It was my birthday recently and friends arranged a surprise celebration. (When I say ‘friends’ I mean various oddballs I frequently happen upon due to circumstance). A woman baked a cake. The decoration was quite novel and it tasted OK. The cake baker’s name escapes me at the moment although I do recollect visiting her house on a few occasions and I remember her noisy children. Anyway, Mrs. Noisy Child Woman, or whatever your name is, let me thank you for the OK cake. People bought me drinks also. The fact that I am trying to get my life back together seemed to mean little to them. That aside, thanks to those who bought me drinks.
Later in the evening, images were projected onto a screen. This was supposedly done in my honour but I found much of this ‘show’ to be overly familiar and somewhat disrespectful. Everyone else seemed to be enjoying themselves though so I said nothing until I was asked to give a speech. (When I say ‘asked to give a speech’ I actually mean the word ‘speech’ was screamed repeatedly in my face until I complied). I used the speech to tell those in attendance how I felt they had held me back in life. I spoke of how I regretted not keeping better company in the past and how, by now, I really should be working in RTE and rubbing shoulders with the likes of Tubridy and Dobson. I called everyone in the room ‘fuckers’ and concluded my speech by verbally castigating all of my former lovers (neither of which even bothered to show up).
Needless to say, my speech resulted in an awkward silence that could only be broken by lines of ‘Snow’ from the headshop. Everyone then started talking hurriedly, loudly and at once about the true nature of the true nature of the true nature of the true nature of the true nature of something or other. It all seemed very interesting at the time. I was mainly talking to an attractive young woman who eventually told me I used to be in a band with her Dad.
I awoke the next morning with the usual measure of detoxificator’s self-loathing and went to the bathroom. I took a long piss and looked in the mirror. Nothing seems to have changed but deep down I know that I am middle-aged. I have gone ‘over the hill’ and am now clambering down into a new landscape. A barren landscape, populated by bewildered and hurt looking people in comfortable footwear. I can faintly hear the guitar riff of Clapton’s Layla on the wind.
Middle-aged, mmmmmmiiiiiiiiiiiiidllllllllllllleeeee aaaaaaaggggeeeed. Oh well. The fact that I can no longer be considered a young person is some consolation at least. To be associated with the youth of today is frankly embarrassing. Today’s young are merely a commodified and watered down pastiche of former generations. Nothing exciting has happened since the illegal dance parties of the early nineties. Hippies. Punks. Ravers. All of them wanted to shake things up in their way but these days, in a time of unprecedented change, the young do nothing. They do not react. They do not protest. Shame on the young. Being middle-aged, I should hate them. If I hated them I might at least respect them. Instead I am indifferent and that makes me sad.
I will finish this post the quoting 1 Corinthians 13:11:
‘When I was a child, I spoke as a child, I thought as a child, I reasoned as a child. When I became a man, I put childish ways behind me except for my comics and Doctor Who DVDs and a load of other shit I wasn’t willing to part with.’
Now, if you will excuse me, I have a Second Law of Thermodynamics to succumb to, if I understand that law correctly, which I probably don’t.
. . .Laaayyyyla, you got me on my knees. Laaayyyyla, I beggin’ darlin please. . . Yeah, that tune’s not bad actually.
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