I may have been a
bit hasty when I
claimed that turning forty would make no difference to my
life.
Not entirely, I mean I haven't joined the circus, faked my own death or
gone to live on a boat. But when the big number actually flashed by I
did some introspecting – like any self-respecting middle-aged man
drinking cider alone in his garden on a Thursday afternoon might. It
occurred to me that the only wedding I have been invited to this year
is my friend's daughter, and the future will be filled with the next
generation's weddings (along with the usual slew of
second/third/fourth marriages) rather than watching my peers launch
into a new – probably ultimately doomed – life. Hello halfway
point. In Muppet terms, I'm Robin, singing that fucking terrible
song. I am a shit frog that leaves you wishing for Kermit, and
waiting for a punchline.
Happy
Birthday to me – I got everything I wanted
It's true that the
nature of the midlife crisis has completely changed over the years
(as
I have previously noted here) from trying to recapture your lost
youth with fast cars, loud guitars and replacing your wife with a
teenager – to trying to stop yourself dying by wrapping yourself up in
lycra, and holding up my fucking car (which almost certainly cost
less than your bike – and that includes all the music gear in the
boot) by riding three abreast on country roads every bastard Tuesday
night.
I'm sure the health
kick crisis is a better thing than the old-fashioned boozy,
drug-fuelled sex orgy crisis, but it doesn't look as much fun. I am
grateful to you all though, since there are a lot less terrible bands
full of old blokes who don't need the money undercutting the rest of
us than there once were, and you have not put me out of a gig by
running past my window sweating like an inappropriate simile, so
thanks for that.
I've also come to
the conclusion that one does not naturally become more right wing
with age. There's a chance that you get more right wing with income,
that makes more sense, but then I am personally wealthier than I have
ever been, and not one iota less of a leftie git. I guess you could
try and call me a champagne socialist, though I still can't afford
champagne, and I don't see that as an insult anyway. It sounds to me
like someone who wants to use their privilege to help those without
it, that's probably a good thing right? I'm pretty sure that whatever
views you already hold mostly get more entrenched with age, and your
ability to see the other side of the argument vanishes. I'll let you
know when my generation get to our seventies.
I don't have a
generation with a catchy name, those of us born in the late 70s/early
80s are called X/Y cuspers,
or sometimes 'Thatcher's Children' but that sounds creepy, and
depressing. We're not Generation X, all edgy and dark and gothy, and
we're not millenials, all hipstery and awkward. We're somewhere
between the two, which means I get to simultaneously own my own home
and know how to work an iPhone (spoiler: I don't have an iPhone, and
I
only own my own home through blind luck – also the bank own
more of it than I do). We got Edd the Duck, Thundercats and The
Raccoons, but get lumped in with the same muppets who go on about
Tiswas all the time, or the Spongebob loving simpletons. Maybe that makes
us a bit awkward, and unable to really enjoy the mainstream nostalgia
that the world is currently drowning in.
Seriously
– this was what we got
Transformers, School
Discos, The Crystal Maze experience and now they're making a
real-life Pat
Sharpe's Fun House. Did previous generations do the same? I
haven't caught my dad watching Muffin the Mule DVD boxsets, or
daydreaming over tripe fritters. Nobody ever opened a rationing
themed restaurant, or an air-raid shelter theme hotel either. So why
the fuck do we get all crazy over Spangles, and big Curly-Wurlys? Are
we a generation unable (or just unwilling) to escape childhood? Almost certainly. Apparently we
are willing to pay ridiculous amounts of money to watch mediocre
musical acts with one almost-original member left, or go round a
reconstruction of a TV game show from 25 years ago that was actually
pretty shit in the first place.
I'm halfway through,
if we're calling this mid-life, which I suppose we are. It turns out
that if you think about it, that can cut either way. On the one hand,
I'm running out of time, what of all the things I haven't done? We've
swapped old-fashioned buying stuff for buying experiences instead. So
instead of getting a massive dick-swinging car, you go on a more
expensive holiday, take a balloon trip, spend the weekend driving all
the cars, get photos, put it on your instagram and swing your dick
that way. It's still bullshit, and it costs even more. Somehow it
gets re-invented as a non-materialist lifestyle, with £30 coasters
proclaiming, 'Travel is the only thing you buy that makes you
richer,' and suchlike. I'm calling that out for bollocks, I can no
longer afford your coasters now I've shelled out for hotel rooms and
new car tyres for my upcoming holiday, you smug sunset-meming twats.
On the other hand, I
am only half way through and I'm bored already. From a purely
intellectual level I can completely understand why men of my age are
such high suicide risks. It's important to note how lucky I am
really. Just to be here, with no long term medical problems, not
having suffered any serious trauma, on top of my particular brand of
crazy at the moment, unlike so many of my peers – plenty of whom
haven't made it this far. You don't get to be a middle-aged muso
without losing a few mates along the way (and not just by stealing
their girlfriends).
Market
Disco – Dance like everyone's watching and you are awesome
It's not all bad
though, the shedding of inhibitions that comes with age is wonderful.
I no longer give even half a fuck what people think. I was sad to
note, on Friday, at a disco in a cow shed (recently revived from
those held there in the 80s, nostalgia-police), that the entire
dancefloor was mostly full of young, beautiful people, almost
entirely stationary. I, and my fellow middle-aged companions on the
other hand, were dancing like nobody was watching (as the wankers
would put it) to the Venga boys, behind the speakers where it's a bit
quieter and there's space. Here's to the wisdom that only comes with
age.
