Olympics Closing Ceremony – London 2012

Amazingly it is 16 days to the minute since the Games of the XXX Olympiad surprised an expectant world. We started slowly, both in the Opening Ceremony and medal acquisition, but since then everything has whizzed by like Wiggo on a bike.

It has been a much better couple of weeks than everyone expected and most do not want the games to end, not least because no one wants to risk more Paul McCartney at the Closing Ceremony.

The Olympics has certainly inspired the youth of this country, although ironically it has turned many into couch potatoes, glued to the TV.

Without any trace of sarcasm, Sue Barker says, “If you would like to watch the ceremony without commentary, press the red button. Here's Trevor Nelson...”

Somehow Trev has qualified for the final. The mute button is gonna be working overtime tonight with him, Jessie J, Emeli Sandé etc.

The Hirst thing we see is an abstract Union Jack sprawled out across the stadium like a patriotic paintball pummelling. London's skyline is dotted around the park, including Saint Paul's, Gherkin, Battersea Power Station, and Big Ben, which accompanies the disjointed countdown to the beginning of the end.

Emeli Sandé starts the section entitled Rush Hour, but I can't see a black or Chinese detective anywhere. I am in no rush to listen to her again as she still sounds amateurish. It's not great, it's just karaokey.

Stomp clatter the London Eye and their staple bins, miming their way through their slot. It would have been an ideal moment for the grouch to pop their head out of a bin but alas the Queen is not providing another hilarious spectacular. Bin there, done that.

Lapping the track are vehicles from skateboards to wedding cars. Timothy Spall pops up as Churchill with some more Tempest and tells everyone to shut it. He hasn't quite got the authority of Ray Winstone, and is more Churchill the dog than prime minister.

Prince Harry has been sent along to represent the royal family. What were they thinking? The joke buzzing around is they are keeping the Queen away from Harry Styles. No doubt she was at home thinking “I did my stint at the Opening Ceremony.”

More iconic imagery for the Street Party with Michael Caine counting us down to an exploding Robin Reliant (“You're only supposed to blow the bloody doors off!”). Del and Rodders get out in their Batman and Robin costume. We initially think they have pulled off a triffic coup and reunited David Jason and Nicholas Lyndhurst, but only fools rush in - they are just impersonators.

Many of the foreigners who don't understand English culture are saying “This is madness”, and lo and behold Camden's sons appear like genies from a lamp with 'Our House'.

Blur aren't here so 'Parklife' is performed by the Queen's Guard Band. Blur are playing the closing concert at Hyde Park and aren't quite rock star enough to commandeer a helicopter over. All we need now is for Phil Daniels to appear to convince the world that we really do talk like that.

Here come the Pet Shop Boys with 'West End Girls', although their preference is surely East End Boys. They are being cycled in on rickety chariots by drivers wearing orange, anti-aerodynamic helmets. I think they're mad and the keyboard's unstable.

One Direction come along early in the proceedings and stimulate the teen girls with their fresh, youthful tones. It saves the kids sitting through subsequent ageing rockers and means they can get off to bed to do what follows naturally after watching their teen idols.

Stomp march us from Street Party to Waterloo Sunset - the hustle and bustle of the working day that we have forgotten about due to slacking off work the last fortnight.

Spelbound provide an underwhelming acrobatic display. Perhaps their pedestrian performance is an antithesis to Rush Hour?

Ray Davies of The Kinks exits a cab without even paying the driver. He probably wouldn't mind the scenic route as he has a well-known affinity to London, hence his love-letter 'Waterloo Sunset'.

The tease is on. A camera creeps up on a mysterious individual from behind. Has the reclusive David Bowie been persuaded out? It's been a while since we have seen him. Not so with imposter Emeli Sandé of whom we have seen far too much. She reprises her way through 'Read All About It'. Unfortunately we have to listen all about it too. I want to strangle her slowly although I imagine she would still sound the same.

Elbow give Emeli the elbow. The athletes are welcomed with 'Open Arms' and led into their mosh-pit surrounding the stage.

There is a reprise of all of the songs already played as the athletes are slowly kettled. Surely we have a few more songs on our nation's jukebox? I could easily have done them a mixtape had they asked. Instead we have to suffer 'Now That's What I Call Repetitive 12'.

The athletes are having a rare old time of it. Their dedication in not letting themselves go for the last couple of years is being rapidly bypassed tonight, like a crap runner in the 10000m. There are some tipsy athletes already and it will be interesting to see how many future Olympic superheroes are conceived tonight.

303 blocks, representing the Olympic events are piled up on the stage, but I urge you to avoid them as it appears to be some sort of pyramid scheme. There were rumours Kate Bush was going to appear, but they always faced an uphill battle getting her and we have to settle for a recording of 'Running Up That Hill' while Tetris is completed.

The next segment, Here Comes The Sun, includes the Marathon medal ceremony so the runners get the perfect stage to lap up the glory (or 105 laps to put it into perspective). In fact they could run a marathon and a half in the time this ceremony takes. It is somewhat surprising that Emeli Sandé doesn’t turn up to sing Uganda's national anthem.

There is a huge cheer as 'Bohemian Rhapsody' starts to play. Might just be coincidence that Emeli Sandé is led out of the Olympic Stadium in shackles at the same time.

A deaf scouse kiddie choir sing and sign 'Imagine' by John Lennon. It is heartwarming to see them using their hands for signing rather than stealing. They turn Lennon into a crackhead by forming an image of his face from 101 fragments (presumably just after his head was shot into smithereens).

George Michael, looking less chubby than Merv Hughes, but similarly hairy, returns to plays his ode to acne 'Freederm', which is spot on, then a new song about his survival, 'White Light', which is quite shite. He gets caught lip-synching but at least it wasn't in the bogs again.

Ricky Wilson of Kaiser Chiefs appears on a scooter with a load of other mods and goes at it full tilt, plunging straight into 'Pinball Wizard'. Ching ching ching!

Russell Brand becomes Willy Wanka and “sings” his way through 'Pure Imagination' on top of a psychedelic bus. He virtually gives up on the miming through a second song, 'I Am The Walrus'. Tusk tusk.

Fatboy Slim mixes up his mischief from inside a zorby octopus. He usually needs lots of arms to work his magic but miming along to mixing is considerably easier.

The lively atmosphere continues with Jessie J in Madonna hand-me-downs belting out 'Price Tag', Tinie Tempah singing about God knows what, and Taio Cruz serving a party platter tune in 'Dynamite'. They all combine for an abysmal version of the Bee Gees 'You Should Be Dancing'.

Uh-oh a mass of taxi drivers are gathering - bad time for a blockade. The highway code goes right out the window with their manoeuvres. First they slam it to the left, then they shake it to the right. Taxi for the Spice Girls!

Twig Spice gets no air time and barely a look-in on camera. You can just imagine David Beckham fielding that one with the kids. “Daddy, why doesn't mummy get any lines? Why is everyone ignoring her?”. “No talent and face like a monkey's arse, but sshh, don't tell mummy!”

The elaborately-adorned taxis zoom around with a Spice Girl on each. Victoria is clinging on for dear life, as there's a real risk of the airhead blowing off.

Boris is dad-dancing along to Spice Girls. David Cameron is a bit more conservative. Derren Brown tweets, "If anyone wants me to eradicate their memories of Cameron or Boris dancing just say."

Beady Eye, an Oasis tribute band, perform a great new song called 'Wonderwall'. It has all the hallmarks of classic Oasis and should do very well. Liam really should invest in a new roadie as his current one never sets his mic at the right height.

It's a Who's Who of illicit substances tonight. Let's hope none of the performers are taken aside for a random drug test.

Eric Idle appears from the ground after a failed cannon ejection and recites 'Always Look On The Bright Side Of Life', the newly adopted British national anthem. We got sick of 'God Save The Queen' what with all that winning we did.

Morris dancers are clacking around him. Nuns with patriotic pants are whizzing by on roller blades. Soldiers are enforcing the discipline. Bagpipers are making their usual drone. A heavenly host of dreamy angels are looking deliciously divine. Then out of nowhere a load of Indians appear for some daft dancing. Eric gets distracted as they choke him before he quips “Life's a piece of shit when you look at it”, 'Life' being code for the Closing Ceremony.

Muse sing 'Survival', the song of the Olympic Games. Meanwhile the backing group seem to be signing along to 'Agadoo'. Come and dance every night to the Musey melody.

Freddie Mercury is resurrected from the ground as a screen rises with the “deyo deyo” footage from 1986, followed by the screeching guitars of Brian May. He has a grey witch-like thatch. If it was green he would be Grotbags.

Jessie J has had the barnacles picked off her costume and has half a leg added. She joins the alive members of Queen for some regicide during 'We Will Rock (and irritate the shit out of) You'. Sing up Jessie, I can't hear you over the sound of Freddy turning in his grave.

Boris has the flag and he's waving it precariously close to the Olympic flame. Quit the formalities and leg it Boris! They can't have the games if they haven't got the flag.

Boris reluctantly hands the flag over to the head of IOC, Rogge the Bodge, then onto a visibly-excited Mayor of Rio. Predictably Pele pops up but he's not visibly-excited as he hasn't popped one (blue pill not boner).

Renato Smile, a real life road-sweeper who became a YouTube sensation after dancing in the street, sweeps away the turd of a ceremony. He breaks into a Samba and it is time for carnival as he is joined by other dancers.

The closing ceremony starts to fade away when Take That give us yet another anthem in 'Rule The World'. Britain did just that for a couple of weeks, but we can safely return to being cynical, miserable and self-hating once again.

The flame that burned so brightly in London is no more as it is extinguished to some wistful music. It's not quite the closing sequence of the Incredible Hulk TV series but it does the job.

Proving that we are mostly a nation of ageing and dead rockers, The Who finish us off with some dad-rock classics. Thankfully the organisers decided against letting bitch Elton John lend a hand. I could easily see him doing “Goodbye London's Games”.

The Games are officially over and we have corrected some misconceptions about our country. The rest of the world used to think we were shit at sport and great at music. Consider yourselves shown, world.

Olympics Opening Ceremony - London 2012

It has taken 7 years, 2 regime changes and 6 bad summers in England, but finally the waiting and wondering is over, and the whetting and wonderment can begin. The Olympic Park is a mesmerising 'Green and Pleasant Land' with thousands of actors engrossed in their roles. It feels like someone has built a diorama then watered it with some Olympic-strength fertiliser.

Artificial clouds lap the Farmsvillesque village like not-so-subtle spy satellites. When it rains just before the off, the audience trace the raindrops skywards to see if it's special effects or if God really is pissing on our parade.

Bradley Wiggins, one of the most unlikely-looking sports stars ever, bongs the world's largest harmonically-charged bell to say y'ello to the 2012 London Olympics. Fresh(ish) from his tour de force Tour de France, he competes again in the Time Trial in the Olympics. It's heartening to see recycling rewarded.

There is so much to look at that we take on the persona of ADD kids, unable to focus on anything for more than a few seconds. Scouting around quickly there are Morris dancers (folk right off), an orchestra playing Elgar's 'Nimrod', 2 maids-a-tossing (apples), a water wheel and a village cricket match. A medieval Malinga has an LBW appeal turned down but the DRS system hasn't been invented yet so it can't be referred. Where's Billy Bowden when you need a questionable decision?

The British Isles are unified with children's choirs singing 'Jerusalem', 'Oh Danny Boyle', 'Flower of Scotland' and 'Bread of Heaven', all now sporting anthems. We are all cheering the same side this time though (except Scotland who will still cheer anyone but England).

The hypnotic Shipping Forecast highlights the British love of all things weather, and for a change doesn't interrupt the cricket. It doesn't exactly go down a storm with the tourists as it is Met with a cold front. You can already hear the Americans thinking “huh?” like they have just been told a joke. Lucky their Twitter feed can explain everything clearly, like Newsround does for children.

You say you want a revolution? Yeahhhhh I know. Although technically I don’t know much about the Industrial Revolution as I always dozed in history. Kids would be so much more interested in learning about history if they had this ceremony as an educational tool.

The industriousness of the peasants (complete with Bradley Wiggins-style sideburns) is reminiscent of a colony of worker ants and a bygone ethos. I am quite similar to an ant really as I often pull women several times my weight.

Pandemonium (the capital of hell in John Milton's 'Paradise Lost') is the next theme. Pandemonium is what happens when you put Jingjing, one of the mascots from the Beijing Olympics, in a test tube full of ammonia.

The main focus is a toriffic Glastonbury mound which is part Teletubbies, part Lord Of The Olympic Rings. There are chimneys popping out of the ground like doggy lipsticks.

A poignant moment remembers the fallen. A profound sense of sorrow is felt at this time. The actors who have ruined their 15 seconds of fame by tripping over the turf stand with heads bowed in shame. Where there's a games, there's a claim.

We move onto the Social and Cultural Change in England as West Indians are integrated into the community courtesy of The Empire Windrush. Yeah mon! No such tribute to B&I / Sealink / Irish Ferries which brought the Irish over though.

A Tempestuous Kenneth Branagh, portraying Isambard Kingdom Brunel, is looking very pleased with himself, although no one is sure if he is acting.

The five Olympic rings have been forged by the workers. Its a proud moment, but is there nothing these counterfeiters wont tackle?

The Olympic rings are coming together. That hardly ever happens! As they merge above our heads, fireworks explode downwards making them seem like rocket thrusters beneath a UFOOOOO. Any of us could be beamed up and experimented on. As it is, we have all been sucked into an engaging spectacle tonight.

James Bond strides purposefully down the corridors of Buckingham Palace, past the chubby dogs to meet the corgi-registered Queen. He is introduced but she doesn't react as her hearing is knackered from listening to the National Anthem too loud, so he has to cough to get her attention We all suspect it's an actress, but no, it's the actual bona fide Queen for Bond to have a crack at.

They board a helicopter and take the scenic route to the Olympic Park, showcasing our wonderful tourist landmarks. An animated black Churchill statue (we don’t do white Winstons any more) waves at us. Oh yesssss!

The helicopter door opens, as do our mouths, when the queen parachutes out of the plane in perhaps the most surreal moment of her monarchy. It is as exhilarating as jumping from a plane, commando. Wham bam thank you maam.

They arrive at the Olympic Park and are seated safely. The Queen is looking peachy and the Duke of Edinburgh is in the pink too, first time in years he has had any.

The Kaos Signing Choir for Deaf And Hearing Children (all bases covered then!) get to sign the national anthem. There truly is something for everyone - even the paedos get to enjoy kids in jimjams.

'Second To The Right And Straight On Till Morning' is the next section, named after the directions Peter gave to Wendy to find Neverland. This part of the show honours children's literature and the NHS. They overlap well as the author JM Barrie gave the royalties from 'Peter Pan' to the NHS. Could be a big mistake promoting our free health service to a world that already comes from all over to bleed us dry.

Mike Oldfield's 'Tubular Bells' comes on. Excitement reaches near orgasmic levels when I contemplate the possibility that Danny Boyle has somehow persuaded the Queen to honour 'The Exorcist' by getting on the bed and screaming “Your mother sucks cocks in hell”. But no, she shook her head to that one.

The hyperactive kids are jumping around on their beds like a scene from 'Annie'. Lights go out as they are subsequently sent to sleep, but you know how kids like dicking around instead of sleeping.

It's the perfect time for JK Rowling to read a passage from Peter Pan. Literary wrong 'uns appear in the form of the Child Catcher (modelled on Noel Fielding), Cruela De Vil, Queen of Hearts and Voldemort, who is on the end of a fierce shit-kicking from a miasma of Mary Poppinses who have swooped down from the roof like harpies.

Sir Simon Rattle charms the London Symphony Choir through 'Chariots Of Fire'. For many this is the cue to make a cuppa, but the audience are quickly fired up by a classic and genius revelation – a deadpan Mr. Bean who has somehow got the job of maintaining the monotonous synth beat. Key moment! There's a few seconds of disbelief before it registers with the crowd and rapture crackles around the Olympic Park like a Mexican wave.

Rowan Atkinson's deadpannery in front of the keyboard is simplistic and synthlistic brilliance. Playing the one note repeatedly quickly bores him into a daydream where he is running down the beach with a group of fitter types, in the opening scene from 'Chariots of Fire'. He quickly runs out of puff and disappears from shot only to re-emerge being chauffeured down the beach in a classic British automobile, rejoining the group at the head of the pack just before the winning line. There's still time for him to rub his rival's face in the sand as he trips him and strips him of a deserved victory. He awakes from his daydream to a glare from Rattle and finishes with a final flourish to plaudits.

'Frankie and June Say...Thanks Tim!' showcases our rich musical, televisual and film history. It starts optimistically with the infamous footage of Michael Fish telling us not to worry as there isn't a hurricane on the way. It turns out to be a metaphor as this section of the show fails to blow me away.

We get 'Pretty Vacant' from Sex Pistols rather than 'God Save The Queen' and her fascist regime. You can just imagine the sourpuss turning to Phil and saying “Thank God they aren't playing that awful one about me”.

Dizzee Rascal gets to “reprazent” (shittest word ever) his manor with 'Bonkers'. I spent the entire song holding onto my mum's leg, crying. Some people think I'm bonkers, but I just think I'm three.

The face of God is revealed in a major coup for London 2012. The Tim in the title of this segment is Sir Tim Berners-Lee, the Godlike genius who invented the world wide web. His hub is a house with iconic images being been projected onto and it rises to reveal him sitting in front of a blank screen. Everyone knows when you walk in on someone with a blank screen, they have been watching porn. What a tangled web he weaves.

He uses his NeXT computer, which became the world's first web server, to type “THIS IS FOR EVERYONE”, the words he used in 1995 about the web. It flashes up around the stadium, doubling up as an inspirational message about the games.

Berners-Lee has an impressive CV. He doesn’t need to bother with fancy fonts or formatting or the Saturday job he had in McDonald's (Paid advertisement). A simple “I invented the fucking web!” under his name gets him any job he likes.

We see a smooth-looking David Beckham whizzing down the Thames in a speedboat with the Olympic torch. There is no sign of the omnipresent Sue Barker atop Tower Bridge with her rocket launcher. Probably busy with the day job.

'Abide With Me' is woefully sung by Emeli Sande. Her breathing is erratic and she sounds like a deaf person at times. It accompanies a puzzling embarrassingly-bad expressive dance display that adds nothing to the occasion. It is easily the worst part of the ceremony and so dreary that NBC decide to cut it entirely from their delayed coverage.

The 10000 athletes from the 204 nations who are competing in 302 events in 26 sports then launch their parade. We could do with a faster pace-setter as it's a 90-minute plod. It's not helped by the fact that half the competitors are more interested in recording extra footage for their personal archive.

Luckily, Arctic Monkeys follow the snoozefest with a couple of songs, 'I Bet You Look Good On The Dancefloor' and a cover of 'Come Together'. It's a relief that the Queen can finally declare the 30^th Olympiad open cos she wants to get home to bed. That parachute dive has taken it right out of her.

Mohammed Ali makes an appearance, a ghost of his former self. The poor man looks dead and gets carried around by a beefy carer in a scene not too dissimilar to 'Weekend At Bernie's'.

Becks passes the Olympic Flame from the boat over to Sir Steve Redgrave, who transports it into the park and onto the next generation - seven up-and-coming athletes sponsored by seven great British heroes. 'Caliban's Dream' by Underworld provides a soothing and uplifting soundtrack for the transition.

The bright prospects light 204 petals around the Olympic cauldron, one for each country competing. They merge majestically at the top, bringing each country together for a warm embrace, or possibly even some hot love. It has echoes of Wicker Man but our ending is more serene and satisfying as our natives aren't blazing mad. Couldn't remember the name of that film, had to look it up on Wickerpedia.

London has reason to feel triumphant and optimistic. Almost a year to the day that feral youths were running around the capital setting fire to people's livelihoods, the disorder has been superseded by hope of the highest order as the kids with illuminating futures ignite the passion in all of us.

Truly, a generation is inspired.

Who Wants To Live Forever?

My grandad once said to me “Don’t grow old. It's a pain in the arse.” That advice has stuck in my head and I've practised the “live fast, die young” mentality accordingly ever since (although admittedly I have only successfully fulfilled half of that at the time of writing).

The thought of being surrounded by other dribbling old folks staring vacantly into space just does not appeal to me. However I do quite like the idea of moving doolally residents' bookmarks back a couple of chapters every day. Hopefully I will have an evil beneficiary to finish me off with a pillow when I get decrepit anyway.

It is estimated that 1 in 6 of us will live to be a centenarian. Woody Allen once said, “we can all live to be a hundred if we give up the things that make us want to live to be a hundred”. While I have my quoting boots on, Dennis Wolfberg quipped that “There's one advantage to being 102. There's no peer pressure.” (What do you do when one of your friends tells you not to give into peer pressure though?). We might look back on that quote when we are all in our hundreds and laugh one day. He won't though as he died at less than half that age.

Medicine is advanced enough that we can do what we want when we are young and take a pill to correct many of the problems when we are older. My dad has a pillbox that would make Charlie Sheen envious. Quite often oldies have their medication categorised into a massive 7 x 4 compartmental pillbox - breakfast, lunch, dinner, bedtime pills. It is good fun moving the laxative 'morning' pill alongside the 'bedtime' sleeping pill. Not such good fun clearing that up though as they are not natural bedfellows.

The UK population will be galloping up towards an overstretched 100 million in 50 years. Who knows how many millions will be in need of a care home then? The numbers may be alarmist but perhaps they don't take into account that many are not financially prepared for a lengthy old age. Stress caused by poverty, combined with a poorer and cheaper diet will account for many. A massive war or killer epidemic would certainly be a boon in thinning numbers, creating more Zimmer parking spaces.

Many care homes will be privately funded but the government will have to chip in heavily too. People will be taxed more and have less money stashed under their soiled mattress for their old age. There is no doubt that the retirement age will gradually increase and be in the 70s by the time many of us are allowed to retire. This means many more of us will die while we are still at work. Anything to make the day more interesting.

It is estimated the world's first person to live until 150 is already alive, although chances are they are probably not English. Considering that only one person has ever lived to 120, that's quite a progression but we do potentially have 149 years and 364 days to find out.

We are relatively early in the technological age, and advancement in stem cell therapy, genetic engineering, advanced bionics, nanotechnology and rejuvenation therapy will mean the boundaries of human existence could be pushed well beyond 150 years, just hopefully not heads in a jar like in Futurama. Old folk's homes are gonna be chocka. How will we cope? Bunk beds don’t seem feasible and there are only so many angry Nigerian nurses to go around.

Life expectancies of well into the hundreds may be pretty commonplace by the second half of the century. When so many are living so long, it is going to be expensive retiring half way through your life. Slow and steady wins the race but is the prize of a tortoise-like age worth having? I'm going to stick my neck out and say no.

It's going to be a pretty depressing existence to live-slow-die-old especially if surrounded by other like-minded grumpy individuals who haven't budgeted for their longevity. Assisted killing will be legal by then so people will be able to purchase 'speedy boarding' to check in with their maker. Euthanasia is not a continent I have visited but I'm sure Saga would do great deals there.

It would be a radical move but a cap on living until 100 could be very beneficial to a country's finances. Using a cricketing analogy it would be a bit like reaching your maiden century, waving your bat to the pavilion and being bowled next ball. I'm not sure of the best way to put old people down but I probably wouldn't put Jeremy Clarkson in charge. Can't have them being executed in front of their families.

So how will life be when we are old and knackered? We currently have a cosy impression of pensioners - carpet slippers, dressing gowns, crocheted blankets over their laps in a rocking chair. But many of those images are bound to die out way before we will. I wonder whether the comfy slacks and cardigan of today will be replaced by hoodie and jeans hanging off the arse? Aptly enough, the latter is a style which they stole from old people.

Internet rooms aren't particularly heaving hubs of action in OAP homes. Perhaps in the future when our hearing is gone we will be chatting online to the person in the next chair. That's assuming our eyes aren’t shot and the RSI from 90 years of texting and typing hasn’t crippled our fingers.

The telegram for century-makers from the Queen may well have stopped before she reaches her landmark. It's doubtful she would send herself a birthday card though. She has been known to send herself Valentine's cards, but Prince Philip isn't the jealous type anyway.

The Centenarian Clerk at Buckingham Place may develop printing cramp as more and more people reach their centenary. A little known fact is once 105 is reached, an extra telegram is sent every birthday, although less than ten percent of centenerarians reach 105. It will be interesting to see when and if they change the congratulatory telegram to an e-card, Facebook message or Tweet. A telegram for today’s youngsters is a very outdated sentiment. STOP.

I used to work for an alternative telecoms company and when customers hadn’t used the service for a few months they would be sent a marketing letter saying “We miss you and we want you back!”. Funnily, from the point of view of this anecdote (not so much from the point of view of his wife), this letter inevitably went to an old fella who had died. His hysterical wife rang up, wanting to know how we could be so heartless in our Lazarushian invitation.

The oldest living person is 115 years old now although it is common for the record to swap around a couple of times a year as they keep dying off. It seems no one wants the title. Emma Tillman in 2007 held the title of oldest living person for just 4 days before the pressure finally got to her. Perhaps she partied a bit too hard in celebration.

In Ireland, centenarians not only receive a letter from the president but €2540 'Centenarian Bounty'. Perhaps the government hedges their bets when people are edging into their late nineties and nip down to Paddy Power to get some crappy odds on the nonagenarian ticking over into a centenarian.

The generosity of the Irish government probably won't last too much longer as the country already gives money away like a paedo does sweeties. Ireland currently pays over thrice what is paid to the unemployed in England. When the Icelandic volcanic eruption in 2010 disrupted air travel, benefit claimants nosedived as the out-of-towners were unable to get back into Ireland to bleed it dry. This served as a huge wake-up call to the country but everyone had already fecked off cos the country was already on it's arse.

Alec Holden is a man who deserves a mention with regard to a longevity bet. In 1997, when he was 90 years old he was offered odds of 250-1 by dopey bookmakers William Hill that he would reach 100. He claimed £25000 in 2007 and probably the job of the odds compiler who massively miscalculated the odds. The true odds would have been closer to 5/1. An unbelievably perky Mr. Holden was quoted as saying, "I've been very careful about what I've been doing in recent months. If I saw any hooded groups from William Hill standing in the street, I avoided them." and even claimed that the Queen delivered his telegram personally on a bicycle. I am surprised his heart survived the journey home with 25k stuffed into his pants.

According to the Department for Work and Pensions, I have a 13.6% chance of reaching 100, whilst someone born today would be twice as likely to blow out 100 candles (or die trying). As a natural born worrier I am sure I will not make it. I know the stress of reaching 92 and knowing that my odds of waking up the next day are the same as my odds of not waking up will certainly cause me not to wake up sooner rather than later. So I am quite happy to disappear anonymously in the night sometime. Or a blaze of glory if the opportunity arises. Whatever.