At twenty years old I was a man, an adult,
I knew it all, and was living through
the greatest decade in history,
Manchester was the centre of the universe,
the music and films and the whole vibe
of the 1990’s was out of this world.
To my twenty year-old-self, fifty years old was old,
my father at that age, was ancient,
his grey thinning hair and middle-aged fashion
pegged him as an old feller,
when I would show off my brand new shirt
my mother would say with a smile,
your father used to have one just like that.
Now as I near the big five-oh myself,
sixty doesn’t seem so very old,
Seventy is getting on a bit,
and I refer to octogenarians
as being a good age,
rather than detailing the hill,
and how far over it they are.
These days I look at twenty year olds
as though they are still in the playground.
I scoff when they say they have never seen
Trainspotting or heard of Jarvis Cocker.
I talk of the 1990s with fond nostalgia
the way my father would speak of the Sixties,
my playlist still crammed with 90’s indie bangers.
I find myself wondering just when it happened,
when did modern music become a noise to my ears,
when did they stop making TV shows
like they used to,
when did my day, my era, my youth,
my glory days, when did they finish?
Soon enough, and before they know it,
the kids singing the latest pop tunes
and going along with today’s trends
will themselves pine for this era
and its soundtracks.
They will give the complaint that is
passed down to each generation,
that things were better in our day.