Early onset

It was quite simple, really: go into the front yard; open the front gate and put the wheelie bin outside; then get the bed linen off the drying-rack-thingy and bring it into the house.

It was only when the passing cyclist gave me that look that says in all languages of the world: “Why has that balding farang just wheeled his fully laden drying-rack-thingy out through the gate and put it where the bins go?” that I realised I might have been working too hard these last few weeks.

Uh-oh, midlife crisis alert

I've been listening to the first Arctic Monkeys album again, prompted by Mojo's provocative decision to tap 'I Bet You Look Good On The Dancefloor' as the seventh best British indie record ever ever ever, 26 places ahead of the Sea Urchins. I bought the CD shortly after it came out, simply because I felt I ought to hold an opinion about the band, and was a tad underwhelmed (rather as I was with Oasis, whose early waxings I got for the same reason). Listening again, once the hypeclouds have cleared a bit, I'm slightly better disposed. They do their stuff, and Alex Turner has the same cocktail of articulate intelligence, fey vulnerability and deadpan insolence that attracted me to the Buzzcocks and the Smiths and Pulp. But I discovered those bands between the ages of 10 and 25. I discovered the Arctic Monkeys when I was the wrong side of 30. They're good. Maybe they're as good as the Buzzcocks et al. Maybe they're better. But they're not mine.

PS: A memory that may or may not be relevant. When I was about 15 or 16, my friend Alex organised a charity cabaret at school. Three of our classmates performed Neil Young's 'Heart of Gold', which struck me even then as being incredibly old. A rough equivalent today would be for a bunch of teenagers to play 'Don't Look Back in Anger', 'Wannabe' or 'Firestarter'.

It's the perfect dream

Earlier today, I found myself listening to Paul Anka's version of The Cure's 'The Lovecats', on his he's-had-so-much-surgery-you-can't-tell-if-it's-ironic album Rock Swings, and had a small but significant revelation. For nearly a quarter of a century, I'd thought that Robert Smith had been singing "1-2-3, 1-2-3, 1-2-3 pretty". It was only when Big-haired Bob's tearful groan was replaced by Unfeasible-haired Paul's languorous tenor that I realised the correct line was in fact "wonderfully, wonderfully, wonderfully pretty".

Don't worry, this isn't going to be yet another post about amusing misunderstandings of rock lyrics, all "'scuse me while I kiss this guy" and so forth. No, the reason I bring this up is that my immediate reaction when I realised my error (after the obligatory nano-moment of scrotum-tightening embarrassment) was that it was Smith's fault for having sloppy diction, and that it was nice to hear someone like Anka, who ensured you could understand all the words.

Oh Christ.

I have become my parents.

Actually, it's rather appropriate that the early rumblings of a midlife crisis (yes, the big 4-0 is the next candle to appear) should come when listening to this particular record. Anka, of course, wrote the English lyrics to 'My Way', which is the song that ghastly people pick on Desert Island Discs when they reach a certain age and want to disclaim responsibility for all their crimes and misdemeanours. (Nice people, like the wonderful Oliver Postgate, pick the infinitely preferable 'Non, Je Ne Regrette Rien'.)

But with his version of 'The Lovecats' Anka seems to present a more realistic version of old age, rejecting the Vegasoid bravado that we associate with Sinatra and a thousand Sinatra wannabes, desperately grasping for the little joys that he was too busy or scared or stupid to use when he was in his prime. "Into the sea, you and me," he croons, "all these years and no one heard." Which suddenly seems to echo another lyric of missed opportunities, and one that's become just as much a cliche for neurotic adolescents (who, by definition, don't yet understand the full weight of the sadness):

I grow old … I grow old …
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.
Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

I don't know much about Eliot's taste in music: probably something deeply choral and Churchy. But I've started to think that, had history been more imaginative, he might have quite liked The Cure. Although he'd probably complain that he couldn't understand the words, and that it was too loud, and is that a boy or a girl, you can't tell the difference these days...