There is this famous poem regarding growing old and wearing purple, it goes like this:

When I am an old woman I shall wear purple
With a red hat that doesn’t go, and doesn’t suit me,
And I shall spend my pension
on brandy and summer gloves
And satin sandals,
and say we’ve no money for butter.
I shall sit down on the pavement when I am tired,
And gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells,
And run my stick along the public railings,
And make up for the sobriety of my youth.
I shall go out in my slippers in the rain
And pick the flowers in other people’s gardens,
And learn to spit.
You can wear terrible shirts and grow more fat,
And eat three pounds of sausages at a go,
Or only bread and pickle for a week,
And hoard pens and pencils and beer mats
and things in boxes.
But now we must have clothes that keep us dry,
And pay our rent and not swear in the street,
And set a good example for the children.
We will have friends to dinner and read the papers.
But maybe I ought to practise a little now?
So people who know me
are not too shocked and surprised,
When suddenly I am old
and start to wear purple!

Jenny Josep

Now I am a little uncertain what the equivalent male poem might be but I suppose it must involve a red Ferrari, bottles of Jack Daniels and some hat of some description, and probably farting in public and dashing hither and dither with a prostate complaint. However those days are just a few years off for Wilt but I am practicing farting in public and giving off obnoxious opinions on issues which as a young man I may have refrained from. This is the essence of Wiltishism.

So forgive me reader when after doing the three S’s** first thing in the morning (**shit, shave & shower)  I lose the plot and go off on some tirade involving the likes of the GSCC, Ofsted, Ed Balls, Gordon Brown and CAFCASS. Just put it down to a nearly retired old fart struggling to understand the purpose of these people or organisations (sic). It’s just that Wilt struggles with putting up with fucking idiots, these days.

I must say Wilt looks forward to retirement – bobbing about on the boat getting sea sick, sitting on the decking in the holiday home with salty dog watching the sun go down (with a G&T obviously – as it looks good) and doing just the occasional item of work to fill the ever widening gap between available professionals and services needed – just to keep grounded and sane, well unless it involves Mrs C and Plaskitt MP (or not to be soon MP).

Like Plaskitt I have a few pensions to call upon, although rightly earned and acquired, and a property portfolio purchased wholly, necessarily and intentionally for personal use AT MY EXPENSE (as distinct from MPs who  did so at public expense).

And so reader, I can sleep at night and dream of days to come with salty dog and hold out hope for those children and grandchildren that will follow us and carry on the business.

If someone complains of flatulence I will simply blame it on years of having to put up with bullshit – like Ed Fucking Evil Balls. I am sure he must have played some part in the Omen films.

Anyway, the weekend beckons – cider, salty dog, wet weather, Sunday newspapers and lunch. just nice, just relaxed and, well, just OK thank you.

Wilt (fart)