Agggggg, brush, brush, brush, up and down up and down, easy on the gums… Blood and white foam mixture. Is it 2 minutes yet, am I there yet? Most people brush only for 40 seconds, me included. Got to floss. Metres maybe miles of it in the drawer. All those unkept promises after each session of dental hygiene. Just can’t be bothered. Tomorrow. Yeah, right. Add to the train of moisturisers, eyebrow enhancers (rip-off) and all the nonsense that I have accumulated over the years.

How does one manage to squirt toothpaste to the mirror? You open the tube as if handling nitro-glycerine, yet one bit always manages to find is way onto the impeccably clean surface. One lucky, fluoride enhanced sperm-like tadpole. Attempt to wipe it off with your sleeve and cause further blur. What do people think when they look at themselves while brushing their teeth? Like, what does Gene Simmons think? Is it like: ”Man, when we first came up with the make-up idea in 1973 it was cool? Now? Well, we’re still touring, playing catchy riffs with bland lyrics. Crazy, crazy nights… Let me see my tongue again, aaaaaaaa. All good Gene!”

Born on the same day as old Gene, 25^th August. Much later than 1949, though! Is having the same birthday as celebrities a big thing? Rob Halford, same day in 1951, way to go! Morty would be proud of me. But then I’m talking about a fictional character with permanent greenish phlegm hanging from the corner of his mouth. Imagine having a grandfather like that. Bloody rude, highly intelligent even when transformed into a cucumber, commandeering a cockroach to move about and eventually restoring himself. Travelling to space and other planets as if visiting the local convenience store in his battered space craft.

I couldn’t be Morty though. For one, I hate cucumbers. Intelligence, that box is checked. But really, cucumbers, why do they even exist? Composed 95% of water and some substance to hold it together yet with an aftertaste and accompanying heartburn. Imagine me turned into a cucumber, I would hate myself.

So, another year has gone today, got to scroll one more line filling on-line forms. If my dad’s lifespan is the benchmark, two thirds already gone. But then I don’t smoke, so add a couple more years. But then I can be hit by a car or an e-scooter tomorrow. Not an excuse to smoke though. I’m off it. End of. Fifty something. Used to think in my child years, “I’ll be 33 in the year 2000”. Yes, and? Would I have a Martin Landau poster in my moon base room? Would I pack my flying car into a briefcase like George Jetson? Would I join a secret society and rule the world like Spectre or the 8? In time, I did get a space 1999 Eagle Transporter diecast toy and met people in not-so-secret societies. Still no moon base and no secret plots to rule the world, but met a lot of lovely people, the usual twats excluded of course.

Or would I be a world famous usher in the local cinema? (Yes, that was my dream job. Always imagining the perk of seeing my favourite films for as many times as I wanted). Ok, birthday now. There was a film where Burt Reynolds was admiring himself in the mirror, that was when he still had his own hair. Let me have a look at myself: