(no subject)
Well. It's decision time. I've always, for some reason, had a bit of an obssession with the number 27. I'm always drawn to it if I'm ever asked to pick a number (feel free to remember this information and then, if you're ever in the pub with me, pretend to be psychic) and it's the number I'd put my life savings on at the roulette table if I ever found myself in a casino. It's also the number on the back of my personalised Blackburn Rovers shirt- though the name 'Matigol' above it convinces well-informed football fans that it's an oblique and frankly ill-judged tribute to babyfaced bench-warmer Matt Derbyshire.
27 is also the most rock 'n' roll number there is, because it's the most dangerous age to be a rock star. It's the age at which Hendrix choked on his returning lunch, Jim Morrison checked out in a bath-tub, Kurt Cobain redecorated the garage wall with the inside of his head, Janice Joplin chased the dragon a bit too far and Richey Edwards plunged into the River Severn (any Manics fans who think he's still alive can feel free to comment further at www.forfuckssakegetoverit.com).
And I turned 27 last Saturday.
Maybe my long fascination with the number is a sign that, at some point in the next 12 months, I'm going to come to a very sticky, very messy rock 'n' roll end. This is, of course, very appealing. I don't have a death wish, far from it, but death is something that comes to us all in the end (literally) and therefore it's worth putting an effort into making your particular terminal experience that little bit more spectacular and memorable than everyone else's.
And there's plenty of scope for going about this particular endeavour in a suitably bizarre manner. I could, for instance, pump so many drugs into my system that I choked to death while trying to ingest my own lungs. Or I could lose a fight with a horny elk, fly a tin-foil hanglider into a lightning storm or I dress up as a suspicious package and hang around terminal 4 of Heathrow till the bomb disposal team turn up.
I could even die in a bizarre gardening accident.
The thing is, I don't really want to. I actually want to get a bit healthy. You see, 16 years ago, I started secondary school and met a few people who became, over time, my closest and bestest friends. We're still mates now and along the way we gained some new faces until a rather impressive circle of chums had built up. They have become, to get gushy for a moment, everything a man could want from his pals- always funny, always there for each other, always ports in a storm, always and forever making me a better person just by being around them. And, in the time-honoured tradition of British social convention, we've spent most of our time with each other getting drunk.
We've also gradually spread out across the country. Most of us grew up in Blackburn, then went to University, then a few came back and then a few went away again until this group that spent much of it's formative years in a single living room is now spread across an area between the twin posts of Cheltenham and Lancaster. In a few days another will leave the East Lancashire nest for pastures new in deepest, darkest Bristol.
As is often the case, this move down south is part of a step up the career ladder- a sure fire sign that we're all, irreversibly, growing up. I'm similarly in the process of passing a similar life-improvement mile-post as I come to the end of my PGCE and search for the first career rung that will allow me to bang on to successive generations of teenagers about Powell and Pressburger films. Times they are a-changing.
I've become overwhelmed by this realisation that my closest drinking buddies will soon be that little bit more spread out across the country and going to the pub for a few ales with them will involve a ruinously expensive commute. This has been combined with the fact that I may have to become a bit professional if I actually want to get on in lecturing and has therefore led me to view my 27th birthday not as the green flag for my inexorable slide into debauched rock 'n' roll oblivion but as the time when I start going to the gym properly and doing sit-ups.
A near-decade of fairly consistent drinking have left me, for want of a more flattering word, fat and now vanity appears to have kicked in. I don't like my belly being my largest organ, my belt leaving moderate flesh wounds and my jeans being so tight around my thighs that it's possible (though not advisable) to look at my naked right upper-leg and count how much change I had in my pocket. Also, as summer finally gets its act together and kicks in, I'm going to start spending all day coated in a thin film of sweat which will become a steady presipitation of persperation the moment I undertake any sort of physical activity like walking to the shop or opening a beer.
Losing a few pounds is going to be a hell of an effort on my part- seeing as I'm an inveterate snacker and that my previous attempts to regularly visit the gym have left me broken, battered and strained in a variety of intriguing and innovative places. Only last week I paid a cursory visit to the local David Lloyd centre and got into an idiotic spot of silent one-upmanship with a middle-aged chap on the rowing machines which left me with a neck so sore I've been unable to look even slightly to the left or right without shrieking in agony.
This, in turn, has made even the swiftest of glances into the blindspot while lane-swapping on the M6 a study in excruciating pain. The alternative would be to ignore this little glimpse of what's alongside but, early-morning traffic being what it is, this is inviting probable death.
And, at the age of 27, that wouldn't be near enough a rock 'n' roll enough way to go.
27 is also the most rock 'n' roll number there is, because it's the most dangerous age to be a rock star. It's the age at which Hendrix choked on his returning lunch, Jim Morrison checked out in a bath-tub, Kurt Cobain redecorated the garage wall with the inside of his head, Janice Joplin chased the dragon a bit too far and Richey Edwards plunged into the River Severn (any Manics fans who think he's still alive can feel free to comment further at www.forfuckssakegetoverit.com).
And I turned 27 last Saturday.
Maybe my long fascination with the number is a sign that, at some point in the next 12 months, I'm going to come to a very sticky, very messy rock 'n' roll end. This is, of course, very appealing. I don't have a death wish, far from it, but death is something that comes to us all in the end (literally) and therefore it's worth putting an effort into making your particular terminal experience that little bit more spectacular and memorable than everyone else's.
And there's plenty of scope for going about this particular endeavour in a suitably bizarre manner. I could, for instance, pump so many drugs into my system that I choked to death while trying to ingest my own lungs. Or I could lose a fight with a horny elk, fly a tin-foil hanglider into a lightning storm or I dress up as a suspicious package and hang around terminal 4 of Heathrow till the bomb disposal team turn up.
I could even die in a bizarre gardening accident.
The thing is, I don't really want to. I actually want to get a bit healthy. You see, 16 years ago, I started secondary school and met a few people who became, over time, my closest and bestest friends. We're still mates now and along the way we gained some new faces until a rather impressive circle of chums had built up. They have become, to get gushy for a moment, everything a man could want from his pals- always funny, always there for each other, always ports in a storm, always and forever making me a better person just by being around them. And, in the time-honoured tradition of British social convention, we've spent most of our time with each other getting drunk.
We've also gradually spread out across the country. Most of us grew up in Blackburn, then went to University, then a few came back and then a few went away again until this group that spent much of it's formative years in a single living room is now spread across an area between the twin posts of Cheltenham and Lancaster. In a few days another will leave the East Lancashire nest for pastures new in deepest, darkest Bristol.
As is often the case, this move down south is part of a step up the career ladder- a sure fire sign that we're all, irreversibly, growing up. I'm similarly in the process of passing a similar life-improvement mile-post as I come to the end of my PGCE and search for the first career rung that will allow me to bang on to successive generations of teenagers about Powell and Pressburger films. Times they are a-changing.
I've become overwhelmed by this realisation that my closest drinking buddies will soon be that little bit more spread out across the country and going to the pub for a few ales with them will involve a ruinously expensive commute. This has been combined with the fact that I may have to become a bit professional if I actually want to get on in lecturing and has therefore led me to view my 27th birthday not as the green flag for my inexorable slide into debauched rock 'n' roll oblivion but as the time when I start going to the gym properly and doing sit-ups.
A near-decade of fairly consistent drinking have left me, for want of a more flattering word, fat and now vanity appears to have kicked in. I don't like my belly being my largest organ, my belt leaving moderate flesh wounds and my jeans being so tight around my thighs that it's possible (though not advisable) to look at my naked right upper-leg and count how much change I had in my pocket. Also, as summer finally gets its act together and kicks in, I'm going to start spending all day coated in a thin film of sweat which will become a steady presipitation of persperation the moment I undertake any sort of physical activity like walking to the shop or opening a beer.
Losing a few pounds is going to be a hell of an effort on my part- seeing as I'm an inveterate snacker and that my previous attempts to regularly visit the gym have left me broken, battered and strained in a variety of intriguing and innovative places. Only last week I paid a cursory visit to the local David Lloyd centre and got into an idiotic spot of silent one-upmanship with a middle-aged chap on the rowing machines which left me with a neck so sore I've been unable to look even slightly to the left or right without shrieking in agony.
This, in turn, has made even the swiftest of glances into the blindspot while lane-swapping on the M6 a study in excruciating pain. The alternative would be to ignore this little glimpse of what's alongside but, early-morning traffic being what it is, this is inviting probable death.
And, at the age of 27, that wouldn't be near enough a rock 'n' roll enough way to go.