IT’S the hypocrisy I hate. We’ve all done crazy shit for kicks in late middle-age. But suddenly it’s only me who fakes being an admiral on Remembrance Sunday.
Okay, a couple of my medals clashed. I didn’t have the ‘right shirt collar’, whatever that is. Dude. I was absolutely off my box on honouring our fallen. So I wasn’t on top of every little detail.
And yet everyone’s ‘Who is this fake Navy officer?’ as if they’ve never slipped into a flight commander’s uniform and joined a parade, red-faced, pupils massive, bolt-bloody-hard.
What harm did it do? ‘Oh no, those who made the ultimate sacrifice in two world wars have been inappropriately paid tribute!’ Like they’d care. I laid that wreath like a f**king boss, I promise you. Not one person in attendance criticised my wreath-laying. It was bang on.
Also, it’s not like I rocked up at the Whitehall Cenotaph and faked being a sea lord with the big boys. It was Llandudno. Most of that crowd was genuinely thrilled by my presence until pedantic bastards ruined it for them.
I don’t judge others. When I see a guy I know for a fact never made it past the Territorials dolled up as an air commodore at an air show, I let him have his fun. When Dave lets slip he was in the SAS down the pub, I keep schtum.
While I’m doing this I’m not doing the truly offensive shit men of a certain age get into, like commenting on models’ Instagrams or huffing xenophobia at hotel protests. The uniform goes back in the wardrobe and nobody gets hurt.
The admiral’s blown. But look for me in a town near you with a chestful of medals next November 11th. I’ll be the veteran on the mobility scooter.