Griff Rhys Jones has turned 70 and revealed his anti-bucket list. Or as it’s also known, the f*** it list. Namely, the things you’re told you should do before you die — bungee jumping, hot air ballooning, white water rafting — but instead of which you would rather set fire to your own bottom. Also on the list are things you would joyfully never do again because they are so boring and/or unpleasant.
His list includes climbing volcanoes, firework displays, karaoke and three-day weddings. Good man. Couldn’t agree more. However, as an actor he might disagree with one item high on my f*** it list. Namely refusing to go and see any film that lasts more than two and a half hours and does not have a chase, preferably by car or a decent series of explosions.
So no Oppenheimer or Killers of the Flower Moon for me (three hours 26 minutes?). I’ll wait for them to be on demand where my attention span can be augmented by a comfy chair, a supply of SB, dark chocolate, and a ‘pause’ button.
The same applies to long, dull novels. I used to force myself to finish them because someone clever had told me I should. Sometimes I’d fib that I had (“Yes, yes — I liked the, er, middle bit best”). But no more. Life’s too short. Farewell Demon Copperhead by Barbara Kingsolver — you may have made it to the top of the Unity book of the year list but its off to the Sallies you go, along with other unneeded assorted Christmas gifts — socks or tie anyone?
What else? There’s the obvious skydiving, wing walking, parachuting nonsense. Never done it, never will. I won’t risk a smashed skeleton for a three-minute “thrill”. I’ll never again ride a rollercoaster. Or go camping. But bring on the Maui Hilton, please. Swimming with dolphins? Conquering my fear of sharks in a ‘controlled’ cage dive. Been there, done that, never again!.
Oh yes, and apart from the obvious impedimenta, no desire to Tinder. More than one person has told me with a comically serious face: “You haven’t lived until you’ve tried Tinder.” Hmm. A friend of a similar age, determined not to capitulate into a solo life as she surrenders to the nearest retirement resort (or as my wicked brother calls them “the undertaker’s holding paddock”), describes the excruciatingness of it all. Result: no Tinder and for that matter no Twitface — especially since Elon Musk ruined it, it’s barely worth glancing at now — and Facebook is so yesterday grandpa.
Oh, and those dreadful neighbourly apps. Often curated by the most unlovable busy-body in the hood. Jeez, I’ve had enough of the whingers on that. It never stops. Bad youths, dog poo, horse shit, spilt rubbish bin collections.
I’ll no longer delude myself that I’m going to do naked yoga floor exercises or give up bread, spuds, or beer. I’ll never have a tattoo. I’ll never drink shots because they are utterly disgusting, but neither will I kid myself that I’ll one day (willingly) give up alcohol.
Especially now a TikToker has calculated how many drinks it would take to gain 1lb of fat. Apparently it’s 15 pints of Steinlager or 26 medium glasses of wine or 36 flutes of champagne. What a gratifyingly large amount! Who knew that drinking was practically like going on a diet? And just before Christmas too. You’re welcome.
Adapted from Carol Midgley Wednesday November 29 2023, 12.01am GMT, The Times