I was recently called a ‘gammon’. Unsure as to why I was being referred to as a porcine by-product, I consulted Google to discover my indiscretion. 

It turns out I was being labelled a ‘middle-aged man who supports Brexit and whose face turns the colour of gammon when irate’. Surprised by this slant cast on my character in an online footballing chat, I spent an hour observing my complexion in the bathroom mirror and, I must concede, my attacker may have a point: although my colour is caused not by Brexit, but by a distinct absence of physical exercise over the summer.

Since my recent pushbike accident I have taken to begrudgingly admiring people such as my online abuser. Not because they are right, but because they have lost their filter, although it is one thing to be a keyboard warrior and another to say such insults to another’s face. I have this theory that is often borne out that the older you get, and the less you have to lose, the more the ‘filter’ gets turned off.

One such example was my grandfather Bert. A lovely chap who could be best described as an ‘old school’ cockney. My memories of him include his wearing a ‘Never mind the’ Sex Pistols T shirt in his dotage, as he said it as he saw it.

Leaving me mortified, God bless him, was his stock in trade. On one occasion he chased a campaigner off his front door step with his commando dagger after she dared to ask him to sign a petition to stop construction of a nearby skate park. ‘Kids need somewhere to go, now F off’ was as succinct a reply as I have ever heard.

On the contrary to Granddad, we all, if employed, have lost our ability to say it as we see it to our bosses. There are times we would like to storm in, tell him or her to ‘see you next Tuesday’ before going Incredible Hulk on the filing cabinet and pot plant. We don’t, because we are generally restrained through ingrained society norms but more so, we are reliant on the income to save the house and cars being repossessed.

I used to have moments such as my Grandad, pre-responsibility. Living in London, I got a temp job for 4 weeks. The location was depressing, but there were some really nice people who worked there, again, many of them tied to the mortgage and other such shackles

My boss however was a nasty little man. Looking like David Bellamy and smelling like a marmoset, he would shout, bawl and demean and was universally despised by all.

Calling me out for the umpteenth time over a perceived minor indiscretion, I lost it and offered him outside for a spot of fisticuffs.

After being sacked on the spot, I launched into an expletive fuelled tirade before walking out as people I had never met gave me discreet pats on the back.

I went to the local inn and, at 5 o’clock, the whole staff body meandered in, gave me a round of applause and bought me drinks.

I was truly a king…until Monday morning.

The alarm rang, I realised I had nothing on and slept until midday before going to make a new claim at the benefits office.

After my bike accident, I have a little of that truth serum instilled in me.

It is the one thing I am looking forward to when I get old: Not caring what I say nor who I offend, safe in the knowledge that little or no action will be taken as I blame my outbursts on elderly illnesses. Filter free, I plan to shock and cause dismay in equal measure as I hold court and spout venom to my audience whilst tucking into a helping of boiled gammon for tea.