In eighteen months time I shall be 65 and have started to contemplate retirement and the changes that it will bring. That's a very few months shy of the London Olympics in June which, if the Pornographers and Lord Sugar's new suck-up have their way (and as they own the club, they will) will shortly be followed by West Ham moving from the Boleyn Ground to the Olympic Stadium. Kevin (who sits next to me in the Chicken Run) and I were discussing whether it would be possible to be further from the pitch than we now are. It's clear that an eight-lane running track could easily be fitted between us and the pitch as it stands, as well as a long-jump pit probably. Which makes me not only physically further away, but emotionally and psychologically as well. Far enough to feel more than a little disconnected.
Watching Strictly I have found out that the ever gorgeous Felicity Kendal is 64, and so a little older than me. One of the judges referred to her as Flexible Felicity because she is still able to do the splits (and even in time to the music), so I have more evidence that age doesn't mean that every capacity shuts down. But it does bring some considerations about how to change one's lifestyle.
I thought about that again at about 6.45 pm yesterday. It was the time that I turned to my daughter, Jessica, and confided that I wasn't really enjoying the football and moreover, I'd be hard pressed to remember a time when I had recently. Of course, beating the Spuds for the first time for ages was a brief interlude of pleasure. But it certainly wasn't for the quality of the football, more the joy in the Big Club failing and 'Arry's face getting even longer. Still, cheer up - you can always buy more players. Think of the 'commissions' that could bring.
Jessica and I agreed that Newcastle scoring again was inevitable. We had started the game brightly with a flurry of attacks and scored early and had more chances the like of which most strikers routinely score. But we'd already scored our single goal for the game, so that was never going to happen. Shots instead were more likely to go for throw-ins or hit the corner flag, as they did. And then we forgot that Newcastle play with not one, but two (count 'em) big lumps up front, and hit crosses to the back post for one or the other. So nobody closed down Joey Barton several times and he hit crosses and eventually one was headed down for Nolan to equalise. And that was it for us as we sat back and awaited the inevitable. By 'we' I mean the crowd and, more importantly, the team. Half time came and went without any check in Newcastle's momentum and Jessica and I agreed it was the usual matter of time.
And reflecting on matters of time, I thought again about how retirement brings a rethink to how you live your life. And how Karren (yes Lord Sugar, no Lord Sugar) Brady's Pravda article was about how much enthusiasm there was for a move to the Olympic Stadium (except for the few she patronised as worried - only every West Ham supporter who goes, of course), which is a change I don't want. And how I'm fed up watching crap and having the Manager tell me in his nice friendly email how we're improving and being bottom of the table after 9 games is a false position (it ain't). Two years ago the Spuds were bottom of the league and their Manager went. Not that there's much available if it's bye-bye Avram, but that's another change that might be possible.
Because, really, I'm thinking of emulating Felicity with the splits - from Upton Park and West Ham.
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