Now I'm 64.

I am getting old - it's official.
I went out last night to watch the football - England, in a European Championship qualifier, no less. In my flukey youth I would have been excited all day about the prospect of a match of such importance. Those days have long gone.
I got a taxi down to my local to pick up my pal Fatal (he's fat and his name is Alan) and the landlord to take them on to another pub to watch the game. My gaffer no longer has Murdoch-Nazi-World-Domination telly as they demand six weeks' takings for a month's viewing. Another reason for moving to pastures new was that little landlord has had a rough time of things lately and so needs to be taken away from the hostelry which is his life once in a while.
Anyway, said landlord is a little, Northern Irish-type chappy. He's a former ardent and active Loyalist who laid down his strident views and spud gun some years ago when he came to the conclusion that "they're all a bunch of fekking nutters!" That is relevant, honestly. Just bear with me.
Well, the footy was shaping up to be about as interesting as watching snooker in black and white and so we fell to talking about life, the universe, women's chests and how brill they were. I know I am an old man now because, and I swear what follows is true, when the first England goal went in we were facing away from
the screen, talking about the possibilities of power sharing succeeding in the province! When the second was scored we also missed it because
we were arguing about the truth behind the myth surrounding Roman Emperor Nero! Seriously! When the third went in we had logically progressed to Churchill's
line about "history will be kind to me for I intend to write it"
and how that had influenced the writing of the Bible, as opposed to the more believable Rosicrucian version of events!!
What the fuck is happening to me? An entire 90 minutes of international football which produced three England goals and we didn't see one of them! Not a word all night about overlapping half-backs, the long-ball game or Christmas tree formations. No shouts of "play it square!", "on his head, son!" or "the referee's having a giraffe!" Yes, I am old. It IS official.
Getting old can go to Grantham.