Withering in the shadow of 40

I wrote a piece some time ago about the differences in life when in your 30's, the unquenchable horn, the inability to look at 90% of women and not see them as a potential sexual conquest, and the onset of involuntary noises when doing mundane things, like picking the remote control up, or bending to get into a car. This was greeted with mixed results, but ultimately, that the future is bleak, one reader is now suffering from bouts of depression.. I'd like to follow that up now with the epoch that is between the ages of 35 and 40, which is where I am. The flickering dulling embers of anything about you that was remotely cool now slowly being piffed out by the acrid pissing drizzle that is onset middle age. I write this from the male perspective, so if you are a woman reader, then either empathise, or relate to, by replacing the words cock, dong, wand, fanny dagger, clopper club or winkle with vagina, minge or cunt. I am also tired, and a bit bored and depressed as I write this so be warned, this isn’t a Lighthouse Family record, if you want chirpy uplifting shiny happy shit then click away now or go on to Cliff Richards website.. When you are a young man, full of reasonably hardy and healthy(ish) albeit cider marijuana and quavers addled semen, spending entire weekends jerking away at your "fanny dagger" in a manner only usually seen on a survival programmes where Ray Mears is rubbing his fat hands desperately trying to start a fire. You don’t normally think about the future, fuck all that, it’s all about the here and now. You don’t have to worry about sinking 18 pints of snake bite and a large donner kebab and turning a pavement into a thoughtless, but probably still artistic turner prized considered gastric meaty Pollock. You do though, occasionally think about getting older, and make bold ridiculous statements, like when I am 30, I won’t ever go to a music festival again (unless its folk or acoustic based), I won’t go to all night Indie clubs (with a little room for Hip hop) club nights in Brixton, I won’t dance again, ever, for any reason, I won’t go in any high street fashion shop, I'll blow my brains out with a shot gun like Kurt Cobain. I'll never be 30 plus, its the most uncool thing in the world, before going back to a 22 hour straight session on Championship manager, or some ridiculous acne inducing online role playing game where you are a level 12 magic, level 8 short sword skill set robe wearing friendless c*nt... You can save yourself these tortuous thoughts about what the future holds by doing a simple thing to show you EXACTLY what’s in store for you. Get hold of a catalogue, such as Gratin, or Littlewoods (no, not Argos, you turd) and go to the start of the Menswear section, this is the young you, bright, toothy grinned, confident, a label splashed and firm muscled spunk flagon, as the pages progress, this is how you will age, the labels suddenly disappearing, and you enter the casual/practical wear stage, with greying models standing in various awkward grotty uncle poses, wearing chinos with a thin belt and a frankly awful shirt, or v neck jumper usually tucked in, comfort over style, this is you aged 35-40, a style-less crooning dithering bore. If this isn’t you, and you still dress like a 25 year old, then you are just in denial, and I expect the brunt of your peer group think you are a bit of a wanker and talk about you behind your back, when will you settle down, are you a paedo, etc etc. It even gets worse as you get even older, you will actively start looking for trousers with Teflon in them, and jackets with gortex, and will probably pay the price of a long weekend away for a North Face jacket, or gilet, the lining of which is extra special, hence the price, its not just duck down, its downs duck down, or some other crap that has lured you in. You will wear this with pride when you go out with your partner for some animal crud infested walk along some shitty featureless fell, or some national trust land, sitting in a 4000 year old pub in the middle of Birdsbeakshire drinking a pint of Shanklings old C*nt-husk, presenting the ruddy faced and racist barman with your CAMRA membership before checking the pump for the alcohol content, and, (hopefully), some tasting notes. How did this happen? your younger self screams from history, you creaky dull fart. What next a fucking metal detector? (Oh, by the way, Women, the catalogue clothing test doesn’t work for you, as it passes a lingerie section (with youngish pert models), and that was most likely never, and never will be you, the closest you will get to this is a once in a blue moon depositing of your drunken shapeless body on a bed draped in some grubby lingerie from Anne Summers before watching your just recently wheezing partner fall into a state of grunting shuddering sleep apnea and regretting the whole finger fucking thing). You will however end up wearing the huge gunt emphasing pleated front tree trunk covering shapeless trousers and bellowing floral blouse ensemble.. In the Autumn of your thirties you will also notice that your ability to seek out a woman that you WOULDNT have sex with starts to dwindle, from your cool mid 20's when you would consider rejecting a potential partner for having a misplaced mole, wonky boob or annoying teeth/Norfolk accent, to the less convoluted check list of your late 30's, in which a woman would need to have a Burt Reynolds moustache, at least one entry on the sex offenders register, a discharge from her garish pendulous tuppence that was the consistency of Dulux bathroom paint, and an odour of a fish market after an horrific gas leak (and an undiscovered mongers cadaver) and even then, there is Stella Artois.. Oggling with the confidence of an older man, just becomes part of the daily routine, like the hopefully bowel cancer averting fiber based breakfast, and trying to get the same seat on the train every day. Even though there is the potential of your brain writing cheques the body cant cash, there will never be a time when you are not horny. You will even start making audible comments to yourself when younger girls walk by. Your only chance now with the younger girls is thanks the dearth of today’s twatty and effeminate floppy haired sperm production inhibiting tight trouser wearing body-hairless and over groomed mid 20's men, literally spending so much time self-aware and posturing and literally boring the c*nt off girls and driving them into the arms of (some) older men. New unwanted noises happen when doing routine daily things, an over appreciative "ahhh" when drinking a cup of tea, much more swearing when silly things go wrong, the remote control doesn’t do what it was supposed to, the battery slot swiftly opened and the batteries turned and perhaps breathed on, one of those back of the throat warmer than normal breathes that fix about 90% of today’s electrical appliances, a higher success rate than even CPR. A sudden walk off a step or very small drop can induce an involuntary fart. Lots of frowns and stretches and sucking air in through gritted teeth to acknowledge one of the bodies many daily aches and pains. A slow headshake of disapproval with pursed "I told you so" lips, usually at the thrashing stupidity of younger men. The occasional disapproval, and same slow head shake at girls dressed like 80's prostitutes (or Madonna as she was called), this is usually only in front of other women, or your partner, usually followed by a comment like, "that’s somebodies daughter", or, more horrifically, "oh that girl will catch a death". All the while the inner younger man busy conjuring up images of a filthy uninhibited encounter with the mostly clothesless girl, and the inner sexual imp queuing up to put the mental image into the "wank bank". You'll watch the news with less fear, as you will by now have accepted the inevitability that the world is a couple of hip thrusts and a gurn away from being proper fucked, a part of you, the echoes of your 25 year old indestructible self, sort of wishing for a full scale global nuclear war, (with a 2nd wave chemical strike on all major cities), (oh, and then finally underlined with the rag tag survivors being vapourised by a month later full on thermo-nuclear assault by all the submarines popping up like a perverts cock on a drunk girl at a party, and just as they were getting back on their feet and adapting to the nuclear winter).. You'll find some solace in the news though, and something to talk about in the pub, when the Government announces its going to be easier to get planning permission to build that extension, or conservatory. Brilliant, more room for more armchairs and tat, a sudden acceptance of the concept of wicker furniture. Whereas In your 20's the mere suggestion would probably end in separation, you'll now struggle less with the thought of trudging through Ikea with the lines of insipid slack jawed couples, nutless little yes men and heavily pregnant women huffing and blowing looking for flat packed shit to pad their "nest" out with. Usually spending more than they have, sending them both into sleepless nights and thumbing through lists of payday loans companies before settling on one, of which the advert they saw on a 60 inch 3D LCD TV and full blown Virgin Media package... You'll start to see death as something you need to have on the very back of your mind, you'll still feel a fear of it, but for different reasons, when you were 25, the only way you could die was overdose, choking on vomit, or suicide, everything else slipped off you like the unnecessary fried eggs from a teflon pan onto a fat man’s breakfast. Aids was even curable, couple of Aspirin and run it off, pneumonia, fuck it, huck it up and spit that shit on the pavement, death was for wimps. Now though, you are out of the trench, and in the firing line of shit that can "actually" kill you. Every bum wipe met with a background fear that it could be festooned with bloody streaks, like some silly spotty pallid ugly Goths hair. Each new dull ache or sharp pain could be that final trigger which ends up with some smug prick of a doctor telling you, through pursed patronising lips, that the prognosis is not good, eventually shriveling up like an uneaten peach and dying a humiliating shit/piss drenched death with huge bits of you lopped off by people who (despite all the letters after their name, and years of research) don’t actually have a fucking clue what they are really doing, between bouts of being bombarded with radiation by something that wouldn’t look out of place in a bond villains castle. Fuck that, get a shot gun license, keep it handy, and if that time comes, take the hint.. You will now be furrowing yourself nicely into a daily routine, trying to consider your health in everything you do, and regretting even more, those heavy old school boozing sessions, the 2 day hangover underlining the fact that you are no longer that 25 year old. You'll start accepting things that you once pointed and laughed at, Yoga, or perhaps if you are not adverse to being mocked to cockery by your peer group, Pilates, you'll have a last desperate attempt to try and build your core muscles, that were never actually there in the first place, in order to try and prop your semi worn skeleton up and hope that it holds out for the 2nd phase of your life, and can endure your new found hobbies, walking etc.. You finally start accepting that its normal to have a bit of a paunch, you are not Hugh Jackman, and don’t have 6 hours a day and a personal trainer to ward it off. You'll still be on the cutting edge of technology, but whereas in your 20's, when you were abreast of developments, today you will struggle with things, jabbing a finger repeatedly onto something’s touch screen and recoiling from Siri like a wronged Cobra, or from anything trying to plan your life for you, including women. You'll have a monthly spend of about £70 a month on a TV subscription, but will spend far too long watching the History channel, while you may not have been out, off of your flat pancake tits on the latest designer drug, dancing until 6am on a Wednesday night, you will know EXACTLY what goes into the building of an Airbus 330 airframe, bolt, by sky+ fucking bolt.. I know it sounds bleak, but fear not, it’s not all bad, you might get hit by a Bus before then?.. Cheery bye.