A SCIENTIST claims he can live to 150 by following a strict regime of exercise combined with drugs, supplements and regular health checks, while shunning marriage, children and material assets.

Dr Alex Zhavoronkov probably doesn’t get invited to many parties. However, the anti-ageing expert, who pops up to 100 pills a day in his endeavour to reach a century and a half, has missed a vital point.

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And that is the law of averages. The longer you live, the more likely you will be run over by a bus or beat your brains out by standing on an abandoned garden rake.

A friend’s dad was once chopping wood with an axe and never noticed the washing line in his strike path. He ended up in hospital with a huge gash in his head. He survived, but he was extremely lucky.

The point I’m trying to make is that nothing in life is guaranteed. Dr Alex, could reach 149 and three quarters, having never had carnal knowledge of another human, trip over the dog and be launched through the patio doors into the path of an oncoming vehicle. Life’s like that.

I can understand why he’s doing it. He’s a scientist and someone’s got to do the research. Despite all those adverts offering to pay hard-up human guinea pigs to take part in medical experiments, I can’t imagine many volunteering to forego a relationship, kids and material assets for the good of mankind.

But how much fun would it really be at 150? All loose-living friends and relatives – the drinkers, the burger beasts and couch potatoes – would have shuffled off this mortal coil. You’d be left with great great great great grandchildren for company. No-one would remember The Beatles. IT would have become so advanced that you wouldn’t know whether the weary old life you’re living is yours or in some parallel universe.

And having chosen to live a clean life in pursuit of longevity, you couldn’t even have a drink to help you through those long and lonely days and nights when no-one comes to visit.

I’ve often thought it cruel that certain factions of society regard anyone over 65 as past their best. But if people lived to 150, pensioners wouldn’t even be considered middle aged. They’d be teenagers by another name – tweenagers. Vegan, mineral-water swigging sectagenarians possessing a lethal combination of experience and attitude. Live to 150? - someone just kill me now!