Right, it keeps creeping closer; I’m going to be 3o-years old in about a week. Although I’m not totally dreading it, I’m not taking it as well as I thought I would…
Several friends have recently had 3oth birthdays though, and they seem to have coped – so maybe there’s hope for me yet.
Luckily, I’m still quite young at heart (I’m always listening to The Bluebells, me) – and I was even asked for ID in Brixton last week. I was trying to chat up a 13-year old girl at the time though, so maybe that’s not such a good thing.
Trouble is, I still don’t really know what I want to do with my life, and I don’t feel like I’ve had enough adventures yet… My only real regret is being too damn nice when I was younger; if I’d have been a proper bastard I probably could have slept with more women. Probably.
I also regret not drinking more, and developing a serious drug habit. All the really cool people have crazy drug problems when they’re young, then recover and live to a ripe old age. Maybe if I could get a load of heroin and coke I could mix a nice speedball, and that would see me through my 30th nicely.
A few months ago I was in a tattoo shop, preparing to get my inner thigh indelibly marked for life. It was about 10:30pm on a Monday night and I had to be back at work at 9am the following morning, but I was really happy. In order to position the stencil properly I had to take down my trousers and stand up on a high stool, so that my thigh was in the seated tattooist’s eye-line. This was all taking place at the shop window. As I stood there in my jazzy Y-fronts with strangers walking past, staring in at me – and while my thigh was being shaved my a heavily tattooed man – that this is what rock ‘n’ roll is all about.
“Too old to rock ‘n’ roll, too young to die…” (Jethro Tull)