Actually my body’s been doing it for years, the bastard. My first grey hairs appeared at age seventeen. Yes, seventeen. I was at school with bloody grey hair. I’m sure some of the kids thought I was really thirty and was having to repeat a lot of years. Ever since then I’ve been plagued with people thinking they’re being genuinely helpful in pointing it out (just in case I don’t own a mirror). To make matters worse (or better, depending on your viewpoint when it comes to grey hair), my hair then started falling out. It was growing old and dying right in front of me (well, on top of me actually). Upon seeing some photos of me which displayed my growing monk’s bald patch I headed straight for a barber’s and had the lot shaved off. I don’t understand these guys who try and deny it; holding out for as long as they can with a receding hairline (or massive forehand, if you will) and a dodgy comb-over. No-one’s fooled by it. Ironically, because I shave mine as short as possible a couple of people who met me after I shed my locks commented that I must do it through choice “because you’re not bald, are you?” Anyway, I’m now told that (when combined with my round head) I look like Ricky Gervais’s sidekick, Karl Pilkington. I watch little TV so I’m unsure if it’s a kind comparison or not.
For years at school I never understood why sportsmen were always getting injured and taking months to return. I was like Captain Scarlet. Now? Not so much. Doing any kind of regular running ends up producing shin splints. If you don’t know what this is, it’s effectively muscle trauma and/or multiple (small) stress factures of the shin caused by repeated impact. I’ve tried everything to stop it but it flares up if I run more than a couple of times a week (I don’t mean to the bar when they call last orders). It is incredibly painful and takes weeks to properly subside again. To people who haven’t experienced it, I describe it as having dozens of tiny women in sharp, pointy shoes kick you in the shins repeatedly. I’m aware that some people find this thought appealing, however, I’m confident there will be a site (or a million sites) on the internet catering for the person of that particular disposition. It has no place here though, you weirdo.
What else? Well some years ago I involuntarily jumped over the front of my motorbike at about seventy miles per hour. I’ve no idea if it hurt at the time because I was rewarded with concussion and amnesia. As well as the minor injuries which cleared up fairly quickly I also hurt my shoulder and ankle. I’ve no idea what I did but I guess at some kind of ligament damage. I say “guess” because the hospital would have genuinely struggled to show less interest. The upshot was that I couldn’t go to the gym for almost three years because any sustained exercise would leave my shoulder useless for the week after. Thankfully that’s healed now. It was over seven years ago and my right ankle’s still not perfect though. It never feels as strong, sometimes it aches and it is much more susceptible to injury than the left.
It makes you wonder what older life must be like for people who routinely smash themselves up. Stuntmen probably can’t get out of bed when they reach forty. Anyone who regularly competes on a BMX or skateboard is probably composed of so many metal pins and rods that they get rugby tackled by airport security.
Even though I try to avoid flying through and air and landing on things which are hard, I hate to think what I’m going to be like in later life. The male life expectancy in the UK is seventy seven years old. I’m not even halfway there and sometimes I feel like I’ve had the crap kicked out me already. That doesn’t bode well, especially if my recovery powers continue to go downhill faster than a fat kid on a sledge at Christmas.
I really don’t want to be one of those doddery old people who takes an age to move out of the way (and craves attention when you push past them and they break a hip). I reckon I will be though. That’ll be my intolerance coming back and biting me in the arse in the best way possible (and will merely serve to compound my bitterness). I’ll be the one huffing and puffing as I attempt to climb a couple of steps on the way into Boots for some incontinence pads. The kids behind me when inform me I smell of “wee” and I’ll probably fall over while trying to whack one of them with my walking stick. And break my hip.
Captain Scarlet my arse.
