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Don’t do it, uncle, don’t. I felt like pleading with a middle-aged postgrad student, who was breaking a leg at a Boom Shaka bash (now known as a gig), to stop.
The poor man had left his middle-management job to get an education at the University of Cape Town and not to be a candidate for a hip-replacement op. What would his division say about the brawl he was involved in later that evening? Shooters were meant for young livers, not the young at heart.
There are dos and don’ts for certain age groups, they say. A middle-aged man driving a Mini Cooper tends to look like a paedophile on the prowl. Soccer moms, keep your sprogs even closer when you spot this uncle.
One lady said there’s nothing more revolting than a man over 35 wearing an Abercrombie & Fitch hoodie and beige Timberland boots. I protested. She doesn’t know old-school cool, I thought. But I realised she was on to something when I saw a brother with a potbelly sporting the look.
A mohawk? Tread carefully if you listened to Radio Metro’s first broadcast in 1986; watched Madiba’s release on the telly in 1990; and still shuffle to Bob Mabena’s jams on Kaya FM. You are officially out of the youth league.
With all freedom of choice protocols observed, these should be no-go areas for anyone who’s called Bra Mike at the office: playing drinking games with varsity chicks, singing along to any Justin Bieber song, splitting a R200 restaurant bill or sending a “please call me” to a lady.
Different strokes blah blah blah. Go ahead and wear your striped shirt and shiny shoes to a club. Just don’t get sloshed and start singing Rihanna’s B*tch Better Have My Money. Rather try Teddy Pendergrass’ In My Time.
