Age

I went to meet a mate of mine on Sunday afternoon for a pint in Wetherspoons. As usual, I was running late, and he was half way through a pint of Carlsberg. "I got I.D'd for this," he told me in disgust as I approached the bar for one of my own. I suppose a small part of me thought this was my chance - after all these years this could finally be the time for someone to ask me if I was old enough to drink. I approached the bar, caught the eye of some 18-year old stunner, ordered my pint of Wobbly Bob then stood in wait. Needless to say, she gave me the pint, took the money, then fucked off up the other end of to serve another of the town's helpless drunks. "No good," I told my mate Brass, and threw a quid into the quiz machine. I knew then that I'd have to get used to the fact that my youth was pretty much over. And no, I didn't win anything.

"When people tell you how young you are looking, they are actually implying how old you actually are." (Cary Grant - Actor)

Now, age is a funny thing. I have friends of all ages - one in particular in his seventies whose company I adore, and the notion of age is, with him, always a great ice-breaker. "How are you doing," I'll ask him. "Well, I checked the obituaries in The Times this morning and I wasn't in there, so I guess I'm doing good." It is the likes of my mate Dave who makes me feel ashamed for complaining that I am getting on a bit at the ripe young age of twenty-seven. He makes a mockery of my grumbles. Though don't get me wrong, it's not all bad. I overheard a conversation on the bus the other day between two frustrated looking women in their late thirties in which one claimed that 'boys don't become real men until they turn twenty-seven.' I bounced off that bus looking down on any bloke I even suspected to be younger than me, feeling an exhalted sense of masculine pride. That, of course, until I saw countless numbers of spotty, skinny guys in their late teens and early twenties with gorgeous girls hanging off their arms. I figured it would nicer to be a boy with such luxuries than a man without.

Age, I guess, can be intimidating. I hate the fact that I can now say I left school over ten years ago. I still want to be that really young, scruffy, care-free adolescent scuffing my new shoes and kissing girls in the park; not a fully grown, scruffy, care-free adult scuffing my new shoes and not kissing girls in the park. I hate to think that my college days are a decade old. My mind is still there! And it genuinely is true when you are that age: you have no idea what you have got until it is gone. For some strange and unexplainable reason it is human nature for the young to crave to be older, and the older to crave to be young - except it is only the young that can win, since they will be older in time. Unfortunately, no amount of botox, liposuction or pretending can help anybody regain their youth.

I must admit that it is more the physical changes that have begun to alarm me. I used to hate being really skinny as a kid. I always wanted to have a bit more meat on me - maybe a bit more muscle. I used to get tired of the old 'more meat on a butcher's pencil' kind of crap. Of course, I was always very tall, and always a very athletic build, so I didn't look unusal with my skinniness. It's just that I always longed to grow some biceps to flash through my Beatles t-shirts, or some pecs to bust through my school shirts. Now, having rocketed from 11 and a half stone to 15 stone in the last year, I crave the days back when, if I turned sideways and stuck my tongue out I'd look like a zip. When I get into the shower now I do look like a more wholesome man. I can wobble the flesh around my chest. The problem is that I can wobble most bits these days. I have to be tactical now about what I wear; for example, there are certain shirts that used to double up as tents that I simply cannot put on before my socks, otherwise I can't physically stretch the material enough to get down there. Also, all of my 32 inch waist trousers have been made practically redundant, unless I'm feeling brave enough to breathe in for a full day. My t-shirts are more like vests, and for the first time in my life I seem to have aquired an alien second chin. "Oh, you're looking fullsome." "You look a lot healthier these days." "Gosh, haven't you filled out!" I feel like saying for fuck's sake, just call me a fat twat and be done with it.

Of course, I am exaggerating as usual. I don't look fat at all - though I guess being six feet three helps spread the wealth so that it's not so easy to identify. It's just that my body has changed dramatically, and I am the paranoid one that continues to notice. And then there's the face. Now, I have always had an older looking complexion, which is the most self-esteem preserving description that I can think of at this moment in time. I have, as you might have guessed from the opening, never been asked for I.D despite drinking round pubs, clubs and bars since the age of sixteen. My nose - probably my main feature - has, I believe, had much to do with that. Whilst riding home drunk with some friends in Australia several years back I was, shall we say, 'teased' regarding my rather large conk. I responded by telling them to fuck off, and explaining that I was proud of my nose - after all, I pointed out, it is Roman. At that point the taxi driver, who hadn't said a word throughout the entire journey, looked at me and said, in a typically irritating Aussie accent, "Yeah, mate, Roman all over your face."

Anyway, I've lost track. I loved it back then - being able to get away with looking older, that is. Now I can see the cons as well as the pros. Long hair doesn't help a young look, though that will be sacrificed for nothing. Sparrows feet, wrinkles and jowels are another story. I reckon it is around my age now - as we reach the late twenties - that all of these things start to ingrain themselves into our appearance. And fitness! My God, this is where it really does become shameful. Of course, the older you get, the more negative deposits (ok, I'll stop being so scientific - what I actually mean is kebabs, ale, pizzas etc) you collect. Plus, to free myself of TOTAL blame, I did snap my cruciate ligament playing cricket, closely followed by my ankle playing football - hence, both careers over. I play golf now, but the only time my heart races is when I have a par put, which to be honest isn't really that often. Therefore I am a shadow of the nervous little whippet I used to be. In fact, a rather larger, more rotund shadow at that. You see, if I wanted to be cynical I could, you know: i.e, exercise daily, eat wisely, die anyway. But that would just be sour grapes I suppose. . . . . . .

Anyway. The point of this little rant? I don't really know if I'm honest. Maybe I needed to get it off my chest, excuse the pun. Maybe it is a deep-rooted pyschological fear of mine to become fat. Or maybe, in an hour's time, I'll be embroiled in a drinking session that could very well go on all night long and include several saturated fat filled take-aways, and I just want to make myself feel better. The old 'let's go for a fag whilst we talk about quitting' mentality.

Yep. Unfortunately, I'm going to have to go with the latter.