The photos below were sent to me by a friend called Dave – let’s call him Dave #1 for reason that will shortly become obvious – of our mutual friend, Dave (or Dave#2 to avoid confusion).
I think they are funny, especially as I know what Dave #2 actually looks like; not always an appealing sight, especially when winter rains have lashed his perm into driblets of lank, salt-and-pepper curls, reminscent of an ageing Rasta after a night bonging on bad ganja.
In the macro universe inhabited by the two Daves, me and a few chosen others, when men in the last, late flush of post-middle youth still resort to playground antics, it raises a harmless giggle; a welcome frivolity in such uncertain times.
Naturally, our respective wives will scoff, arch plucked eyebrows and sigh with dismay, quietly willing the Smack Leg Fairy to come and knock some sense into us. Your trouble is, girls, you’re too bloody grown-up.
The shrinks and psychologists, meanwhile, will dig deep into our psyches and no doubt hold seminars to probe the foibles of semi-knackered males’ puerile attempts to recapture their childhood, despite the fact we never lost it. After reflection and cogitation, they will decide we should be embracing our vintage years with all the stoicism of those queuing up in God’s waiting room, cocking an ear for the Grim Reaper’s call to shuffle off our mortal coil.
Not a chance, you surrogate sons and daughters of Sigmund Freud.
You see, men will always be boys. Despite arthritis and heart murmurs, we’ll still dream of scoring a Roy of the Rover’s goal at Wembley; of riding our bikes first past the chequered flag in a Moto Grand Prix (as in the case of the Daves); of holding in sagging paunches when surreptitiously eyeing a pretty girl (even though our minds are making appointments our bodies can no longer meet); and making verbal nuisances of ourselves before 9 p.m., when it’s time for Horlicks and beddy-byes.
No, once a lad, forever a lad. And decrepit as we’ve become, Peter Pan still lurks beneath the wrinkles.
PS: Don’t feel a grain of pity for the subject of the mocked-up images – it was his own, boyish fault for posing for them.