The rough and tumble of twenty-something life

I recently visited my old university town.  Its coming up to 7 years since I left – it was nice, although full of a lot more children than I remember.  My girlfriend asked if I thought we could pass for students to the other students.  No.  We look like nearly-30 year olds looked to you when you were 19.  Like grown ups.

I’m sure grown ups when I was 19 had it a lot more sorted.  They had proper jobs with dull suits, they owned cars and were going giddy inflating property prices. Thanks guys.  At the end of the 90s houses only cost a fiver.  Now you can barely get a sandwich for that.  Still I’m happier now.  All this unemployment has given me time to think, to develop a sage like wisdom by 28.  You cannot put a price on that, although neither does it get you a sandwich.

I remember visiting uni a year after I left.  That time I was pretty sad.  It was like visiting an ex.  You thought it had been a mutual decision to split up, but a year later you realise you’re still in love with them.  By devastating contrast, they’ve completely moved on.  There is some new guy, a jock called Tim who thinks downing pints of sick is hilarious, wearing flip flops and tracksuit bottoms is acceptable and he uses the word ‘banter’ to thinly veil misogyny.  Tim is a dick.  Your ex seems to think this is fine though and has no idea who you are… Excuse me?

7 years is easier - you’ve met someone new too.  Someone with a career, savings, someone who has travelled.  Your uni however is still making the same mistakes. In fact uni’s problems get worse.  The recession has taken away most interesting shops in the centre, leaving surely more Sainsbury’s Locals than necessary. They’ve ‘regenerated’ the part of town that used to be cool too, opening a Costa, a Subway and now everywhere is doing deals for JaegerBombs.

Anyway.

Of course, just like meeting an ex, you’re only going to present your best bits – sure you rode a storm, but now you’re stronger than you ever were!  You’re classy too.  No JaegerBombs, you drink Martini Espressos. 

Late that evening, my sage like wisdom was unexpectedly holding court, and I was dispensing advice to these teenly undergraduates.   Their faces were so fresh and hopeful.  Maybe I had had a martini espresso too many (turns out they are just JaegerBombs for yuppies), so I couldn’t help delivering the harsh honesty.  In the first year after I finished my degree, I made 5000 cups of tea.  5000.  I worked it out once, probably whilst making tea.  I had a degree in philosophy – of course I made tea.  I didn’t just make tea though, I flyered too.  I filed.  I painted house boats.  I worked in bars.  I worked in night clubs.  I did all these things because… life gets hard… guys OK?!? (I really may have had too many martinis) But, you find a way *hiccup*, you know?  And there’s all this tax, which no one explained… And you live with people, and you cook nice dinners together… who wants another drink??... and people can actually cook now.  I had to fix a tap recently.  It’s nice, even when you find yourself sobbing over cereal thinking WHAT THE HELL AM I DOING, because people lookgfershemanOHMYGOD I LOVE THIS SONG…

And with that I got up dancing.  That was one thing I had definitely got getter at since I was at uni.  All that bar work.  No more of that ‘ironic dancing’, a decade of clubbing has made me snakehips McGhie. 

He moves like liquid silk.

He has all the moves.

He looks so great right now.

He has had too many martinis, and he slips and twists his ankle.  My ankles aren’t what they used to be.

I go from guru to crumpled uncle, decrepit and past it.  The one youth not too embarrassed to chat to me helps me up.  In my self loathing fantasy, she has a fashion-app-start up already because all kids are tech savvy business freaks, riding some social media wave that I just failed to catch.  Actually, no.  She has no idea what she wants to do, and is still wide eyed at the world that awaits her.  My girlfriends eyes are rolling however. 

Suddenly, I realise exactly how I’ve grown up.  I may still have no idea what I want, but as I limp to chair blabbing about making 2000 coffees too, in 7 years I have at least learnt a lot about what I don’t want to do.  Pow?

Rejected By Sunday Times Style

Tomorrow, I've somehow managed to get a piece in Sunday Times Style.  I know?  It's a piece about a man's perspective on whether attitudes towards courtship have changed.

This is what I first wrote, which was totally panned.  However, it was later picked up by this blog.

Nostalgia fest.  Get ready.
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Macy’s was a popular nightspot – frankly the place to be.  It was above a bowling alley every Friday on an edge of town trading estate in Nottingham.  They did foam parties and at the end of the night, you would stickily walk to your parent’s car.  Often by 9pm, the sun had not even started to go down.  We were 13 and the party was shamelessly referred to as a ‘nappy night’.

The ritual of courtship at these nights was not subtle.  On seeing someone you liked, you would tell a friend who’s job it was to see if they liked you back.  There was no discussion, instead they would immediately go over to ask the recipient of your affection “will you get off with my mate?”.  You were then inspected.  We later worked out that at this point a second friend was helpful so you could fake a conversation – otherwise you were left standing awkwardly, a mess of hair gel and lynx, as you awaited the verdict.  Like Tinder you would try and look your best, unlike Tinder you had to witness your rejection.  It builds character.

The goal of these nights was always to kiss as many people as possible.  On the drive home, we would compare notes and numbers – I think my PB was 5.  Nobody ever beat Lee Taylor’s 32.  He eventually contracted glandular fever. 

I do not recall there being a difference of approach between the genders.  Maybe girls were more selective, but certainly they were as likely to approach someone they liked, no stigma attached.  Hey – it was 1998, Geri hadn’t quit the band and ‘girl power’ was ringing loudly in our ears.

Friends just a few years older tell me that when they were at school, there were definitely more ‘traditionally’ defined gender roles to courting.  Julie who would have been 13 in 1989 tells me you were basically Madonna if a girl asked out a boy.   Raunchy.  However, she never went to a nappy night, being more a of a village hall sort of girl.  Perhaps I am just more cosmopolitan.

These days, I find people a little bit backward if they think women should wait to be chased.  I was recently performing at a speed-dating night and one of the other acts booked was an academic doing a talk on ‘The Psychology of Attraction’ (it was a science themed speed dating night).  He was awful.

After spending a long time clearing his throat, the lecturer began his talk by describing women as some sort of uncatalogued species, not yet fully understood and best approached with caution.  He certainly did not betray much field experience.  It then turned out he had not finished clearing his throat at all, and the rest of his talk to the aghast audience was almost endless phlegmy noises done unapologetically noisily down a mic, punctuated by what seemed to be tips from “The Game”.

“HARRUMPHHYAGUUAUAHSHSANANAHUH… Negging involves hurting women with back handed compliments so you can then build up their confidence e.g. “They’re nice nails, are they fake?”.”

No wonder women would stop ‘waiting to be chased’ with the creeps like this dropping clumsy insults to try and manipulate them into bed, instead of just talking to them.

My friend Polly (13 in 2001, early Britney Spears fan) tells me I am definitely wrong.  On the dating app Tinder she is definitely warey of being the first to initiate conversations as it is against the rules.   Although she does miss the fact that before you can speak to people, you’ve already ‘swiped right’ to say that you like them.  Tinder is a bit like that friend at Macy’s but only comes back with the good news.  Nevertheless, I have apparently been oblivious to this sexual etiquette, probably because I am more concerned with the ebb and flow of my own desirability, trying to look cool while I wait to see who likes me – can I afford dinner in that restaurant?  Is that person funnier?  Is this confident act working…  I am not really bothered about the rules, I just want to like someone who likes me back.