I recently found myself in the toiletries section of Superquinn, buck naked

Hitting 31, I finally laid to rest any ideas I had to represent my country at underage rugby. I too resigned that physical activity of the most 'intimate' nature would be now restricted to once per calendar month and will now only include other 'humans'. I destroyed my CD collection and adjusted to life in comfortable trousers. My suffering ex former other half, who was some years my junior, jokingly referred to me as 'Gramps' and 'Captain Corpse' as she walloped the fat frogs and Bacardi Breezers into her before heading out to the local discothèque. I now have to suck it up, throw on an omelette and listen to 'Gardening World' on the wireless. I won't lie to you, I've started to allow talcum powder infiltrate all aspects of my life, including masturbation.

Of course, some would say 31 isn't that old. They'll point to examples like Mother Theresa and The Eiffel Tower as examples of age not being a barrier. I'll usually quip back something like 'She's dead and it's a fucking tower' but it doesn't matter. The proof is there for all to see. I'm old

I recently found myself in the toiletries section of Superquinn, buck naked. It wasn't the first time. I've been forgetting stuff quite a bit lately. I forgot that 'Heartbeat' was on TV3 the other night and only yesterday I forgot to stop when my car entered a crowded school yard.

Are their benefits to being old? Well, there aren't I'm afraid. When you lie in bed planning your day and realise that all you've on is a trip down the stairs and a nice cup of golden vegetable, you do begin to yearn for those better days. Oh, I'm 32 this weekend

Mother Theresa, are you there

ND 2007 AND 2008