The Last Ditch by Tom Paine

My daughter was right about my doom scrolling. It’s unhealthy in more ways than one. There are terrible things in the world, but only so much I can do.

I try to make an argument here – mostly singing to the choir, I suspect. I write to my MP (a full-on Marxist, racist and general bad egg). Her minions reply politely, but she’s never come close to accepting any of my points. Why should she? Her economic contribution could never have offered the prosperity she now enjoys. Her only income ever not gouged by state force was as a part-time DJ when she was a student.

I sign the occasional petition. I make the occasional donation. I’ve been known to take part in the odd demonstration. None of it makes a difference. Our elected officials sometimes worry about what we think. However, the apparatchiks who exercise the real power do not need to care.

Yet my life is blessed, even in its degraded state in old age. A recent IQ test produced the same score as when I was a teenager. My mind still works and I take some delight in using it.

So many books have delighted me, for example, that I don’t really need to buy new ones. I could spend every waking second of my remaining days re-reading them. I probably should. Life experience usually allows us to enjoy great books even more. Our enjoyment deepens compared to when those books were the only experience we had.

I was well-brought up by kind, loving parents. I never had a moment’s fear of hunger, discomfort or abuse. If I am privileged, it’s because of those two people who, even when they didn’t understand my aspirations, supported me. I am lucky enough still to spend time with one of them.

I had many career opportunities. I took a few of them. I had an interesting and challenging life. I saw the world. I garnered very high-quality friends. I was taxed to near-slavery throughout my life. I estimate that the state took three-quarters of my lifetime earnings. However, the part of the rest I didn’t spend keeps me comfortably in old age.

Most importantly, I have known love. Many never do. Better still, none of my loves (at least on my part) ever soured into hatred. I had the friendliest divorce in history and still love the woman who asked for it.

Speaking of love, I have wonderful children. They are healthy. They’re accomplished enough to satisfy the pride of a Jewish mother – let alone an undemanding gentile like me. I now have the most beautiful and sweet-natured granddaughter you could imagine. The greatest joy in my life is her smile when she sees me.

So, at the risk of driving my audience away by singing show tunes when they were expecting heavy metal, perhaps it’s time to focus on the positive occasionally? Here goes.

I hate the BBC. To the long-ago disappointment of my grandfather, an angler, I have no interest in fishing. I never enjoyed the comedy shows that made them famous. Until they started their current series, I was never a fan of either of them. Yet Mortimer & Whitehouse: gone fishing is an absolute joy.

The late Mrs P. used to love the old Top Gear. She had no interest in cars. She found none of the three presenters attractive. She was no fan of Jeremy Clarkson. When I asked her why she liked it she memorably said;

It’s rare these days to see men just enjoying being men. It’s fun to see.

I suppose this is something similar. The chemistry between the two stars is silly and charming. On their website they say;

They fish to help each other get over treatment for nearly fatal heart problems: three stents for Whitehouse and a  triple bypass for Mortimer.

Paul is the teacher and the river guide, Bob organises their accommodation and heart-healthy cooking for each episode.

I know nothing about fishing and care less. Like making whisky, it requires a healthy natural environment and clean water. So, just like when I visit distilleries in Scotland, the scenery reminds me what a beautiful country I live in.

Nothing of significance happens. Whitehouse’s attempts to pass on his lifelong love of angling to the hapless Mortimer are subverted by the latter’s mischievous humour. Mortimer’s bumbling efforts to cook healthy food on camp stoves are relentlessly mocked by Whitehouse.

In amongst banter so gentle as to be almost imperceptible, they talk about their lives.

Whilst fishing they meditate on life, friendship, and death.

They’re about my age. There is a pleasure in being, even vicariously, in their undemanding company. They mock each other as real friends can. They enjoy the simple pleasures of nature, companionship and a hobby.

Given that it’s on the BBC, there have been occasional attempts at lecturing. One show featured a doctor talking about male health. Mostly, however, it’s just two friends in a filthy Audi (Mortimer is no car enthusiast) driving to beauty spots for a chat.

Mortimer observed in an episode I recently watched that Whitehouse doesn’t like people who try to tell him anything. Maybe that’s what helps the show avoid the usual BBC tone of an infants’ school teacher talking down to particularly stupid toddlers?

If you’re feeling a bit glum, give it a try.