Ahoy there! Haven't seen you lot for a long time. I'm not gonna be all like, 'Ohh, so sorry I haven't blogged in a while, I've been so busy!' and all that crap. For one, I'm not sorry! Nobody gives a flying rat's ass if I haven't blogged and secondly, I haven't been 'so busy', I've just been a bit wedged into the sofa with 2 week old Oreo crumbs and a Canadian coin which the Sainsbury's self checkout wouldn't accept. You know, the usual.
Can you believe it's November already? The year has gone faster than a take-away slice of a 12 inch Hawaiian in a ravenous pigeon infested car park. Dare I mention the 'C' word? No not that, you filthy soul...CHRISTMAS! Pronounced Crimbo, for the annoying, lazy with the English language folk. (I hate that word. It even hurts to type it.) There also seems to be another event fast approaching. My twenty-something birthday. For some reason though, I'm not even that excited. Sigh.
It's not like the old days anymore is it? When you send out little invitations with giant pink bunnies with ribbons or shiny red racing cars (depending on your gender, or who knows, boys may secretly like giant pink bun buns) and you have a little party at your house with cheesy nibbles in a bowl, pass the odd-shaped parcel and a little bag to take home containing a slice of cake and a deflated balloon. Apologies if I'm all wrong and you're still doing this in your 40's. Ha!
After this phase, you get a little older and unleash your rebellious streak by hiding in the alley, while your older brother's friend, who carries a ghetto blaster on his shoulder, buys you a bottle of White Lightning's finest cider and a cheap cigar, so you can sit on a climbing frame and get pissed off 2 sips and 1 drag. Again, apologies if you still do this.
Then...your 18th birthday arrives and you're 'finally legal' to go out properly, wearing a silky sash from Clinton Cards that reads, 'Lock Up Your Sons'. Classy bird alert! You're so fricking high on the fact that you can finally get into a pub without that 'rabbit caught in the headlights' look, when the burly bouncer asks you for your date of birth. Yay! Wow! Down another cocktail, then a Sambuca, then someone's unfinished pint then another Sambuca and then the contents of an ashtray that somebody spilled wine in. Watch out for the broken glass! Everything's a glitzy, glamorous, Julie Andrews spinning on top of a hill blur until you've reached that gleaming, pearly white palace that you've never been before....A & E!! Yeah, that'll teach you. Calm down, 18 year old self, you've got plenty of time for drinking out of ashtrays. (This wasn't me. It was a friend. Honest.)
After all that, 'I'm an adult now' shit, you start to calm down a lot and go for 'prissy old twit' meals with your closest friends and family or significant other, if you're lucky enough to find someone who doesn't mind Sambucafied ashtray breath. You might even be surprised with a cheeky trip to Paris or even Frankie & Benny's, and have a violinist with a drawn on moustache serenade you after the dopey waitress grinded too much pepper on your not so reasonably priced meal. (To be honest, I've never eaten at Frankie & Benny's so I'm not sure if the moustaches are drawn on or not.)
I don't even feel the divine thrills leading up to my birthday anymore. It's weird. I used to be really excited about getting presents, getting drunk, getting serenaded (okay, that never happened) and finding the shoe...in McDonalds not the manky old club I lost it in the night before. What happened?
Well, I think the reason why I'm not that excited about my birthday anymore is because....I hate aging! There I said it! I know people who are older than me think I'm a complete weirdo for even thinking I'm old, but it scares me when I sit and reminisce about the 1990's like Uncle Albert from Only Fools And Horses...'During the war...' Arghhh! Can't I just get bitten on the arse by Edward Cullen and live forever as a 20 something, feasting on wildlife in the forest and sit reading Shakespeare? Okay, let's be serious now....as if I'd be lucky enough to get bitten on the arse by Edward Cullen.
I don't really have a point to this post, I think I'm just blabbing on really. Hope you don't mind. Can I just ask something? Did anyone's dad ever pretend he bought you a really big gift in a really big box but when you open it you find that the contents are actually a really shit mop? Yeah, my 10th birthday was the next chapter in my life of doing household chores. If you've experienced this, will you give me a tweet? I think we would get on really well. Thanks.
Oh, hold on! I do have a point. DRINK RESPONSIBLY!! Ashtrays leave a real nasty aftertaste the next morning you know!
P.S I'm that old, smoking was allowed in pubs when I was 18. Not old enough that people walked around with ghetto blasters on their shoulders though. My brother's friend was just plain weird.