Descent into Mediocrity

I know I moan about the fact I’m getting older a lot. Hey, I can’t help it – being fully aware of the futility of existence in a godless universe ruled by chance and indifference, the lost spectre of my youth weighs heavy on my mind.

That, and wondering whether they sprinkle Cheerios with cocaine to make them so addictive. I tell you, I got through about six bowls of the bastards yesterday. I’m glad I haven’t got a dentist, or they’d be giving me a right telling off for that.

1. Last week, whilst passing by the university district of Manchester, I never once got offered a leaflet for some horrific student-related event. Not a big thing, on the surface, but this means that I no longer look young enough to be a student. When I first moved here, I would have all manner of flyers offering cheap shots and a thinly-veiled suggestion of copping off with some young lady fresh into town. I could tell myself that this change is because I’ve perfected my "fuck off and leave me alone" glare, but the harsh, harsh truth is too loud to ignore. Soon, the only stuff I’ll be getting handed to me is inviting me to join SAGA.

2. I have absolutely no idea who anybody is when I happen upon any kind of modern pop culture on TV or newspapers. Essentially, I have turned into my dad circa 1997, when I would be watching MTV2 and he’d ask "who’s that bunch of crap?" unless it was a band from before 1980. People at work talk about singers and actors and I have nothing to offer except a blank look of utter incomprehension. I mean, at least a few years ago I had some vague idea of what the top 40 sounded like.

Partly this may be because I hardly watch any contemporary drama/comedy/film, with the exception of NCIS. I think I watch that because the lead character, Jethro Gibbs, is a silver-haired fox of a man and as my own greyness ascends, I need to find new role models to ensure I don’t become a fat old bastard as I speed into middle age.

3. I just cannot be arsed with new things. My mobile is about six years old and is a piece of crap, frankly, but it’s too much like hard work to get one of those fancy "Smart Phones" that everyone else I know seems to have. Yes, they have all these fancy tools and suchlike but it’s a telephone, and all I really need it for is to talk and send short messages to people. Friends insist I need to invest, and show me all manner of gadgets, like a way it allows you to make the perfect piece of toast, or something, but I remain cold. I’ve only got a flatscreen TV because it makes my Playstation games look better.

Of course, all this may be because I’m still depressed that on my 30th birthday, my hand didn’t start to glow and a young Jenny Agutter didn’t appear to send me off on some mad adventure. Curses.