The early bath
David Beckham's popped Achilles makes me think about Bob Hoskins, in the shower, in The Long Good Friday.
Beckham is, it pains me to say, the same age as me. This didn't matter a few years ago, when his choice of elaborate / boring hairstyle sent shockwaves through the nation. Gasping members of the public reeled in awe and surprise at the fact a man could have a slightly different haircut to the one he had previously had. Those were the good days, weren't they? Beckham was the same age as me, and people were interested in his haircuts. Sure, his career had taken a slightly more upward trajectory than mine, but that was to be expected: his was a star that would twinkle and then fade out; I had the 'long game' planned and was happy to play catch-up to Becks as he soared beyond the stratosphere.
Time passed. Beckham found ever-greater riches and admiration. People liked him, despite his reed-thin silly voice; they forgave him that penalty kick flying half a mile over the bar that sent England on their way out of Euro 2004. They liked him when he cracked up a bit when he gave up being England captain. They liked his image as the nice family man. They cheered him when he jogged up and down the touchlines waiting for a chance to come on as sub after McClaren's reign had ended. All was well.
Meanwhile, my fortunes languished. "That doesn't matter," I said to myself. "Slowly slowly catchy monkey; do you know what I mean?" - though why of course I should be asking myself what I meant is anyone's guess.
And now, the end of Beckham's England career is here, and probably the end of his career-career as well. The clock has stopped for him - untold millions in the bank, a massive corporate brand, adoring fans all over the world, still that silly voice, yes, but apart from that, it's all perfect. All of a sudden it's become a bit irritating to hear Beckham's age constantly mentioned, usually in the context of "Of course, he's 35 now, so that's pretty much it for him" or "He's no spring chicken" and "it was his last chance". Last chance!
Which brings me to Bob Hoskins in the shower. That's me, that is. I haven't just glassed a rather callow Charlie Fairhead on my yacht, but it's still me. Instead of washing off the blood, and the regret, and all of that, I'm just washing off the whiff of failure and the claret of broken dreams. At that point in the film, Bob realises that it's all gone wrong; sure, he hasn't yet been driven off to certain death by Pierce Brosnan, but he knows it's all collapsing around him.
There comes a point, I'm afraid, where you have to stop thinking that you might, one day, zoom past your peers. Admittedly, I was a bit foolish comparing myself, in my younger days, to a very talented footballer, but even so: there was a sense in which I did think that by the time he was hanging up his boots and calling it a day I'd at least have troubled the scorers somehow.
No. Beckham's early bath just brings to mind that pivotal Bob-in-the-shower scene: all of a sudden it hits home just how wrong you can be. 35 bloody years old is when some people are crying salt tears that an injury means they won't have a fourth and final chance to be a world champion. It was never going to be quite that good, was it? But still. So little done, so little still to do. Poor old Beckham, I began thinking this morning, before correcting myself and thinking: poor old Beckham? Poor? Old? He's anything but poor! He's an absolute multi-multi-millionaire, and loving it, and good for him that he is. And old? Not a bit of it. A shame his dog-toy squeakiness will prevent him from ever being an effective pundit - though doubtless he'll get some kind of chance or other, which will be a terrible error - but he'll have a bloody nice retirement to look forward to. No! Not poor old Beckham! He's done it all. And now the rest of us merely have to try and overtake him. Which I am pretty sure I won't; but I'll have a bloody good go at it.
You may say - and I'm glad if you did - hang on a minute, though; you keep banging on about Bob Hoskins in the shower, but how old was he when he made that film? And you'd have a good point, because he was 37. So that gives me two whole years in which to create the equivalent of an iconic moment in British film history. And do you know, I reckon I can.
No related posts.
Buy my book, it’s great
Switch site
Donate
Recent Posts
- Workbrain
- So Solid Wiki fun
- Quentin Letts killed by a woodchipper
- I just sent Robin round
- Kim Jong Ill
Most Commented On
Recent Comments
- Maeva on Tarts and hookers
- Merrick on Workbrain
- Maxine on Workbrain
- Sirenofbrixton on Workbrain
- Katie on Workbrain
About Me
Hello. I'm a Bristol-based writer and soon-to-be-redundant journalist. You can read more about me and the Enemies site here, or follow me on Twitter. Email me if you like - antonvowl at live dot co dot uk
If you're struggling to read the site please use the drop down box below to increase the text size.
March 15th, 2010 - 19:26
Do not go gentle into that good night.
March 15th, 2010 - 22:36
If it’s any consolation – I know it isn’t – I’m 34 and went through pretty much the same pointless exercise in comparison with Beckham as his career progressed. Now he’s at the end of the line I’m feeling pangs of something deeply unpleasant to do with my own mortality and failure to acheive anything of note. Anyway, maybe we’ll blossom late, like Leonard Cohen or Depeche Mode, or something.
March 15th, 2010 - 22:44
I’m younger than you are, but I’ve been there. I know that feeling. I’ve been trying to get somewhere with my creative work for years, and I’m still where I was seven years ago. Sometimes I think I should just accept that it will never go anywhere.
But then I tell myself – fuck that. Fuck that kind of thinking. Doing something good was never easy, and giving up because it doesn’t work out immediately is pathetic. You struggle with this stuff, and you keep going, no matter what. Fuck what they tell you and fuck what they think and fuck David fucking Beckham.
Then I stop cursing and just get on with trying to do what I want to do. That’s all you can do.
March 17th, 2010 - 12:49
Lovely post – The fact that you’re putting out stuff like this for free whilst countless newspaper columnists get paid to write utter dreck is a travesty.
I get exactly the same feeling about age. I always took comfort from the fact that the people making the music, TV and radio that I loved were a couple of years older than me, so I had time to catch up. But now, as Father Time drags me towards my 34th birthday like child being hauled to the annual buying of the school uniform, I realise that those same crafts have become infested with children. Watching TV is like trying to get served in bloody Stead and Simpson on a Saturday, attempting to glean information from a couple of slack-jawed youths reluctantly paying the minimum required attention whilst mentally rewriting the encounter as a Facebook status update about how shit old people are.
Like Sean said, there are always the late bloomers to look to. I’m no fan, but I’m pretty sure Ricky Gervais didn’t make The Office until he was 40. Before then, he was a fairly meh stand-up. And then there’s the Mystery Jets (creators of this awesome tune http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K2Dl3VQ2K2U), whose guitarist is Henry Harrison, the lead singer’s dad.
Deep down, I know I’ll never collect a Bafta or see my name in anything more prestigious than the local paper’s Letters page under the heading ‘Dogshit Fury’. But it’s always reassuring to know that the Logan’s Run-style world of the famous occasionally slips up and lets one of us coffin-dodgers through the net.
December 5th, 2010 - 21:15
Don’t worry mate, I’m 10 years older than you most of my proudest
achievements have taken place in the last 10 years
December 5th, 2010 - 21:16
Hoskins was *37* in TLGF? Jesus. I thought he started life aged a minimum of 45.
December 5th, 2010 - 21:23
Bloody whining whippersnappers!
I’ve got about as much sympathy for you lot as I do for that Charlotte Metcalf woman in the Mail
December 5th, 2010 - 21:51
You’ve got this all the wrong way round. Beckham’s glory is firmly in the past, no matter his millions and slowly fading looks, just imagine the dullness of always having to say “I was…”
For us late starters, well you have to chase a dream to make it happen, but at least we can look forward to it. It must be terrible to always look back and know you’re past your best at what you do best. At only 34.
Anyway, creatives usually get better with maturity.
December 5th, 2010 - 23:28
Hey, just wait till you’re 44! I’m the same age as David Cameron (& Hague?*) and I’ve been following his career since his Bullingdon days, wondering when I too will make the Big Time. I imagine he and I walking on parallel paths to greatness- he strolling in to the hallway of No. 10, I dragging my carcass in through the staff entrance at a major commercial facility the name of which shall not be mentioned. It’s absolutely uncanny I tell ya…
Still, I can rest easy now knowing that people expect you to do your meteoric rising act before the age of 40. After that they let you off the hook. As people no longer have great expectations of you, you can finally become your own man.
)
*Come to think of it, maybe I should have paralleled Hague instead- I used to have a train set and made my first political speech when I was 14 (not at the Tory Party conference though, it was class 1N5 I think).