i Editor's Letter: The ageing male

I'd like to thank a kind i reader, William Rendell, who sent in two fascinating, brilliantly preserved Fulham matchday programmes from 1952 and 1963 respectively. They're something to savour with my Fulham-loving daughter. And what a 1963 team: Alan Mullery, Bobby Robson, George Cohen and the great Johnny Haynes. Blimey!

As I write, another famous old trouper has succumbed a little to the miserable Jubilee elements. Prince Philip, a wily fox if ever there was one, must have eyed the line-up for last night's Jubilee gig at the Palace, and thought: Cliff "bloody" Richard, Shirley Bassey and Tom Jones again, weren't they at one's silver and golden? And who the bloody hell are JLS?

As a nation watched the dreary old coverage on the Beeb, or the more spirited efforts of Sky News and CNN's Piers Morgan, many wondered about the stamina of an 86-year-old woman standing in her flimsy pashmina for hours, waving gamely. I was distracted by the nonagenarian to her right, saluting all the boats, a little out of the main shot – as is his wont.

Poor bloke, standing there for ages without a chance to pee. If there is one thing I'm told by older friends and relations, it's that it is a different ballgame for the older male, this "when you've gotta go, you gotta go" imperative.

Sheesh, the ageing male, what is there to look forward to? Losing hair where you need it, gaining it where you don't (the ears, mother nature, why?). That manly chest becomes moobs. A second helping of pasta on the lips? A lifetime on the hips. Sigh! And my girls have already picked out a home for me (cheeky b****rs). At least it's right next door to Craven Cottage.

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