Youth And Old Manhood

As you will observe from the title of these articles, in September 2006 I turned thirty. This was, of course, a significant age to have reached, and one could argue that I have reached a level of maturity one would expect when you factor in my years of marriage, length of time as a homeowner and recent inauguration into the world of parenthood. I couldn't honestly say that I feel old, because - despite the jibes of my wife - I am not. True, there are a few lines around the eyes, and my red hair has a few strands of grey, but I think they make me look rather good. Plus, despite my expanding waistline, I'm still of a good weight for my height. So all told, I feel mature in myself, but definitely still youthful.

At least I did until this very evening. I began writing this at 7.30 from the tearoom of Stowe Landscape Gardens, which astute readers will know to be probably my most favourite place in the admittedly small part of the world that I've seen. My wife and I joined the National Trust, which owns Stowe Gardens, last year after a fateful visit to the gardens the September before. After our third visit we decided that this was going to be a place that we would likely be visiting time after time, especially after our daughter was born when family picnics begin to beckon. I have fallen for Stowe's intricate formalism and rich history in a major way.

But even if I am smitten with Stowe, why was I sat there two and a half hours after the park officially closed? And why is it that I am beginning to question whether I could class myself as still being considered youthful? Earlier today I finished reading the Spring edition of the National Trust magazine, which is sent to we members as part of our subscription. Now, I'll admit that I found it an interesting read and certainly enjoyed finding more about some of the properties that I may suggest we visit in the future. But I was rather taken aback at how obviously geared up to the over fifties the National Trust is from the adverts for senior pursuits and those coaching holidays around Europe.

Back to the tearoom. The reason I was there was to listen to a talk given by a gentleman called Arthur Davidson, who is a National Trust volunteer, guide, keen photographer. and evident Stowe enthusiast. I'm here to find out more about the Gardens and its rich history, the temples and the design. My wife, knowing how important Stowe has become to me, suggested I go along to the talk, even though my natural inclination would be not to bother. I questioned my youthful credentials because, with the exception of two young female volunteers, I was the youngest person in the tearooms by about thirty years. You know how old people get wary of groups of teenagers? Well, I felt like that at the talk, only it was me that felt disconnected and out of place. Furthermore, it made me think that I am getting too old for my age, that I shouldn't have been there, that I should be at home playing a mature console wartime shoot ‘em up, saying 'like' and 'innit' a lot, and generally doing something more befitting of a person of thirty.

But then, why the hell shouldn't I have been there? I'm interested in history, I paid my entry ticket the same as everyone else and surely they should think it's commendable that someone so comparatively young is taking an avid interest in history these days. Once I'd got over this feeling of being uncomfortably out of time and place, I had a great time, and I found myself soaking up facts and stories - from the figurative symbolism of the Elysian Fields, through the Palladian Bridge which was once screened off on one side so as to prevent nearby villagers from seeing the rich folk crossing in their carriages, on past temples and formally-structured views back to the starting point, the majestic Temple of Concorde and Victory, seven of whose columns were disgracefully removed by Stowe School for their chapel in the 1920s but which thankfully have been replaced - frantically trying to store them in my head so as not to forget them, before bombarding my wife with said facts when I walked through the door of our house an hour and a half after Arthur's talk started and pleasantly went on well past its supposed hour length.

Fast forward to the following evening, an evening of a very different nature and one perhaps more expected of someone of my age. My wife and I went to the Carling Academy in Birmingham to watch Kings Of Leon in concert, supported by an excellent band called The Stills.

A few years ago, you wouldn't have caught me at a rock concert. I fell in love with guitar-based music quite late, and even when I did it was of the often perceived inaccessible angle worked by bands like Sonic Youth or guitarists like Robert Fripp. Back in those very opinionated days, the idea of listening to straight-up rock would have been abhorrent to me, and if you'd have said that I'd have spent a sweaty evening enjoying the peculiar country rock hybrid that Kings Of Leon have made their own, I'd have scoffed. Back then, you'd have found me at the back of Colchester's Art Centre watching ‘arty’ bands like Labradford noodle around marvellously on stage whilst stroking my chin and nodding knowingly.

Kings Of Leon were as tight a band as they ever have been, delivering songs in a form identical to those on their three excellent albums. It was almost mechanistic or mechanical how precise and perfect they were. The last band I saw that were so honed was Wire back in 2000. The last gig we went to before last night was Dirty Pretty Things, Carl Barat's post-Libertines group (I exclude Razorlight at the NEC as this was a polished stadium concert, not a gig). They were exciting in a very different way - rough around the edges, Arcadian and loose.

Did I feel more suited to this environment? Less uncomfortable, certainly, more like I belonged there. But with my tidy haircut and Joy Division T-shirt, I actually felt a little too old, and certainly too sensible to be amongst teenagers getting drunk and dancing wildly to the assembled Followills up on stage. Despite this feeling once again of being out of time and place like the night before, seeing people older than me made me feel slightly better. They just happened to be there chaperoning their teenage children.

The Sunday after Thursday’s Kings Of Leon gig, and after some obligations to friends whereupon we reflected in a very middle class manner on our lot as parents, my wife and I found ourselves watching Dirty Pretty Things again at Shepherd’s Bush Empire. There was a palpable sense of expectation on media-courted junkie / Kate Moss beau / former Libertine Pete Doherty putting in an appearance after he and Carl were reunited on stage earlier in the week. They were all over the place and from my lofty perch at the back of the very top tier of seating it was thrilling but quite scary to see the pit of people in front of the stage expanding and contracting like some giant amorphous creature as people crushed their way to the front and back out again.

Did I feel any more comfortable here? Not exactly. At this gig I definitely felt too old. When The Libertines first hit the music scene rock music was fairly anathema to my wife and I, and consequently I've always considered them to be a part of a youth music movement which I am far too old for. And judging by the omnipresent teenagers hanging onto every word sung by Barat, my perception is not far wrong. It wasn’t that I found myself not enjoying the music – far from it – but I just didn’t understand the idolatry of the fans and I craved the steadfast commitment to structure that Kings Of Leon showed earlier in the week. Also, sitting in the top tier meant that we felt like we were somehow disconnected from the concert taking place way below us, as if this is where slightly older fans were to be seated to be away from the kids on the floor. Certainly throughout the often painful duration of the support slot from Hot Club de Paris, I found myself ruminating on the actual building in which we were seated, with its early twentieth century gilded balconies and statues, more interested in the story of this building rather than the joyful noise both bands were dispensing within it.

Which brings us neatly back to history again.

One shouldn't feel age-restricted in taking an interest in history, and if that's true then it's truer still when it comes to music and art in general. These things should be regarded as accessible to absolutely everyone, and society shouldn't make us feel that one is accessible only to more mature individuals and the other only to younger people. However, while I think everyone should take an interest in both history and music or whatever it is that fires your imagination, there is simply no excuse for bad taste, which I specifically direct at the women joining the train home at Birmingham International from that Thursday's Davids Essex and Cassidy extravaganza at the NEC. You should be ashamed.

Cigarettes, Alcohol and Emigration

'Do you know what I hate?' said Paul as we alighted from the train at Euston one morning. 'People who get off the train and immediately have to light up a cigarette.' Sure enough, among the hundreds of fellow commuters who'd just got off the train, a few of those were lighting up their cigarettes.

I've never smoked. Well, apart from a very drunken packet of cigarettes smoked in Corfu about four years ago which just made me look effeminate and not sophisticated like I thought I did - not that I would condone smoking as a vehicle for appearing cool, kids; it was a mistake, take it from me, as I'd always prided myself on never having even tried smoking whereas all of my school friends had. Anyway, as a non-smoker, I can't hope to understand the cravings a committed smoker must have that mean they have to have a cigarette in their mouth ready to be lit before they've even got off the train. I hated the taste of cigarettes and I can't even begin to imagine how disgusting that must be first thing in the morning. But I just can't understand the desperation that a smoker must evidently feel if they've been cooped up on a train journey with no facility at all to smoke, can't even contemplate such a dependency.

However, Paul's observation did get me thinking – this furore over the future smoking ban in London's pubs and clubs seems to ignore the other public places in which people are able to smoke. I've not been to many railway stations where people cannot smoke, whereas if it was an airport you'd be restricted to a very small, dingy area of the terminus in which smokers can feed their addiction prior to boarding a plane. Why is it that stations have historically been considered somehow more socially acceptable places for people to smoke? Furthermore if you factor in the fact that stations are not age-restricted like pubs, you may well find children travelling with parents waiting at stations. With the risks of passive smoking abundantly evident and the effects that these risks can have on children, it seems illogical to have focussed so much conjecture and hot air about pubs and largely ignore other areas where people congregate.

As for that small minority who choose to smoke cigars first thing in the morning, while in a way I am in awe of their ability to chuff away on something that looks and smells like dog excreta, I'd really appreciate it if they wouldn't blow out their acrid smoke into my face when I pass them in the street. I was offered a cigar at my good friend Matt's wedding on Saturday. 'They're really good ones,' he said keenly, and I'm sure that they were, although I couldn't honestly say what the measure of a 'good' cigar actually is. I shook my head profusely, gestured to where Seren was lying in her pushchair and said that I shouldn't have one because I didn't want to teach her bad habits. I didn't want to admit – that peer pressure thing again – that I'd never in my life smoked a cigar and didn't want to look stupid while coughing and spluttering.

If I am at a loss to understand the cravings of a smoker, I am even less able to comprehend why any individual (individuals such as the besuited and sweaty gentleman I am currently seated next to) would want to drain cans of cheap lager on the train on the way home. Said gentleman has just finished his third can. It's Monday evening and we're half an hour into a forty-five minute train journey. Is this his normal evening ritual? Or is Monday the day where he drinks the least and builds up to Friday where he really kicks back, buys a couple of bottles of scotch and glugs away while the train rattles through Betjeman's metro-land onward to Northamptonshire?

True enough, the warmer weather which has carried through from the weekend does give a beer after work a certain appeal. But a couple of warm cans obtained at no doubt over the odds prices from a station shop has no such appeal to me. When the signs on the trains and Underground appear in the summer urging commuters to stay hydrated, I'm not sure that this is what they mean.

It is with a degree of timely irony, actually, that I find myself analysing the gentleman next to me. A couple that my wife and I know through the National Childbirth Trust are considering emigrating to New Zealand. The principal reason is that the job market is apparently more favourable for graphic designers over there whereas over here there are too many designers chasing too few commissions. The secondary reason is that they don't want their son to grow up in England drinking cans of Special Brew on street corners, the state of our nation having got so bad that there is an inevitability attached to our essentially wayward impulses that we cannot hope to control.

True enough, crime levels – irrespective of what the government has you believe – are rising, and worse still, violent crime is on the increase too; crime by young teenagers is now an almost daily recurrence in the media, and so to a certain extent I share this couple's concerns about the poor health of our society. However, and I also feel this a somewhat obvious point to make, environment alone does not dictate how a child is going to turn out. And certainly within the context of society generally, it certainly isn't the case that every teenager is a lawless bandit knifing and shooting and snorting their way through life. The biggest influence on a child is the attitude and actions of their parents, unless I'm very much mistaken, and that's going to be the same whether they're in England, New Zealand, Los Angeles or Timbuk-effing-tu. Society provides a context, but parental actions in those formative years determine the path that you're going to take. And these parents – unless we don't know them very well – don't strike me as being the sorts to engage in anti-social behaviour and so the chances of their son ending up that way would be slim; and if they were, then they'd be exporting that attitude to the supposedly crime-free New Zealand along with the rest of their possessions and bigotry anyway.

The guy next to me on the phone made me think about this, because everything about him – the cut of his suit, his mannerisms and his diction when he answered his mobile – certainly didn't imply a rebellious or reckless soul, yet here he was drinking in an arguably anti-social environment just like the kid this couple believe who, upon being prevented from leaving this once green and pleasant land behind, has no choice but to turn to underage drinking on the street. Moreover, he was about forty-five. Now, I know that this is somewhat different from a group of lads congregating on a street corner downing illegally purloined cans of lager, sharing happy-slapping clips and comparing flick knives. This was just a guy knocking back a few drinks after a hard Monday in the capital. He was clearly reasonably affluent, well-mannered and fundamentally unthreatening. Sure, it was incomprehensible as to why he was boozing on a Monday evening but it wasn't anything to worry about. A teenager sat next to me necking Special Brew would un-nerve me, of course it would.

The poor boy whose country of residence is being decided by parents with a rather gloomy outlook on British society and vague aspirations of success despite low wage inflation is only a year old. All his grandparents, aunts and uncles live in this country, and all of the parents' friends do too. This notion of societal woe degradation seems a rather flimsy reason to up sticks and chase a dream on the other side of the world, and I simply don't believe or understand any of it.

Just like I don't understand sparking up at 7.30 in the morning or drinking warm lager at 5.00 on a Monday afternoon. Perhaps some things are outside of rational comprehension.