You know you’re getting old when …

This is hope­fully going to be a very short-lived series — of one — mainly because I will soon be too old and decrepit to write lists, due to my senile mind fail­ing before the second item.

You know you’re get­ting old when you go to a hip ‘n’ hap­penin’ rock gig (oh God, I sound like Tony Black­burn or, even worse, Bruno Brookes) and:

• you have a urine sample test tube in your jacket pocket because you’ve been to the doc­tor before­hand for routine med­ical tests. I hasten to add that the recept­acle was empty, and that although the band were seat-wettingly good, I felt no need to fill it dur­ing the con­cert.
• you find your­self talk­ing cheer­fully to the middle-aged mother of one of the band after the show. We swapped knit­ting pat­terns. But she wouldn’t share any of her drugs stash with me, sadly.
• your hands start sting­ing when you are frantic­ally applaud­ing for an encore.
• you think how com­fort­able the seats are, and pity the poor fools who have to spend the entire gig stand­ing.
• you real­ise that it will take you two whole days to recover from the ‘phew, rock ‘n’ roll’ experience.

Erm, that’s it. I think this post just served as a reminder as to why I long ago gave up writ­ing about the day to day mundan­it­ies of my life on this site. The art of navel exam­in­a­tion is well and truly dead. Long live obfus­ca­tion, numer­ous ref­er­ences to eye­lids, and fre­quent use of a thesaurus.

Comments: 16

    You still go to gigs? It’s much more com­fort­able to sit at home, on a comfy comfy sofa and listen to the band on your ste­reo system.

    Hon­estly, you kids…

    Gordon | 11.08.07, 11:17

    I’ve got an extra one for you: you arrive at the venue an hour before doors open because you are ter­ri­fied of being late. Since you are also ter­ri­fied of not being there when your friends arrive, you sit on the curb smoking and talk­ing to the ticket scalper (reas­sur­ing him you have no spare tick­ets for sale) instead of going for a coffee.

    Okay, maybe that one more aptly belongs under “You know you’re get­ting brain dam­age when…”

    Yes. Long live eyelids!

    Ani | 11.08.07, 11:22

    have you been out look­ing for astro­nauts again?

    andre | 11.08.07, 11:45

    Gor­don — Thank you for call­ing me a ‘kid’, Gor­don. It’s 967 years since I was last termed in such a way.

    Ani — Aaaaany tick­ets? Tick­ets for da gig, innit? Aaaaany tickets?

    Andre — Yes, I found one. I got in their space­craft. I am now on their planet. It is a bit grey and life­less. Oh wait, it’s my office.

    An Unreliable Witness | 11.08.07, 12:42

    Um. Did you think we wanted to know what you do with your time? Back to awing us with beau­ti­ful words we don’t really under­stand, please.

    bohémienne | 11.08.07, 12:46

    Dear unre­li­able friend,

    Your kit­chen is not an office. It is a kitchen.

    andre | 11.08.07, 13:25

    Unre­li­able,
    the last gig I went to was held in a church. I sat for the dur­a­tion. I applauded until my hands were sore. I com­plained of ringing ears the fol­low­ing day. I enjoy the thesaurus. And I am sup­posed to be YOUNG.

    p.s Andre, your last com­ment was too much. I cant cope.

    ELIZABETH | 11.08.07, 15:30

    *scratches head*

    andre | 11.08.07, 16:12

    Bohémi­enne — Don’t worry. More impen­et­rable rub­bish com­ing along soon. Like a bus. Er, two boses. Or something.

    Andre — I am not in my kit­chen. You are in my kit­chen. Steal­ing my cof­fee again.

    Eliza­beth — I enjoy a good thesaurus, but I couldn’t mas­tic­ate a whole one. (P.S. Don’t worry about Andre, I can’t cope with him either.)

    Andre — Would you like me to scratch your head for you? Gosh, what a lot of hair.

    An Unreliable Witness | 11.08.07, 16:34

    Yes, well, I bet you don’t lie in bed of a night shout­ing: “turn that racket DOWN! It’s half-past nine, for God’s sake! It’s not even music, any­way!” And then you have to get out of bed so you can remind every­one that you used to be a punk, you know, with a mohi­can and everything. And that this too will hap­pen to them if they keep listen­ing to that rub­bish and smoking that shit. And you can see it in their eyes — they just don’t believe it will ever hap­pen to them. They will never be a sad over-forty per­son who doesn’t like thrashy music and who has to get a proper night’s sleep because oth­er­wise she’s all cranky and grumpy and looks like Frankenstein’s mother with a hangover.

    I bet you feel all youth­ful and spry, now, don’t you?

    Melograna | 11.08.07, 17:18

    you know you’re get­ting old, also, when you would rather com­mu­nic­ate with people via e-mail, rather than see them. and when you get home and don’t really want to leave. oh, wait, and also get the yearn­ing for the com­pany of cats.

    miles away, determ­ined to be mad cat miles away before too long

    miles away | 11.08.07, 19:05

    Melo­grana — How can I feel youth­ful and spry when you’ve just almost described me per­fectly? (Oh God. Again.)

    Miles Away — Meet­ing by email. Check. Get­ting home and not want­ing to leave. Check. Yearn­ing for the com­pany of cats. Check.

    Hello, my name is An Unre­li­able Wit­ness, and I am pre­ma­turely elderly.

    An Unreliable Witness | 11.08.07, 19:34

    “Hello An Unre­li­able Witness”

    my mother asked me to write a christ­mas gift list to make her life easier as appar­ently I would only ask for “weird cool fash­ion type stuff” and so upon hand­ing her my mod­est list, she scorned.

    Im still cool for want­ing a new tea flask, scrabble and planet earth on dvd right?

    Eliza­beth

    ELIZABETH | 11.09.07, 01:11

    i really like your blogwriting

    polite charlie | 11.10.07, 15:09

    i really like polite charlie’s com­ment­ing style!

    Now to the ol’ fogie who wrote this post: oh, bless you. I would hap­pily share my (mea­gre) drug stash with you!

    clarissa | 11.11.07, 20:07

    Eliza­beth — Scrabble? Scrabble is most def­in­itely cool. And far bet­ter than fashions.

    Polite Charlie — Hello, and wel­come, and thank you for your most polite comment.

    Clarissa — Thank you. Some com­menters know the way to my heart. Please send the drug stash to this address …

    An Unreliable Witness | 11.11.07, 22:05

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