PUBS (pubs)

Hello! I'm 55!

(That's how I started the last blog post, and I'm going with it again.)

This time, the fact that I'm 55 has had me thinking about pubs, and cricket. Cricket and pubs, if you'd prefer. Why I'm specifically thinking about pubs now is a) there's a vague rumour that they'll be opening again soon; b) I just got to the end of Mortimer & Whitehouse's 'Gone Fishing' book (which accompanies their lovely tv series), where they start talking about pubs, and c) the cricket season is nearly upon us, and pubs play a BIG part in that.

In 'Gone Fishing', Bob Mortimer recalls how he and Paul Whitehouse both start to think about "The Pub" around five o'clock. They've been fishing for hours and hours by now, and the promise of a few pints and a pie are looming large. Here's the rub though: get in the pub at five o'clock and all might not go well. They may not be serving pies yet. You fancy-dans in your London gastropubs might expect food "all day", but out in the sticks this is not always economically viable. No, best to wait until 7-7:30. By then the kitchen will be on full alert. Also, atmosphere. A country pub (I'm judging this by Norfolk standards, having lived there for a decade or so) will have a very specific clientele at five o'clock: the guy who was in at 11 and intends to stay all night, the guy who was in at 11 and can't remember his name, and the local postman. You need more than these guys for atmosphere, just ask Russ Abbot. 

(Aside: the local postman lives "The Best Life". Sure he has to get up early, but he's finished by 11:30, which coincides nicely with opening time. He can drink and pie himself stupid, safe in the knowledge that he'll be asleep by 8. Be more postie.)

So Bob & Paul kid themselves they're trying really hard to catch one more tench (insert fish of your own choice here; I didn't read the book to learn about fish or fishing, so it could be Flipper the friendly dolphin for all I know), but they're really thinking about that first pint. (Aside: Paul prefers wine, which kinda ruins everything.)

Which brings us on to cricket. 

It snowed today. Every cricketer will tell you they played in snow. The poor sods who actually do it for a living may well have been out there today. Mine was Central Park, Dagenham, Craven CC (dissolved after their treasurer ran off with the float), won by nine wickets, ran out my cousin Dave, I finished 54 not out. Craven weren't much cop then. Anyway, we went to Hornchurch to find a pub suitable for humans to interact afterwards. Let's not get too bogged down with where is and where is not a good place to drink after a cricket match (Dagenham, for a fucking start) (or Hornchurch, if you're being picky), but like Bob & Paul, it's definitely part of the day.

I started playing grown-up cricket at 17. I'd never been in a pub. Never ordered a pint. After my first game I was pissed after two pints, and went into the ladies for a pee because my cousin Dave pointed at the door and I was too pissed to read the sign on it. Fiona was in there; Fiona is Scottish, she simply said "och Edward, you'll be in the wrong toilet." We're still friends to this day. 

In fact, apart from all the ones who've died (and there's a depressingly large number of those), we're all still friends. We're still friends despite the dropped catches off my cousin Dave's bowling, despite taking my cousin Dave off after four overs because he keeps bowling bouncers when the ball is swinging like a top and we've got three slips and a gully, despite telling my cousin Dave he can't bat at three because he bowled 21 overs and it really is time to give someone else a chance... We really, really loved playing cricket together. And by and large, the pubs and clubhouses we went to afterwards were absolutely brilliant.

And that's why even at 55, knowing my eyes are shot, knowing my knees are shot, knowing I couldn't bat in a helmet because I never did, I'd love to have another go.

Memories of the post-match pub/clubhouse;

Gary. Gary would often be late for matches. Trouble with Gary was that he had no sense of time. Not just hours and minutes, but weeks and months. Gary turned up for a holiday a month early, only to be told his tickets weren't valid for another month. He had to break it to his wife that she had to go back to work and book the time off again a month later. Then he had to do the same himself. Gary loved the tea part of cricket the most. I remember Gary eating a gherkin from one hand and Mars bar from the other, after going through the usual sandwich/cake/tea cycle. He was the urban fox of teas. One week Gary went to the wrong ground. Thankfully the ground he went to was at least in the same county as the one we were playing at. He finally arrived at (yes, you've guessed it) tea time. And we'd already fielded. So Gary (honestly if you met him you'd love him, wish he was right here now, I'd hug the tardy bastard) managed a head start on the tea, didn't have to field at point (he was always wandering behind square, looking at the clouds, the trees ("GARY, IN FRONT OF SQUARE FFS!!"), and could waltz in at 4 or 5 to tonk the winning runs. Oh, and there's what Gary used to wear. Gary used to forget his spikes. Gary was convinced he should bowl regularly, but he had what even his dear old mum would describe as a "dodgy" action. He was quick, but if we chucked it we'd all be quick. Anyway, he only wore bowling boots, in the hope (against hope) that he'd be called upon. Every now and then, if we were playing teams who knew Gary since he was yay high, he'd get a bowl. Luckily, no one died. When he forgot his spikes (often), he'd wear his proper Sunday Best shoes to play cricket. Advantages: the ability to slide across the turf. Disadvantages: to Gary? None, actually. The best thing about Gary though, and the thing that will mark him down in the annals of cricketing history, is that before him no batsman had ever shouted "there's two there, his trousers have fallen down."

Okay, most of my memories of post-match pubs and clubhouses involve Gary. If I can remember anymore, I'll add them. 

'Retirement, as a thing'

Hello! I'm 55!

Don't worry, you haven't missed my birthday. You have missed when it was, but you won't have missed it. I could've piped up on Twitter and told everyone when it was, in the hope that ALL my followers would wish me well. But then I'd have to thank them all, and before that I'd realise no one on Twitter gives much of a toss about when my birthday is, which is worse. Anyway, I got loads of birthday notifications on Facebook, which I ignored because I don't do Facebook anymore.

Let's not get too bogged down in who's birthday it is, when it is, or if anyone cares. This "piece" (and it is a piece) is about retirement. 

I can remember when things were all Thatcher, and working people seriously thought about retiring at 55. This was before Robert Maxwell screwed everyone over, and several recessions coshed the idea on the head. I think it's safe to say that many of us think of the retirement age to be "in your 60s" or "Christ-know's-when". But, because I can remember those days, and I'm 55, the thought of retirement has popped into my head, rent-free.

At school it took me ages to get the hang of being at school. I pretty much hated the whole thing, until just before it was time to leave. Then (and only then) did I realise the next step was work. Perhaps I was lazy (aside: I was lazy), perhaps I was not that bright, but it hadn't crossed my mind that I could ever hold down a job. I had no idea what I could actually do, and the thought of trying things (only to find out I was rubbish at them) meant the whole plan was out of the question.

So I went to art college for four years and ended up being a very successful kitchen porter.

Now to the present day, and the transition from 'Working Me' to 'Retired Me' is similar to the transition from 'School Me' to 'Earning Me': I have no idea what I need to be able to retire, I don't know if I want to, and I don't know if I'll ever be able to. 

First of all, what is retirement? One problem here is that retirement can mean different things to different people...

1) You work for a firm for a long time, and when your time comes (55, 60, 65 etc.) you (in the words of Alan Partridge) get given a big picture of a Spitfire and "off you go!"

2) You give up the 9 to 5 (or 10 to 5 if you're Mark E Smith), but "keep your hand in". (I remember Jeremy Vine having a phone-in on retirement, pensions and the then-current recession. This architect rang in basically to boast that despite retiring, he still earned shit-loads of cash by doing a few hours work a week. JV told him his call had little relevance to the discussion, because he wanted views from people affected by the recession, but the guy didn't seem bothered. The bastard.)

3) You use your new-found spare time to try selling those pottery ashtrays you like making, or cakes, or thimbles, whatever.

4) Like that ballet dancer in the government ad, you retrain in cyber. For whatever reason.

I've been told my current job (I'm a dog walker) kind of doesn't count as a job, because I enjoy it. In the words of Bertie Wooster, there's "something in that". In fact, what I do seems the sort of thing someone might do if they'd retired from doing a proper job. We' could be talking somewhere between 2) and 3) on the above scale. So why would I want to retire? The lovely idea of working somewhere you hate for 40 years, then on your retirement day turning up late, shouting "SO LONG, SUCKERS!" and kicking the photocopier on the way out is not available, sadly. I don't hate any of the dogs, or their owners, and none of them have photocopiers. To me, retirement (in its purest form) means "I have enough money to not have to walk the dogs, or I'm too knackered to walk dogs anymore." More likely the latter. 

All well and good, but it's not just about me (although it has mostly been about me). 

Thoughts on retirement, as a thing: Lord Sir Alan Sugar OBE MBE Whatever has billions, BILLIONS of pounds. He's proud of it, and not shy of telling people about it. Why doesn't he retire? How much more can he need? "But Ed," pipes-up Sir Al, "it's the need to carry on making money which keeps me going. If I'd ever settled for what I had, I might've still made millions, but it's that drive for more that turns it into billions. And I want a solid gold horse, and a fleet of aircraft carriers for my planes, and truffle sandwiches every half-hour..." You get his drift *twirls index finger around temple*.

Less extreme example: that guy who rang Jeremy Vine. Yeah, he was hateful.  

Some people won't stop working because they're afraid of what retirement might do to them. Afraid of boredom. Afraid of stagnating. Etc. Or there's my dad, he couldn't wait to retire. He'd worked for the same people for ever, and knew there were decades of prospective television to enjoy. I remember being that arsehole son who questioned the path he'd chosen, but thankfully a good friend put me right: "Don't be an arsehole Ed, he's earned the right to do exactly what he wants." 

Some won't stop working because they can't. I worked with a chef who was planning to do a "my dad" at 55, but was scammed out of his retirement pot, and couldn't see retiring before 65 (or later) as a result. Big Sir Al Shuggs could find enough down the back of his sofa to help out, but his drive to make mo' money would stop him doing so. There's no sentiment in business, and so on. Seriously Al, get a grip.

Another friend retired when he reached 60. He had little or no money left after some bad luck (and bad decisions), but he started getting his pension and that was enough for him. Despite getting into financial difficulties (caused by living as if still earning his working wage), he refused to consider employment again. "I'm retired!" was the answer to any advice on how to get back on financial track. It didn't end well.

I think retirement could be an abstract concept. There, I said it. Could the chef announce at 55, "I am retired" despite having to carry on working? That architect pill was still "employed" despite being retired, so it definitely works the other way. Perhaps retirement is a philosophy. Yes, I said that as well. Imagine starting your first job and announcing "I'm retired" on the first day. "Then kicking the photocopier on the way out?" No silly, just going through your adult life as if retired.

Hopefully we're all at least semi-retired: not afraid of simply existing without purpose, nor doffing our caps to some dreadful boss. Whatever your lot, I hope you're happy with it.