It is well documented how lonely and miserable middle-aged men in the UK are. The most recent stats suggest that 15% of men aged between 45 and 64 have no close friends. Making new mates becomes harder as soon as you leave full-time education, but if you’re an excitable, people-pleasing over-sharer with loudmouth tendencies like me, you will keep trying. Only this morning, I was at the drive-through car wash when I tried to strike up a chat with the Albanian chap who’d just finished my wax dry.
“Lovely job, pal,” I said. “You know they’re charging double for the same service round at the Pig and Whistle car park? Outrageous innit? Anyway, doing anything nice this weekend?”
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Before I could ask him if he fancied a drink, he shoved out his little card reader device and said, “20 pounds”, in a manner so cold and transactional, I immediately deduced that he wasn’t looking for friendship. Oh well.
I have old mates I try to stay in touch with. But many of them are so rooted in the past. I had a drink with a bloke I went to university with the other day. He couldn’t stop ranting about his failure to make the first 11 of the uni football team in the mid-90s. He seemed irked that another mate of ours had managed to get in, despite what he saw as his lesser abilities. “He only got picked because he spread a rumour he’d had trials for Spurs,” he grumbled into his rum and coke.
“Just leave it mate, it’s all in the past,” I said. But I don’t think my words helped. Like me, he has just turned 50. He has a nice family and a successful career. Yet I feel as if he may never be truly happy as long as the injustices of University of Sussex FC’s selection committee during the John Major era live rent free in his mind.