The Six Dollar Man .

I grew up fully expecting to be rebuilt. Not fixed. Not patched up. Rebuilt. We were promised that, weren’t we? Properly promised too, not in some vague politician way where everything comes with a disclaimer and a budget cut attached. This was telly, comics, Saturday tea-time certainty. Blokes getting smashed to bits and coming back better than ever. Better, stronger, faster. The Six Million Dollar Man told us straight: “We have the technology.” Not “we might have it one day if funding allows”, but we have it. Already done. In the bag. Just waiting for one of us to fall off something expensive enough to qualify.

And I believed it. Course I did. I was a kid. Why wouldn’t I? You see a man with bionic legs running in slow motion, jumping over buildings like it’s nothing, and you think, that’ll be me one day. Knees go? No problem. They’ll whip them out, stick in a couple of titanium jobs, bit of wiring, job done. Back out the door before EastEnders. That was the deal we thought we’d signed up for.

Fast forward a few decades and here I am, and instead of a team of top scientists and a million-dollar operating theatre, I’ve got a bloke on TikTok called Darren trying to sell me a stretchy band. “Trust me mate, this one’s different.” Is it, Darren? Is it really? Because I’ve got a drawer full of “different”. You want cutting-edge technology? Come round my place. I’ll show you cutting-edge. Knee bands, wraps, sleeves, copper-infused miracles even when the label clearly says they’re 100% nylon, magnets that allegedly realign your soul let alone your joints. Every single one bought with that little flicker of hope that this might finally be the one.

They’re never the one of course. You put them on, walk about for ten minutes thinking, yeah… maybe… possibly… and then by the time the kettle’s boiled your knees are back to sounding like someone crunching gravel in a biscuit tin. But you still buy the next one. That’s the thing nobody admits. We take the piss out of it, call it a load of old bollocks, swear blind we’re not getting sucked in again, then next week there we are, card in hand, watching another video. “This revolutionary support…” Ah go on then. Stick it in the basket.

Because deep down, underneath all the sarcasm and the eye-rolling, there’s still that kid who believed the telly. The one who thought the future was sorted. The one who thought if anything went wrong, someone clever would fix it. Turns out “someone clever” is now a bloke filming in his kitchen next to an air fryer.

And I’m not even buying the cheap stuff anymore either. Oh no. I’ve levelled up. I’m into the “high-end” now. Proper gear. The stuff that looks like it might actually do something. Strap-on bionic legs from China. That’s where I’m at. And don’t laugh, because I know exactly what I’m doing. I know it’s probably a load of old fanny. I know it’s more likely designed for some bloke climbing a mountain than me trying to get to the shops without sounding like a skeleton wanking in a metal dustbin. But I still look at them and think… go on then… what if?

What if this is it? What if this is the moment Steve Austin finally turns up, taps me on the shoulder and says, “We’ve been a bit busy mate, but we’ve got there in the end.” Instead of which I’ll probably end up strapped into something that makes me walk like a budget robot, sweating, swearing and still not making it past the end of the road. But I’ll give it a go anyway. Because that’s what we do. We don’t completely give up on the idea, even when we know better.

Meanwhile, everything else has gone mad as well. Conversations for a start. There was a time, me and Alison, when it was all plans. Proper plans. Where we were going, what we were doing, how much trouble we could squeeze into a weekend before Monday came stomping back round again. Life felt like it stretched out forever then, like a motorway with no speed cameras on it.

Now we’re standing in the kitchen having a full-blown discussion about coleslaw. Not just any coleslaw either. Serious analysis. “Why’s it all creamy now?” “Where’s the old stuff gone?” “Used to be vinaigrette, didn’t it?” “Bit of bite to it back then.” This is what passes for excitement now. Two people approaching pension age standing around dissecting side dishes like we’re hosting a Channel 4 documentary.

And don’t even get me started on the cat. At some point, and God knows when it happened, I found myself genuinely wondering whether cats enjoy runner beans in their dinner. Runner beans. In cat food. I mean, how the fuck did that happen? Nobody ever sits you down when you’re young and says, “Right, just so you know, one day you’ll be emotionally invested in the vegetable preferences of a domestic animal.” It just creeps in quietly. Same as everything else.

Same as the knees. One minute you’re bombing about without a second thought, next minute you’re planning your route based on available benches and whether you remembered your stick. And all the while there’s that little voice in the back of your head muttering, this isn’t what we were promised. Not bitterly either. Just matter-of-fact. We were sold a future full of flying cars and bionic limbs. Instead we got meal deals, potholes and knee supports delivered by Amazon.

And do you know what though? It’s not even that bad really. That’s the twist in all this. Because yeah, the knees are shot. Yeah, most of the gadgets are nonsense. Yeah, I’m probably one impulse purchase away from strapping myself into something that looks like it escaped from a low-budget sci-fi film. But I’m still here. Still laughing at it all. Still taking the piss. Still standing in the kitchen with Alison debating coleslaw like it’s a matter of national importance. Still watching the cat stare suspiciously at a bit of runner bean like it’s personally insulted her family.

And somewhere underneath all the creaks and cracks and dodgy internet purchases there’s still that 18-year-old bouncing around in my head refusing to accept that this is it. He’s still there. Still thinks we’re going to sort it somehow. Still half expects someone to knock on the door one day and say, “Right, we’re ready for you now. New knees, bit of wiring, you’ll be good as new.”

I wouldn’t even question it. I’d just grab my coat.

Until then I’ll carry on doing what I’ve always done. Bit of trial and error. Bit of hope. Bit of “this one might be the one” even when I know full well it probably isn’t.

Because I might not be the Six Million Dollar Man…

…but I’m not done yet either.

Even if I am currently running on about six quid’s worth of elastic and blind optimism, I’m still here. I’m the Six Dollar Man, and that’ll do for now.