The other night I attended a gig. It was an ok gig – the band were ffice:smarttags" />Alabama 3, them what did The Soprano’s theme tune. You really can’t argue with a group who came up with the lyric, ‘I’ve got three eyes, I’m gonna knock one out for Jesus’, but I wasn’t that impressed all in. ffice
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However, that’s not the point.
The vast majority of their audience were post-40. Nothing wrong with that in itself, I’ve been to countless gigs since I was a wee nipper and I don’t intend to let my age stop me worshipping at the altar of live music when I get on a bit. The point is this. It was like every wedding you’ve ever known. You know, when the older folk get up and start gyrating like spastics to ‘Brown Eyed Girl’, as if something had snapped in their brains and they’d lost all sense of propriety? At the end of the gig a 50-odd year old man hassled a security guy for a setlist. That’s the kind of thing I did when I was 16. SIXTEEN. Now, I’m no spring chicken myself, but right now I am in possession of all my faculties and am setting down this guide for myself to look back on when the rot sets in…
Things You’re Too Old To Do When You’re 50…Or Maybe Even 35.
- Dance at gigs.
You love the band. You don’t get out much and tonight you’re determined to let your hair down. The music starts and that rush of adrenaline that only live music can bring flows through your body. You’re a teenager again. You throw your arms into the air, moving your hips and flicking your head from side to side in aural ecstasy. You’re moving like Kate Moss, oozing grace and raw sensuality.
NO.
No, you’re not, you tit. You’re jerking around like a cruel god’s marionette, forcing people to move out of the way of your flailing elbows and smothering one and all with your giddy over-enthusiasm. Your crow’s feet have entirely consumed your face, rendering you unable to see the slightly embarrassed glances being exchanged by everyone around you. And was that tight little t-shirt a good idea? NO, IT WASN’T.
You glimpse your husband out of the corner of your eye. Look at him there, smiling and singing – things haven’t been this good for a long time. He’s just as he was when you met him, when he had hope, when he had dreams. You giggle. You’d forgotten the way he could move…
NO.
No, he’s shuffling around like a dad. He’s knocking the girl behind him who wishes he’d just fucking die and snapping his fingers like a mental deficient. You both look like twats. By all means go to all the gigs you desire, but have some fucking self-respect, for sweet baby Jesus’ sake.
- Wear pink or anything vaguely cutesy.
You look like a knob. End of.
- Purchase Winnie the Pooh merchandise. For yourself.
This extends to fridge magnets, stuffed toys, towels, blankets, mugs, glasses, dildos, watches and umbrellas, but is mainly intended to encompass the clothing range.
Do you realise that you left "cute" behind 10 years ago? Are you aware that sporting a cartoon bear on your tit alerts all in the vicinity to the fact that you are needy and strange? That you find yourself incapable of embracing your middle age with dignity? Have you considered lately that Winnie the Pooh, though a loveable creation from wonderful books, is a character for tiny children? Do you think that when AA Milne strolled through Ashdown Forest with Christopher Robin in tow that he had a fat horrendous mong in a Piglet t-shirt lurking at the back of his mind as he spun his web of tales?
Think about it. You know it makes sense.
- Go braless.
This applies to both women and men and can be summed up in two words.
Charlie Dimmock.
There are more. Many more. But in the meantime, any further suggestions are welcome. This could become an ongoing feature…
