Thirteen and Up

Each time I move back home I feel a bit more claustrophobic. Obviously seeing the family is great but relying on mum and dad is a bit 40 Year Old Virgin. When you live with your friends you can stagger in at five in the morning, play some Rolling Stones tracks with the base turned up and start mouthing off about how much of a goon John Terry is. This does tend to piss off the housemates a bit but after a hug or two we all move on (except MEH). It’s different back at home. The kitchen is off limits after 10pm and there is no talking while either, Antiques Road Show, Eggheads or University Challenge is on the telly. Unfortunately awesome bands such as The Stones have been pigeonholed along with American sit-coms as, “horrible racket.” My dad has an incredible ear for modern music; any jingle played above four decibels will be greeted with any of the following phrases.

“What is that horrible racket?”

“Turn that rubbish down!”

“Shut that racket off, I’m getting a head ache!”

This usually results in one of the three most immature responses you can imagine. Pick any of the following,

“Oh my god, it’s so unfair!”

Turning up the music really loud

or my favourite...

Exaggerated sigh followed by a “FOR FUCKS SAKE.....” then a door slam.

The problem is that once my parents start treating me like a child I behave like one. It’s like how when a sane person is accused of going mad and nobody believes that they are sane, they go insane. In fact it’s exactly like that. Well done Moist, good metaphor.

The worst bit is that all my complaints are horribly ungrateful. Seeing as they have paid for all my food, shelter and education for over twenty-one years the least I should do is shut up while my parents watch educational television. Even if The Antiques Road Show does make me want dig myself a deep cold grave, I should really allow them that small pleasure in peace.

I blame Universities. Building up huge student loans isn’t the best way to gain independence and so I’m going to be scrounging off the rents for a year or two yet. Bloody top up fees, I bet James Bond didn’t move back in with his mummy and daddy Bond after he finished studying guns and spying at Cambridge.

Today my family went for a ‘welcome back Moist’ meal (see I really am an ungrateful shit.) Much, to my displeasure, I got ID’d. Considering I was already feeling hopelessly dependant this was a worst case scenario. What made it so much worse was that the GIRL that did the deed couldn’t have been much more than twenty-one herself. ....She didn’t even ID me to my face. Back-stabbing ID slut.

I ordered a Peroni and she walked off to get the manager. Two minutes later Mr Manager appeared and said,

“Excuse me, can I ask your son for ID?” with a wankerish look on his face.

He didn’t even ask me. What a fuck face.

It was like your girlfriend dumping you, via a text to your dad. That wasn’t quite such a good metaphor.

I bet Maximus from gladiator didn’t get ID’d at my age and if he did, I bet Mr Manager didn’t ask his dad for ID on his behalf. Maximus would have stabbed the manager’s face off. By the way, if you’re reading this and you don’t know what I look like, I’m six foot and four inches tall, with a big beard. Plus I’m outrageously ripped and look about thirty.
....sort of.