Friday, 7 March 2008
O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done
There are many opposing ideas about the exact point at which one crosses the line into adulthood. Some say it's when you lose your virginity. Others insist it is the day you pass your driving test. They can't both be right, because I did one of those twenty years ago but have never managed the other to this day, and the only freakish adult/child hybrids currently known to British medical science are still Ant and Dec.
Getting older is a different experience for everyone. There are those who seem to retain their youth well into middle age without the use of radical cosmetic surgery. And there are others whose craggy looks and stroppy demeanour make them seem a couple of decades older than their actual chronological age. Step forward, Mr Wayne Rooney.
Ageing seems to happen more quickly at some times than at others. "You're only as old as you feel," people say. For most of my twenties, as I shrugged my carefree way between temping jobs and postgraduate degrees, I still felt about 17. Then after the last five minutes of the match on Tuesday night, when Town's hopes of a trip to Wembley were under relentless bombardment from Morecambe's hefty forward line, I felt about 90.
Indeed, my mood has continued beyond my years for the rest of the week. This weekend's match has not helped. When the two greatest evils of the modern game combine in one fixture, you're bound to come over a bit crotchety.
It's bad enough having to watch your team play against a shameless franchise operation instead of a legitimate football club, but when it's on a Friday night as well it's all you can do not to book yourself into the nearest care home for the elderly, develop premature dementia and spend the week explaining to the staff that it wasn't like that in your day and the world is going to Hell in a handcart, and all those other weary clichés that people recite from the Daily Express when they're a bit fed up.
At the same time, though, there are always things that make you feel young again. Springtime does the trick. A good night out never fails. And it's surprising how often I meet 18-year-olds who have projected their entire career structure, earnings and annual pension contributions on an interactive Excel spreadsheet.
Personally, I'd like to see Justin Whittle back in the side and playing as many games as possible between now and the end of the season. Because the real indicator that you're properly grown-up is when you're older than every player in the team you support. And since Sir John McDermott retired, the Sarge is all I have left to cling to.
Getting older is a different experience for everyone. There are those who seem to retain their youth well into middle age without the use of radical cosmetic surgery. And there are others whose craggy looks and stroppy demeanour make them seem a couple of decades older than their actual chronological age. Step forward, Mr Wayne Rooney.
Ageing seems to happen more quickly at some times than at others. "You're only as old as you feel," people say. For most of my twenties, as I shrugged my carefree way between temping jobs and postgraduate degrees, I still felt about 17. Then after the last five minutes of the match on Tuesday night, when Town's hopes of a trip to Wembley were under relentless bombardment from Morecambe's hefty forward line, I felt about 90.
Indeed, my mood has continued beyond my years for the rest of the week. This weekend's match has not helped. When the two greatest evils of the modern game combine in one fixture, you're bound to come over a bit crotchety.
It's bad enough having to watch your team play against a shameless franchise operation instead of a legitimate football club, but when it's on a Friday night as well it's all you can do not to book yourself into the nearest care home for the elderly, develop premature dementia and spend the week explaining to the staff that it wasn't like that in your day and the world is going to Hell in a handcart, and all those other weary clichés that people recite from the Daily Express when they're a bit fed up.
At the same time, though, there are always things that make you feel young again. Springtime does the trick. A good night out never fails. And it's surprising how often I meet 18-year-olds who have projected their entire career structure, earnings and annual pension contributions on an interactive Excel spreadsheet.
Personally, I'd like to see Justin Whittle back in the side and playing as many games as possible between now and the end of the season. Because the real indicator that you're properly grown-up is when you're older than every player in the team you support. And since Sir John McDermott retired, the Sarge is all I have left to cling to.
Labels: age, ageing, football league trophy, mcdermott, morecambe, rooney, time, wembley, whittle
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