The Murrell Collection

Beware the male mid-life crisis

I have been following the Peter Murrell story with great interest because it has highlighted one of the great mysteries of modern British life: Why do older men suddenly feel the need to go on a shopping spree?

Not useful or beautiful things. Expensive weird things.

According to reports, Murrell bought a £110,000 motorhome which he then parked outside his mother Margaret’s house. She’s 92 and probably not in a position to argue. In his own head it made sense: “We definitely need this, then we can go on weekends away like we are in the Australian outback or American pioneers.” Never been away for weekends before obviously, because his wife Nicola was too busy as first minister, but now things will be different he thought.

Lots of people say she must’ve known about this, but I don’t think she did. Peter still hadn’t plucked up the courage to tell her he had bought this little luxury, and unfortunately for him the police turned up two years later to tell her before he got around to it. Ooops.

Now before the men start getting defensive, I know women buy nonsense too. Decorative twigs. Cushions that say “LIVE LAUGH LOVE”. Lamps apparently made from driftwood. We are not innocent. But older men have a very particular spending pathology.

At some point after 55, many become absolutely convinced they require specialist equipment despite living completely ordinary lives. Suddenly they need a drone. A smoker. An industrial coffee machine the size of a Mini Cooper. A £4,000 bicycle despite mainly cycling to Waitrose. Or a gigantic barbecue capable of catering for a minor royal wedding.

Then there’s the seating. No woman has ever walked into a house and thought, “What this room needs is a black leather reclining chair with cup holders resembling the command centre of an Apache helicopter.” Men, however, are hypnotised by these things.

Likewise, televisions. Women generally think, “That seems large enough.” Men don’t think that. They look for the one that is the size of Belgium and are working out how to mount it onto a chimney breast.

And sheds. A shed is apparently never just a shed. It’s “a workshop”, despite containing mainly tangled extension leads, blunt drill bits and paint tins dating back to the Blair administration. Meanwhile women are standing in the kitchen thinking, “He still hasn’t sorted that dripping bathroom tap.”

I think it’s because men of a certain age still want to feel slightly adventurous and capable. So instead of buying a motorbike and running off with a yoga instructor called Saskia, they buy a big scary hedge trimmer or an outdoor pizza oven. As long as it’s not at Murrell levels of spending, I say let him.

If he wants to spend three weeks researching the optimum pellet temperature for cooking a slightly burnt pepperoni pizza at least you know where he is.