On growing old gracefully — and disgracefully

Now that I’m about to turn 70, I’m wondering: shall I grow old gracefully, or disgracefully? Everyone I know, young and old, tells me that I must go disgracefully (and that’s how they plan to go, or so they say). It seems that growing old gracefully has gone out of style — especially for women — but maybe it’s time for a revival?

What’s the difference between the two? Growing older gracefully is about letting go of the pleasures of youth — sex, drugs, rock ’n’ roll or whatever vice you prefer — for the more restrained and dignified delights of maturity. You dress, act and talk in an age-appropriate way. No trainers. No jeans. No attempts at appearing young.

And no fun either, or so the school of growing old disgracefully would claim. They believe in rebelling against received ideas of how an older person should look and act. It’s all about not acting your age. After a life of doing right and responsible things, you can now let your hair down — if you have any left. Passion takes over from propriety; you embrace your inner eccentric, you act on impulse, you surrender to the iron fist of whim — and family and friends be damned!

On Amazon you will find dozens of titles on the joys and art of growing old disgracefully. They range from funny loo books to serious self-help guides. Typical is the book by Rohan Candappa that promises to show you “How to upset and perplex your children with increasingly erratic and unreasonable behavior.” I’ve yet to find a book that will show me how to act my age.

It would be a gross exaggeration to suggest that we’re becoming a nation of disgraceful grannies and feral granddads. But I’ve seen and met their kind — those microdosing octogenarians who love nude swimming, flamboyant clothes and colorful hair. And they never miss going to Glastonbury.

But it’s not a book but the poem “Warning” by Jenny Joseph that is the life mission statement of all who wish to grow old disgracefully. It begins: “When I am an old woman I shall wear purple/ With a red hat which doesn’t go, and doesn’t suit me./ And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves.” “Warning,” which was once voted Britain’s favorite poem, goes on to celebrate a series of delinquent joys.

The movement even has its own patron saint in the designer Vivienne Westwood, who died aged 81 in December 2022. With her bright orange hair, corpse-white make-up and high, laced boots, she would strut along the catwalks of the world without a care in the world. When receiving her OBE from the Queen in 1992, she turned up wearing no knickers.

While women have Westwood to look up to, we men who want to grow old disgracefully have Rolling Stone guitarist Keith Richards. He is not just the elder statesman of rock music, but of being elderly. There’s a generation of white, professional, middle- and upper-class men who all their lives longed to be like “Keef.” Now in their late seventies and eighties, they still wanna be like Keef. Their logic is simple: if 80-year old Richards can keep rocking, why can’t I?

But for me Richards is not a good advert for growing old disgracefully. Although he’s 80 he looks 90. He’s meant to be an icon of cool but what about that silly bandanna he wears on his head? The excess of mascara around the eyes? Whether Richards is growing old disgracefully or not, people still want to believe in the myth of Keef the eternal bad boy who is indestructible.

But when it comes to rock stars, the case for growing old gracefully is best put by Keith’s bandmate, the late Charlie Watts. With his Savile Row suits, good manners and quiet demeanor, he always looked stylish and sharp. He (more than Richards) is — at least for me — a true icon of cool.

I also look to J. Alfred Prufrock as a role model. Fans of T.S. Eliot will know him from the poem “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock,” which was written when Eliot was 22. Prufrock is a symbol of the indecision, daily disappointment and domestic angst that comes with growing old.

Eliot with his mocking tone and casual dismissal of this lonely and inconsequential man is very unfair to the Prufrocks of life. Prufrock faces the futility of existence with great dignity. Unlike Richards he is aware of his own foolishness and will admit to his limitations — “I’m not Prince Hamlet — nor was meant to be.” While Keith and his kind continue to walk on the wild side, Prufrock walks on the beach, hearing the “mermaids singing each to each.” I’d much rather measure out my life with coffee spoons than coke spoons like aging rockers the world over.

Yes, everyone must deal with growing old in their own way. But when I see a grey-haired pensioner in tight jeans, with long hair, and a T-shirt that says “Old Guys Still Rock!”, I can’t help but wince because I was once that man. Now I think it’s time to go gracefully into that good night.

This article was originally published in The Spectator’s UK magazine. Subscribe to the World edition here.