Getting down with the kids

Trapped in limbo somewhere between Old Rave and New Rave? I feel your pain...

As era-defining as programmes such as This Life and Sex and the City were, I’m perfectly aware that not all women in New York hump anything animal, vegetable or mineral and have faces (and inevitably, genitals) like the sole of a well-worn espadrille.

And I know that twenty-somethings in the mid-nineties weren’t all promiscuous, chain-smoking legal whizzkids who resided in sprawling townhouses with their über-exciting friends.

The latest demographic to be immortalised on the small screen are British teenagers, and I just so happened to catch a glimpse of Channel Four’s heavily-advertised (I’m surprised they didn’t fly-post my arse) new drama, Skins. Something wasn’t quite right. They were all so, well, cool. I watched with disbelief as the characters sashayed their effortlessly chic derrieres (even the supposedly geeky boy is reasonably stylish, if not a fashion trailblazer) on a path of debauchery that no real sixteen or seventeen-year-old would ever follow, erm, ever. Or would they?

Skins is, of course, teen fiction written by adults for adults but it’s hard to tell where reality ends and light entertainment begins. EVERYONE below the age of eighteen looks like they should be in a band. Only five or so years have passed since I was at A-Level age; a minute sliver of the sickly and disappointingly unsatisfying pie that is life. However, I couldn’t possibly feel more alienated from youth culture when, everywhere I go, gaggles of immaculately-attired mini Kate Mosses seem to have fallen from a Topshop window display onto the street below. They exude confidence and sport the kind of glossy mane that was once only obtainable if you visited an upmarket hairdresser. The main thing that stands out most about being sixteen was the sheer and utter embarrassment of just “being”. I may as well have walked around with a sanitary towel stuck to my face and “Kick Me” taped to my back, then I’d really have something to be ashamed of. I can’t remember a single friend (or acquaintance for that matter) who had the remotest notion of what clothes did and didn’t suit them. My personal style was the result of a fight between Mk One and New Look, and Dorothy Perkins chipped in now and again to vomit all over me.

But now, instead of the painfully awkward transition between young person and adult, today’s teen is just a less cynical, more fashionable adult with better legs. One of the joys of growing up is that you blossom into a more attractive, wiser version of your acne-riddled grub stage. Not any more. Never mind the old adage that the young are The Future – they’re The Present. A recent trip to the local discothèque confirmed my fears: there’s never been such a gap between what is actually current and “cool” and what I perceive to be “hip”. Youth culture has moved at such an alarming rate that in the last few years I’ve lagged behind like an obese child with flat feet on Sports Day.

I tried to redeem myself at the weekend by purchasing some of the periodicals of the young and attempted to garner some knowledge of an elusive world. My casual use of the terms “mascara rave” and “pout rock” (© this week’s NME) were met with bafflement and scorn and my attempts at street lingo were about as popular as AIDS. Perhaps it’s time to face facts: I’m never going to like The Klaxons, Peaches Geldof looks like a gerbil with leggings and orange is never going to suit me. Take a leaf out of my book: usage of the word “safe” in the wrong context makes you sound like a dick. I’m just going to close my eyes and put my fingers in my ears. Hopefully when I awaken, teenagers will once again be an ugly tribe completely separate from the rest of the world. Until then I’m going to watch nothing but old episodes of Byker Grove and fondly recall an era when teenagers looked, acted and smelled like scallies.