Don’t panic!
I’m not terminal. Actually I suppose a part of me is. The young part. I haven’t consulted my GP but I would probably give my youth about a year before it packs up and all I’m left with is a hollow, bitter carcass. These blogs alone prove that I’m headed in that direction. I’m destined to live a life festering in my own disdain for all that surrounds me. It does seem that my tolerance for people gets a little lower everyday. Maybe one day I’ll bring an automatic rifle to work…
Anyway. Sorry, I got a little carried away there. I’ve spent a fair amount of the morning reading about Fred West on Wikipedia and my brain is a buzz with treachery.
But, I do have an actual point that doesn’t involve killing. Aside from my ever-decreasing tolerance for morons (of which there seem to be so many!) I do feel that I am not the man I once was. My attitude towards going on a night out seems to have taken a particularly big hit, as well as my resilience to alcohol.
Take this weekend for example. I went out on both Friday and Saturday night which is quite unusual for me these days. I already don’t go to clubs that often anymore. Mainly because I find the music too loud (I’m actually not joking) and everyone around me far too young. The thought of people who were born in 1993 being legally allowed into the club just makes me feel like a bit of a paedophile for some reason.
It didn’t help on Saturday night when I was queuing up with some friends to get into Infernos in Clapham (the shame) and I realised I had forgotten my ID. I needn’t have worried. I got to the front and quickly explained my mistake, to which I got the response;
“Don’t worry mate, you look about 35”.
I felt it as well…
Of course, I’m not blind. Some of you may be surprised to hear that I do have a mirror in my room and no it’s not cracked. I’ve always looked old for my age and for a time it was a bonus. I would always get served in bars when I was under age and was moderately popular in the 6th form with those who couldn’t get served themselves. Even if they were using me it still made me feel special. But now, looking old isn’t a good thing. It simply perpetuates the belief that I shouldn’t be in ‘young people’s’ clubs anymore.
I’m not looking for sympathy, which I imagine is fortunate. In fact I don’t even know what I’m particularly complaining about. Young people can have their sticky-carpeted clubs.
With X Factor back in my life, my Saturdays are booked out from here till Christmas anyway!
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