Dad, what were you like in the 90s?

There’s a trend on Instagram whereby celebrities pretend to look bashful in response to the question “Mom/Dad, what were you like in the 90s?” It seems reasonable to assume that anyone watching the highlight reels are meant to think, “Wow! That famous person was an absolute wildcard! I love them even more than I already did!”

Nothing is like it used to be, especially nostalgia. I am not important, and yet everyone is on the internet these days. No one has asked for my 90s highlight reel. My kids have not explicitly asked me what I was like in the 90s. And yet here I am, equal to the fame-rinsing stars, if only because of my embarrassingly desperate need for your approval.

1990 – I was 8 years old. World Cup year. I supported Scotland – did not go down well in England.

1991 – My first girlfriend. I had no idea what I was doing. Nirvana was popular, though I was too young to understand Buddhism.

1992 – The Olympics. Moved house. Basingstoke looks the same in most places.

1993 – Started big school. Liked it. Structure and an organised system of appraisal. I’m autistic, not an SS guard.

1994 – Pulp Fiction. Another World Cup.

1995 – Pulp and Michael Jackson. Nothing else happened.

1996 – Voluntarily took part in an extra-curricular quiz that resulted in a Gazette Cup victory for my school. You can write ‘miserable bastard’ on my gravestone, but you can’t take away my silver proof of knowing meaningless information.

1997 – Garbage. Bush. A new direction by Blur. Cider on a bench and the weary pouring away of said cider by a police person.

1998 – GCSE exams. Self-funded trip around western Europe. Beaten at chess by a child in Switzerland in four moves. Sixth form college.

1999 – F***ing horrific. The eclipse.

So, that’s what I was like in the 90s – a basket case, just the same as I am now. No movie credits, no adulation, just a simmering pool of resentment based on a rock-solid foundation of regret and annoyance at the relentless march of time.