Why do men die before their wives...?

ANOTHER member of the elite group that is Britain’s most elderly citizens has died. Frankly, this is beginning to look highly suspicious. There is a pattern emerging.

If I were Joan Hocquard, now the country’s oldest resident at 111, I’d be worried. Watch your back, Joan, it may be a vendetta.

First, Gwen Payne died last June at the age of 112. Now Hilda Clulow, the lady who took the mantle from her, has passed away at her Redditch care home, it was announced last week.

The former Balsall Heath dressmaker was born on March 15, 1908 “when a loaf of bread cost 1d”, the Metro helpfully informed readers.

Why they’ve selected that particular foodstuff for price comparison, I don’t know. But I’d really be interested to know how much beer and a car were selling for.

Hilda survived both world wars, the Metro added. This milestone should be put into perspective – she didn’t fight in either of them.

Those close to Hilda say her iron will kept her going. She received four cards from the Queen, which is understandable. Her Majesty is in her 90s and getting forgetful.

All newspaper reports of Hilda’s death included the line: “She lived through 27 prime ministers and five monarchs.”

This is a standard journalistic yardstick when interviewing centenarians. I’ve lost track of the times I’ve sat on the edge of a nursing home bed and demanded: “Come on, is it 21 Prime Ministers or 22? What do you mean, you can’t remember their names?”

For a man, the league table of Britain’s most elderly makes depressing reading. It is dominated by the opposite sex. Bob Pitts, also 111, makes runner-up spot, but after that it is a no man’s land until Ben John, aged 108, takes a bow at number 38.

This begs the question: why do men die before their wives? Speaking from personal experience, I suspect they simply want to.

Statistically, by the age of 80 there are five women to every man. What a cruel time of life for a bloke to get those odds.

Attitude has a lot to do with it. Men get crabby and morbid in their dotage. I know, I’m already there. Last night, during a heated exchange with my son, I shouted: “You are officially off my pall bearer list.”

Women outliving men is a trend echoed around the world. Japan’s Kane Tanaka, the oldest person on the planet at 117, enjoys boiled sweets, which figures. At that age, nut brittle would be wasted on her.

Previous title holder Emma Morano, who died in 2017 at the age of 117 years and 137 days, put her longevity down to bananas, but pointed out: “I do not eat much because I have no teeth.”

This is a very mixed message. I would like to live to 117, but don’t want to startle fellow bus passengers by sucking bananas. I’m not sure it’s a price worth paying.

Jeanne Calment, who died in 1997, aged 122, kept the grim reaper at bay by smearing her body with olive oil and riding a bicycle. I do not know how Jeanne died, but fear she slipped off the saddle while cycling in heavy traffic.

However, I intend to buck the trend by taking the title in 50 years time.

As a “life goal” it certainly raised eyebrows during my one-to-one, office appraisal.

Under the section, what are your future ambitions? I put: to be this country’s oldest person.

Under the section, how can we help you achieve that goal? I put: free AllBran.

Mind you, when asked where I expected to be at this time next year, I replied: “It’s 5.30pm so probably down the pub.”

When interviewed by a young reporter from the Sunday Mercury about the secrets of old age, I will not trot out the usual “I’ve never smoked”, “I only have a glass of sherry at Christmas” and “I suck bananas”.

I’ll say: “It’s all down to my trusty crackpipe and lashings of pornography”.

And I pray that, in my dotage, I’m afforded more respect from my own family than my grandfather received. We called him Spiderman, not because he had superhero powers but because he struggled to get out of the bath.

The age landscape has changed considerably in the 40-plus years I’ve been a journalist.

Just 20 years ago, an individual reaching the grand old age of 100 was significant and newsworthy. I’d be sent out to interview the pensioner, invariably described by a relative as, “quite incredible, bright as a button if a bit feisty”.

One gentleman was so pin-sharp and feisty, he repeatedly bellowed “**** off” during the course of our halfhour together.

“So how many Prime Ministers have you seen come and go?” “**** off.” “And monarchs?” “**** off.” “The war years must’ve been terribly hard.” “**** off and take that suppository with you.”

One old gent did provide a pearl of wisdom, however.

“Forget failing eyesight, hearing problems and lethargy,” he revealed. “The first real sign of old age is discovering the volume knob turns left.”