I’m a time traveller from the 1970s... I don’t belong in 2021
WOW... 2021. How sci-fi does that sound? As a lad, comic books convinced me we’d be flying to work on hover-jets by 2021.
The earth would be invaded by evil aliens and all food would be taken in capsule form.
We’d stop reproducing in the conventional way, which was a bit of a hammer-blow for someone on the cusp of puberty, and be dressed in Draylon catsuits.
No one opened a door – they’d just slide open with a silky “slisssh”.
Those who ventured outside had to wear a facemask because the atmosphere had been poisoned. Actually, that piece of fiction is depressingly close to home.
The dodgy basin haircuts in those cartoons worried me.
Now we know the Eagle 1972 Christmas annual was, by and large, very wide of the mark.
Not a single reference to McDonald’s, Facebook and Kate Price in there.
The truth is if someone from the 1970s time-travelled, Doctor Who style, he’d slip very comfortably into Birmingham 2021.
With lockdown, however, he’d probably wonder where all the people were and when the hell the pubs opened.
He’d also have to get used to jokes about his droopy moustache, sideburns, platform shoes and flared trousers.
He’d be a bit taken aback by the lack of white dog poo and cost of lager, but, on the whole, he’d find the fabric of life pretty much unchanged.
Come to think of it, someone has time-travelled from the 1970s – me. And I still haven’t got used to the jokes about my fashion sense.
Depressingly, I’ve become aware age has distanced me from society. Like an ousted bull elephant, I am forced to remain a safe distance from the herd.
My lack of internet skills has made me an outcast.
More than any other year, 2020, cursed by Covid, convinced me I’ve become something of a dinosaur, someone discarded and unloved by new technology. I don’t possess a mobile phone, haven’t the fingers for texting and put the twit in twitter.
I can’t even fathom our new, hi-tech TV. Too embarrassed to admit I couldn’t change the channels, I was forced to pretend to be engrossed in a channel dedicated, round-the-clock to 1980s soap Dynasty. My, that Blake Carrington had lucious hair. I didn’t know you could get so many shades of grey, including a purply one.
If the humble Wc was ever privy to the same technological advances as televisions, I’ll be sat on it for days. In 2021, there’s also a whole new vocabulary to untangle. “Wicked” was bad, but is now very good. “Gross” was large, but is now unsightly. “Buff” was a colour, but is now sexy. “Sick” was ill, but is now very pleasing. “Munter” wasn’t anything, but is now ugly.
If they reworked the Wizard of Oz for today’s kids, the Good Witch of the North would be the Wicked Witch of the North and the Wicked Witch of the West would just the Gross Witch of the West. And a munter.
2020 was the year I surrendered to old age.
It’s all downhill after you have to avoid roast lamb because it gets caught in your teeth.
“We can liquidise it, Sir,” one waitress offered after I’d publicly confessed my dental difficulties.
I gave her a daggers look. Didn’t stop her whispering as I studied the dessert board: “The sticky toffee pudding isn’t that sticky – my gran copes with it.”
By and large, I feel the same as I did 40 years ago. It just takes an eternity to spend a penny and I didn’t have grey chest hair at school.
I didn’t have chest hair. Period. “Where have the years gone?” I lamented. “What happened to all those things I was gong to do, all those goals I set myself?”
“I think she moved down south with her parents,” said Colin. “Just after you were given that restraining order.”
“I wasn’t just talking about Rosalind Foster,” I sighed. “As a child I was convinced I was placed on this planet for a purpose. I vividly remember thinking, ‘why am I here?’” “A person whose party we attended in 1975 said exactly the same thing,” Colin nodded. “She pulled me to one side, pointed at you and asked, ‘why on earth is he here?’ “Listen, mate,” added Colin, “we’re at an age when we live our lives through our kids. Their successes, their achievements. We can stand back and say, ‘we didn’t do a bad job’.Take your son Joe...” At that point, my wife tugged my arm. “Mike, Joe’s in the bathroom and he’s being really ill. I warned him about mixing drinks.”
I flung open the door to discover my son, kneeling – it looked like praying – at the foot of the porcelain.
After enduring a prolonged ear-bending from his father, Joe lifted his head from the bowl, fixed me with watery eyes and croaked: “I can’t wait to pick your care home.”
JUST bought a load of railway buffers on eBay. It was an end-of-line sale