So what do these lovable Silver haired, old angels do with themselves in the twilight of life? IÂ’ll tell you what they do, they become a f***ing nuisance!!
Now donÂ’t go getting me wrong again, I have nothing against the average crumbly, as long as they stay just that, average, but there is a long held misapprehension that, once a person gets to a certain age, they will turn into a sweet little old man/lady, but I see no reason why, if a person was a b++++d in younger life, old father time should wave a magic wand and turn them into Mother Teresa and Catweezle when they are old.
So back to the question of what these Â“saga loutsÂ” get up to in Mediterranean retirement and the answer is that they become Â“El PresidenteÂ” of their Â“urbanizationÂ” and, hey presto, just like in Â“CocoonÂ”, they start to turn back into the neighbourhood watch, WomenÂ’s Institute, canal cleaning, disabled parking vigilantes that they were before June Whitfield and her Â“Equity ReleaseÂ” scheme had them cashing in the poor grandchildrenÂ’s inheritance and scurrying over to Spain.
There is a certain kind of person who would want to wander around, being called Â“El PresidenteÂ” yet, like politicians, the desire to be one should instantly knock you out of the running. But as with anything, it is only a certain type of old menace that needs some kind of grandiose title to feel that they still have Â“cojonesÂ”. There can be no country better than Britain for turning out these stiff upper lip, stand by your beds, bulldog spirit, fight them on the beaches Â“aÂ…holesÂ” and every urbanisation from Malaga to Mars has one, usually a retired copper, screw or Colonel Mustard.
Now Â“urbanisationsÂ” are just like your estates back in Blighty and an Â“urbanisationÂ” in Kingston-on-Thames is not going to be quite the same as one in Basildon. I say this because it works the same here, those that have a nicely spruced up native in a neat little security manÂ’s uniform are the Â“urbanisationsÂ” where the more well heeled have
chosen to settle and, I might add, the worst to live in if you happen to be a spunky pensioner with a bit of life force in you and want to still be up after 8 pm.
Well let me tell you, if you are a bit of a funky fossil donÂ’t invest your kidsÂ’ inheritance in any Â“urbanisationÂ” that looks too well manicured. The trick is, before you buy, drive on to the Â“urbanisationÂ” at 10 pm and if all the lights are out and you canÂ’t hear anybody playing their Cliff Richard albums, turn your car around and get out of there!
However it is not just old people who live on these Â“Stepford Wife UrbanisationÂ”, some younger, well heeled folk opt for the straight jacket estates. Mind you they are usually young couples something big in Â“ITÂ”, called Meredith and Simon who donÂ’t mind 8 pm bang up so they can stay in and bore each other for longer.
Having said this, it may be a bit of sour grapes on my part, I did try to buy on one of these better-class Â“urbanisationsÂ” recently and found myself Â“Black BalledÂ”. I wasnÂ’t welcome being the wrong colour, I am not orange, you see. Mind you, I think I did have a lucky escape there. On the way out I passed what I took to be a queue for the swimming pool and it turned out to be a firing squad.
So I opted for the other end of the market and now I find myself happily hidden away in Â“Pueblo CucarachaÂ”. No early nights here, being favoured by folk from the rocky outposts. So, from my balcony of an evening, as the sun dips down behind the pitch and putt, sorry I mean golf course, I can look out on a leopard skin sea and imagine myself in Kenya, watching the herds of wondering weekenders whooping and chattering their way to the Â“watering holeÂ”, sorry, swimming pool.
And, on the big plus side, there is no Â“El PresidenteÂ” in Â“Pueblo CucarachaÂ”, Daktari may be, but Â“El PresidenteÂ” no