They can't read anything that's not in colourful italics next to a picture of Fearne Cotton

Come here and listen to your old pops. Sit on my knee. Would you like a non descript, unbranded, individually wrapped boiled sweet? It’s kind if a toffee/butterscotch deal. No? Ok….

Sitting comfortably? Good. Then I shall explain why I hate you and all of your friends.

Years ago, when all this was almost identical, and the similarities rolled on as far as the eye can see, I was Young. Yes there should be a capital letter there, and it should probably be written as ‘Young’. And have a ‘z’ on the end. It probably has it’s own ringtone based on a Hip-Hop-Filth-Trance club smashing, classic remix. It probably smokes cider based impetuousness. Outside libraries. In a bus stop. It can be anything it wants and symbolise everything we think means anything about being young, but it doesn’t seem to be about age.

I think it’s obvious then, that I now consider myself old. Or ‘Old’. Not aged and not youthful, just ‘Old’, and I’m ok with that. Kind of. Not that I was ever properly ‘Young’ in the first place, not in the definition of the word as I have used it, which to be fair only just makes sense to me so you lot have almost no chance. No. I was young obviously, that is how biological entities work. I started small, I liked cartoons and stickers, I almost certainly believed in foolish things. I wore a shell suit and at least had my infant status as an excuse. I waited up for Father Christmas and sat in the corner of the playground waiting for the tedious, shallow repetition of childhood to end. Just like all the other totally normal children. But I was never really ‘Young’.

Right. I’ve set up a nice flowery introduction. A mood has been created. I can probably get away with moaning about ‘the kids’ and all their annoying hip, trendy, young shit now. No one will even notice.

The capitalised nonsense of earlier was trying to underline a certain brand of child/youth/early stage carbon based life form. A species best defined as ‘the Ridiculous Twat’. The sort of terrifying, over confident cretin that exists in such high numbers you would be apprehensive about writing such an aggressively negative bit on them for fear of bloody, mass revolt, if you weren’t so sure they can’t read anything that’s not in colourful italics next to a picture of Fearne Cotton. Basically if you’re reading this and you don’t think it’s about you, I’m safe, and if you read this and it’s clearly about you, you’ll pretend it’s definitely not. So either way.

I’m talking about Skins. The television programme. Not actually the television programme or the actual characters therein. But that. Not that, but also exactly that. You know what I mean. Low cut v-necks, skin tight, rolled up, and stupid haired. Individual clones of familiar new sensibilities. I’m talking The Only Way Is Essex. I’m talking Made in bloody Chelsea. I’m talking about “no, this tattoo is an actual reproduction of an Incan tribal war paint”, I’m talking, like, like this, like because I’m so, like, y’know, like massively retarded. Like. I’m talking about vacuous, predictable, vapid and dull. But very clean. Very clean and attractive, even the ugly ones. If it wasn’t for the alluring pertness of some of them I’d be very much in favour of getting rid of them altogether. No, not you. Get back on my knee. A sense of being worthy, deserving. An aloofness.

I’m fairly sure I was never so aloof, and I had just as many reasons to think I should feel that way. Which was none.

It’s jealousy of course, up to a point. I’m jealous that I’m not young, that I’m not actually as physically young as I was. That I’m getting older, that time is passing and that everything is so very the same. Which I am, and it is. In some way I’m jealous of the inclusive nature of youth, the fact that no matter how on the outside you feel, you are still at least young. Fine, so I’m jealous. As well as being bitter, cynical, sarcastic and untrusting, I am am also jealous. Brilliant, that knowledge will hold me until I drown my next sack of kittens. That only covers the young ‘Young’ though, not the ‘Young’ who are actually too old to be acting like that. The ones who are definitely too old to be dressing like that. The ones who are me but think they’re actually quite good.

I’m aware of my flaws. I have several volumes of them, but this isn’t about me and mine. This is about you kid. What have you or any of your floppy haired peers got to feel superior about? You’re wearing expensive, vintage, trendy, re-badged garments that my parents probably soiled themselves dying in. You listen to songs that are bits of songs older people once liked – actually properly liked, not just listened to once and then forgot forever- strung together and sworn over. Don’t get me wrong, I like a swear, I mean you’re all pointless, fuck witted, spunk bubbles. But there’s a limit. And your conversation. God, your conversation. How do you make such tiny, boring, ineffective drivel the very core of your being? Why would I, or any other sentient being, be remotely interested in Lady Ga Ga. Or Cheryl Coles seemingly remarkably stupid relationship decisions. Or ….. or…….

..I’ve lost my place. That happens as you get older, you lose track. Or stop giving a shit before you get to the end. Whatever.
You probably weren’t listening anyway. You spend so much time in denial, convincing yourself its everyone else. That when Evil, Deceitful Life Intruder Weekly turns out to be crawling with nasty, lying, life invading bastards, you actually believe your own shock and outrage. How could this happen you ask, through a mouthful of cornflakes, dribbling milk over your red top paper. How could this terrible, unimaginable thing happen. Then you spend hours watching people in a house on television. Or watching a fat person eat that of a skinny person. Or follow the weekly, real life exploits of a bunch of simpering, financially secure dunderheads. That. Aren’t. Even. Actually. Real. Reality doesn’t even need to be real anymore. Now granted, that does sometimes seem infinitely preferable but tough. Tough, tough, tough. You don’t get to say things again and again until it looks best on camera and you don’t get writers. And if you did I pray to the Masters of the Multiverses they’d come up with a better class of innocuous, runny bullshit.

You sure you don’t want one of these sweets? They’re revolting but they sort of numb your tongue so it kind of balances out.

Anyway. I won’t go on about it too long, just think about it, yeah. It’s the sort of thing tha- – Hang on. Are those earbuds? They are, you’re wearing fucking headphones aren’t you. You are! You haven’t heard a word I’ve just said have you? You little shit.

Get off my knee. Go on piss off. Put out my bloody knee for nothing. I hope you trip on your fringe and impale yourself on your own inflated sense of self.

Just me and the butterscotch again. Might go for a walk by the river.

Where’s my sack.

Post a Comment