One advantage of skulking around your early thirties is one can freely bemoan the state of the youth today.
By ‘youth,’ I mean anyone younger than me, and anyone under forty-five whose puritan leanings I loathe.
I’m enjoying this additional string to my bow of eternal curmudgeon. Indeed, I scour my local newspapers for the choicest examples of the old whinging about the young, and from those examples excise the time-worn formula of what is crystallised as ‘In my day.’
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