*cue sound of a stylus being ripped across a record*
OK. OK. That’s not strictly true. I’d actually spend most of the time panicking about what to wear, what I’d say to people (especially if they were of a female persuasion) and how I’d cope with the inevitable sense of despair and failure when I went home yet again without having managed to get myself a snog / shag / girlfriend.
*cue the sound of a stylus being tearfully lowered onto any record at all by The Smiths*
But what I didn’t do is what I frequently do now:
Which is spend my time miserably calculating how many hours of sleep I’m going to lose and how much more tired I’m going to feel the next day and how many early nights it will now take subsequent to the night out for me to fully recover my (already flagging) joie de vivre.
‘Cos to be honest I’m dead on my feet by 9pm most nights and there has to be something really good on the telly for me to stay awake and engaged past 10.
These are the combined effects of middle age, parenthood and a tendency to be anti-social in the first place.
It’s tempting to say I have never been a party animal. But going out for a drink with friends last night (on a work night? How daring!) has proven to me that, in fact, I am a party animal. I’m just a party animal of a certain type.
The type that looks like a kicked to death hound-dog the next day. The type whose bloodshot eyes resemble those of a dancing bear who has been slagged off by Bruno Tonioli for messing up the bogo pogo. The type whose snake breath could strip the bullet proof coating from a Chieftain tank at 50 paces.
The type that is, to put it plainly, not a happy bunny.
So. Post-drinks lesson learnt: partying is for spring chickens and not for old goats.
Excuse me, people, I need to go back to my sty and wallow...