Two days ago I was wild and crazy, a rebel without a cause. My body was like that of a finely tuned athlete. I was misunderstood, dreamed big and thought the future would never happen to me. But yesterday something changed. I got old.
Yep. I have now completed 30 years of my life. My body requires constant maintenance and fine tuning just to maintain the status quo. I am tucking my shirt in and justifying it by saying ‘It’s just more comfortable’.
I ask questions like ‘Why does that boy not pull his trousers over his bum?’ and ‘Are you saying actual words or just making noises?’
I hate listening to music through headphones, it sounds so ‘tinny’. To be honest I’m not even convinced about MP3’s but that could just be me at any age. I like to be in bed by 11pm. I often think that music at gigs is just a bit too loud.
T4 doesn’t make any sense to me anymore… I mean where do they find those presenters? And where do they get their haircuts? And why do you take the mickey out of everything? And what happened to Simon and Miquita?
Footballers are now mostly all younger than me. They’ve become less heroic and more annoying. If I don’t get a call from Roy Hodgson over the next few weeks, I may have to rethink my retirement plan. I think I can kiss the Olympics goodbye, too. I don’t know who’d phone me up to ask me to be part of that team. Heck I couldn’t even get tickets for the Olympics, but I don’t think that’s got anything to do with my age.
To sum up, thirty’s arrival has rendered me dazed and confused. I think I’m going to put on my puffer jacket and listen to some Manic Street Preachers on my CD player. Feel free to join me.