I recently went to see Biffy Clyro at DeMontfort Hall in Leicester. In the middle of the mosh pit, surrounded by a sea of flailing teenagers there was one older guy with grey hair. I stared at this odd man out until I suddenly realised- that weirdo is my father.
He turned fifty-five recently and at this turning point where most men buy red sport cars my Dad started going to rock gigs. Mum permitted him to shave off his beard and grow his hair longer, she tolerated his newfound penchant for black jeans, I only hope she’ll step in before he gets ‘love’ and ‘hate’ tattooed on his knuckles.
I observed these changes in my father as you might watch a natural history programme. Sometimes in my head I imagine a voice over by David Attenborough, such as “And now, the adult male only too aware of his own mortality will act like a complete twat”. Fully confident that, being female, I was less likely to have a mid-life crisis and even if I did it was at least a couple of decades away.
How wrong I was.
A couple of months ago I turned twenty-five. Usually I wake up on my birthday very excited that for a whole day I can freely be a pain in the arse and no one is permitted to tell me off. I’m the sort of person who tells everyone it’s their birthday- the postman, the cashier in the grocers, the tramp sitting on the floor outside the grocers. But on this particular occasion I felt like I wanted to keep it a secret.
I started to think about all the things I should have done by now. I rooted out an old diary from school as I knew I’d written a list entitled ‘Things to Do Before I’m 25’. I hadn’t done too badly- I had succeeded in two points: A Get a boyfriend and B Move to London. I had failed on points C and D though. I have not travelled around the world and it’s unlikely that I’ll win the Nobel prize for Literature in the ten months left before I turn 26. I had also failed on the final point E - Get an Andrex Puppy.
I started to fixate on this- I’d always wanted a dog. Why hadn’t I got one? Because to have a dog you need to have a house with a garden. Why don’t I have a house with a garden? Because I don’t have any money. Had I made a mistake picking an industry where it’s rare you earn the mega-bucks? Should I give it all up and become a financial advisor?
This line of thought led to an entire afternoon spent on facebook obsessively looking at what all my University mates were up to. I haven’t been on facebook for such a length of time since the Great Cider Upchucking of 2006 when I spent a full day de-tagging photos of myself.
My first instinct was to go for a haircut. I got a fringe, a straight across one like I had back when I was twelve and dreaming of Andrex Puppies. My second thought was to pretend that I was still at University and hadn’t grown up. I visited a friend in Bristol and we went to a nightclub. On the way in I was delighted to be ID-ed by the bouncer. The fringe was clearly working. I showed him my driving licence with such pride you’d think I was presenting him with the Nobel Prize I haven’t won yet.
My friend went to the bar but I headed straight to the floor and started dancing around enthusiastically. Soon I was beginning to feel a bit tired, I’m usually in bed by now I thought, and the music seemed a bit loud. I paused and looked around. There I was in the middle of the dance floor surrounded by a sea of flailing teenagers. Not only was I getting older, but I was turning into my father.
I heard a voice in my head: “And now, the adult female only too aware of her own mortality will act like a complete twat”.
He turned fifty-five recently and at this turning point where most men buy red sport cars my Dad started going to rock gigs. Mum permitted him to shave off his beard and grow his hair longer, she tolerated his newfound penchant for black jeans, I only hope she’ll step in before he gets ‘love’ and ‘hate’ tattooed on his knuckles.
I observed these changes in my father as you might watch a natural history programme. Sometimes in my head I imagine a voice over by David Attenborough, such as “And now, the adult male only too aware of his own mortality will act like a complete twat”. Fully confident that, being female, I was less likely to have a mid-life crisis and even if I did it was at least a couple of decades away.
How wrong I was.
A couple of months ago I turned twenty-five. Usually I wake up on my birthday very excited that for a whole day I can freely be a pain in the arse and no one is permitted to tell me off. I’m the sort of person who tells everyone it’s their birthday- the postman, the cashier in the grocers, the tramp sitting on the floor outside the grocers. But on this particular occasion I felt like I wanted to keep it a secret.
I started to think about all the things I should have done by now. I rooted out an old diary from school as I knew I’d written a list entitled ‘Things to Do Before I’m 25’. I hadn’t done too badly- I had succeeded in two points: A Get a boyfriend and B Move to London. I had failed on points C and D though. I have not travelled around the world and it’s unlikely that I’ll win the Nobel prize for Literature in the ten months left before I turn 26. I had also failed on the final point E - Get an Andrex Puppy.
I started to fixate on this- I’d always wanted a dog. Why hadn’t I got one? Because to have a dog you need to have a house with a garden. Why don’t I have a house with a garden? Because I don’t have any money. Had I made a mistake picking an industry where it’s rare you earn the mega-bucks? Should I give it all up and become a financial advisor?
This line of thought led to an entire afternoon spent on facebook obsessively looking at what all my University mates were up to. I haven’t been on facebook for such a length of time since the Great Cider Upchucking of 2006 when I spent a full day de-tagging photos of myself.
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| Cider Chunder 2006: Scene of the Crime |
My first instinct was to go for a haircut. I got a fringe, a straight across one like I had back when I was twelve and dreaming of Andrex Puppies. My second thought was to pretend that I was still at University and hadn’t grown up. I visited a friend in Bristol and we went to a nightclub. On the way in I was delighted to be ID-ed by the bouncer. The fringe was clearly working. I showed him my driving licence with such pride you’d think I was presenting him with the Nobel Prize I haven’t won yet.
My friend went to the bar but I headed straight to the floor and started dancing around enthusiastically. Soon I was beginning to feel a bit tired, I’m usually in bed by now I thought, and the music seemed a bit loud. I paused and looked around. There I was in the middle of the dance floor surrounded by a sea of flailing teenagers. Not only was I getting older, but I was turning into my father.
I heard a voice in my head: “And now, the adult female only too aware of her own mortality will act like a complete twat”.
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