It’s Official: Reflections on Becoming an OAP

It finally happened; I turn 66 today, but please don’t worry about sending me a birthday card. I’m officially an OAP, in receipt of a generous (ha, ha!) UK State Pension. I’m grateful to have reached this milestone, despite the best efforts of the powers that be and the NHS. By proactively making additional National Insurance contributions, I secured the full New State Pension, avoiding a £100 monthly shortfall due to obscure “legacy rules.” Without this foresight, my 35 qualifying years wouldn’t have sufficed.

The UK State Pension sparks debate: is it a right or a benefit? Having been born in the UK, paid taxes, and contributed National Insurance for decades, I lean toward “benefit” in the sense of a return on my contributions. However, it’s distinct from other benefits, especially those given to non-contributors. The intricacies of Pension Credits, Winter Fuel Allowances, and why some OAPs receive better treatment than others – like illegal immigrants over contributing pensioners – elude me. I have little sympathy for OAPs upset about paying 40% income tax on private pensions; it’s predictable, especially for those earning more in retirement than many do while working. High rents and low wages burden younger generations, making such complaints seem out of touch.

When I was a young child, both my grandfathers were still working men, but I do vaguely remember them retiring in 1967 and 1968 respectively. They were both already ‘old men’ in dress, outlook and behaviour. Both were dead well within 15 years of age-related conditions that afflicted them almost as soon as they no longer had cause to cycle to work. No doubt this was exacerbated by the nature of their 50+ years hard labour occupations (grounds maintenance and leather tanning). If I ever make it to 100 and am asked for life advice, my main pronouncement will be this: ’work colleagues aren’t your friends’. Think about it.

Should I now trade my shorts and T-shirts for the stereotypical “old man” wardrobe – dove-grey, elasticated trousers from stores like Boyes, where dowdy attire is still sold? Should I swap swimming three times a week for crown green bowling or visit a doctor I’ve never met for statins or winter vaccines? I’m medication-free, self-diagnosing minor ailments like hay fever or sciatica, and I’d rather avoid unnecessary medical probes unless aliens abduct me.

Do I now feel old and act accordingly? Decidedly no. Of course, the body doesn’t work as well as it used to, and it’s rare to get a full night’s uninterrupted and rewarding sleep; to wake refreshed without mentally tallying the ailments that seem most likely to affect the day ahead. Luckily, most ailments seem to evaporate once I’ve got out of bed and had a strong black filter coffee. But for how long?

I’m disconnected from modern culture, uninterested in social media, Zoom, or celebrity gossip. The state of the world, especially the UK, appalls me, and I find little appeal in the pursuits of today’s youth – tattoos, vaping, or online obsessions. Even if I could revert to my 20-year-old self, acne-free, (as in Death Becomes Her) I wouldn’t embrace these trends. I might follow fashion, but university debt and enforced wokism, or relocating to an unaffordable London hold no allure. A cupboard in London costs more than a mortgage on a rundown Georgian mansion in rural East Yorkshire.

Do younger people see me as I saw my grandfathers – or as I now view men in grey anoraks and Velcro shoes? Teenagers often ignore me, as if I’m invisible or speaking another language. I suspect poor education or parenting, a view reinforced by the early 20-somethings from the business next door who litter, shout, and vape outside my house, responding to my complaints with blank stares. My schoolteachers would have called this “dumb insolence,” but today, they’d no doubt face disciplinary action for such a label.

Finally, I bet TNC readers of a certain age remember One Foot in the Grave, but not that Victor Meldrew in the first few series was a victim of redundancy in his early 60s – and therefore wasn’t even a bonafide OAP like me. Richard Wilson, who played Victor, was only 54 when the first series started, and his character took/lost various jobs as the episodes progressed, because he wasn’t yet then old enough to claim his state pension at 65. 

Martin Rispin has had a career in many different sectors, most lately in the fields of English Tourism and Heritage based Urban Regeneration. He now lives, retired, in Kingston upon Hull.

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