Periodically someone will jam getting to a hundred years old. The senile old fools are then accosted by lazy journalists and asked what the secret of a long life is. You may as well ask a foetus what the secret of not being aborted is, “I have always strived to shy away from anything remotely coathanger shaped, this is also why all my shirts are lying on the floor”.
“Luck” buddy. That’s your answer. Not smoking a cigar every day, or a glass of wine, or rubbing olive oil in your eyes. You may as well just ask these melting, shrivelled near deads “What can you remember roughly doing every day so I can clock off early and get down the pub”. You will get the same single data point replies.
The video reports are the worst: some wispy haired old maid who hasn’t kissed anyone other than a child struggling to escape her clammy grasp since Mugabe took power, her paper thin skin ready to bleed profusely but dilutely at the slightest paper cut, the sunken yellow eyes that remind you of that disease from The Rats, the twisted scoliosis hidden beneath an ill fitting dress.
And talking of lazy “journalists” I have a load of ideas for interesting blog posts, such as, “how exactly do perfectly good houses whose only fault is a murder or two in the lounge get demolished?” or the perhaps nonsensical “what are the long term environmental effects of stealing wind for wind farms” or going through screen caps of that amusingly 1970’s episode of The Professionals, and drawing the wrong, extremely racist conclusions from this excellent piece of drama. But these are all far too much work when I can just spew diatribe instead.