Getting on

So Im driving back from Wareham, open road ahead of me, sun beating down on my shoulders, arm out the window and music blaring out loudly, when Against All Odds comes on the CD.

I start to blast out my dulcet tones as loud as i'm able when he sings "And you coming back to me, is against the odds". With a sudden lurch my voice grinds to a halt.

I realise in horror that I can no longer reach the high notes! Now I know that my smoking has put pay to my headlining at the Apollo, but until that point I still thought I had a shot of a round of applause at the local Karaoke bar. Now the only people liable to pay to hear me sing is my mum and the Hand Bags and Bonnets Society, at the Village Hall, and quite honestly... they're a tough crowd. I dropped a ventriloquist down there a few weeks back, only to find his puppet in shreads and half his trousers ripped off when I picked him up.

Apparently they thought Billy Banger and his Marvellous Monkey was a very different show to the one he was expecting to put on.

I accept that my voice no longer kicks ass as it once did, and that I am no longer a british rival to Bill Withers. It is the fact that depressingly, rather like a dying star getting sucked up into a black hole, I am heading mercilessly into middle age.

Let me give you the best example I can think of. I have a craving to hold a dinner party!

I know

As if its not bad enough that my cooking genes clearly came from my father, and that asking me to cook a three course meal is akin to asking Sweeney Todd for a crew cut, but I am actually thinking it might be fun to play trivial persuit afterwards!

I think back to the days when a great night out was about walking into a bar so tightly packed that skipjack tuna couldn't have done better. Getting a pint thrown over your newly ironed shirt as you wrestle to the bar. Being ignored by the spotty teenager, who is only serving his friends and big breasted women called Sharon. Then its off to a club where the floor is stickier than the glasses, where the toilet runs around the block, where the music is louder than a demolition crew, where the drinks cost more than the nose cone of the space shuttle.

You leave the club for an oily kebab, only to spill chilli sauce down your trousers, making it look like you've soiled yourself. Make it back to the flat, preferably with a semi comatosed leaning post next to you. A quick chat to God on the big white telephone in the toilet then its crawling into bed to attempt an ascent of the sleeping camel that has stolen most of your bed and all of your duvet.

Great Night!

Its not just Nights out though. I drive slower now, No longer the Michael Schumaker that raced through the streets, tearing through red lights, and revving up infront of pretty girls. I have stuff now, wooden statues of african conga drummers that remind me of a time when I didnt care about african conga drummers, Pictures of Nephews that I havent seen for three years.

And then theres friends.

There was a time when finding a new supply of friends was as easy as it is now to find your local drug dealer, but as time goes on and people drift apart, you find yourself left with a very comfortable set of close and very lovable friends that given the opportunity you would rather text than talk to in person.

I think as the sun sets on my younger days, and I enter the quagmire of midddle ages, I may have just one or two adventures left before I start using my real name at hotels, or mow the lawn in lines, or actually compare the prices of wine at the shops, or buy a spreadsheet newspaper, or think that £15 is an excellent price for entrance to the Dinosaur Museum.

Maybe just one more adventure.