In his Autumn before the Winter

I think I had my first midlife crisis when I was about nineteen and regretted not having put in the time and effort to learn guitar, not having been more studious during my A-Levels,  and not being on the way to doing something sensible and secure, like Dentistry, rather than something utterly impractical, like English and Latin.  Even now, I sometimes pine for the simplicity of looking at people’s mouths all day while fiddling about with bits of pointy metal, in much the same way a Norwegian Blue pines for the fjords.

Being a man of logic and quiet reflection I exorcised some those demons of regret by getting angrily drunk one winter’s morning,  and smashing my guitar into contemporary art , cutting my hair and attempting to channel the spirit of early sixties Beatles by wearing a polo neck jersey and black leather jacket. 

Unfortunately I ended up looking like, in the words of one very kind friend, ‘someone who knew a lot about curtains’.  I’ve never worn a polo-neck since. Mostly because I don’t wish to project the vibe of a curtain connoisseur. But also because there is a degree to which I like to separate fashion and the sensation of sharing an intimate moment with The Boston Strangler. It’s a win-win decision.

The stereotypical Mid-Life Crisis has many essential elements. Take one slightly greying/balding/chubby man in his forties, pencil in an ex/long-suffering/bored wife, and insert either a Harley or a Hornby Train Set, depending on the demographic. Working-class balders tend to go for the Hornby route, presumably because they’re ashamed of their headshine.  Middle class greyers fall more towards the Harley side, just because they’re, y’know, still cool, and an outlaw. And the price difference between a Harley and a Hornby is fucking massive.

I think I’m on my third MLC now.  Which, apart from anything else, means I’m going to live to a variety of ages, bending the rules of human existence as we know it.

However, I eschew such phallocentric crisis aids as fat throbbing motorbikes, or chirpy little trains chugging in and out of tunnels. Not for me such symbolism of the flickering pulse of a dying sex drive.  No, sireee.  I’ve chosen the third, less subtle route. I’ve finally started playing guitar. More accurately, I’ve bought several guitars which all look CAF*, and am equally inept at all of them.  I play usually like I have plump sausages nailed to my fingers, or, on bad day, in exactly the same way I imagine C3P0 would play if Jabba had ordered he be the P-Bass Funk-Droid, rather than an interpreter**.

The  guitar habit is getting a bit out of control now, and has spread into the world of bass, which, quite frankly, is trying to run before learning to crawl.  A loud guitar through several pedals is quite forgiving.  If you’re shit at bass, you cannot hide. A bit like Where’s Wally at the Million Man March: your number is up. 

I suppose the MLC is that final last mad surge of youth before the Autumn of life has fully kicked in. Sid Vicious once sang ‘Regrets- I’ve had a few’***.  And it is surely better to regret something you have done than something you haven’t.  I can go to my grave now, miserably safe in the knowledge that I didn’t become a great rockstar not because of missed opportunities in my youth, but because people have ears to hear, and that is the biggest hurdle I could ever have faced.  The MLC serves to remind us all of our limitations, and set in a thick vein of cantankerousness to see us though the second half of our lives.

When I am old I shall wear grey.

I’m off to shout vague complaints in the direction of some children. Better start practising now.

*Cool As Fuck

** If you don’t get this reference, then I pity you, Family Guy must make absolutely no sense to you, ever.    

***Fuck Frank Sinatra. This is the one I heard first.