Tell us more about stuff that happened 50 years ago this month. It’s been 10 minutes since somebody pointed out that, by dying on the same day as President Kennedy, Aldous Huxley and CS Lewis robbed themselves of space on the obituary pages.
Come to think of it, the celebrations and commemorations have been going on all bleeding year. Martin Luther King delivered his “I have a Dream” speech in August of 1963. The Beatles recorded their first album in February.
Two of the most culturally indelible crimes in UK history – the truly awful Moors Murders and the audacious Great Train Robbery – also happened in that busy year. Bob Dylan released Blowin' in the Wind. The Profumo Affair came to its height and after much grubby kerfuffle, did for poor Harold Macmillan.
You can see what Philip Larkin meant when he said that sex began in 1963. Mind you, noting the torrent of activity, it's a wonder anybody found the time.
All this explains why so little has been written about a hugely significant event that occurred on December 1st. As nobody else has made the effort, I will be forced to write about my own arrival on the planet and about what it means to be 50 in the digital age. If you can’t be bothered to read the rest (and who’d blame you?) here is the precis: It’s not so bad, really.
It is safe to assume that any phrase containing the words “life begins at . . .” is intended to distract from the certain knowledge that the dedicatee’s life is essentially over.
As one approaches one’s first half-century (the first of many, in my case), one becomes aware that such emollients sprout hideously from the cracks in too many afternoon television broadcasts.
Suddenly, trusted individuals such as Michael Parkinson and June Whitfield are attempting to flog me life-insurance packages designed for the “over 50s”. Mr Parkinson even seems to think that I am of the generation that remains impressed by the gift of a “free Parker pen”.
Yeah, and I can't tell whether that awful pop singer is a man or woman, Parky. Give me a break.
Imminent demise
The same advertisements, by constantly offering me "peace of mind" concerning my imminent demise, do absolutely nothing for my hitherto untroubled "peace of mind".
I can barely concentrate on the Countdown conundrum for worrying about how the poor cat will cope when – as prophesied by some "over 50s" spot for an animal welfare charity – I clutch withered chest and clatter inanimately to the unwelcoming lino.
Have I already reached the age at which I would welcome a holiday playing quoits with hairsprayed ladies in Marks and Spencer slacks?
So the advertisements for certain cruise packages seem to suggest. It might not be so bad. Maybe, I'll meet Quentin Tarantino, Brad Pitt, Johnny Depp and Donna Tartt at the bingo. After all, they also slip into the old-git demographic this year.
Some time before the “over 50” promos began to nag at my vanity, a consumer boffin explained that such commercials consciously and cynically extend their advertised audience beyond the actual target demographic.
The strategy offers, apparently, a mirror image to that which saw publishers flogging Seventeen magazine exclusively to those yet to reach the age referenced on the cover.
Not buying it
Just as no respectable 17 year old would buy that magazine, few 50 year olds are really going to sign up for a Golden Oldies cruise along more boring stretches of the Danube. But the advertisers trust that, assuming Johnny Depp, Quentin Tarantino, Brad Pitt and I may be on board, the true intended audience will be less concerned about associating themselves with a product aimed at pensioners.
The truth is that it's a lot less tedious to be 50 (or 60, 70, 80 or 90) than it once was. Allow us to briefly regain the subject of Doctor Who.
As part of its endless celebration of itself, the BBC has commissioned a film dramatising the creation of that science fiction series. The first actor to play Doctor Who was William Hartnell, then 55, but people in their mid-50s now rarely look so old as Mr Hartnell did in 1963. Accordingly, the BBC has been forced to cast the 71-year-old David Bradley.
Before Larkin announced the beginning of sex, it was expected that, once past 30, men would wear tweeds, smoke pipes and frown angrily at any manifestation of popular culture. Women fared still worse. Now, we’re allowed to play video games, pretend enjoyment of UK garage and tattoo any available extremity. On balance, it’s a better way to attack late middle age.
To paraphrase Bob Dylan, We were so much older then; we’re younger than that now.
Look forward to that song’s golden anniversary next year.