Chris Titley

This week, I received a card. On the cover were all sorts of accusations, only some of which I am prepared to repeat. If you are of a particularly sensitive nature, please turn the page because the language is pretty ripe.

It described me as, ahem, an "old farty". My body, it went on, was "totally knackered" and "wouldn't know how to fight back".

You might assume this shocking attack came from an anonymous detractor, or perhaps Robert Holmes of Thorganby, the Evening Press correspondent and vituperative critic.

In fact, it was sent by my girlfriend's parents. I'm afraid this is the kind of abuse you have to expect when you turn 30, as I did on Monday.

Their card, with its Ode to Being 30 from which the above extracts come, was one of many references to my great age that day.

Everyone feels free to indulge in this ritualised, pipe-and-slipper banter because 30 is no age at all. It would be another matter if I really was old.

All those jokes suggesting you are losing your marbles and on your last legs would be entirely inappropriate in the Queen's centenary telegram for example.

The most remarkable thing about age clichs is how so many of us conform to them. When I was 20, I celebrated my birthday by drinking myself unconscious, like everyone else I knew.

In my case it was the only sensible course of action considering it also marked the tenth anniversary of Mrs Thatcher coming to power. By contrast this year I consumed one can of beer and a glass of wine. The best part of a thoroughly enjoyable day was not double whisky chasers in some dreadful nightclub, as was the case a decade ago, but going for a walk with my son, girlfriend and family in Rowntree Park. Much more fun.

Along with the old farty card, I received one which included "six ways to tell if you've reached that certain age".

These were:

1) you wake up with that morning after feeling and you didn't do anything the night before;

2) you're on first name terms with staff at the garden centre;

3) your battle with gravity is starting to get personal;

4) the only drugs you experiment with are vitamin supplements;

5) you start admiring your parents' clothes for their durability and

6) your idea of a steamy night in is catching up on the ironing.

Upon reading this list I chortled contemptuously, in an attempt to convey its irrelevance to my good self. Then my girlfriend cut me short by saying I conformed to all these except number two (we don't have a garden).

Spluttering that I never take vitamin supplements, she reminded me that I recently took up cycling and rested her case. Still, it's her turn in December. This set me thinking. Perhaps the authors of birthday cards are the great unsung philosophers of our age.

Instead of Shakespeare's seven ages of man, in 300 years time scholars will solemnly quote Hallmark. A level students will sweat over questions like: "What did the poet mean by 'old farty' and in what metaphysical sense was he 'totally knackered'?"

All these insults have failed to make me feel anything less than happy about being 30. Yes, my sporting days are over, but then they never really began. For years I have worn unfortunate shorts and danced embarrassingly, but now I'm a dad it's accepted as normal behaviour, encouraged even. I can now wear sensible haircuts with pride.

Entering your fourth decade is no longer a reason to dwell on your own mortality.

This week we were reminded that a man can spend his adult life as a hellraiser, drink regiments under the table, womanise, end up in fights that end up in jail, and still live 30 years past his 30th birthday.

Here's to Oliver Reed, an inspiration to old Farties everywhere.

05/05/99

Converted for the new archive on 30 June 2000. Some images and formatting may have been lost in the conversion.