Once upon a time we were swivel-hipped young bucks with the world at our feet.
Anything we wanted was ours for the taking. Days were long, nights were wild and possibilities were endless.
Then we got jobs, bought houses, got married, had kids, the kids grew up and we moved up a generation. In the blink of an eye, the early 90s ravers are pushing 50 and an embarrassment to their children.
When did everything stop making sense?
Here’s one example. I’ve been watching football all my life and even goal celebrations are a mystery now. Eric Cantona with his collar popped and his hands on his hips, Roy Keane’s “Here’s Johnny!” impression with his eyes bulging and veins bursting out of his temples and Ryan Giggs running around Villa Park in hysterics, twirling his shirt around his head – these primal instincts I understand.
Last Saturday, thanks to a bionic performance from goalkeeper David De Gea, Man United won 3-1 at Arsenal.
Jesse Lingard, a young squad player with a delicious habit of scoring vital goals in big games, bagged two and celebrated his first with a handful of his team-mates by doing, it says here, a Milly Rock dance.
Nope, me neither. I don’t know about you but when my team scores, reality stops for about 15 seconds and no matter where I am, in my head I’m ballooning around the Stretford End.
When Anthony Martial scored on his debut against Liverpool in 2015 I was at work, on the sports desk of a national newspaper.
By the time I’d come to, I was aware I’d been screaming for some time.
Am I that old and knackered now that I can’t even join in properly when United score? It’s come to something when footballers are making cultural references that go over your head.
When daughter #1 gives us a lift and we have her music on (driver’s prerogative), I hear the words of my father watching Top Of The Pops in 1984 coming out of my mouth: “Is this music now?”, “This is just noise” and “I can’t understand a word they’re saying”.
Hey, you’ve got to have some fun.