Pav’s Patch: Siren call of a grumpy old man

VERA LYNN top of the album charts at 92. Who’d have thought it?

To be honest, I find it hard to believe that there’s still anyone around who would remember her songs. Yes, she was a particular favourite of my dad’s, along with Anne Shelton and Kathy Kirby, but he died in 1991.

I suppose the same sort of thing could happen in another 65 years or so. We could get today’s Afghanistan vets sending their wartime favourite to number one.

Except that it wouldn’t be anything like “We’ll Meet Again”. Apparently today’s troops go to war listening to rap.

Just think about it. Instead of humming along to Dame Vera’s gentle lyrics, casting a glance back to powdered egg and the sound of sirens, they’ll be jingling their 80-year-old bling. Personally, I’d rather listen to the sirens.

In fact — and here’s an example of how old and miserable I’ve become — whenever a car passes with its windows open and rap blaring out at 900 decibels, I’d like to blast it with a rocket-propelled grenade. Don’t you think I’m mellowing with age?

But music like Vera’s, or Sinatra’s, will soon be a thing of the past. Ask me what I think 60-year-olds would like to listen to and I’d automatically go for Max Bygraves or Jim Reeves. Now there was a singer, every granny’s favourite.

Except that I’m less than eight years from 60 and I’m sure that if I go to a retirement do — and I’m expecting to be invited to plenty over the next few years — we won’t be listening to Donald Peers. The wrinklies will probably be trying to bop to Status Quo or something similar.

Now I find that frightening. I’ve yet to recover from my brother-in-law’s 60th birthday party last year when one of the old dears turned up in leather pants. I’d like to have videoed the event, if only so that they could have seen what fools they were making of themselves. Hips of that great age are not meant to gyrate.

I sincerely hope that I will have the sense to grow old gracefully and not to embarrass my relatives.

It all reminds me of a post office do when I was accosted by our old bid of a cleaning lady. She wanted to kiss — and by that I mean snog — all the young postmen.

As I desperately tried to get away, I slipped and delivered a flying headbut, knocking her out. Obviously I was worried and when she came round I asked if there was anything I could do. “Give us a kiss,” she replied. Yuk!