My beloved Paul McCartney was on the British Music Awards last night, getting a Lifetime Achievement Award and then playing a few songs. He was wearing tight black pant, a mod little jacket and Beatle boots, he and his band rocked and screamed and crooned – “Hey Jude” of course, to end – and I thought, “My God, this man is nearly 66 years old!” He’s the age when people retire and settle into their LaZBoy chairs with the remote, join the shuffleboard team, buy the skirts and pants with the stretchy waistbands and the comfy shoes and let it all sag out. Not the Paul machine. There’s something absurd and fantastic about the fact that so many boomer music heroes – Eric Clapton, the Stones, the Who etc. -just keep on going. Paul’s voice was rough last night, but his hair was a lustrous brown and he jumped around looking pretty damn great. I’m proud of the way we are redefining middle and old age. I can see us all in groovy old folks communes, with state of the art sound and movie systems and hookahs built in to our Mag-wheeled, graffiti-splattered wheelchairs.

Rock on, Grandpa Paul.