When I was in London recently, I arranged to meet some old university friends at the pub. Now in our late 50s, we’re getting quite decrepit. Hair – if we have any left – is grey or greying; waistlines are expanding. We talked about our deteriorating vision and hearing, high blood pressure, dodgy knees. None of us is retired yet, but it’s a topic that comes up more frequently. Can we afford it? What will we do with all that extra time?
Almost no one reaches middle age without life delivering a few sucker punches
Once we’d exhausted the gloomy prospects of impending old age, we returned to our favourite topic of conversation – our youth, particularly our university years. Like any group of college friends, we have a vast store of anecdotes, which mainly revolve around drinking and romantic pursuits. It doesn’t matter how often they’re repeated; they still have us laughing.
There’s something unique about friends you’ve known for decades. You share a history. There’s no pretence and self-deprecation is mandatory. Any pomposity or one-upmanship is ruthlessly squashed. We know each other too well. If you’ve seen someone enveloped in a plume of dope smoke with slits where their eyes should be – or wearing a bandage around their head because a monumental hangover is causing a vein to noticeably throb – they’re unable to grandstand. It would be laughable. Besides, we’re well past that stage now, and any success is downplayed: ‘Don’t know how I’ve managed to wing it for so long,’ etc.
No matter how golden someone’s early years are, almost no one reaches middle age without life delivering a few sucker punches. If you haven’t developed humility as a result, you clearly weren’t paying attention.
When I’m with my old schoolmates, the humour is still puerile – men of advancing years crying tears of laughter at jokes that were funny in the 1980s but would be beyond the pale today. You’ve shared major life events with old friends. Not only did you have the same education, but you’ve also been to each other’s weddings, the christenings of one another’s children – you may even be a godparent – and celebrated birthdays together. Sadly, inevitably, you will also attend funerals together.
There’s undeniably something bittersweet about old friendships. The passage of time and seeing people you’re so fond of grow old can lead to melancholy. One university friend I met that day hadn’t been seen in seven years. We’ll be in our mid-60s if the same time elapses before meeting again, and who knows what may have happened by then. One of us has already had a triple heart bypass, another suffers from debilitating Crohn’s, and the rest have ailments typical of advancing age.
But on the lighter side, there’s still petrol in the tank. We drank, flirted mildly (and unsuccessfully) with the young women behind the bar. As we near our seventh decade, there’s still plenty to look forward to. None of us has yet had a grandchild, and there could be late flourishes at work – or even career changes. I intend to devote as much time as possible to my writing, drawing inspiration from authors who experienced success later in life (Frank McCourt was 66 when Angela’s Ashes was published). And there are all the places in the world we’ve yet to see.
I have several nights out with long-standing friends to look forward to in the coming weeks. There will be belly laughs, mickey-taking, and wildly un-PC language. There will also be great affection, and even – a word rarely used between men – love. I can’t wait.
This article is free to read
To unlock more articles, subscribe to get 3 months of unlimited access for just $5
Comments
Join the debate for just $5 for 3 months
Be part of the conversation with other Spectator readers by getting your first three months for $5.
UNLOCK ACCESS Just $5 for 3 monthsAlready a subscriber? Log in