Stains On a Decade

There go my 20s then. As everyone will tell you, "it's just a number", but there is something about turning 30 that causes you to needlessly examine your life to date.

Ten years ago, I was slumped in the corner of a student union bar with a group of people I seemed to do a lot of that kind of thing with. England beat Spain 3-0 at football, in what was Sven-Goran Eriksson's first game in charge. I remember being glad to be rid of my teenage years, which for the main were lousy. Full of piss and vinegar as most would be in that position, I had a head full of ideas of what I'd get up to over the next decade of my existence.

Of course, it didn't work out how I thought it would. But on reflection, though it didn't pan out how I expected when I was 20, I did a hell of a lot better than I thought I would when I was aged 23. I managed to get work as a journalist, I clambered on stage in a band and even managed to get out to LA. That I did any of those things is down to a fair few people for backing me up, head of which would be my parents and Nicky, without whom I've no idea where I would be.

The whole idea of setting yourself "things to do before you're 30" came up in a conversation the other day and we laughed at the daft things we wanted to do. Nevertheless, I'm doing the same for the next ten years. Essentially, I want to get a book published somewhere. There. I said it. Fuck knows how, or even if I have the chops for it. A more far-fetched target would be to not have to work a 35 hour week, by choice.

Perhaps the best thing I can say for my 20s is that I survived it in one piece. Plenty don't. And hey, I can still fit in the same size clothes I could when I was 19 too. Result!