The swinging ' 60s created the swinging 70s

February 6, 1997

The way we treat our old folk is a major issue just now.

As the population lives longer questions are being asked as to how much and the quality of stimulation the elderly receive in long-term care, the medication they are prescribed and the general treatment and respect they get.

Of course the term `granny farming' is not the kindest but when you are standing where I am, it's not so much `granny farming' you are looking at but `mum and dad farming'.

Now the generations above me deserve all the care and attention going. They are the generations of diligence, hard-work and self-sacrifice. Their lot has been a tough one and anything but the best is just not good enough.

But then we come to my sexist, spoilt generation, growing older by the minute and as the granny farms turn into mum farms and then into sisterfarms, I would like to fire a warning to the care home owners of the not- too-distant future.

There is a slow train coming, but coming it is, and when it arrives at your platform be prepared for my generation; the generation self-indulgence, the selfish generation...the nightmare generation.

Remember we are the ones who made jeans and combat jackets a fashion statement; the generation responsible for free love and flower power; the youth reared on rock music, the drug experimenters; the liberated army that put wine on every supermarket shelf and made pubs accessible at all hours.

The generation that never forgave the world, not for war, famine and poverty, but for taking Spangles and Aztec chocolate bars off the market.

And as we get older and our responsibilities to those we have spawned diminish, we are likely to be quite a handful and society needs to re-assess the buildings required for us to shakily enter.

So enjoy and treasure the old folk within your walls now because their patience, tolerance and brave face when confronted with all sorts of adversity are not traits we inherited, and we don't tolerate those not of our ilk kindly.

First of all, the males like female nurses/carers in starched white and crisp uniforms, low cut and short and suspenders are good; our women like their men in tight trousers, good bodies and hugging tee-shirts. Political correctness was a later development we all missed out on.

Never, ever try and placate us with a blast of the Alexander Brothers unless we are in ceilidh mood and loaded with whisky.

Pink Floyd, AC/DC, Springsteen and the Stones are more to our taste and since we already play our music far too loud, heaven knows what we will be like when the hearing starts to fail, so serious speakers are a must for that cosy communal lounge.

And no insipid framed watercolours, posters of Che, Hendrix and Dylan will do nicely. And if we don't get what we want, inspired by the antics of The Who and Led Zeppelin, there will be a flurry of zimmers flying through the bay windows in a tantrum.

And please, no schoolkids coming in to torture us with recorder music; warm up the engine on the minibus and ferry us and our wheelchairs over to the SECC for the Metallica reunion concert.

And don't think you have the answer to placate us in the drug cabinet. It will be raided and empty before the attendants return from the shops with the Rizlas and carry-out.

And as for the TV, don't think we'll be satisfied with a Doris Day matinee on a Sunday or the regular dosage of the soaps. Viewing will consist of Woodstock, Apocalypse Now, Pulp Fiction, Reservoir Dogs, Monty Python re-runs and the occasional interlude of Fireball XL5, Stingray and Flipper.

So start stocking up on the videos now.

We'll also need a fair amount of sockets in our rooms, to accommodate stereos, amplifiers and lava lamps.

And when it comes to meal time, remember we are the generation which brought the world's food to everyone's table. Indian, Italian, Chinese must be on the menu, introduced by and washed down with copious amounts of beer, then wine, then more beers, with a bottle or two of the hard stuff to finish off.

Meet all these requirements then we might just retire for the evening for a quick blast of Tangerine Dream, Crosby, Stills and Nash or The Band, before an unsteady wobble down the corridor for a midnight ramble with the widow from Lochgelly in the kaftan and Jesus sandals.

Attire for our outings will probably see `Frankie Says' or tie-dye tee-shirts under parkas or wax-cotton coats, topped off with a baseball caps and completed with burgundy Docs.

Yes, for all those watching over our aged flock now, get ready; that intake a little further down the line is as obnoxious as they come.

We will be disowned by our children and shoved on to the carers.

My fellow men will arrive with a box of LPs, a beat-up guitar, a few back copies of Penthouse, a six-pack of Export, 20 Marlboro and a two-word battle cry - `Let's party'.

It's the care home nightmare; it is my generation's idea of retirement.

Picture: Strecosa