Age-old story with a 21st Century twist

Sub-editors. Yes? Well, I suppose many of you have never heard of them. You can't be blamed for that.

After all, your only contact with the public face of a paper will usually be the advertisement rep or reporter - the worker bee hunter-gatherers in our inky world. And very important they are, too.

However, back at the hive are the flightless grubs that go to work on the raw material and turn it into the daily miracle. These are the subs. Oh yes... taking care of business are these veritable backroom boys and girls whose job can be no less arduous.

They are kept hidden from view, just as insane relatives were once stabled in dingy parlours to keep them out of the lunatic asylum.

(This is true. There was one such person incarcerated in my home village, at the back of the off-licence. As children, we were terrified of the grunts and rustling sounds that would sometimes be heard as we agonised over whether to buy a quarter of pear drops or a packet of Spangles).

But back to sub-editors. I will enlighten you. Heads down, hands tensed over computer keyboards, these are the Jacks and Jills who make it possible for you, dear reader, to enjoy that daily perusal of the news columns.

They write headlines, correct copy, grammar, keep a watch on tenses and cut stories to fit whatever slot the story has been allocated on a page.

That's the briefest outline of their tasks, though. They should also have a matchless general knowledge and a mind that would make a sewer rat retch...

And with one or two notable exceptions, there is a single factor that marks them out as being different from reporters. It's age. Sub-editors are a decade or two older than the youngest reporter.

Usually, the two species co-exist in a state of mutual co-operation, rather like those remora fish that swim under the jaws of killer sharks. The remoras clean the teeth of the big fish, who, in gratitude for services rendered, desist from eating their unorthodox orthodontists.

Nevertheless, there is occasionally much thrashing of fins in the usually calm waters of the Straits of Berrow. Take this example.

"Worthington. Come over here, boy!"

That's not his real name. And no one would call him boy, either. Not nowadays, at least... although that's how it was when I was a youngster. But you get the idea - crusty old sub booming down the office for a young whipper-snapper to jump to it and heed his superior's command.

"Worthington, what's the meaning of this, young feller-me-lad? This intro of yours talking about 'new life being breathed back into the over-50s'?"

Cue assembled subs to emit old-git noises and start mock-hobbling around. Worthington is released back into the reporting shoal after we have played with him for a while. Good, we smirk. That's shown the Worthingtons of this world that there's still life in the old dogs.

A few days later, another story arrives in a sub-editor's basket. This time it's about something or other promising certain benefits that are available for... yes, you've guessed... those who are no longer 49.

Thank you very much. It's so kind of you to consider the aged. And yes, I agree - only an absolute square would deny that Saga Radio spins some cracking pop platters, pulsating with jive rhythms that make you want to stand up in the living room and do an impromptu turkey-trot or hand-jive.

However, a word in your shell-like. I ain't dead. Yet...

More and more, we are becoming an age-obsessed society. To some extent, the entertainment industry has always been geared to the young.

But now the cult of youth is spreading beyond its traditional borders.

The media, is of course, the worst offender. While downmarket tabloid newspapers serve up slabs of flesh on a daily basis, much of the "quality" Press does the same, using more subtle means.

Don't believe me? Next time there's a saucy case involving a pop singer or starlet, check out the amount of space given to it by the posh broadsheets. You'll find there are many more column inches devoted to the subject than that allotted in the red tops.

Youth is now everywhere, smiling down from countless magazines on the newsagents' shelves, all blonde hair, bright eyes and a smile that can only be safely viewed with the aid of sunglasses.

Vacuous and brain-dead nobodies become stars overnight, thanks to fly-on-the-wall programmes screened by TV companies that once had principles.

Young women, all puppy fat, Cheshire cat grins and sebaceous gland overload become better known than Saddam Hussein.

None of them has anything to say. They have no view of the world, no core belief or discernible skill. If brains were dynamite there wouldn't be enough to blow off their baseball caps.

Ignorance is the new badge of street cool. Walk down Worcester's riverbank by the technical college on any weekday. Around lunch hour, you'll soon see a fine collection of prime examples who shouldn't be let loose in a farmyard, never mind a place of learning.

There is no doubt in my mind that Britain's parents have produced the most stupid generation within living history. It's as if there has been a complete genetic breakdown.

I blame junk food and tight underpants.

The awful thing is that the situation's becoming worse as far as mindless youngsters are concerned. And there's little hope. For they're here. Somewhere near you. And about to take over the world.

I wouldn't mind so much, but the cult of youth is now lauded across the land as the new religion. Tragically, on the perimeter of this adulation lurk those exhibitionists of who one cannot even say should know better - appalling ex-Government Ministers and TV celebs who think that a chronic inability to keep their corsets fastened is of major interest.

Yes, everybody's doing it. Quick, get in the act before those wrinkles become the writing on the wall. Where once the public celebrated achievement, people now wallow in the trivia of notoriety.

Just as the Roman crowds developed a tolerance for the increasing depravity of the arena, so we require an ever-greater dose of dumbing down.

Happily, there are a few societies across the world where maturity is actually valued, where older people are revered for what they have learnt from life, rather than being regarded as nuisances.

Here in Britain, we worship the transient, bright star of youth as it burns all so briefly. And when the glow has faded, it is time to move to the next one.

And all this is sanctioned by governments as Prime Ministers invite inarticulate pop stars to creepy receptions at No 10 and Chancellors of the Exchequer squeeze the old age pension further into oblivion.

Not to worry. We sub-editors are still enjoying our place in the sun. Yes, there may be one or two of us over the age of 50, but in the time that remains to us, we will impart knowledge of life's mysteries to the young shavers coming up through the ranks.

It is our dragonfly summer. One day in late autumn, our wings will stop beating, and we will go the way of all things.

Now, let's take another look at this story by young feller-me-lad. Hmmm - what's all this talk of wrinkly rockers?

"Worthington - come here and explain yourself, boy!"