Help the Aged?! - Part 1

Old people. What's your problem, you miserable old buggers?

Honestly. Seriously. I need to know. Out of all the sections of society, the one with the least demands upon their precious time is the retired. So why, then, are you all so fucking impatient?

What, exactly, is so pressing in your busy schedule of watching the TV with the volume turned right up and boiling cabbage (for that all-important old person smell in your sheltered accommodation) that gives you the right to barge in front of me at the supermarket deli counter? Let's be honest, the only thing looming large in your future is your imminent demise and, if that happens, it's not really going to matter whether you managed to get a quarter of haslet five minutes earlier than if you'd just stood and waited your fucking turn, is it?

In fact, why are you even in the same queue as me? Why do I have to see (and, most likely, smell) you at all? You've got five days of the week when the shops are practically empty because all the poor sods like me who work for a living are toiling away at our jobs, so why the fuck are you shopping on a Saturday morning?

And then, after you've elbowed in front of me in your pursuit of reasonably priced cold meats, you're in front of me again at the checkout. You've got twelve items. You're in the "Ten Items Or Less" queue. And now you're counting out the correct money in fucking copper coins and extracting nine separate vouchers, one at a time, from your fucking purse.

Why? In the name of everything that I hold dear: why? You knew you were going to use these bastard vouchers before you even joined the queue! Would it have fucking killed you to have got them out and unfolded them at some point before actually handing over payment?

And, to cap it all, you haven't even bagged your fucking shopping yet! Oh, no, you couldn't actually bag up the shopping as it's rung through. No, you have to stand there and watch the checkout assistant to make sure they're doing their job properly. For Christ's sake! It's just about the easiest job known to man! Stop scrutinizing the cashier just in case — God Forbid! — something rings through at tuppence more than the marked price and pack your fucking shopping up, you doddering, stinky old bat!

Actually, I know exactly why you do it: it's so you've got something to fucking moan about. It's so you can achieve your twin goals in what remains of your dismal existence — annoying the living daylights out of anyone younger than you and then moaning about how anyone younger than you doesn't have any fucking respect any more.

Well, let's get this clear, then. If you served in the Forces, 'nuff respect. Taught in school for forty years? My hat is off. Raised a family of polite, respectful kids who've all gone on to become productive members of society? Good for you.

What you absolutely fucking do not get from me is my respect simply because you're not dead yet. Are you expecting some kind of fucking medal because you're still breathing?

"Do I get a discount because I'm an OAP?"

No. No, you do fucking not get a discount. In fact, you've got no mortgage, you get free travel, you get concessions on your Council Tax and your TV License. The government gives you money towards your heating and the local council brings meals to your door. Stick your fucking discount up your arse.

Whew. It felt good to unload that one, but don't think I'm finished with you yet, you vile old stinkwads. More to follow ...