Old Age

People tell me, as I drag myself screaming hysterically towards the end of my thirties, that 40 is the new 30. The people who tell me this are invariably over 40, whilst the people just turning 30 laugh directly into my face at the very thought of this. Now, I’ve got friends in the approximate age range of 20-55 and this doesn’t seem like a problem. I’ve got more younger friends than older ones because a lot of people, as they get to 40 and beyond, suddenly turn into the most tedious forms of life imaginable - having lengthy conversations about the latest Toyota warranty or the benefits of the A12 over the B1844. I went to a “party” a short while ago that was infested with these types. Half of the evening was spent discussing the different types of sofa on offer at the local retail park (probably best to use the A162 because that way you manage to bypass the lights at Lower Shittingdon and… blah blah blah) and the rest of the evening was spent hiding out in the bathroom looking for a suitably sharp object with which to slice my own face off.

How do you end up like these people? Is it built in at birth? Are some people pre-destined to evolve into middle class zombies? Is there a Tedium gene (other than Simmons - Ha!)? Is there a cure?

Worse still, is it going to happen to me? I’ve spent a good proportion of my life in what could most ridiculously be described as a quasi-bohemian stupor. Strange jobs, weird people, parties, music, depravity and generally high levels of grinning ignorance. I don’t consider this to be a waste. I think I’ve done pretty well so far. No major organs have packed up yet. I still have all my limbs. I’m surrounded by nice toys and people I love. I don’t have an intimate knowledge of local traffic patterns. I couldn’t care less about guttering or the local Rotary. I rarely think about those horrible sensible things that so many people seem to obsess about on a daily basis - y’know, mortgages, insurance renewal dates, bills, gentle crime drama’s starring ageing actors who used to be good but now phone their performances in via bored but wealthy agents.

I have had to think a little bit more about looking after myself since parts of me started to creak in damp weather but this is a small price to pay for all the countless floors I’ve passed out on over the years. I have a reasonable working knowledge of mortgages and tax but only to the extent that I know I have a decent deal and I don’t stare at Halifax adverts with a pen and notepad feverishly working out if I could save 12p a month by switching to them.

But I still enjoy gaming, music, drinks down the pub with mates, parties, violent films, filth, boobies, new technologies and all the other wonders our world outside the dull magnolia living room of everyday life has to offer. I still buy songs with swearing in them. I know about most modern genre’s of music - even if I think half of them are tedious wank-fests by show-off producers shoving their various mental disorders in your face. Listening to these is like being chased around a shopping mall by a demented goat whilst beating yourself about the head with a fruit salad. It quickly gets repetitive and you wonder why you’re still doing it since the goat is the only one having any fun. If you see what I mean…

I’m sure I’ll have to look after myself a bit more and slow down a little at some point. Maybe cut back a bit on the vodka and late nights. Maybe eat less sausages. Maybe… But if I ever start talking to you about B roads, traffic calming measures, David Jason’s wonderful new detective series or the fabulously low rates on offer at the Bank of Capitalist Bastardry then you have my permission to punch me in the face. Really hard.

Signs that you’re getting old include:

Walking into a room, forgetting why you’re there and then forgetting how to get back out of the room again

Tutting whenever you hear anything about Chris Moyles or Lady Gaga

Not understanding the latest clothing fad and then telling people at length about not understanding it

Repeating yourself

Repeating yourself (sorry)

Apologising for bumping into inanimate objects

Finding 18 year old girls deeply annoying

Breaking wind and not laughing

Producing enough bodily hair to embarrass a reasonably large yak

On the plus side:

You stop thinking about sex all the time

You begin to appreciate expensive marmalade

You’re much less likely to go out and pull and therefore less likely to get caught shagging by your partner

You’re no longer expected to listen to Radio 1

You can join a wine club without being faintly embarrassed

You’ll soon be dead