Old crocks

  Greg Norman’s latest offering (and there have been a few) of his ‘buffed’ bod to the adoring masses is symptomatic of an increasing number of punters in their sixties who seem to think that they still have it in the looks’ stakes. Delusion and denial are becoming the defining processes of seniors who are desperately hanging onto the fantasy that their physical presence adorns and enhances any social gathering or event. You only have to view super, sexy, sixty plus social media walls to realise that narcissism and self-promotion of the ‘visage’ are the order of the day as we encounter each of these critter’s online journeys towards a Top of the Pops podium finish in the handsome/ beautiful seniors’ category. But there’s a slight technical problem. Denial and delusion can only take you so far. If you can stand it, these new images of the athletic Greg reveal exactly what he is……. a sixty three year old man. There are folds and crevices in his ‘formidable’ frame that

  I don’t mind water but I don’t do water. It’s been years since I had a swim anywhere and I can’t see that status changing before the coil is sprung. However when I was a kiddo, the role of water was a little bit different. The Regan ranch was located in Abbotsford and that was a suburb which was bordered by water on three sides; to the west was Hen and Chicken Bay, the north featured the Parramatta River while the east (give or take a few blocks) collided with Fig Tree Bay which then morphed into Five Dock Bay as you snaked around Chiswick. It wasn’t so much the water that was important but more the shoreline. In the ten years when I was growing up between 1960 and 1970, the bay and river borders were the sites for much of the stuff that sprogs engage in before growing hair in ungodly places. Those two year markers correspond to yours truly motoring from five to fifteen years of age. A disclosure here is necessary. I have a fucked memory of most things that have happ