At every age, I have planned my next life-stage by looking at men a few years older than me and trying not to become like them. (Women tend to respond differently to life, so I’ve found them less useful as negative role models.) In my twenties I listened to men in their thirties bang on about mortgages and the difficulty of finding good builders in London. In my thirties I watched male mediocrities conclude they were God because Buggins had retired and they had been given a position of power — or at least a newspaper column.
Now I see disgruntled sixty- and seventy-something former senior employees whine about a world that no longer has any need for them. This phenomenon dates back to King Lear, but is fast reaching crisis point, given the ever-rising number of retirees, supplemented by the millions more who quit during the pandemic. As I steam towards superannuation, I’m making plans to handle it better.
Many of today’s superannuated men derived their identity from their job status. Once they lose that, there is nothing left for them except to become a danger to their environment.