I have terrible existential dread. It probably comes from the rapid advancement of years and the musical milestones by which I mark them; that the time from Bo Diddley to My Bloody Valentine’s Loveless (35 years) is less time than the time between Loveless and now. That Johnny Marr had started and finished The Smiths and all the sparkling magic that he created in between before he’d had his 25th birthday. This place is littered with such examples that might question your own worthiness and contributions to society.
A friend recently shared a video clip of the opening of an art exhibition of his. It wasn’t dated, but it was dated; the grainy transfer of VHS to digital, with intermittent wobbly white lines descending the screen. The fluffy sound. The hair. The clothes. The people in it who are no longer with us. As the camera panned around the assembled art-praising masses of Irvine, two folk stuck out. There was my mum, an employee of the library at the time and invited probably because of that. Next to her, my dad. Sensible suit, grey hair neatly side-combed, ubiquitous moustache Souness/Selleck-full and eye catching. As I started to do the rough maths it dawned on me – my dad in this clip is younger than I am right now. Jeez. My mum is still very much with us, pushing 80 and only just about beginning to slow up. My dad is gone though. And the image of the man who looked the same to me my whole life is a stark reminder that I am entering – or have already wandered into – my autumnal years. It’s (hopefully) still early autumn, but it’s undeniable.
You’d think I’d want to do something about it. Travel, maybe. Join a walking football team. Plan retirement.
Or eat rubbish.
This time last year I had this thing going, a bad habit you might call it, of budgeting £40 for the petrol station every time I needed to fill up, but spending exactly (and with well-practised deft precision) exactly £38 on the fuel. The other couple of quid I’d lavish on Haribo Jelly Babies and Cadbury’s chocolate – one of those big bars that not that long ago cost a round pound instead of the £1.35 and more they’re currently asking for them. I’d leave the goodies in the semi-secret glove compartment down by the steering wheel and spoil myself rotten whenever in the car alone.
The spiralling fall-out of this dim-witted pampering was two-fold. Firstly, my car used to run on £40 a week of fuel, but by filling it up with only £38 worth, it would mean that every now and again I’d need to refuel before a Sunday night; so more frequent trips to the petrol station and even more stashing/guzzling of sweets and chocolate while commuting – never on the way to work though (I’m not a total disappointment), only ever on the way home as a reward for a hard day on the chalk face.
Secondly, my waistline expanded in direct proportion to my weekly skimming of the fuel budget. Funny that. I’d eventually run a chunk of it off in the summer holidays, with a daily target of running 5K my self-administered punishment for being addicted to sugar-filled car journeys. But not all of it was shifted. Much of the unwanted flab is still there as I type right now, a wee wobbly reminder of my Alan Partridge years. It is reducing though…and there’s good reason for this.
More recently, the old car has gone the way of all cars of a certain vintage and I’ve come to be the owner of an electric car (and none of your Tesla nonsense either – who wants to be seen in one of them?) I can charge the car at home. I can charge the car at work (if I’m the lucky electric car owner that day). There are now no more trips to the petrol station and, believe it or not, the result is twofold: not only does my belt go an extra notch again, there’s nary a whiff of sugar within five metres of the car. All those crumbs on new upholstery? Sticky fingers on the handles? Empty wrappers on the passenger seat? Of my new car?!? I wouldn’t want that.
I’m leaner, I’m greener. Everyone’s a winner, baby.
Everything’s Gone Green, baby.
New Order at their experimental, boundary-pushing best. Psychedelic dance music for the post-punk generation. I see my future before me. And it’s no longer Cadbury and Haribo.
New Order – Everything’s Gone Green
Plain Or Pan 