Born to be Bald

Getting older is something which people used to do in a dignified fashion. There was a general acceptance that behaving and looking like a total twat was an activity best left to those too young to know better.
These days everyone seems to be chanting the 'fifty is the new thirty' mantra. No it fucking isn't; fifty remains fifty, whatever the style gurus in the colour supplements tell you.
All this grey power guff really gets on my tits. There are a lot of them, and they've got most of the money; but that doesn't mean that the rest of us should have to tolerate their misguided attempts to appear at the cutting edge of fashion and lifestyle trends.
There is nothing more cringe inducing than a male in his late fifties sporting a pony tail and goatee beard. At this late stage in life he has decided to rediscover his lost youth by purchasing a FUCKING BIG MOTORBIKE.
The last motorbike he rode was a 50cc Honda in 1972. No matter: he regards himself as perfectly competent to go out and buy a brand new 1200cc Honda Fireblade that can do 0-60 in 2 seconds flat. To go with the bike, he naturally invests in the most expensive leather gear that he can find.
No matter that his addled brain has half the reaction time of his twenty year old self. He is perfectly happy to live out his James Dean fantasies and hurtle about like a maniac on amphetamine. He no doubt imagines that he looks cool and rugged. In reality he looks like a leather clad, orange juice drinking, homosexualist.
The only redeeming feature of the born again biker is their short life expectancy. Within a couple of years they are usually sandwiched between a couple of 40 ft trailers. This leaves a nice fat life insurance pay out for their bored wives.
Now I quite like older women; particularly the ones with fat bank accounts. I suppose I should become a gigolo and take up with one or two. That way I could afford a new moped. Then again, mopeds were for mods; there's nothing sadder than an ageing git in a parka riding about on a Vespa.