WHAT are we all going to do when we're old? I'm not talking about pensions. After last week I think it is pretty obvious to anyone with two brain cells to rub together that we are all going to have to keep working until the tyres on our wheelchairs completely lose their tread.

But what about the fleeting hours of free time we will have when we're not slaving away in the poor house polishing coal or knitting Ford Mondeos or whatever else the Government will have to come up with to keep the ageing workforce busy until we get our telegrams from the Queen?

When we finally emerge from the windowless factories and mines, squinting like grey-haired old moles after a 12-hour stint (including two 15-minute Murray Mint breaks and a half hour at midday for us all to wander round looking for our glasses), where on earth will we go to socialise?

I read an article the other day about how there were never enough men to go round at tea dances. Apparently there are about a dozen geriatric Gingers to every Fred, and the poor unfortunate chaps who actually do make it through the door are being set upon by baying packs of old ladies desperate for a dance.

They've barely got their car coats off before being rushed by a heavily perfumed mass in floral frocks who are not above violence if it means getting to grips with a man during a mambo. Some of these old dears have been dancing cheek-to-cheek with their neighbour Enid - a woman whose teeth rattle unpleasantly when she waltzes - for the best part of a decade, so it's no wonder they're desperate for male company.

There will of course always be the odd ageing lothario taking advantage of the situation, snuggling up to any bit of tweed skirt who happens to be twirling by. But they are easily spotted; just keep your eyes peeled for an old boy in a cravat with a silk hankie in his pocket and a moustache ripe for twiddling.

Such thoughts on the goings-on in the mysterious world of afternoon tea dances soon got me wondering what on earth pensioners will be doing to pass the time when I'm old enough to qualify for a bus pass and a matching pair of artificial hips (buy one, get one free).

People of my generation wouldn't know what to do with themselves at a tea dance. For one thing, none of us can dance. Yes, we can shuffle round our handbags or wiggle various bits of our anatomy vaguely in time with the beat, but we can't do all that twirly, whirly two-step stuff.

We'll have to indulge in afternoon tea raves instead. Old Boy Slim will belt out the beats on the decks while the rest of the acid house generation toots breathlessly on whistles and knocks back illicit tabs of cod liver oil.

Bingo will also have to go, replaced by Housey, Housey: Play Fast Or Die, Sucker, the new Playstation interactive, multi-player game, which pits grandma against grandma in a fearsome battle for bingo supremacy.

Sounds dreadful, doesn't it? Thank goodness we'll all be too exhausted from a hard day down the mint imperial mine to actually leave the house.

HANDS up who wants to smell like Cliff Richard? Come on, admit it; you've always dreamed of bottling Saint Cliff and rubbing him liberally all over your body whenever you get the urge.

Well, now you can, thanks to the ageing pop preacher's new Miss You Nights perfume range. Apparently it is a heady mix of desperation with underlying scents of money and old rope topped off with the faint whiff of sanctimonious windbaggery.

I, for one, can't wait until his Bachelor Boy collection comes out next year (honestly, I'm not making this up). I don't know about you but I've always wanted to smell like week-old pizza, smelly socks and crispy copies of Loaded.

Updated: 09:34 Monday, October 18, 2004