Not in the sense that you're resigned to sensible slacks, a talk show on a Saturday night, and 10p off a packet of dusters becoming the highlight of your day. That's at least another ten year's down the line. (Gee Note: At least I hope it is. Put it this way, if in 12 months’ time you find me cackling with glee at Graham Norton showing a "funny" website about vegetables to Ross Kemp, you have my permission to back over me with a people carrier). However when you reach your late twenties, new things become terribly confusing.
Take Twitter for example. I have a Twitter account. A lot of my friends have Twitter accounts. But only a select few of us actually know how to use it properly. Oh sure, I can post a message about what I'm having for tea that night (Gee Note: 'Pork chops with peas for me' I'll tweet. I know. Fascinating right?). But compare that to people who Tweet things like "RT @pointless-drone -_- OMG! Beliebers rly r 4eva ;) NOOOOM!!!!!!!!" and I might as well be a caveman poking at an unplugged toasted sandwich maker with a stick while instructing the rest of the tribe to stand back in case it starts shooting lightening. I mean it's not that I don't like the syntax used to construct Tweets. I'm not some grammar-warrior who is campaigning to preserve the Queen's English (Gee Note: Shit anyone who's read this blog for more than 30 seconds will know I routinely don't write stuff good). No, the problem I have with it is that I don't have any f***ing idea what it means. It might as well be a foreign language. In sign. Conveyed by a Bullfrog.
If it was just social media that had me baffled then maybe I would write it off as just one of those things. After all there's lots of stuff in this world that goes over my head. Quantum physics. Car engines. Llamas. But even the things I used to enjoy have started to pass me by. I don't get why the Transformers movies are so successful, especially when you could film a six year old playing with Optimus Prime and Megatron toys for three hours and have a more coherent plot line. I don't get why Ryan Reynolds is in everything these days despite being an astonishingly bad actor. I don't get why people make television shows like Jersey Shore. I don't get why people watch television shows like Jersey Shore. I don't get why TV stations then make six more shows exactly like Jersey Shore. (Gee Note: It turns out Jersey Shore might actually be my Kryptonite).
And it's not just that. We have music as well. Now this isn't an “old person listens to modern music on the radio and complains that tunes were better in their day” type of deal. Largely because that in itself is a load of baloney. Pop music has always been generally a bit crap. For every "I Am The Walrus" there's "The Legend of Xanadu" by Dave Dee, Dozy, Beaky, Mick & Tich (Gee Note: Crazy name! Rubbish band!). For every great Smiths record there's Lionel Ritchie stalking a blind woman. For every Definitely Maybe there are all the other Oasis albums. Pop music is consistently awful with occasional sparks of brilliance, and has been since the dawn of time.
But earlier this month Cher Lloyd released a video for her new single "Swagger Jagger". In fact, here it is:
Cher Lloyd is a pretty big deal. A former
Except… WHAT THE HELL IS THAT?!?
Why did the video director use leftover animation stills from A-Ha's Take On Me? Why is the bald guy wearing the blue top in the background dancing to a different record than everyone else? Why is Cher Lloyd wearing Louis XIV's hair? Why did they decide to make her up as either Pennywise the Clown or a Ganger from Doctor Who? And the song itself… I don't… I have no… why?
It's not that I don't like it. To form any sort of opinion on this would mean you've understood what the managers, stylists, record producers, and Cher herself were trying to achieve. And that's the problem. I don't understand it. I'm not even close to understanding it. This video makes me feel like I'm an extra-terrestrial who has stumbled across humans for the first time. But without the ray guns and ability to annoy farmers but stealing cows. Watching this video is a truly bewildering experience, one that only a good sit down and maybe a nice cup of tea can fix.
Another side effect of getting older is that you can no longer enjoy steaks and cakes for breakfast without it coming back to haunt you. Now I realise a lot of you reading this right now will picture me as some kind of muscular He-Man who rescues trapped puppies by day and wrestles alligators at night. But the truth is as I'm typing this right now my belly is approximately an inch over the lip of the desk. And I'm leaning back. There's no denying it kids. I'm out of shape.
Never fear though as CHAT IT’S FATE has the answer. CHAT is one of those dreadful magazines dedicated to harrowing real life stories such as "My husband got dragged behind a train for 5 days by accident and we never found his head. I miss him every day". Its sister title CHAT IT’S FATE does pretty much the same thing except with a 100% more psychics and witches. Yee-haw.
This month’s issue – issue 8 July 11 – features an agony aunt column with someone claiming to be a witch. Or as CHAT IT’S FATE puts it “Spells guru Kirsten Riddle welcomes you to her amazing, enchanting world”. Every month people write to her with problems and Ms. Riddle offers practical ways in which they can help themselves. Like this, for example.
Can you help me stick to a diet?
Fran, 35, High Wycombe.
To lose weight, you have to change your mind-set and radiate self-confidence. Try this simple ritual. Take an egg and roll it over your body, paying attention to any problem areas. Imagine the shell absorbing all the negative energy and unwanted fat. When you’ve finished, crack the egg on to a sheet of paper and say, ‘I let go to anything I no longer need. I’m free to be best version of me!’ See yourself as super-trim and gorgeous and focus on this when you’re tempted to eat biscuits.
(Gee Note: I haven’t made this up by the way. Methinks Florence needs to raise her game a bit).
Fantastic. I’m a fat man. I have eggs. Screw Fran, this could’ve been written for me. So I decided to put this advice to the test, and keep a diary of my progress. I know, I’m like Piers Morgan. Except I’m a human being and not an overgrown slug.
Headed in to the kitchen. Opened fridge door. Saw bacon.
Finished bacon sandwich. Cursing myself for being so weak. This is why I need to rub an egg all over my body. Making a cup of tea and contemplating my next move.
Opened fridge door again. Grabbed eggs and scurried away before the sirens that are sausages started to sing to me.
Stared at the eggs for a bit. Thought about boiling one, thereby getting thin and having lunch at the same time. Checked instructions. Didn't say anything about boiling your egg. Decided against it. Didn't want to annoy witch.
Took a deep breath and took off my T-Shirt. Started rubbing egg against myself. Was doing OK until I got to my chest and the egg broke. A piece of shell got caught under my right nipple. As I was trying to fish it out The Future-Ex Mrs. Davies walked in to the room. She enquired as to why I was trying to milk myself. I quickly said that I wasn't, but before I could explain she saw the yoke all over the carpet. Harsh words were exchanged. Have retreated to the kitchen to fetch a sponge.
Floor scrubbed. Laid down some newspaper. Rubbed egg. Cracked over sheet of paper. Said lines out loud. Stood around for ten minutes. Nothing happened. Made The Future Ex-Mrs. Davies a cup of tea. She's not speaking to me.
Just ate entire packet of Jaffa Cakes. Egg thing doesn't work.
So yeah, surprisingly the egg thing is a bust. Although maybe it’s me.
Maybe I’m just too old to understand it.