and the Geebung boys lie here."
And on misty moonlit evenings, while the dingoes howl around,
You can see their shadows flitting down that phantom polo ground;
You can hear the loud collisions as the flying players meet,
And the rattle of the mallets, and the rush of ponies' feet,
Till the terrified spectator rides like blazes to the pub -
He's been haunted by the spectres of the Geebung Polo Club.

Ash
She is a pretty 9yo dapple grey 15h2 Irish draught/Connemara cross whose mum was named Molly.
A broad backed, broad chested girl with a black short mane and a long multi coloured tail.
Sharp, intelligent with a kindly nature as long as she gets her own way.

It is not so much her that has kept me riding, it was until 2 years ago her predecessor - Joe.
He was a stubborn cuss of a Galloway Cob - a lawless, 15h2 stockily built, hairy, broad chested
brute who took no prisoners. He's gone on to pastures new.
Trouble is, I still miss him.

Read: "Joe the delinquent" - the story is up at the back

Back in my profle , there are now two photos - one of DiDi - the other of Joe

Ox,
Magnificent. Where did that epic come from?

Originally Posted by Divus

Ash
She is a pretty 9yo dapple grey 15h2 Irish draught/Connemara cross whose mum was named Molly.
A broad backed, broad chested girl with a black short mane and a long multi coloured tail.
Sharp, intelligent with a kindly nature as long as she gets her own way.

It is not so much her that has kept me riding, it was until 2 years ago her predecessor - Joe.
He was a stubborn cuss of a Galloway Cob - a lawless, 15h2 stockily built, hairy, broad chested
brute who took no prisoners. He's gone on to pastures new.
Trouble is, I still miss him.

Read: "Joe the delinquent" - the story is up at the back

Back in my profle , there are now two photos - one of DiDi - the other of Joe

aaawww, she sounds like a magnificent creature :)
dapple grey is one of my favourite colours besides chestnut
and i used to have a morgan X quarter horse mare for the children
she was about 14.3hh, a real treasure one day - a right royal B the next
we still loved her, along with the little white welshy and big grey thoroughbred

for the longest time my love for horses was lived vicariously through my offspring
which i'm pleased to say is now a thing of the past :) and i'll read about joe next!

Originally Posted by The Backward OX

Okay, I'm not Divus, but he doesn't have my mind. You should try riding - galloping - bareback, feeling the gelding's rough warm coat rippling continuously between your thighs, and the pounding, pounding, pounding of his hooves reverberating through your body. You'd need more than knickers then.

yes, yours is in the gutter, like, most of the time :p
and there's no way known i'd hop on my thoroughbred bareback
not with the size of his whither and his bony back, he's not a broad backed
deep chested, rounded beast like what Divus has, if he was, i might be in with a chance
but i doubt it, i tend to sit on my bum, not my you know what, you've been reading too much porn

Originally Posted by Divus

Ox,
Magnificent. Where did that epic come from?

Banjo Paterson - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia << This is a link even if it doesn't look like one

Amongst other things, Paterson composed Waltzing Matilda.

In the link above, click on The Man From Snowy River for another horse poem.

Originally Posted by ash somers

you've been reading too much porn

Moi? Porn?

Ox
Remarkable. To think I had never heard of him. Reading through his life history I get the feeling that he would have been a good man to sit and quaff a few beers with. Anyone who came to Europe to fight in a war, went home and then came back again - was quite a man. My wife visited Oz a couple of years back to recruit speech therapists - she enjoyed her brief trip immensely. Me, I have never visited but I have an invitation or two from youngsters I have met whilst riding. You never know - one day perhaps if I get a move on.
We used to live near Midhurst in the UK where there is a fancy polo club - but I have never played. The horses in my life have always been chosen strictly for their ability to take me across the downs to the pub and back - a different beast altogether from a polo pony.