Jonny McCambridge: Fifty years old and proving that this old dog can still learn new tricks

Well, that’s not completely true. I keep returning to the same idea – that, unless I endure to a remarkably advanced age (which given my rich diet seems a remote prospect), then I have lived for more years than I have left.

Now, I am not averse to tackling the difficult subjects, but even for me it is a bit dark to expect people to read thoughts on my (hopefully not imminent) demise during their Christmas holidays.

But now, at new year, it seems to be the suitable moment for reflection. With time off work, I determine that I will return to the theme of being 50.

Uh…here goes….um.

Ok. I start by looking in the mirror. Not glancing briefly as I do most mornings to ensure that my hair is not standing absurdly on edge or that there is something unfortunate attached to the end of my nose, but actually studying my features.

It is not a pretty sight. The flabby cheeks, sunken eyes and lined expression betray a face that has been well lived in. The hair and beard are moving beyond grey towards their eventual snowy white endpoint.

I turn away and become conscious of the pain that is always there. There is the stiffness in the neck, the buzz in the ears, the throb in the teeth.

Yesterday I completed a Parkrun. Jogging is not easy when carrying around a bowling ball stomach. I know I will never run as quickly as I once did. Today, my joints are screaming in protest at the exertion.

I now have a theme for the column – that I am not able to do things as well as I once did. I locate my laptop to sketch out some thoughts. However, I cannot locate my glasses, so I have to increase the type size to 18 point to read it. As I process the idea of not being able to run as fast as I used to, I have a vague idea that I might have written about this already, perhaps even quite recently? The truth is, I can’t quite remember.

I put the laptop aside because I have committed to cooking Christmas dinner. As ever, I have eschewed all offers of help. Nobody else is permitted to boil the ham or slice the turkey. It all has to be me. Those who wander into the kitchen asking if I need a hand are shooed out.

I have cooked Christmas dinner so many times that it should be routine, but the truth is that it seems harder. I come close to despair peeling an endless number of spuds and vegetables, unable to get on top of the task. At one dark moment I fear that it could all end with me found face down in a giant pile of potato skins.

My grand plans for a dessert table don’t go well. The pavlova, which I used to complete effortlessly, is a soggy disaster. My chocolate mousse would be more suited to holding bricks together in construction.

Dinner and dessert are served. I receive the compliments. I can still do it, but deep inside, I know not as well as I once did.

The days after are devoted to rest and video games with my son. I recently wrote about his new interest in football. So, I got him a soccer computer game for Christmas, one with real teams and players, rather than dragons and princesses.

I also revealed that he always wins in these games. It is the same here. An endless series of heavy football defeats and the resultant mocking and triumphalism from him.

But I don’t give up. To win just once, as the Saw Doctors once sang, that would be enough. I spend time learning the controls, committing myself to improvement. I find myself thinking about the best moment to press the pass button, when to shoot, when to dribble. After 50 years it does not all have to be deterioration, there are things I can improve.

Late on Sunday night, the moment arrives. As ever, he is playing as Liverpool and I am Man Utd. For once, I am not losing by six goals at halftime. The scores are level going into the final moments. I notice that my son, well used to casual victory and determined not to lose, is trying too hard and making uncharacteristic errors.

In the dying moments I shoot for goal. There is a deflection, a fumble by his keeper, a ricochet…and the ball trickles into his net. We both instinctively know there is no time left. I have finally won.

This is the moment to use my 50 years of wisdom and experience. I see my son is hurting. If living for half a century has taught me anything, it is when is the moment for grace and dignity, when to be magnanimous. Now is surely the time for silence.

‘GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOAAAAAAAAAAAAALLLLLLL!!!!!!!!!’ I roar manically as I leap from the sofa, faster than I’ve moved in years. I run around the little coffee table, kicking imaginary balls and chanting ‘WHO’S THE DADDY?’ over and over.

My son huffs and protests, demanding an immediate rematch. I am past caring as I’m now on the ground pulling dance moves which would make Raygun blush.

Alarmed by the commotion, my wife enters the room. She sees our son is annoyed, sees me writhing on the carpet.

‘What age are you?’ she demands sternly.

‘I’m 50!’ I declare proudly as I breathlessly rise. ‘I’m blooming well 50!’

Happy New Year to all.