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When you hit 40, maybe you'll have something to complain about. If you're falling apart by having already gone bald and gotten a pot-belly, then maybe you can cry.
I'm thinking when I hit 50 I might complain a little. I know I'll complain when I hit 60.
May you have many footie-watching, happy bean-counting days ahead!
Either that, or win the Lottery, move to Greece with yer GF to escape the sodden winter season in England, Menty steals her away, you drown your sorrows in ouzo, your liver finally calls it quits...ah, never mind...count the beans, we'll always have football.