Here’s the thing about being 67: words keep changing gear without indicating first, and I’m the bloke stuck behind them in a Nissan Micra doing 28 in a 30.“Dope,” for example. Once upon a sensible time, “dope” meant two things: the stuff you smoked, or the person you avoided letting touch your lawnmower. Now it apparently means clever, brilliant, exquisitely impressive — the linguistic equivalent of fitting a V12 into a mobility scooter and calling it “tasteful.”
I didn’t get a memo. One minute “dope” is Cheech and Chong in a fog so thick you could butter it. Next minute it’s a software engineer in a hoodie going, “Your SQL query is dope,” and I’m thinking, “So… it gives you the munchies and forgets your birthday?”
Speaking of Cheech and Chong, does anyone under forty know who they are? Seventies icons. Spent entire films giggling in cars the colour of compost while the Bonzo Dog Doo-Dah Band made noises like a trumpet trying to escape a wardrobe.
We called people “dude” back then as a sort of exotic garnish. Now “dude” has migrated, bred, and moved into British kitchens, where it calls everyone “bro” and leaves the milk out. I’ve met vicars who say “dude.” Vicars!
And the baseball caps. When did we decide that the most efficient way to wear one was backwards, like a security camera pointed at the wallpaper? The brim is a sunshade, not a neck bib — turn it round, you look like a man who lost an argument with a toddler.
Yes, I’m irritable. In fact, irritation is my cardio. I step count in harrumphs.
If you’re imagining Victor Meldrew with Wi-Fi, you’re not far off. I’m the younger version of him and the older version of Jeremy Clarkson, fused together like two grumpy Labradors at the vet. I speak what used to be the Queen’s English, which is now the King’s English, which apparently means we don’t change the grammar, only the stamps, and pretend everything else is absolutely fine.
And no, I’m not doing the whole “let people enjoy things” routine. Enjoy things by all means — that is literally the point of being human. But don’t look me in the eye, call my new kettle “dope,” and expect me not to wonder if I must now hide it from the police.
Language evolves, they say. Yes, so do potholes. We don’t clap those either.
When I said “wicked” as a kid, adults flinched like I’d kicked the Queen’s corgi. Now “wicked” means excellent, “sick” means terrific, and “bad” was good until it went back to being bad again sometime around the invention of oat milk. I’ve had less confusing relationships with IKEA wardrobes.
And it’s not just slang. Coffee used to be coffee. Now it’s an itinerary. I asked for a normal one the other day and the barista looked at me like I’d ordered a cigarette and a duel.
Meanwhile, trousers have declared independence. We’ve got jeans that look like they’re storing a family of raccoons, and shorts with pockets so deep you could lose a weekend in them. If I want to wear something with that many belts and toggles, I’ll go rock climbing, not to Tesco.
Music? Once, a man screamed into a microphone, smashed a guitar, and someone shouted “art.” Now a laptop burps in binary and the kids nod solemnly like they’re at a memorial for melody.
Even technology has started gaslighting me. My phone updates itself overnight and, by breakfast, the volume button is a feelings wheel and every app has moved to a witness protection program. I try to take a photo; it takes a panorama, a live memory, and a mortgage application.
But here’s the bit that keeps me cheerful: I like being annoyed. It’s a hobby. It’s cheaper than golf and requires fewer hats.
Because every new daft thing confirms the central truth: each generation invents a language to make the previous lot feel like they’ve walked into the wrong house. We did it too. We just did it while facing forward in our caps, like respectable idiots.
Do I hate “dope” meaning “clever”? Not really. I just resent being forced to run a translation service in my own head at 6 a.m. before the kettle is properly awake.
I know what you’ll say: “Adapt or die.” Very Clarkson, that. But I’ve reached an age where I refuse to adapt to anything that can’t beat a kettle in a fair fight.
So go ahead, call your shoes dope, your mate dude, your salad “sick.” Call your playlist a “vibe,” your meeting a “sync,” and your nap “self-care.” I’ll be over here, speaking recognisable English and wearing my hat like a man who understands the geometry of the sun.
And if a teenager points at my car and says “dope,” I’ll smile politely and reply, “Thank you, I’ve tried to keep it away from drugs and idiots.” He’ll think I’m joking. I won’t be.
Long may it continue. Because irritation is the engine of good column-writing, and at 67 I’ve got enough fuel to overtake a convoy. Just don’t call the column “fire,” unless it’s actually on fire.
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