LEADERS - not followers

Wednesday, February 20, 2008

Never admit your age

Rescheduled for MPTR 02.03.09
A Pack of Cigs,
A Pack of Lies,
A Barrel of Fun

Was it the same, when you were young?
You had to be the correct age
To do the things you wanted to do
Didn’t it just fill you with rage?

Like going to the match, you’d think
You just turn up, support your team
But even simple things in life
Are not as easy as they seem

Queuing up to get in the ground
The click of the turnstiles beckon
You only want to see the game
Not as simple as you reckon

At seventeen, with baby face
I only want to pay half fare
So I queue up with the juniors
It was cheating, but who’s to care?

A pack of cigs in my pocket
Inside the gate, police are perched
I thought I knew what I should say
When it was my turn to be searched

“What’s all this then? How old are you?”
The copper asked me, to my face
“I’m just sixteen,” I lied to him
“I’ve a dilemma, in that case

Do you want to lose the ciggies?
Or go next door and pay full price?”
He had me, bang to rights, of course
“I’m only fourteen” I rolled the dice

He tossed the packet on a pile
It must have been a metre high
Hundreds of other ‘kids’ caught out
Not the only one then, was I?

Going home, we all took the bus
An inspector got on to check
All the passengers had tickets
I was sitting on the top deck

Armed with a double agenda
He took my ticket in his hand
And asked me, “Son, how old are you?”
“Fifteen,” I lied; he took a stand

He said “So when’s your birthday, son?”
I told him “May the fifteenth, sir”
At least I’d given him the right date
But he wanted to know “What year?”

By now, everyone was staring
But I just looked him in the eye
And with a grin, told him the truth
“It’s every year, until I die”

The sad inspector didn’t smile
He just continued with his job
And said; no hint of irony
“Show me the proof, or shut your gob”

When we were young, we only wished
We could be older, more clever
But the fun we had pretending
Will live in our minds forever

Now we’re older, wiser, closer
To drawing our old age pension
We wish we weren’t ‘a certain age’
That number we never mention


  1. Hi Stan, I remember those days, going to the match to see the blues - and every jib in the book. The best one was the 'pie man' jib. This fellow used to turn up at away matches dressed in a white overall with a tray of Hollands pies, he'd knock at the exit gate and tell the coppers that he'd brought the pies from Wigan. They always let him in. The same bloke perfected the 'stewards' jib in the 80's, but that's another story.

  2. Hi sweet talking guy. I'm sure there were jibbers (and even more jibs) long before football, but I guess the 'modern' jib is a by-product of some of the crazy things that happen at the match.
    I'll see what else the theme of jibs inspires - loads of laughs, at least.

  3. oh yes. in the words of the troubadour: I was so much older then, I'm younger than that now.

    Me, I'm just waiting to get younger so I can pick those nasty habits up again. (These days I lie about my age so I can squeak in on senior fares.)

    nice piece.

  4. Well I'm still 21 - and 396 months.

  5. nicely told!
    im going to be 29 next may, and i'm proud of it!

  6. Thanks to:
    Richard Wells; It's often a way to get things done cheaper.
    Anthony North; I bet you wish there were more than just 12 months in a year.
    Littlekhargosh; Almost at the age when time speeds up dramatically.