Paul McCartney and the sexagenarian syndrome

I have no feelings one way or the other about Sir Paul McCartney. By the time I was born the whole narcotics-induced hysteria around The Beatles had died down somewhat and I only read about it retrospectively. As a matter of fact, I have no feelings about any other Beatle or any of those other chipmunks on helium.

That’s my way of making it known that my observations about the whole McCartney-Heather Mills debacle do not come from any passionate feelings. Truth be told, I couldn’t give a rat’s arse about most celebrities and the whole celebrity culture.

This might sound callous, but what saddened me most about Heath Ledger’s death was the over-the-top outpouring of emotion for a man whose greatest contribution to the world was to engage in make-believe about being a cowboy with an itch that needed scratching all the time.

A few weeks ago I was driving home from a meeting, listening to Talk Radio 702, when Kieno Kammies, the most famous coconut in the land, came on. Because I have just come out of my latest bout of “other-people’s-opinions intolerance”, I kept listening.

For the record, Mills was apparently awarded £24,3-million plus annual payments of £35 000 and nanny and school costs for their daughter.

Now, if you thought this was another rant about the folly of celebrity worship, you would be wrong. If you thought it was about how talk-show hosts such as Kimmie are lowering our already low national IQs discussing such rubbish on radio, you would also be wrong. Kimmie (and everyone else) has a right to talk about whatever he damn well pleases.

I started to write about this to wonder out loud about what it is exactly that makes loaded old farts fall into this trap every time. How many times have we seen this story play itself out?

Shrivelled up, used-to-be-important 60-something old prune meets pretty young thang.

Pretty young thang bats eyelids, strokes prune’s ego and they get married.

Less than five years later they have a huge cadenza of a divorce and pretty young thang leaves with obscene amounts of money.

Now, you don’t get to be Sir Paul McCartney by being an idiot. Making the money is one thing but holding on to almost £1-billion takes brains. Of course it’s £1-billion minus £24,3-million, minus some more loose change now. And that’s actually my point.

I think that the worst decade for any man to make important decisions is in his 60s. People expect you to be an idiot who makes dumb decisions when you’re in your teens and 20s. These are the so-called good dumb decisions — “rather now than later”.

I think every man’s mind is sharpest in his 30s and 40s, give or take a few Steve Hofmeyrs. I have not hit my 40s yet but my mind has never been sharper, now that I’m in my 30s. (Yeah, yeah, I know — my intelligence does come from a pretty low base.)

Things start slowing down somewhat when one hits one’s 50s, but still quite sharp, I’m told. Most men in their 70s will readily admit to the fact that their brains are probably not functioning at optimal level. Any age above 80 and most men are just grateful they can still tell the difference between flatulence and a high-fibre day. Don’t make me go into the graphic details.

I think a man’s 60s are the most dangerous years. This is when he has probably achieved all he’s ever going to achieve, give or take a summit or two. For instance, the two main protagonists in the Battle of Polokwane in December were both sexagenarians.

To describe some of their decisions in recent times as “a little bizarre” is a bit of an understatement. People against Ageism can demonstrate and toyi-toyi in front of my house if they want to, but I’ll have the last laugh when they visit physiotherapists en masse the following day.

I have never been 60 years old before. At least not in this lifetime. I do get flashbacks of my grey-headed self leading the charge of the Unokhenke regiment against the Younghusbands on the eastern slope of Isandlwana now and then — but maybe I’ve read too many books on the Anglo-Zulu War. But my admittedly limited experience with men in their 60s is that their propensity for erratic and difficult-to-explain decisions increases.

I think it has to do with the fact that when you’re 60, you’re not physically old. Well, not really in any case. After all, who can accuse JZ of being an old man? Speaking of JZ, a 60-year-old man’s virility is still somewhat intact — albeit probably the last, often vicious kicks of a dying stallion. And I think men in their 60s make many decisions to try to hold on to the mythical powers in their loins. But I think that this physical vitality often exists against the backdrop of a brain that … may or may not … necessarily be functioning at its optimum.

Drag me in front of the Human Rights Commission if you want to, but I think that science will be on my side on this one.

At some point in a human being’s life (and I’m guessing some time during one’s 60s) the natural decline in brain function kicks in. Just a little bit. But of course don’t be ridiculous and accuse me of saying that people over 60 are useless and shouldn’t be considered valuable members of society. I plan to be 60 myself one day and I’ll rip out any punk’s testicles through his throat if he tells me I’m done for when I’m 65.

But facts are facts — and that’s why most people retire in their 60s. As a matter of fact, many 60-something-olds make up for their increasingly erratic synaptic connections with experience and wisdom.

Sir Paul McCartney is probably not one of them.

Let’s examine the facts in the case of The People versus Old Horny Guy (OHG), otherwise known as Sir Paul. Four years after the love of his life, his soul mate and wife of many decades, Linda McCartney, passes on, OHG looks at his life and realises that he’s lonely. Something is amiss. I’m personally guessing it’s a combination of companionship and a regular hump that he’s yearning for. Remember the last-kicks-of-a-dying-horse syndrome.

Nothing wrong with this, as far as I can see. Although something can be said for getting a pair of Dobermans (for companionship) and making frequent visits to a brothel in Soho. But hey, different strokes (no pun) and all that. And this is where I think the sexagenarian syndrome kicks in.

I do not have to know anything about Sir Paul McCartney’s life, but I can take this one to the bank: at some point before he married Mills, he had this conversation with a long-time friend/financial adviser/family lawyer:

Ringo: Paulie, what do you know about this girl?
OHG: Ringo, I know what I’m doing. I love this girl.
RS: I know that. I just think it’s a bad idea. Why don’t you just shack up and look at the situation for a while?
OHG: You jealous fuck! You haven’t forgiven me for 1970, have you?
RS: No, I’m just looking out for you …
OHG: Piss off. The girl is mine (mine, mine). Yep she’s mine (mine, mine).

Before we go off the deep end, let us consider some of the facts:

1. She simulated sexual acts with another model in a photo shoot during her modelling career.

2. She did a full-frontal photo shoot for a porno mag.

3. She suggested that the human race stop drinking cow’s milk and drink rat’s and dog’s milk instead.

If this sounds like I’m suggesting that there’s anything wrong in any of this behaviour, I’m not. I don’t see why we can’t enjoy a glass of rodent milk now and then. I think the poor woman (well, not so poor now) has suffered enough at the hands of the tabloids.

Apparently the British tabloid the Sun called her “hooker, liar, porn star, fantasist, trouble maker and shoplifter”.

I’m sorry, but that’s just plain wrong. And I don’t care what dirt it had dug up about her. If Sir Paul were Dame Paulina and Mills a young man who had just walked off with £24,3-million, would any of this even be an issue?

You might argue that all these facts about Mills only emerged after they got married. I’d counter by saying that perhaps he should have done a background check on her. After all, women in their 30s do not generally seek out sexagenarians to fulfil their needs. The background check might have cost him £300 000, but probably saved him £24-million.

Am I saying there is something wrong with the old guy/young woman pairing then? Of course not, don’t be daft. My only point here is that OHG allowed his sexagenarian arrogance to blind him to what should have been pretty obvious — that is, this story always ends up with old guy shedding some of his wealth after an average of 3,78 years. With nearly £1-billion in the bank, surely this should have been part of his prenuptial rationale.

I now invite outraged 60-something-olds, soon-to-be-60s and their advocates to throw stones. Be gentle.

[email protected]