How to be friends with young people

Can an older person like me ever really be friends with a young person? At one time I would have said yes, absolutely. Age has nothing to do with friendship. You either enjoy someone’s company or you don’t. End of story. But now I’m not so sure.

My young friends in London are always having parties and I’m chuffed when they invite me. But my friend N takes great delight in teasing me. She says, “Don’t take it personally. You’re the token old guy. These days every party has to have at least one.”

You might wonder: why would I want to be friends with young people in the first place? There’s a critique of the young that we oldies often make that goes like this: Gen-Z are just so Zzzzzzzz. Millennials are moaners. They never get your cultural references — “sorry, who are the Doors?” — and the humorless bastards don’t get your jokes either or are offended by them. Youth is wasted on the young. They are censorious, incurious and narcissistic. Hang out with the young? No thanks.

I’ve noticed that having young friends arouses suspicion among my older ones. What am I trying to do — feel young and with-it by getting down with the kids? No, it’s not some vicarious thrill thing. When two people are in the zone of a good conversation they cease to be young and old and are just themselves, two personalities enjoying the pleasures of convivial company.

“But what can you talk about with young people?” a friend asks. I talk about the same silly stuff I talk about with older people. That said, I never discuss my sex life or the state of my prostate with anyone under sixty.

And it’s always assumed that an older man who has young female friends must be up to no good. When I tell my older friends that I enjoy the company of my young friend C — who happens to be drop-dead gorgeous — and that I seek nothing but friendship, they all give the same reaction: yeah, right! They think I’m a dirty old man in denial. But I’m not — at least I try hard not to be. For an older man to be friends with a young beauty he must get a grip of his inner creep and stay in control of his crazed lust. That means no drooling. No flirtation. No funny business of any kind. My dad was always hitting on young women even in his nineties! It wasn’t a pretty sight. I swore I would never be like that.

What older men don’t understand is just how revolting some young women find the idea of having sex with you. You think your charm, your kindness and your loving ways can overcome the visceral horror of your old droopy scrotum and flabby buttocks bouncing away during a bonk. Buddy, think again.

That said, I can’t explain the fact that three of the most attractive women I know in London are all seeing men who are much older than themselves. Of course if you’re Mick Jagger (eighty) or Jimmy Page (eighty) I get why younger women might be attracted to you. But they’re not going to be attracted to a seventy-year-old hack like me, sinking into genteel poverty. The problem is that older men forget that they are old; we still feel young at heart. It’s only when we look in the mirror that we get a reality check.

I like to think that I’m pretty cool about being an older guy around the young. But recently at a party of a young female friend one of the guests asked me if I was her dad. It was a fair question, unfortunately I didn’t see it like that at the time. “No, I’m her fucking granddad!” I said and flounced off.

Clearly, a raw nerve had been touched. And then it hit me — I was the oldest person in the room. Even older than the other token old guy there. My whole age-doesn’t-matter schtick was instantly blown to pieces.

What I realized is that while it’s fun being with a young friend when it’s just the two of you, when you’re in a room full of young people it’s a different story. You look out of place. Especially on the dance floor, where your once cool dance moves provoke smiles all around.

I remember when young going to wedding parties and family celebrations and seeing a cluster of old people — mums and dads and ancient relatives — huddled together in the corner of the room. The women powdered and painted with a defiant splash of red lipstick. Their big-bellied husbands with old-guy feral eyebrows.

And your girlfriend would drag you off the dance floor, insisting you meet one of them — some “amazing” aunt or “funny” uncle you would “absolutely adore.” After five minutes of making conversation with them you’d think: Jesus, how much longer have I got to chat with this old biddy before I can get back to the fun?

And now I’m that old biddy people are dragged off to meet!

This article was originally published in The Spectator’s June 2024 World edition.