Sue Backshall

Quote me on it, men under the age of forty are unlovable

Today, a man pissed off the world by claiming that women over 50 are unloveable. I think men under 40 are exactly the same.

 

 

Over in France, a novelist we’ve never heard of wrote his most noted missive. He claimed that was “incapable” of loving a woman over the age of fifty. It’s exactly as it sounds, and I suggest we waste not our breath, energy or risk future thumbs arthritis articulating the obvious outrage. I mean, yes, he also added that he’d prefer to date Asian women, because “It’s perhaps sad and reductive for the women I go out with but the Asian type is sufficiently rich, large and infinite for me not to be ashamed.”

Yes, I know.

Yann is an ageist, but so am I, and so are you. We all are, even if we handle it in a more socially kinder fashion. I know I am.

However, if Yann can castigate women over fifty, I’m the same for men under 40. They can all fuck off. It is a truth universally acknowledged that men below that age are in their prime, and that they understand the reference that begun that sentence. Yawn. I can make that generalisation, because they’re all the same. They’re basic, they’re cookie cutter academics, and they’re a drain on oxygen and time.

From my experience, the depth of their knowledge extends to three institutions: Sport, or literature, or the golden age of television; but it’s all a front. They believe they know us well enough to hook us. No, honey. No. They’re athletic in the crowd sense. Their exercise extends to yelling at millionaires on the television, or worse, taking casual sport far too seriously as a means of foreplay. Literature is the same, they’re dilettantes. They’re knowledgeable on a pub trivia level, or the notes section of IMDb. They truly know one thing, how to sound like they know what they’re talking about. Dudes, watching trash television ironically does nothing for us, waiting for your turn to talk doesn’t float our boats.

It’s not entirely their fault. They’ve stumbled out of the fugue of their twenties, reborn, unsure of who this new person is. They have new interests, but they haven’t had enough time to research it thoroughly. What I care not for, is the pretence. Nary can they admit that they’ve just started this voyage, so they’ll just quote the same masters, or rehash analysis they’ve overheard, or heard on Youtube. Regurgitating facts a worthwhile conversation does not make.

It’s a physical problem also. They look too…untouched. Too pristine, or bronzed. They’re often like the hypercars of continental Europe. They’re very sleek and appropriate to look at, but you’d never thrash one properly, fearing that you’d break it, and the bill would be too taxing. We’re here to bang, not admire.

Fundamentally, they’re kids. Their egos are precious, they cannot be questioned. They still think of themselves as that person that is going to change things. It’s cute. It’s painful.

The television of our hormonal years lied to us. Growing up, we all thought we wanted the Peter Andre middle part and abs-upon-abs. We wanted James van der Beek bawling. We wanted to be crooned in Ledgeresque pomp. We didn’t want to wait for our lives to be over, we wanted them now. It takes a while to realise that we’ve been duped. It takes a while to understand that the longer you let the wine age, the better it becomes. It takes a while to understand that the elderly are those who know how to fuck.

So, to all you young men in your prime, those on Tinder or Grindr or wherever, those who believe that the thirties represent the best of you, grow up. Hit those books, hit that therapy, and hit me up in a decade.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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