Tomorrow is the 16th August, and it is my birthday. It is also Madonna’s birthday. She is exactly twenty years older than me. This is why I was convinced, when I was younger, that when – not if, but when – I met Madonna – y’know, jogging in Hyde Park or erm, shopping for conical bras innit – we would end up being BFFs, cos we shared a b’day. ‘Madonna! Hey,’ I’d coolly open with, ‘my birthday’s the same as yours. I love you. Let’s be mates?’ And her immaculateness would reply, ‘Yeah all right, Fran, you’re pretty farking awesome yerself, don’t cha know’ and then we’d make out while half-watching Desperately Seeking Susan over and over.
Sadly, I no longer adore Madonna. Soz, Madge, but you look like you’re made out of some weird shiny clay, and you seem, I dunno, just a bit, um, hard work. So I don’t really wanna be friends any more. But don’t sweat it, you’re still way richer than me.
Anyway, birthdays. That annual reminder of your approaching decrepitude and eventual mortality. Pardon me for not celebrating. Birthdays make me introspective rather than celebratory and it has been that way for a while, not just cos I’ve had a totes shiteballs year. I set myself high standards and if they’re not met I end up being quite hard on myself. You might have noticed that particular personality trait, innit.
Wonder if Madonna does that? Question her lot in life, I mean. Is she content with her big house, hunky younger man, African babies and the knowledge that quite a large percentage of the world’s population have seen her minge? Is that enough for her? She’s one of them folk who constantly strive to reinvent themselves, but I suspect it’s more a relentless promotional tool rather than a need to ‘find’ the ‘real’ ‘her’. Then again, who knows. She’s built a career on presenting us with a cavalcade of painted faces (and minge) and yet, d’you want to curl up with her on a sofa and share a tin of custard creams, drinking tea and bitching about that bastard Guy Ritchie? Nah. Not really. I’d rather do that with someone approachable and warm and fun.
Or maybe that’s the secret. That’s how you get through your days. Mould yourself a iridescent carapace to drape around your shoulders, and hang a KEEP OUT sign on your life. Practice holding everyone at arm’s length. Be brilliant, have moments of genius, and remain untouchable. Go jogging in Hyde Park with your minders and ignore the plebs who so desperately want to emulate you. Every now and again, get your tits out and have a radical haircut. Is that the formula? Fark me, now if only I could write good songs.
Oh who gives a crap about Madonna. She’s nowt to me now other than a dessicated, strangely muscled husk with an impressive back catalogue. Fond memories, maybe. I’m mooching about in my head cos tomoz I’ll be thirty farking four. That’s thirty farking four, people. Young to some, but old in my soul. I feel older than I should. This last year – the one since my last b’day – has aged me.
Madonna. Me. Who’s the best? Only kidding. What’s the secret to an enjoyable birthday? Lemme know below in your usual manner. Much love.
When did I become too old/dowdy/sensible to wear the following:
- crop tops
- shiny gold jumpers
- purple jeans
- T-shirts made out of lace
- skirts my arse cheeks would hang out of
- hi-top trainers
- corduroy hotpants
- knitted hats made to look like animals
- anything leather
- shoes that look like boy’s shoes
- jeans that look like snakeskin
- tops that look like zebras
- anything that looks like zebras
- anything with farking rhinestones on them
- neon bras
This is what I saw in shops today. I have actually got to the point in my life where I do not understand fashion any more. A sad day indeed.
I’m going to have to start shopping in M&S *weeps*
I am a hoar.
It has happened. Finally. I knew it was coming. I could see its precursors in the fine lines around my eyes, in the thickening of my waistline, and in the slight swag of my bosoms. I am now a hoar.
This morning, I found not one, not two, but THREE GREY HAIRS on my head.
Three. THREE GREYS. The first was OK. A shock, but I dealt with it. Almost invisible, it was. The second – my GAWD. Spotted it moments later. LIKE A SILVER STREAK OF LIGHTNING IN A GLOAMING SKY. How can a grey hair be THAT grey? Like, EXTRA grey? And really really sparkly??
I reckon some poor astronaut can see it from space. Like the Great Wall of China. Only, it’d be the Great Grey Hair of the United Kingdom. PEOPLE WILL COME AND STARE AT IT. They might even try to walk on it and take photos of themselves on it. I’d have to punch them. Or charge them for the privilege. Could be a neat little money spinner. ANYWAY. I digress.
Then I found a third. Then I stopped looking, for fear of waking Moo with my harrowing sobs.
Grey hair. *wails* And I do actually like grey hair! I’ve always maintained that it looks HOT on men. I am definitely appreciative of a grey-haired man. And don’t even get me started on grey beards *horn*. There are some very foxy ladies – Mirren, Dench, hello – who look superlative with their silver barnets.
But me? No. No no no. I have DARK hair. Lovely darkly dark hair. It’s DARK. Like my personality. Who’s going to think I’m mysterious and moody and glowering if I have fecking grey hair? No one. Dammit.
And it’s a slippery slope, innit. Now I’ve found three. There’s bound to be more. Probably hiding round the back. In a great big clump. I’m going to set up a system of mirrors so I can check. And then weep some more.
Is it ACTUALLY TRUE that stress can make you go grey? If so then this is the WORST thing about breaking up with my husband EVER. I am so upset. Do I need to start an anti-ageing regime now? Wait a minute – should I have started an anti-ageing regime AGES AGO? Like when I was 12?? IS THIS A RESULT OF NOT STARTING AN ANTI-AGEING REGIME WHEN I WAS 12??
*collapses into a heap*
On the plus side, I got to say ‘I am a hoar’ *snigger*
What can I do? I am useless at this stuff. Hair dye, hats, decapitation – how can I slow down this deterioration?
It’s my birthday.
This year I am thirty-three.
THIRTY FECKING THREE.
That’s old. I am so old.
My b’day resolutions are:
- to not wear beige clothing any time soon
- to not move house again for a year at least
- to not give in to temptation and buy a mobility scooter
- to make a will (anybody wants a cut, send me biscuits)
- to eat less cake
- to stave off impending wrinkles by slathering Polyfilla over my face
- to reach thirty four sound of mind and heart