What the bloody hell happened to my childhood?

I need more of this!

I have something of an admission to make and it does touch upon something I’ve covered previously in this, my deeply narcissistic need to have you read about my life and or views as troubling as it, or they may be. 

My admission is…here goes….I’m 42! Yes there you have it! 

You see I find myself increasingly overly conscious of the fact I’m in my forties for a  number of reasons. 

The sore back, the need to grumble slightly when going from a sitting to standing position obviously, but mostly because, well when in one’s teens, to be faced with someone in their forties was to be met with a proper old person. 

Helpful dose of fertiliser

You know, someone with so much hair protruding from the nostrils that one could have abseiled from the Eiffel Tower simply by grabbing a handful and most certainly, someone likely to keel over and become a helpful dose of fertiziser in the crematorium garden within the next twenty minutes. 

Until that stage of course the view was that someone in their forties would simply dribble profusely and shout incoherent nonsense at passers-by until Death himself arrived. 

Christ, I very clearly remember when I was about 15 calculating how old I would be at the turn of the millennia. When I’d worked out I’d be 27 I started wondering if I should put plans in place for a zimmer frame and book the undertaker.  

I’m really kidding though, I enjoy being the age I am. I could do with some abs of course and the body of a seventeen year old. Mind you truth be told I’ve never had the body of a seventeen year old, even when I was seventeen! 

But I would absolutely love it to be the case that when I run now, or let’s face it, walk quickly, I really don’t want to hear my bingo wings slap against my sides, that’s just embarrassing.

I find myself looking around to see if anyone else heard, readying my hands to pretend that I’d just clapped for some inexplicable reason. 

But in general terms I’m happy having a little bit of money, some sense and maturity in my brain and of course I now have the opportunity to provide some adulty advice to those younger folks who may seek my counsel. 

Spotty faced oik

In fact, not to be too boastful and even if I do say so myself, I’m quite good at that ‘dadsy’ advice thing! 

I’m able to deftly listen to some stupid teenager angsty nonsense and find myself very able to craft a sensible and mature response that sends said spotty faced oik back into the world thinking that yes, Gordy may be old..er, but he’s cool and is full of great advice.  

My problem these days is not that I worry about being old, it’s that so little is available to celebrate my youth. 

You see these days, whenever anyone is out and about at some event or another, out comes the smart phone and clickity click, the subject of the photo is up on Faceplant in a microsecond. 

If that subject is a person, they’re tagged, liked and poked before you know it, and the photo is seen and enjoyed by several billion people thus implanting a digital record of whatever inspired the photo to be taken in the first place.

Save some dodgy Chinese hacking issue, that photo lives forever-more in hyperspace, coded as ones and zeros in order that when Johnny Martian eventually lands in 200 years, he can open his Smart-tab and immediately ask who that twat was clearly pissed off his head and mock shagging the plastic donkey. 

Photo of your cock

The kiddies of this our modern world are all over this. 

Every event is recorded digitally for posterity whether it’s a graduation, your mate Gavin’s bogey that appeared during math class or last Saturday’s party round the corner. 

It’s all been Instabooked or Vined so that in 25 years when like me, you’re now looking through the net for images, reminders and stories of your youth, you’ll be faced with that photo of your cock you stupidly sent via Snipchat to Debbie, or Allan or whoever it was you were rather fond of at the time. 

Now I’m not talking about family photos. I’m sure absolutely everyone has those albums that are pulled from the cupboard and cracked open when it’s most embarrassing to do so. 

Those photos of you when you were a baby or on the first day of school. 

There’s a great photo of me playing aged about 7 on a beach in Scotland (see above). I’m sat in a fish box for some unbeknownst reason and oddly, I’m covered in oil. 

This and those like it are all great happy reminders of my time with family while I grew up, but come on, that wasn’t my youth. 

Forced into marching

I was in the Boys Brigade. It’s like the Scouts, but more militaristic and significantly less fun, you know what I’m talking about. Maybe more like the Army Cadets but with no guns!

We were all forced into marching, performing gymnastics and all sorts of strange stuff that I’ll undoubtedly end up recalling horribly whilst in a ball crying aged 62 and under some form of sleep hypnosis, but for now I’ll concentrate on the gymnastics. 

I remember being the tubby kid and not being very good at it. I mean really, throwing yourself through the air is infinitely easier if you don’t weigh the same as an aircraft carrier. 

But there I was taking part and practicing for our upcoming parents gymnastics display night. 

We practiced our leaps, our bounds, jumps and those springy trampoline things over the horse when the instructor caught you mid-flight while you tried desperately to pull off the graceful landing. 

You’ve seen elephants running on TV right? Well stick with that and you’ve got me doing gymnastics. 

Anyway along came the display night itself and by this stage I’d been relegated to doing some running around such were my gymnastic limitations. 

But my big bit of the night was the three forward roll mat. It was, wait for it…a long mat upon which we were to perform three forward rolls. I know, I have no idea why I never made Olympian either!  

Now I do remember being a touch tense as my mum was there watching and given my, well let’s just say restricted abilities, along with witnessing all my skinny mates being brilliant, I did feel somewhat nervous. 

So we ran around and finally got to the forward roll mat bit where my two mates went before me performing perfect forward rolls to what I’ll now build up to be have been rapturous applause from the crowd. 

I was next and went for my first forward roll. 

Now those who know how to perform forward rolls will be aware that if you start off to high and don’t tuck at the right point, you’ll just end up in an embarrassing heap on the ground. 

Well I managed to not only start high, I did tuck, but didn’t roll. 

The result was I landed on the back of my neck with my chin stuffed into my chest, and with my arse in the air. 

Trouble was though, and I mentioned feeling a touch tense. The pressure associated with landing on my neck with my chin stuffed into my chest and my arse in the air, thus as you may imagine constricting my middle quite dramatically, caused a really quite audible and consequently extremely embarrassing emittance! 

To make matters worse, having awkwardly completed my first roll/fart trick and now preferring to continue the display rather than draw further attention, I rotated upwards for my next of three forward rolls. 

However my head now in rotation and committing to the next roll, pierced the fall-out cloud my arse had just produced and I’ll tell you what, the citizens of Hiroshima would have recoiled such was the smell. I believe my face may have told a story, or two.

To my surprise however, after having completed my second and third forward rolls, my mates, my gymnastic compatriots, all of whom I thought would tease me relentlessly for farting mid forward roll in, essentially my mum's face, rolled around with laughter and thought me some form of hero! 

I was delighted and went home with a suspiciously silent mother, but a chuckle in my heart. 

Hideous reunion groups

Now yes I may have embellished that story a little for effect but my point is that I wish Facebook had been around then. I wish someone had a smartphone at the ready and had managed to capture me and 25 other 10 year olds in hysterics. 

Now you see I could look back at that and laugh as hysterically as I remember I did then, moreover I could share that photo again and cause others to laugh hysterically too. 

Recently I’ve been googling Shawlands Academy, my old high school. 

I should point out that I have no wish to get in touch with anyone from school days or become involved with one of those hideous reunion groups. No I just wanted to reminisce, you know. 

But of course there’s nothing, no stories, no websites, no yearbook, nothing to tell the story of when I was at school. 

I guess my problem is that in having little to fall back on to remind you of the good stuff, a lot of us who had tough times at school, myself included, will remember those bad times first. 

I remember being bullied about my size and being so dreadfully self-conscious. Every kid goes through the self-consciousness thing obviously, but I would have so loved to have some fun photos of my time at school and know that it wasn’t all teasing, insults and tears.

My home life at the time wasn’t the best then either, maybe I’ll touch on that in another missive, but I do remember that being away from the house was all I wanted, being with my friends was all I wanted and I just had to get away from my reality. 

You see anyone’s youth is a time of personal growth, it’s a time of experimentation, of exploration, of drinking for the first time, of kissing for the first time. That’s all such a vital part of growing up and I’ve just realised I have no record of any of it. 

But anyway, I’ll point you back to earlier in this clumsy collection of words that we’ll call an entry to Gordy’s world, I’m happy with my lot. 

I’m happy being 42, I’m happy being with my husband that I’ve been married to for nearly 10 years now and I’m happy knowing that I have some wisdom, some nouse, and maybe still even a touch of youth to enjoy my life. 

Call this a midlife crisis if you will, call this desperately seeking some validity to my earlier years in order to feel more youthful, I just wish that someone hadn’t stolen my childhood!

Hope you enjoyed the read. See you next time.