SPECIAL FRIEND – CONDEMNED WETHERSPOONS

You’re not getting older gracefully. You’re being dragged through it backwards, swearing, with a pint in one hand and your dignity missing, presumed dead. Your hairline is halfway down the back of your neck looking for a fresh start, your balls now hang lower than your standards and every fart has become a calculated risk. You make a noise when you sit down, a louder one when you stand up, and you’ve started saying ‘they don’t make them like they used to’ about things nobody wants anymore. Your body is less a temple and more a condemned Wetherspoons: sticky, badly maintained and somehow still open. Have a brilliant birthday, you magnificent old wreck. Love ya mate x