Age of Dissent - Saturday August 21, 1999

You can tell someone over 30 by their record collection. Just by the fact that they possess one, usually. I've seen people trying to conceal their thirtiness, with "Yeah, I've got some kicking stuff on vinyl. I give it the 360 on my turntable." This basically translates as, "Yes, I do have the Jesus Christ Superstar soundtrack on a long-play format. I like to play it on my gramophone."

I was at a gig recently, sweating it out with a whole fleshpot of raving technics, all stringy hair, piercings and micro-outfits. I was jumping up and down with the rest of them, albeit slightly out of puff (a nice boy did offer me some puff, actually; I declined, but how thoughtful of him to notice that I was out of breath) when a thought struck me: when I was 14 and sliding around at the Leatherhead Roller Disco, there were never lots of thirtysomethings around trying to be 14 again; they were all getting down at their own fondue, fancy-dress and wife-swapping parties, thank you very much. They left The Doolies to us.

They had Elvis, for Pete's sake. In our vain attempt to delay growing up (Wee Jimmy Krankie Syndrome, to give it its proper medical term), there's a whole generation of people, like me, who are desperate to hijack the teen experience, sullying it with their slightly outdated dancing and latent varicose veins. But I'm lost. What's an average 31-year-old to do these days? While some of my mates give dinner parties with napkins, dimmer-switches, crusts and cr�che facilities, the rest are at raves, snogfests and go-karting tracks. There's only one solution in situations like this: my own private front-room disco with curtains shut tight and Kajagoogoo blaring out. Long play, of course.

 
In six weeks, I will be 30. I say that with the same relish as one might say, "In six weeks, I will have tertiary syphilis." I am hanging off life's tower, my last remaining digit loosening its hold on the 20s parapet. Up above, my younger friends are musing on my fate. Will she start going to wine-tasting classes? Will she still insist on going out in those orange leather hotpants? Down below, my older friends are waiting for me to slip into my fourth decade; their gnarled, wedding-ringed fingers beckoning as they whisper, "Join us, join us."

The drop is inevitable. But, as they say, it's not the fall that counts, it's the way you land. I aim to land with grace, dignity and a bottle of Smirnoff. "You look rough," says my younger, faster, brighter sister - with all the sensitivity of Prince Philip at a curry house. She has a point. But at least I'm getting to the age when I'm allowed to look rough. I have always looked on the Kate O'Mara side of haggish (as anyone who saw me, aged seven, in my Holy Communion dress will testify). Now, at last, my years are starting to fit my skin.

I'm positive. I like to think of 30 as life's equivalent of the television watershed. Pre-30 all you get are cartoons, loud music, shouting (including, viewers, some sexual swear words) and repeats. Whereas post-30 it's filthy sex, gutsy exchange, serious late-night discussion... and repeats.

Could I have spent my 20s more wisely? (I sincerely hope so.) Should I have done something more with my life? (I still have time to patent that mechanised Pope.) Should I have brought home an Olympic Gold for my country? (Be serious, a walk to the kettle and I'm out of breath.) Nope, I'm not sentimental. I have no regrets. I'm fine. Good God, I'm going to be 30.