The Baby Boomers at 60 Something
What Did The Baby Boomers Ever Do For Us
Baby Boomers Beatles - Haircuts from 1964
The Beatles - Here Comes the Sun
Twiggy's Legs (and the rest of her)
The Sixties Girls
Baby Boomer Books
So, you’re 60 something, and you’re fed up with all the red tape, the inundation of small print, the political correctness, and the kind of people who perpetuate clichés like ‘political correctness’ (sorry).
Poor old sod.
People are always clawing back from you, demanding more from you, and putting more upon you. Your employer thinks your wages are excessive, that employment laws are crippling him, and he, understandably, dreams nightly, of outsourcing to Indonesia. The quality of your working life is perpetually subject to the death of a thousand cuts. Every day you face change. The things you must no longer do and things you now must do, that somehow never needed doing before. Change, for the sake of change, for everyone’s benefit - but yours. You feel like a mad dog, compelled by the demands of others, to chase its own tail. It’s time you retired. Go on; desert the sinking ship - you old bar-steward!
Why not go self-employed?
You could open a shop on the High Street. Ah but, what High Street? That High Street - which is traceable back to the Anglo-Saxons (UK), and beyond - is derelict! The only business done there now is in charity shops. The supermarkets have swallowed up all other business. How did that happen? You wonder; as you turn into the supermarket car park, pick up some diesel-coated exotic fruit. You pick up a book of stamps (nodding to an ex-postie (mailman US), selling the Big Issue). You try on a pair of shoes, (stitched together by the nimble fingers of a distant six year old). You sling the latest 32-inch, widescreen, LCD, HD ready, stereo TV into the trolley - (made in China of course, to where your previous employer sold the factory plant, after sacking you, and stealing your pension). Oh, and don’t forget to fill up with petrol (gasoline US).
The Baby Boomer Inheritance
Anyways, you’d need money to start up in business. You’re in debt - because that’s the done thing. Er, well - it was the done thing. You’re mortgaged up to the eyeballs, because that’s what people do - er, well, did. Some altruistic politician in the 80s said that everyone should enjoy the benefits of home ownership. Do you own your own home? You might, eventually, if you can convince your employer not to out-source to Indonesia - but for goodness sake don’t get old, and need to go into a nursing home. Or, to put it another way, you’d better tell the kids to forget about their inheritance.
Baby Boomers join the pyjamas and slippers brigade
Oh yes, the nursing home. Now there’s a thought. Who’s going to have to bathe your pooh-encrusted buttocks? Think, about what he, or she, is going to be thinking, of you. Might it be? “Look at this pathetic old codger. He was born when all the big wars were over (UK), into an NHS (UK), social security, a state pension, and meaningful employment - for all who wanted it. He lost the NHS for us, and left in its place, a labyrinth of insurance scams, because his illustrious leaders felt compelled (I wonder why) to privatise everything that could have a profit screwed out of it - and nationalise everything they’d botched. The only social help we get now is vaguely traceable, possibly, eventually, to some kind of neo-Dickensian charity. He backbit, and grovelled to scrape together a mortgage under the illusion that he was going to join the ranks of the landed gentry, the proceeds of which don’t even whimper at the cost of his stay here. He let a bunch of gamblers and hoodlums dismantle, and sell off, our entire industrial heritage (after having it handed to him on a plate, by a previous, much more resourceful generation). He let a bunch of economic thugs steal his pension, and sell all the assets and land in the British Isles, to foreigners (or, just anybody with money). We can’t even go back to subsistence farming, now. Now, he’s poohed his py-jams - and he’s left that for us to deal with too.”
Democracy! What democracy?
On the other hand, we Baby Boomers might still have a chance to pull ourselves together - to honour the sacrifices of past generations, to provide for future generations, and sort out the sociological mess, into which we’ve blundered. We might ask ourselves if the democracy those past generations fought so hard for is now little more than a disposable, for personal use. Just something else we can use, then trash, like all the other modern disposables. They’ll pull it from the supermarket shelf, and label it ‘Discontinued’ - just because we’ve allowed it to become undermined, and ineffectual, then deceived into accepting that it’s no longer relevant to our lives - or to the lives of our successors. We, who never asked the serious questions, like “what does ‘small government’ really mean?” Or, “what WMDs - where?” Or, saying, “I don’t remember voting for that prat’s EU Presidency”. We, who opted instead for a lousy deal, which put concisely, some might describe as trading health and happiness, for homeownership; showing the same naivety of Aladdin’s Mum(UK)/Mom(US), when she traded ‘old lamps for new’.
Or, we could see it as the most precious inheritance, of all - for all - and fight to achieve a better legacy, for ourselves.
We won’t. I’ll just retire, like all the rest of the proverbially deserting rats. I’ll sit here grumping, and moaning, as usual, until it’s time to go into the nursing home - where the fabric of the building is, no doubt, in a worse state than the inside of my py-jams. (My long-suffering wife - God bless her little orthopaedic stockings - will demand to go into the one at the other end of town, even if it’s just a wigwam). There, the ever-absent owner of the ‘charity’ will be exploiting, and stressing-out some fresh faced lass, who has to do pole dancing in her spare time, to make ends meet. She’ll have us all singing ‘Wake up Sleepy Jean’, doing hula-hoop demonstrations, and giving talks, about Twiggy’s legs, and Beatles’ haircuts.
However, I’m sure my cheerful disposition, will see me through to peaceful oblivion.
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