August 27th, 2011 at 8:41 pm by Stupid Rubbish

I’m not sure when exactly when this happened but something quite awful seems to have occurred: I’ve started to realise that I’m an old duffer.

I’m not that old by any stretch of the imagination, but I suffer from a condition where I find it very very difficult to remember that I’m not twenty-one anymore. I think there is a part of my brain that simply refuses to recognise the passing of time, like some kind of Peter Pan gland, or something.

This, despite all the various parts of me that have broken, parts that now creak, ache or don’t really work properly. This, despite the fact that I now have to make a small noise whenever I get up out of a chair.

Despite the fact that I think it’s absolutely f*cking normal to irrelevantly take a rain mac with me if I am going somewhere outdoors.

Despite the fact that I instinctively rinse out bloody cups or wash dishes when I visit someone else’s house and I close doors and turn lights off.

I really am becoming a dismal old f*cker, a grumbling moaner, a terrible cynic and a slightly borderline sociopath – mostly to teenagers.

It won’t be long before I need a stick to walk with.

But, worse than all these terrifying revelations, is the actual truth.

The awful truth:

I f*cking like it.

Let me try to explain why…

Firstly, the older you get, the less you give a flying f*ck about what people think of you. So yes, I went to an agricultural suppliers and bought a rain mac like the ones they hand out in the Army and YES in some ways that makes me a complete dick, BUT… I’m a WARM, DRY DICK and I don’t care.

Secondly, I’m getting BETTER as I get older, I really am – I’m smarter, wiser, calmer and no matter HOW much those monkey faced teenage sh!tS swagger along in the street, they still f*cking MOVE when I walk through them with a scowl. So f*ck them, and their IDIOTIC anus-revealing trousers.

And what’s more, I don’t care if I creak a little or break a bit, I’ve LIVED LIFE and I’ve never treated it as a rehearsal. I don’t fuss my hair into a completely BENT shape, or let it hide my stupid face. I don’t piss-arse around with logos and labels when I can just buy sh!tloads of tee shirts in Primark.

I don’t care what people think of me or stutter when talking to pretty girls.

I don’t look at the floor for no reason and I can drink half a dozen pints and NOT throw up onto myself.

And when I am in my sixties and I DO need a stick to walk, I am going to relentlessly tap people, prod people, annoy and pester people with it. And I am going to have a MASSIVE white handlebar moustache and I am going to wear a pocket watch and I am going to show off all my tattoos on sunny days and I am going to give EVEN LESS of a sh!t about ANYTHING.

Because I am getting BETTER BY THE DAY.

And those teenage f*ckers?

Yeah, those little bastards will still move for me.

2 Responses to “What’s the frequency?”

  1. Bunnyrunner says:

    You are SO, SO feckin’ right!
    For me it started the day I lifted my head from the sink and saw my Dad looking back at me from the mirror. Now at 60, I grow a little beard and dye it red, I wear a hoodie and a baseball cap and talk loudly and I stare at teenagers with all the malevolence I can muster.
    Yes, it takes 2 minutes to have a piss and yes I have to get up twice in the night to do it. My life revolves around pills and trips to the doctor but f*ck it…I’m alive!!!