The big 3- 0: What Berlin can’t cure, there’s no cure for


“So, what are you doing for your 30th?”

I paused. Somehow, “Fucking off to Berlin to black out in a sex club” didn’t seem like the most mature response, but it felt like an appropriat­e escape from adult responsibi­lities.

It’s no surprise that in the run- up to the dreaded milestone birthday, many of us feel slightly — if not, entirely — inadequate; things didn’t work out how we thought, and our romanticis­ed notions of life have already been quietly suff ocated by fuckboys, toxic friends and being forced to pay taxes. But perhaps the most unsettling thing for me was being a 30- year- old who still lived at home.

It’s worse when one of you ( me) works from home and the other ( Dad) is retired, making our house like a kooky sitcom about two unlikely companions who bond over absolutely nothing, and sit in silence until one of them dies.

I’ve stayed for two reasons, mostly. Firstly, because working as a writer and comedian isn’t always the most stable income ( as proved when my fi rst costly attempt to move out collapsed quicker than a British Parliament) and, secondly, because “Renting is throwing your money down the drain!” according to Dad. But why was I breaking my back to own property anyway? To die in it?

Although I’d love to own the roof over my head, I worry that overthinki­ng my future means missing out on my present. More specifi cally, a relationsh­ip. As an ambitious Capricorn, I’m sure on some level I feel like I don’t even deserve one until I’m happy with where I am in life.

Living at home means having shags over is obviously not an option. Meanwhile, my dad’s girlfriend stays twice a week. And as much as I support a woman’s right to destroy some cock, I just wish it wasn’t my dad’s.

On the fl ip side, I pay no rent and can save money each month – something that defi nitely wouldn’t have been possible living away from home. But again, at what cost? I could die tomorrow with a few grand sitting in the bank, and my last remotely sexual experience would be being seeing Sheila’s undergarme­nts on the stairs.

They say the grass is always greener ( which is true when your dad won’t let you smoke weed in the house), but is life passing me by, or do I have a severe case of FOMO? After all, nearly all my London- born friends still live at home, and seem OK with that.

It’s a catch- 30, but what is the lesser of two evils? Living with a dad who has more sex than you, but having the money to drown the pain in an undergroun­d Berlin dungeon, or living with a stranger who never does the washing- up? Berlin wins, obvs.

“I support a woman’s right to destroy some cock; just not my dad’s”

 ??  ?? DECEMBER 2019
 ??  ?? THIS

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