One Foot in the Rave

Getting older is a horrible experience. As I hurtle towards the big 3-0 I find myself spending more and more time thinking about how I got to where I am. It is that time in life when you start to realise you are an adult no matter how hard to fight it. After much soul searching I ended up with one unanswered question. When do you finally think ‘Fuck it’ and give in to Adulthood?
Most of us spent our twenties still doing the same old shit we did when we were teenagers. Out on the town, on the pull, trying to impress the wee dolls. Then every one of us gets to the immortal juncture in life that begins with the phrase ‘It’s very young in here’. Suddenly your favourite haunt seems to be letting an awful lot of kids in. Of course this is a conspiracy perpetrated by paedophile bouncers to get at some young ‘uns. Nope, you’re just getting older.
At this stage it is usually practice to try and find a younger woman to go out with as you try your best to make some steps towards the inevitability that is Adulthood but in the most half assed way possible. There is nothing better than, when pushing 30, telling your mates you’re seeing a 21 year old. That is until that fateful night you’re out with her and her hot friends, giving it the whole ‘I’m not old, honest’ dance and then the clock strikes eleven and you start to feel it. Tiredness hits you like a bus, limbs ache from flailing them around like an epileptic falling off a cliff and the idea of a nice cuppa before bed is more appetising to you than a ham sandwich to an Ethiopian. Is this the point when you stop and act your age? No, you keep on dancing hoping they don’t notice the beads of sweat now running into your bum cleavage. God forbid the missus has a dose of the horn when you get home because you’ll be out for the count while she’s away slipping into something a ‘little more comfortable’.

If only this were the end of the problem but, in fact, it is just the beginning. The man hangover is yet to start. We all remember the days of heavy drinking and being fresh faced and ready for action the next morning. Not anymore my friend. It’s two days of feeling like you have AIDS. The excitement of the young girlfriend slips when her incessant energy followed by attempts to get you out for more fun leaves you planning how to dispose of the murder weapon.
 

I’ll never forget my own personal epiphany when on a night out looking for love. After a couple of unsuccessful pulling sessions a friend decided to call in the A-Team. A group of friends who were legendary Lotharios and never failed to charm the birds. We went out and met these legends only to find they were the typical ‘legends in their own lunchtime’. One was about 34 and looked like his penchant for steroids surpassed that of Johnny Adair. With a surname like the legendary secret agent his ‘genius’ chat up line was ‘the name’s Bond, Unibond. I’ll fill yer crack’. Oh almighty Don Juan, no doubt they are dripping like a George Foreman grill when you utter that immortal line. Prick.

The last straw for me was when I witnessed their tactics for the hunt. Was it to approach a group of ladies in a charming and non-threatening way? Was it to split into pairs and pick them off two at a time? No, it was standing close enough to the girls toilets to smell the stale piss and each time a girl came out one of them would mutter a clichéd ‘Phwoar, look at that’. At this point I went home for a cuppa and a wank.

The short time I spent watching these idiots in action I had an out of body experience. I saw in them how pathetic older men look when out on the pull. A self help group for sex offenders wouldn’t have looked as seedy or shockingly offensive. It was time to grow older gracefully, time to look into mortgages, pensions and kidney dialysis before it’s too late.

I think we spend too much time fighting the inevitable instead of embracing it and moving on before you end up on some sort of register after a night out. Or at least try a cougar or two, they’ll always make you feel young again.

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