Rod Stewart has announced that there is nothing left on his bucket list. At the age of 80 he is content with what he has achieved in life. “There’s no bucket list,” he said in an interview. “I’ve done it all.”

Well isn’t that nice, and a great relief that he won’t soon be strutting his leopard-skin leggings on Strictly, getting his scrotum tattooed (yes, I’m afraid it’s possible) or leaping into the sea to swim with bored dolphins and a coachload of fat tourists.

Why do swimming with dolphins and bungee jumping always feature so prominently on bucket lists anyway? People say they want an adrenaline buzz yet they never try swimming with crocodiles, do they?

Stewart added that “all men should have a hobby”, Celtic FC and his 1,500 sq ft model railway being two of his. He has been known to book an extra hotel room while on tour to accommodate his miniature trains. I’m sure his wife, Penny Lancaster, approves. I mean, better that he is fiddling with this type of model on tour than one with 34EE breasts.

But though I applaud Stewart for kicking his bucket list into the long grass, I would hate him to miss out life’s other big pleasure. Namely drawing up one’s “f*** it” list.

This is the anti-bucket list, an inventory of things that you will never do because they are so tedious or unpleasant. You know the sort of thing: attend a massive fireworks display, sky-dive, go on a themed cruise, wing-walk on a plane, play the slots in Las Vegas, ride on a stupid, terrifying rollercoaster that bruises your coccyx and makes you barf in your own face.

I don’t want to be presumptuous but I have a hunch Stewart would join me in vowing never to have a genital piercing. To this it is a hard “no”, regardless of what anyone tells me about added eroticism and “sexual self-expression”. Lord knows, it’s bad enough when you have to take off your belt at airport security. Imagine having to lower your travel slacks in the queue and remove your fanny bling.

I will never again agree to stay in a cheap hostel. This is non-negotiable. I am far too old to paddle through a backpacker’s stray pubic hairs or listen to two young Australians at it in a top bunk. I would rather forgo a holiday altogether and stay at home with the dog.

Never again will I enter a wave pool, partly because it’s a pleasure-free experience but mostly because it makes you swallow a pint of child urine along with your friend Marjorie’s verruca plaster.

As previously stated, I am tired of overly long novels that feel like homework and definitely overly long films at the cinema. (If you can’t give us your film’s message in less than two and a half hours you need to meet a decent newspaper sub.) I am also “over” tasting menus, which drag on interminably then at the end you’re still starving and need to buy some chips on the way home.

I won’t participate in next Monday’s National No Bra Day, which I feel guilty about because it’s for breast cancer awareness but then again I can’t see how me and thousands of other women tripping over our own clackers will make a difference to anything. I’m not doing Sober October. I will never do a throuple. I just know I’d be stuck sleeping in the centre, like the terrible middle seat on a plane.

And I am definitely over following the daft vagaries of fashion, especially one trend said to be coming back next spring — hideous “bumster” trousers. One of the nice things about ageing is being able to say that you will never again go nightclubbing or countenance wearing pants slung so low they show 50 per cent of your bottom cleft, your builder’s bum, your “Dagenham smile”. I’m confident that Stewart too will add these trousers to his f*** it list. I mean, imagine the ghastly sight if he wore them when filling his potholes.

When I’m 90 I might become a silver snorter

What to make of news that Britain’s over-75s are a bunch of cocaine fiends, chopping up lines with their senior railcards and turning into Skids (spending the kids’ inheritance on drugs)?

Data shows that the number of “silver snorters” who have landed in hospital after shovelling nose candy up their hooters has risen by a third in two years. Some 723 sought medical help in the year to March 2025, 28 of them in their eighties and, drum roll, eight aged over 90.

• The video-gaming grandmas who prefer Call of Duty to crosswords

Look, I know it isn’t big or clever and that it’s a trade in human misery and improperly used orifices, but I can’t help thinking, over 90? Respect. It sure beats relaxing with a mashed-up boiled egg and a copy of Woman’s Realm.

The numbers are still relatively low but they have been rising steadily over a decade and we kid ourselves to think it won’t keep doing so. People around 80 came of age in the swinging Sixties and for some, now with much disposable income and time to kill, a sing-song and a suck on a Werther’s Original won’t quite cut it.

I’m not being blithe about middle-class cocaine use and certainly not the hilariously delusional term “woke coke”, which the chattering classes tell themselves is “ethically sourced”. Yes, because we all know that drug dealers never tell fibs. If they say it didn’t arrive in a teenage mule’s colon, to doubt it would be rude.

Aldous Huxley asked for LSD on his deathbed and I don’t blame him. If I were a nonagenarian in a care home with only a Müller Fruit Corner as a treat I might think “sod it” too. And it’s one highly efficient way to solve your inheritance tax problem.