EVERYTHING seems great in retrospect because your memory is flawed. These fond recollections were pretty shit in reality:
A decade of fantastic music, great movies, wild parties and none of this wokeness that’s ruining everything these days. No. You were just young. It was the decade of The Phantom Menace, Boyzone, and Noel’s House Party. Lad culture was unpleasantly sexist and Diamond White was a nighclub staple. It was shit.
Today, working your wage-slave job, you remember long stretches of happy, cloudless fun. Ask your parents and they’ll tell you the drive to Skegness Butlins was spent in frosty silence, it rained all week and you sliced your foot open with your spade. Also apparently at that stage you were still wetting the bed.
Warming up by the Vulcan gas heater
You’d come in from the cold and toast yourself in front of this. Fond memories which are, in retrospect, a sign of how depressingly shit your childhood was. Its relentless pinging would piss you off now, and its toasty, glowing grille was giving you carbon monoxide poisoning. You might as well feel nostalgic about asbestos.
Okay, you’re no good at it now, but you’re old and out of practice. In your youth you were a tireless, expert lover who did it daily. Not according to your old diary, which says ‘Joanne and I did it again yesterday. That’s only the third time in nine months. Also afterwards she suggested I could try thinking of something to make it last longer.’
It was good once, it definitely was. It wasn’t always a ballache of throwing cash away, freezing rain, nothing but Bond repeats on telly, dry turkey and disappointing presents. It used to be magical. It’s just you’ve been a bit tired and not in the mood for it over the last 34 years.