I’m fully cognisant of the absurdity of the “Happy New Year” greetings on February 7 every year from folks you haven’t talked to since the previous year. I believe the cut-off date should be somewhere around January 7 for New Year’s platitudes. That’s my disclaimer for wishing everyone a happy 2026 on January 25. I hope I’m forgiven, seeing as I last wrote a column before Venezuela and Greenland became part of the Trumpkistan grand plans.
Moving along. I heard a new one the other day in the “How do you know?” series. You know: “How do you know that someone has an MBA?” Or my own addition to the series from a few years ago: “How do you know someone is from Soweto?” The correct answer is, of course, “They’ll tell you at the earliest possible opportunity”.
A day after my birthday, two weeks ago, I was chatting to a friend in his 30s. He hit me with a new one: “How do you know someone is in their 50s?” The unfunny punchline is, of course: “They’ll tell you five minutes into your first conversation.” According to him I had reminded him that I’d just turned 54 without any provocation. His theory is that we share this unnecessary titbit in the hope that we will get: “You lie! You don’t look a day over 40.″ Plausible. It is possible that we fossils need oxygen, water, food and compliments to survive. In that order. Ahead of clothing and shelter.
The duo of entitled, ungrateful, university-attending recipients of our generosity seem to be in agreement with my friend. Apparently, the missus and I wear the distinction of being in our 50s like some badge of honour. We’re ostensibly just a deity short of being the high priest and priestess of the “Being 50 rocks” religious sect. My response is always to growl menacingly like the toothless wild dog that I am and make idle threats of taking away Parktown apartments with uncapped Wi-Fi and university tuition fees.
Since last week, the duo has now expanded to a trio as the lastborn also registered for university. He was the only one with us at home on New Year’s Eve as we sat in the lounge, watching the riveting annual classic, Dinner for One, on YouTube. And I didn’t miss the opportunity of trying to recruit him to our side in the battle of generations.
We make snide remarks about how they clearly have partaken in more mountains of pap and vetkoeks than we have
To be fair, and setting belligerence aside, I get where the children are coming from. It seems like just the other day that I was also an 18-year-old know-it-all with a 50-year-old fossil for a father, seemingly perpetually stuck in 1964. Hands off my father; he and his generations survived the brutality of the British Empire.
The big difference, though, is that when my father entered his 50s, he embraced them and decisively acted like he was 50 years old. Not the missus, myself and our generation. One of my favourite songs of the 1980s and 1990s, the two decades that dominate my sensibilities more than any other, is a collaboration between The Bee Gees and Celine Dion: Immortality. To borrow from another 1980s and 1990s icon, Bart Simpson, bite my shorts if you have a problem.
My point is, never has a generation in human history sought immortality with quite the levels of desperation that we harbour. To avoid a relapse into bad habits, Mrs N and I never let up on the pursuit of the preservation of the last vestiges of our youthful appearances. We braved the scorching 34°C Highveld summer mornings, climbing koppies throughout December. On December 24 and December 31 we were huffing and puffing at Kliprivier Nature Reserve. Since 2026 started we’ve been straining and farting up inclines at Suikerbosrand every weekend.
In the words of 19th century French folks, "Il faut souffrir pour être belle". One must indeed endure pain and suffering for beauty. Our vanity and smugness shine through when we run into other couples on the trail. We make snide remarks about how they clearly have partaken in more mountains of pap and vetkoeks than we have.
I know, I know. We’re terrible. But we’ve appropriated from professional boxers the spirit of summoning up all the pain and anger they have endured over their lifetimes to bring into the ring against their opponents when fighting for a world title. To the dedicated and mean go all the spoils. Seventy-year-old bodies are made in the 50s.
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