Wednesday, February 14, 2018

Splitsville: The Ageing Rock Star and His Trophy Girlfriend

It’s time, Violette, to admit that it’s not working any more. At 78, I’m too old to pretend I don’t notice your revulsion when you look at me. As though I can help my decrepitude! As though I have it in my power to make my neck loos less like a turkey’s. As though I don’t try to cover up the blotches on my face. As though I didn’t spend £1325 pounds last spring having my teeth whitened in Harley Street. And you didn’t even seem to notice, maybe because the more urgent need is to have them straightened, but the dentist told me straightening my toofies would be a long, expensive process, and at 78, I’m not very much in the mood for Long Processes.

Yes, yes, I know. I could go to the gym, to try to tighten myself back up, but I wonder if you understand that it’s no longer an if-there’s-a-will-there’s-a-way situation for me. At some point every body effectively says, “Too bad, brighteyes, but everybody gets only so much collagen in a lifetime, and your supply is now used up.” I could spend all day pumping iron (and aggravating the arthritis in my shoulders!) and still be droopy, Vi. And the looks of pity and amusement and scorn the testosterone supplement boys give me! Do I really want to continue subjecting myself to that? I mean, I do of course see the humour in their imagining they’re not going to run out of collagen themselves some day, and their not understanding that their being all hard and cut and gorgeous isn’t a function of their greater nobility or even perseverance, but of the chronological accident of their youth. But that gets me only so far.

By the way, I do take some consolation from the fact that if I were an ex-footballer your own age I probably wouldn’t be much less prone to complaining about my arthritis. Whatever I may have put my body through in the course of whipping audiences into frenzies all these decades pales in comparison to what they put theirs through.

At that last awards show we went to together, do you suppose I didn’t see the longing in your eyes when lads far nearer your own age swaggered up in their taut bodies and thick glossy hair and, in many cases, straightened white teeth, to collect their various awards? The only ones I get anymore are for Lifetime Achievement. And what a good laugh everybody had at the Razor’s Edge do when, instead of another fucking loving cup, they gave me a gold-plated Kozee Komforts Height Adjustable Aluminium Four Feet Quad Cane Walking Stick. We both managed to pretend to be terribly amused, but I suspect  you were probably terribly embarrassed, and I hardly blame you.

You’ve got to accept your share of the responsibility, though, Vi. You knew when you came backstage at the O2 Arena all those years ago — what is it now, 27? — that there was a 34-year gap between our ages. Did you think I was going to remain as gorgeous as I was that night at only 51 (my tongue’s in cheek here, Vi) forever? Did you not study physiology at the good schools your parents (12 and 15 years my junior, respectively!) sent you to? Was there no mention at your good schools of collagen depletion, or of the fact that the joints start hurting?

So as I said, Vi, it’s time to admit that it just isn’t working anymore. In the words of Bob Dylan, to whom I was introduced back in the early 70s, and whom I found to be a smug little cunt, I believe it’s time for us to quit. You may look at me with revulsion, but how do you suppose I see you. at almost 45 years old? This just in, VI: I’m still selling out stadiums, while you’re barely recognisable as the 17-year-old who stole my heart all those years ago — and not a suitable rock star’s trophy girlfriend anymore. 

I’ve met someone new, Vi. Chantelle. She’s 28, and we’re expecting. 


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