22: Ageing

I realised during my sojourn to Edinburgh in August that I'm getting old. I'm aware that I cannot stop the relentless march of ageing, but I kind of hoped that my natural charm would somehow keep it at bay for a while. I was wrong.

I've had to start wearing hats because my hair is falling out. Now, I can rock a hat pretty well. But I bought a brightly coloured trucker cap in Edinburgh and realised that, upon seeing my reflection, I am no longer a teenager and therefore look like Jonathan King or some other fucktard who is trying desperately to cling onto his younger years. Of course in my book, I'm trying to do that because I don't want to get old. He does it for quite different reasons.

I mistook a guy in the audience for a teenager. I genuinely thought he was 14, and it turned out that he was 25. That's quite a mistake to make. In retrospect, he didn't even look boyish. He just looked younger than me, and for some reason in my head I still think that I'm 20.

Even worse, one day I was sat with several lovely people in our Fringe hideaway of the GRV office. Loud music played downstairs. I found myself - with not one beat of my heart skipping to warn me - complaining that the bass drone from beneath the floorboards was "just a noise". Some of my younger chums stared at me. They agreed with me, it was a noise. But they are young and do not need to state this. They don't need to make the rest of the planet hear their irksome quibbles and complaints. Because they still have youth, and life is still rosy and good for them.

My rapid ageing puts me in somewhat of a quandry. How do I deal with this? I can go down two routes. I can grow old gracefully, or hold on, kicking and screaming, to my youth until I'm even more gap-toothed and a darn sight balder than I am now.

I don't know. I don't feel like a 31 year old. I certainly don't act like one. I still get really excited driving into tunnels. I buy Pick and Mix whenever I feel like it. I consider Weetabix topped with Jaffa Cakes as a nutritious breakfast. In the bath I will fashion my hair into a bubble-bath mohawk.

I was too sensible when I was younger. I had a "career" and a house at 22, married at 23, Dad at 25, divorced at 26. I started comedy at 27, so a large part of what I do these days is counteracting my sensible early twenties, where I would wear a suit to work and trawl around garden centres at the weekends. But at least my body was intact then, even if my sensibilities were more aged and mature. I had a full head of hair. My man breasts still only required a training bra. During Edinburgh I got out of breath doing part of my routine about me and drugs. I used to be able to run for ages at a time, what happened?

It's ageing, thats what. Not me becoming unfit through laziness, no way. Stupid ageing.

So then, let me examine my options:

1: GROW OLD GRACEFULLY

To do this I will need to do the following things.

a) Stop wearing brightly coloured trainers, preferring a sturdy brogue.
b) Avoid daft hats at all costs, especially for irony reasons. So no Stovepipe.
c) No more tattoos, ever. And cover the ones I have with swaddling.
d) Adopt a proper diet. No more scotch egg and mars bar dinners after gigs.
e) Get a proper job.
f) Consider getting an ISA.
g) First, find out what an ISA is.
h) Consider Take That as the forefront of British music.
i) Clean my car every weekend. Especially if it doesn't need doing.
j) Get dressed on my days off.
k) Buy some slippers. Not tartan. I'm not a monster.
l) Start to enjoy soup as an actual meal.
m) Watch football matches just to be disappointed.
n) List at least one Richard Curtis film as a favourite, replacing "Dawn of the Dead".
o) Abandon hopes to somehow become WWE Intercontinental Champion.
p) Start to view the TV as something to watch documentaries on, not just play games.
q) Stock up my freezer. Just in case.
r) Dream of DIY at night, rather than scoring the winning goal in the cup final.
s) Claim to prefer Vanilla ice cream to all the other flavours.
t) Ensure I exhale loudly after sipping tea or sitting down on a high backed chair.
u) Stop going to the cinema. No-one over 30 goes to the cinema.
v) Steam at least two meals a week, whilst wearing a self-satisfied grin.
w) Wear a tie to go to Sunday dinner.
x) Rate funerals as "good sendoffs" rather than sad events.
y) No longer listen to rap music, heavy metal, punk or electro. Or music.
z) Accept each birthday with a wry smile, knowing that dreading the onset of age is pointless and accepting my fate with the meekness I will only exhibit later on when I'm undoubtedly a dribbling fool in an old folk's home.

That's the first option. A quiet slide into my forties awaits. When I was a reckless twentysomething I couldn't see myself living past 40. You may think that is a frightening prospect, but I find the potential future of mowing a lawn whilst wearing rugged outdoor sandals and combat trousers on a damp September morning infinitely more terrifying than a premature death.

But there is of course option 2.

2: TRY TO HOLD ONTO MY YOUTH

This is the option that I seem to be taking my default, and failing at it. Sure, I still spend money on clothes that are best suited to a teenager and I own enough trainers to be classed as the Imelda Marcos of comedy. But when even my six year old daughter tells me that I'm old and embarrassing then it's probably time to throw in the towel. When I worked in a school I thought of myself as quite cool. I dressed differently to the other teachers, retained a sense of individuality and made a point of empathising with the kids. That said, when they guessed how old I was, what did they say?

42.

Now, if my daughter or nephews had of said that, then fine. Little kids always overshoot estimations. That's why you don't ever employ them as quantity surveyors in a washing machine warehouse. But 15 year olds? Come on. 42? And they LIKED me. They weren't trying to offend me. I went home from work that day and stared at my gaunt reflection in the mirror for far too long. You know what I mean - until the mirror starts spinning slightly in your head and the Boards of Canada start providing a soundtrack to the whole sorry situation.

I then decided to amp up the acting young. Which made me arrive where I am today, wearing a parody Run DMC T-Shirt I bought from a skate shop, stupidly low slung jeans and pink and green patent leather trainers. With video game girls tattooed on one arm, plans to have Ron Burgundy tattooed on the other and hare-brained plans to have a piercing just because I don't have one yet. With a lounge that looks like I won a competition in Nuts magazine, bursting to the seams with video games, films and a massive telly. With kitchen cupboards that have nothing more sensible than biscuits in them. With a job - my dream job - that I do full time, wearing a permanent grin.

So I think I have my answer.

It's not how old you are, it's how old you feel. And though my body may be falling to pieces and my forehead is starting to be as wrinkled as Abdullah the Butcher's, I'm not ready to be old yet. Or sensible. So my solution to my hatred of ageing is to take a measure akin to holding a pillow over my head and screaming "Lalalalalalala I'm not listening".

I shall merely stand here, smile, and hold up two fingers to the tireless march of time.

Fuck you ageing. I win.

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