Bloody hell, I've reached the grand old age of 65. Happy Birthday to me! Until recently*, hitting that milestone used to mean retirement after 50 years of hard graft and probably death within a fortnight! Sixty-five meant you were an old-aged pensioner, put out into the long grass to concentrate on your hobbies and contemplate the approaching end. It meant an awkward little soirée with your work-mates and a speech from the boss, two cans of Watney's, a gold clock and a bouquet for the missus. Until I was eighteen I worked at the Gardner Diesel factory in Eccles, where there were retirement parties like those in the offices and on the shop floor on a regular basis. I used them to 'practice' press photography, honing my skills until the day I could quit my shitty job and start working full-time on a newspaper. Here are pictures from two such events, the lucky new pensioners gripping hands with their gaffers and staring their demise in the face. How I feel for the chap that received an electric razor ..
*If I were still working, I would now face another two years at the coal-face before my time was 'up'. The retirement age was raised to 67, which makes me feel all the better (smug alert) for retiring a full ten years early. Anyone for frisbee?
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