A nightmare for the most part.

Byline: By Bob Cuffe

Last week I referred to the Country Is Going To The Dogs Crew: men of a certain age who do nothing but moan.

They would regard themselves as middle aged. I think middle aged is 35-plus, and old emerges from 55.

If you work in a library you can turn old at 30. I'm middle, middle aged. In everything I do. One sign is that you're ignored. You won't get served in a pub, and you won't get asked your views in a survey.

The Clipboard Fascists haven't spoken to me for years. They ask the young, the old, and women of all ages, but not middle aged men. I can only presume they're asking questions about middle aged men, but don't want us to know.

In my son's eyes, I am achingly old. A few weeks ago, he and his mates were teenaging in the garage. They found an antique ( which caused a great deal of hilarity.

It was the tennis racket I used to own. When I was around their age. When dinosaurs roamed the Earth. The wooden racket. Made of wood. Gasp.

You'd think they'd found the Turin Shroud. Their general view was that I "must be older than I look" (and I know how I look), and "life must have been awful back then".

I'm just pleased they missed the Penny Farthing.

The Hell In A Handcart Crew are 55-plus, and hate everything and everyone. They all shout at their televisions. Which only has rubbish on it, anyway. Wouldn't surprise me if they shout at their newspapers. Which only have rubbish in them anyway. You're nodding here, aren't you?

Last week I was, as usual, offering a taxi service to my eldest, and his teenage dirt bag mates. They're all 15. And all seriously unimpressed by life in general. So far, it's nothing to text home about.

They had been to see King Kong. I asked: "How was it then?" The Four Grunters of The Apocalypse shrugged. That's responsive to them. I asked again: "Good then?" One Grunter grunted. I inquired: "Sorry, walk that past me again." He then launched into a sentence, which for a Grunter is a conversation. "There were no monkeys for an hour." The rest nodded, then returned to their I Pod Solitary Confinement.

I think Chief Grunter could be a film critic.

The teenage choice would be a 17-minute extract from the film, taking all the dialogue out, leaving only the violence.

Character introductions and plot development are an unnecessary irrelevance, unless there's a cleavage shot. King Kong Lite ( only the action shots left in. Speed cinema. Most films taken down to 15 minutes or less.

This all seems to ask questions about the male of the species. They seem to have two ages of misery and despair ( the Grunting Years (13 to 21), followed by the Shouting Years (We're all Going To Hell In A Handcart ( circa 55-plus).

In between these periods we seem to be to a degree, happier. Childhood is full of adventure. Small children smile, laugh and enjoy. This is followed by the Teenage Slump. Happiness emerges, in the shape of what psychologists refer to as Percius Filthius. Playing the field. Having a nibble. Dipping your rod in the stream.

Marriage brings an inevitable closure to the joy, with life for many years resembling a debt-ridden coma. You then become a Hell In a Handcarter. Life has passed you by. You didn't get what you deserved. They all want stringing up.

This is when people become councillors. So you can meet like-minded individuals and get paid for wreaking your revenge.

Finally, you get old. Where you're likely to get cheery again.

The best ages of man seem to be childhood and old age. The rest seem to be a nightmare. Do you agree?

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