The earth shifted slightly on its axis yesterday, and not just because Donald J. Trump reached the biblical-yet-barbed milestone of 80 years on this mortal coil. No, the tremors were felt most acutely across the damp, polite sceptre-isle of Britain, where the news has reignited a debate so drearily British it could only be about work. Specifically, the right of octogenarians to continue shuffling about the office, clutching a lukewarm mug of tea and a sense of entitlement to the tea trolley that has been mothballed since 1987.
Trump, a man who has made a career out of treating reality like a minor inconvenience, now finds himself in a demographic that Britain is currently weaponizing against its own elderly. The government, in its infinite wisdom and paucity of compassion, has been eyeing the state pension age like a hungry dog at a butcher’s window. They want to raise it, of course. They want us all to work until our knees give out, our minds wander to fond memories of Spangles, and our primary conversation becomes a monologue about the price of tinned beans.
Enter Trump, stage right, hair aflame with the orange glow of a thousand setting suns. He is 80. He is still running for president, or at least running for the nearest golf cart. He is a living testament to the proposition that age is just a number, provided that number is emblazoned on a gold-plated toilet seat. And Britain looks upon him with a mixture of horror and envy. Envy, because he has the audacity to be old and loud. Horror, because it suggests that any one of us could be forced to continue this farcical pantomime of productivity until our final, breathless PowerPoint presentation.
The British workforce, already exhausted by a century of drizzly commutes and passive-aggressive Post-it notes, is now being told: look at Trump. If he can do it, so can you. But there's a catch, you see. Trump doesn't actually work. He tweets. He plays golf. He calls people names. His 'work' is a fever dream of grievance and self-promotion. Britain, however, expects its octogenarians to stack shelves, process benefits claims, and engage in joyful banter about the weather with customers who would rather be dead. There is a disconnect.
Let us not forget that Britain has a peculiar relationship with its elders. We put them on pedestals and then poke them with sticks until they fall off. We celebrate their wisdom while quietly moving them to remote bungalows with poorly installed handrails. We want them to contribute, but not too much. And certainly not in a way that threatens the fragile hierarchy of the office kitchen roster.
So the debate rages on, fuelled by the image of a leathery, spray-tanned demagogue who has managed to turn the simple act of not dying into a political statement. Should those over 80 be forced to toil in the salt mines of customer service? Or should they be allowed to retire to a life of gentle gardening, occasional outrage, and the consumption of meal deals at reduced hours? The answer, as with all things British, will be a compromise nobody likes.
We shall likely see a policy that allows octogenarians to work, but only on days that end in 'Y', and only if they bring their own biscuits. And Trump, meanwhile, will continue to be Trump: a glittering, grotesque monument to the fact that growing old doesn't necessarily mean growing up. Or growing wise. Or growing anything except your waistline and your capacity for delusion.
So raise a glass of room-temperature gin to the octogenarian debate. It is the most British of arguments: civil, interminable, and utterly pointless. Just like the man who started it all.
