Unless you are Benjamin Button, Peter Pan or Dorian Gray there’s little use in buying anti-ageing cream. Don’t even bother with the less-hyperbolic anti-wrinkle cream either, because that’s crap, too.
You have to accept that age is a linear thing that goes in one direction only – the wrong one. You’re born, time passes, you eventually turn out looking like a rumpled hessian sack and then you die. The only real choice you have here is whether you choose to have your remains burnt or buried in the ground. Don’t get sucked into all that nonsense. Walk straight past the Revitalift counter that promises to fill in the cracks and ‘plump’ you up.
You know who you are.
You can’t stop the passage of time with something that rodents die for. And who wants to ‘anti-age’ anyway? I’m happy with the ability to snore at any given moment, pull out nose hair and talk, unprompted and at length, about my ailments. I get to be miserable without having to have an excuse (bloody hell I wish I taken out out that pound coin out of my jeans, before putting them in the washing machine – it’s driving me, and the whole of Crouch End, quite mad).
Anyway, where was I?
Oh, here we are.
Imagine if the anti-ageing product you bought was able to propel you into some sort of Tardis-induced time-warp where you’ll eventually find yourself sitting next to your childhood mate trying to crystallise salt with a Bunsen burner in a chemistry class. You’ll have no extraneous, unsightly hair in your ears or nose – indeed you’ll have no hair on your privates or under your arms and you’ll still not know, for sure, what a mental breakdown is.
Blimey, where’s that pot of Revitalift gone?