When I think of old men, the first things that spring to mind are Werthers Originals, tweed caps and incontinence. But sadly, this image of grandfatherly innocence has been shattered by the revelations of a select few who have felt the need to air their very old and very dirty laundry of late.
Yesterday, DJ Tony Blackburn divulged that he had slept with around 500 women, a mere patch on old biddy bad boy William Roache (Ken off Corrie), who pitches his estimate at 1000. And, not to be outdone by his former colleague, Johnny Briggs (a different one off Corrie) decided, ‘I don’t know if I can say how many I’ve bedded, but it’s probably more than him.’ Ah, the sounds of sweet, sweet chivalry.
And, as of this morning, everyone’s favourite gay-basher Jan Moir has ‘curated’ a Lothario League which features old crinklies Peter Stringfellow, Julio Iglesias and er…Nick Clegg?, and compares their magic numbers. Am I the only one who finds this latest old-man-sexposé trend kind of gross? The last thing I need to be picturing when I’m eating my cornflakes is their saggy bollocks and what orifice they were in fifty years ago. If these men, who claim to be ‘so much happier now,’ are really ashamed of their orgy laden past, why on earth do they keep bloody talking about it? What do you want, Roachey, a badge? A special medal that says ‘well done me, I used to put it about?
To the impartial observer, it seems as though they’ve looked in the mirror, felt fucking depressed about the folds of skin where facial features used to be and cooked up something particularly disgusting to thrust them back in the spotlight one last time before they die. Well it’s not big, grandps, and it’s not clever. Needless to say, should some lady-crinklies follow suit, they would be painted in a far worse light than their male counterparts. I believe a philosopher known as Christina Aguilera once said, ‘The guy gets all the glory the more he can score, while a girl can do the same yet you call her a whore,’ and she was bang on the money. Of course, this is nothing new, but it becomes particularly contradictory and double standards-y and icky all at once when you contemplate this trend amongst D-list OAPs. Should Dot Cotton dig out her little black book from yesteryear and start reliving memories of century old shag-a-thons, I think people would have something to say about it. But because men have done it, it’s funny, isn’t it? Like funny ha-ha, in the kind of old-men-telling-cute –stories-to-their-grandkids kind of way. Like, ha-ha, I slept with what equates to the population of a North African village about seven hundred years ago. Isn’t that funny kiddiewinks? Isn’t it?
But in all seriousness, it is simply not okay that men are encouraged to talk about their sex, drugs and rock ‘n’ roll filled heyday whilst women are faced with near enough the reverse. One fascinating piece unearthed by the Vagenda team from The Daily Mail’s hate filled archives discusses how, after 15 sexual partners, one starts ‘to demean sex itself’ (really). The article focuses on France’s first lady Carla Bruni, who at 40 wasn’t ‘a spring chicken’ and ‘should know what was what.’
Funny then, how news of 69 year old Blackburn’s exploits didn’t quite get the same treatment, in spite of his admissions of adultery. In his autobiography ‘The Living Legend’ (yes, really) written in 1985, he admitted to sleeping with 250 women, but a marital break-up and the ever increasing competition from fellow oldies has seen him push that already optimistic figure up to 500.What I truly wonder is how on earth they have been totting up these figures over the past six or seven decades. Unless they are literally making notches on their bedposts, I find it hard to believe that someone whose past was really that wild would be able to accurately count how many women they had bedded in their incredibly long time on this planet.
By all means, own your number. It’s YOUR number, after all. But whether it’s a walk of shame or a stride of pride, maybe keep it out of the papers, for all our sakes. Personally, when I wake up after a one night stand all I can smell is stale gin and shame, although the ‘shame’ part could have a lot to do with the way women are constantly told to wait until the third date while men are still encouraged to saddle up, cowboy. But I certainly don’t see the opportunity to beef up the conquests list in the hopes that my vile tale will make it into the back pages of the red tops. If you refuse to do so with your pants, old timer, at least have the courtesy to keep your mouth firmly zipped. This entire debacle sounds to me like boys showing off and shouting about their willies, which seemingly doesn’t change no matter what stage of the circle of life one is at. Go out and sleep with as many people as you want, dear bus pass holders, but please, please, refrain from telling me about it. I know of many ways to make myself throw up, and I certainly do not need another.
This article was originally published in Vagenda Magazine here