My wife follows this Geordie (originally Byker) lady who posts hilarious stuff on her facebook page every week.
She showed me this one from New Years Eve and I just had to share it with you with apologies for some of the language......I am only the messenger!!

As we roll into 2026 don’t forget to pat yourself on the back. It’s another year we’ve survived. Another year to get on the bosoms of non boomers.
We were the generation who survived PE wearing just our vest and knickers. At least one of the girls would get twatted on the head with a medicine ball every lesson, targeted by the class rogue, in our case Jimmy Fawcett. Jimmy was sure of eye and aim, he’d be off shimmying up a rope while his victim would be told off for staggering on the mat, instead of vaulting over the horse. It’s strange he was never scouted by Newcastle United for his ball skills.
We stood in a line and had our hen hole searched for nits with more vigour shown by Nitty Nora than any modern day airport security. While you were being frisked twenty kids behind you desperately attempted to clean beneath their fingernails. It didn’t matter. Thirty of you would be accused of growing tatties either behind your ears, under your collar, or germinating early’s under those fingernails. Stern letters were sent home. Out came the Derbac and the newspapers, spread on the table for a Dickie hunt. The ones that dropped from your head were swiftly cracked by your mam’s fingernail. Between your mam and Jimmy Fawcett you quickly learnt to keep your head no matter what happened around you.
If you got into bother at school, you’d never go home crying. Because you’d get a good hiding, or chased with the coal shovel by a mam in a pinny. While your mam yelled “come here you bugger I’ll give you something to cry about!”, the dog would nip out, jump the wall, and hide in the cemetery. Best friend my arse.
We were the generation who knew if someone said they’d do something they would. You’d never have to chase them up, ringing six times, speak to five different people and get eight different messages. A stern handwritten note from your mam could bring the toughest bin man to his knees. He never left the lid off the bin again.
We spent a lot of time waiting. For buses. Payday. The postman. Bigger boobs. The pools results. Sunday to hurry by. To know if it was a boy or girl. To get the key of the door at 21. For the fire to be lit. For the radio to warm up. To get a packet of crisps - if you sat long enough on the pub wall. For the contraceptive pill to be invented. Along with tights.
We didn’t worry about the threat of nuclear war. We had to contend with nylon burns on your Nancy from friction. Chilblains. Or chip fat spitting at your arms. Or being dosed with cod liver oil. Or inhaling too much Aqua Net from your sister back tatting her hair. And the threat of polystyrene ceiling tiles on the kitchen ceiling.
Oddness was accepted, not encouraged. There was no mental health. You were either normal, or not. A broad spectrum. The menopause never happened. Men never sank into deep depression when they were paid off on a Friday with no notice. The government had short arms and long pockets. The welfare state was harder to crack than our heads pelted by a medicine ball.
Which is why we are now classed as the privileged generation. It explains our eye rolls at lax emotional shows. Why we can’t understand why A&E has become the equivalent of the household first aid tin. Why we are reluctant to give up a too big home that we love for Beluga and Barry and their eight kids to move into. We may be called Boomers, but we quietly get on with life, leaving fussing to others. Although we do wish Jimmy Fawcett would come back and bounce his balls off of a lot of heads to knock some sense into them.
Happy 2026 x