Look at Pete Townshend.

He is going deaf as a result of the conditions under which he has worked for the last 40 years. Through that time the Who guitarist has made some music and a lot of noise. Now his hearing is fading fast but he will only exit the recording studio kicking and screaming.

"I have terrible hearing trouble, " he said last week.

"I have unwittingly helped to invent and refine a type of music that makes its principal proponents deaf."

Now, he may have to quit talkin' 'bout his generation, but he refuses to accept he may have to, like those whose generation he was talkin' 'bout 40 years ago, acquire the retirement slippers.

At least he has been spared the posthumous blushes of his late band mate John Entwhistle.

Johnny expired while in congress with a groupie who was around a third of his age. She later related how he had taken out his hearing aid before lowering himself into bed with her. It ain't rock 'n' roll, but you can't help liking it.

Just as Pete is raging against the dying light to continue with the on-field element of rock 'n' roll, so Johnny baby was still looking to the night for his kicks in the extra curricular department. That's the trouble with those who have known the peaks.

They can't let go. They always want to make it real one more time again.

Boxers are notorious for it. More often than not the fabled comeback in that game is driven by the hope of one more payday. Too many pugilists found that outside the ring somebody was always running rings around them when it came to snaffling the bobs. As a result, life and limb is often put on the line in the foothills of middle age to squeeze the last of the cash from the game.

For others though, the pull remains the roar of yesterday's crowd, the hopeless pursuit of former glories, the fear of what awaits on the other side of retirement.

Wherefore Roy Keane?

Today he makes his debut in the Scottish Premier League, playing among mortals who would have collapsed in a tizzy trying to tie his boot laces when he was king. His injuries over the years have been such that his body is a specimen for modern science. He is reconciled to the prospect of having his hips replaced in middle age.

Yet he rages on against the dying light, a highly skilled tradesman. Age is the only leveller that has reduced him to the company of hod carriers.

Today also sees Mary O'Rourke attempt to shoo away the dreaded day. She goes forward for Fianna Fail's selection convention in Athlone this evening to seek a nomination for the next general election. At the age of 68, she is being described as "battling for her political future". This at a vintage when a lot of people are battling for any kind of future at all, preferably doing nothing too taxing and all the things they missed out on while earning a crust.

During her time in politics, O'Rourke has known high office, serving in a number of portfolios.

She is also credited by some women as beating a path for their sex in the upper reaches of public life.

She will not revisit those peaks of office or popularity no matter what happens. If she does make it all the way back to the Dail, her chances of a return to the cabinet are slim. She is younger than her years, yet her eagerness to relive the dysfunctional existence of a TD must be a source of both admiration and sympathy.

Then we have the Rolling Stones. These boys really don't know when they're bet, by age or grandchildren, and fate has now intervened to tip its hat their way.

The on-field audience which will attend their performance at the Superbowl next month will, by decree, all be under 45 years of age. The upper age limit has been installed to ensure that those in attendance are energetic enough to get with the music. The TV companies don't want to project the image of old fogies doing their damnedest to be young again. As with others of their wrinkly ilk, driven to keep on keepin' on, the Stones themselves are exempt from such mortal concerns.