Getting on with getting on

If I already admit that the prospect of becoming a grandfather makes me feel old, how on earth will I cope two days from now? There is no point in beating about the bush. A milestone birthday looms and while the kind Omani who speculated that I was about to be 40 became my friend for life, he undoubtedly knew he was some way out. No matter how I try, I struggle to keep a straight face while telling anyone 60 is the new 30. Nor, despite having approached my 30th, 40th and, to a lesser extent, 50th birthdays with equanimity, can I honestly claim to be entirely at ease about completing a sixth decade.

The list of rock giants who got there before me may be long - Jagger, Dylan, Clapton, McCartney and Bowie come to mind without too much mental effort - but that isn't really enough to cheer me up. Even if I borrow Roger "hope I die before I get old" Daltrey's defiant later life mantra ("I didn't get old"), it would sound as unconvincing on my lips as it did on his. Yet it is also true that I do not remotely feel 60, whatever being 60 is meant to feel like that being 59 doesn't.

I still work and play hard; involvement in the launch of this newspaper has been the greatest challenge of my professional life. A birthday party at the Sunderland Stadium of Light will be followed the next day by a match where I shall jump up and down like a teenager if we score more often than Manchester City. In the car, I like nothing better than turning up the volume when playing my CDs, though my taste in music (folk) means I need to be alone.

And I still charge about the badminton court, holding my own against opponents 20 or 30 years younger provided they are not like my Romanian friend Cristian, who trounces me every time without breaking sweat. After one such mismatch, he made it seem a lot better by saying he was once ranked number 15 in his country. I will never forgive him for adding that, Romania not being a badminton hotbed, the rankings were meaningless after fifth.

I suppose I should just accept that there is no hiding place from 60. All the jokes about bus passes, old age pensions, Zimmer frames and Saga holidays will have to be endured. The younger friend who has always addressed me as "old man" will duly change his greeting to "very old man". Clutching at straws, I trawled the internet to see who else entered the world on Aug 29 1948. Thin pickings, if truth be told, apart from a few American politicians, an English playwright, a Swiss cyclist and some other athletes. I had heard of none of them, but will rise above that ignorance, and all notions of self-pity, to wish them all a happy 60th.
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