Every year without knowing, you unceremoniously pass through the exact date, month and time that you will die.
Wooh!
Less scarily, once a year you pass through the through the exact date, month and time you were physically disconnected from your mother and ‘born’.
Equally, in a somewhat sleazy way (because nobody wants to think about their parents having sex) once a year you pass through the exactly date, month and time that you were conceived. For some reason we don’t mark or celebrate this occasion. Indeed, the thought of my parents bodies sweaty with lust and at the height of climax makes me need to shower with bleach.
We gloss over the moment of conception, and instead we attach importance to the severance of our umbilical chords.
Now then, let’s make this about me. Not that I ever talk about myself or how I’m perfect in every way, but today is actually my birthday, so I have an excuse for a bit of self-preening.
I have tried to explain before about how I remain a sweet and angelic 19 year old despite having had many more birthdays than the average 19 year old.
This is because my brain didn’t get stuck compared to most others and I don’t appear to keep replaying over and over the same five or six years of my life.
Instead, for reasons outside of my control (and that really bug so many others), I enjoy everything around me with the wonderment and excitement of a teenager. I can’t help it, it’s like that and that’s the way it is. Huh!
Everybody over the age of 35 seems to notice that 35 was sort of their physical ‘peak’ and thereafter on the roller-coaster of life they are running extremely and inexplicably fast on the downward track towards death. So, having a teenage mind trapped in a failing old body, a combination which is considered by grumpy old men to be a sin, I do look around to identify others equally afflicted.
Obviously, I shared this affliction with John Peel. Unconsolingly, sadly Mr Peel is dead, so I don’t dwell on that too much. So, keeping it with my music loving, I’m similar to the lovely Annie Nightingale, Radio 1’s oldest DJ, a lady who despite being over 150 years old (f’narr, she’s just under 70 really) can still out-party those a fifth of her age, and loves her breaks and beats music. Good on her! Liking this kind of music is of course illegal in the eyes of the age fascists who try to tell you what you must like and dislike because of your age.
Next on my list of forever youngs is Jonathan Ross. He’s 50, but still has that exciting air of childishness about him, identifying with his teenage offspring and living a very bohemian life. Good for him. He gets da yoof and can enjoy yoof stuff, despite having a most peculiar non-yoof-like Guy Fawkes beard these days. I have grown to love and respect him very much in the last few years for some reason.
Beyond these two main (living) examples, I do struggle to find people afflicted with similar quirks. However, they are there. I am not alone.
An interesting aside is the co-incidence that all our soul-mates tend to be much younger than we are. People our own age, I guess, just seem so old!
Well, anyway, today’s my birthday and I’d better go and get ready.
We’ve booked a McDonalds Ocean Adventure birthday party complete with cake and hats and games.
An hour and a half of magic! I’m so excited.
England's England 