Falling down

Nope, not the Michael Douglas one

I write a lot about the passage of time and getting older. The elasticity of it all sneaks up on me and pinches my bum at least once a week. I remember the 90s like they were yesterday; my 20s and 30s seem like only a heartbeat away. Yet here I am, getting fucking older with every minute.

Recently, events have conspired to brutally and unsubtly hammer home a simple, unavoidable fact: It doesn’t matter how old feel, or how my brain insists that youth was a fleeting moment ago, I am not 18 anymore. Even 40 is wishful thinking.

I posted a picture to Notes a couple of weeks back of a rather gnarly head wound. Some very kind, caring people wished me well and cautioned me to be careful out there. And I deceived them. For I did not set them straight.

I did not slip on ice as many assumed. I was done in by a combination of exuberance, arrogance and gravity.

Photo by Zachary Kadolph on Unsplash

New Year’s Day, 2026. Another year dawns hopeful, and my beloved Brentford were taking on Tottenham Hotspur at the GTech. Spurs’ manager is Thomas Frank, a man who oversaw seven incredible years in our little corner of London before chasing fame and fortune elsewhere. This one had a touch of the grudge to it.

It was a turgid affair; an appalling 0-0 that did no favours to the argument that the Premier League is the best league in the world. But we didn’t lose, and Thomas Frank and his plump little wallet were sent packing.

The post match pint was my round, so I Foxtrot Oscared¹ to the Steam Packet down by the river as fast as my little legs could carry me.

Most people leave our lovely little ground via an access road that spits you out right by Kew Bridge station. It’s always a congested route to freedom, but there’s a cute little hack: a foot or so of rough earth between the kerb and a security fence overlooking the station. If you hustle down that strip of earth you can overtake so many dawdlers it nearly feels like your flying.

I have taken this little shortcut dozens of times. I legit think I invented it.

I was merrily bombing along when I tripped, stumbled, and suddenly I actually was flying… straight into terra firma. Down the big man went.

I hit the ground at full stretch, registering at least four points of pain up and down my body.

At this juncture, loving friends and family are thinking “Ahhh, Lew - were you a bit merry by any chance?” and it’s a fair question, because after all I do have previous. But no, it was New Year’s Day and imbibing is always restrained after the party. I wasn’t completely dry but I was also completely in control of my faculties.

Falling over in public is embarrassing; falling over in front of several hundred people is absolutely fucking mortifying. I was up from the dirt in a second, waving away concern with a hurried “Yes, I’m fine thanks!” I was intent on completing my mission when I heard “Shit, he’s really bleeding.”

Yes, I’d sprung a gusher. It was Big Hat Cold so my fur-lined trapper hat was soaking up most of it, but there was still blood running down my face. Head wounds bleed a lot.

Out of the darkness, a Samaritan passed me a tissue. I thanked him and set off for the pub. I take the duty of my round very seriously.

By the time I was at the bar, I’d cleaned myself up and the flow was slowing down. However, there was undeniably a hole in my head. My mates said I looked like Charles Manson after he cut an X into his own head during his trial. Not a good look. I abandoned my pint and got myself home as quickly as possible.

In the cold light of the bathroom, I appraised myself. I felt lucid, not concussed in the slightest, but there was a two centimetre gash between my eyebrows. Brilliant. I dug some steri-strips out of the first aid kit, and set about closing the rift.

How on earth do people put make up on? It’s so hard to go at your own face in a mirror. Like, fucking impossible. I gave up, swallowed my pride, and roused The Muse from her slumber.

My wife is a saint and an angel. Once the confusion cleared, she closed me up with a gentle skill. Almost as an afterthought, she suggested I phone 111 to see what they said.

They completed the concussion protocol² and confirmed that I was probably okay, but seeing as the cut was ‘over’ two centimetres (I never said that) and I'd had a beer, I should get checked out.

So The Muse loaded me up into our motor and carted me off to A&E, where I was checked out by some professional saints and angels who confirmed that The Muse had done a cracking job of patching me up. After a relatively short wait (a relief because I’m a burly skinhead and they get judged most harshly when they’re sat in A&E leaking claret) they added some medical glue, confirmed I wasn’t concussed, gave me a tetanus and kicked us out into the cold night air.

A wonderful shiner came up the next morning like a malignant sunrise, and for a week or so I fielded the inevitable “What happened to you?” with rakish quick wit. “There was ten of ‘em!” “You should see the other guy.” “Finally got that frontal lobotomy.” Or my personal favourite, a simple “Gravity.”

It was largely out of my mind after that. After all when it comes to self-inflicted injury, I really do have previous. Then, one morning walking the dogs, I went over again. All I did was step over a low barrier between car park and actual park, but I caught my trailing leg on the barrier and timberrrrrr! Down the big man went.

This one was only witnessed by my dogs and a motley little crew of schoolkids. The dogs were entirely unbothered; the gang of pre-teens laughed like an old man falling into wet leaves was the world’s best slapstick.

The received wisdom when it comes to falling is this: if you fall over and people laugh, you’re young and you just fell over; if you fall over and concerned onlookers rush to help you then you’re old and you had a fall. I dread having a fall like a dark age peasant dreads that strange comet across the sky.

For those keeping score, it’s 1-1. One serious fall, one highly comedic fall.

Then last week, it happened again. The whole pack was out in the cold pre-dawn³. The Muse had Peanut and I had mad, doddery old Lola. If you’ve been paying keen attention to my Notes lately, you’ll know that Lola is losing the plot a little, she’s going deaf and sometimes forgets where she is. When this happens if she’s off the lead, she sometimes bolts in the vague direction of where she thinks The Muse is.

Most of the time she gets this right, on this particular morning, she didn’t - she set off full tilt for the main road. I gave chase, shouting fruitlessly at an old deaf dog.

Lola may be old, she may have clicky knees and a slipped disc, but fuck me silly is she rapid when she wants to be. I am 40% pork scratchings and anything but rapid. I move at a glacial pace.

Still, I caught up with Flyin’ Lola and reached down to grab her harness. Then that familiar sensation kicked in: the centre of balance tilted and gravity gripped me in a Kimura lock. Down the big man went.

Fortunately, I did manage to stop the runaway in her tracks. Good job too, or we’d be reviewing Pet Sematary this week instead of my various tumbles. The Muse and Peanut caught up to us, and we all had a jolly good laugh and my misfortune.

That made it 2-1 to the funnies. I’m still young!

Record scratch.

That is not the case. Because of what happened last October. The genesis.

Another night at the football, a belting game between Brentford and Liverpool. Little old Brentford battered the actual English champions all over the park, winning 3-2 in a scoreline that utterly flatters the champs. Brentford were utterly dominant that night.

After such a result, my instinct is to stick around for as long as possible. I want to shoot the shit with likeminded souls. I want to marvel at how far we’ve come, I want to reminisce about how 20 years ago we were slugging it out with the likes of Cambridge and Carlisle and Colchester.

In situations like this, when you have more than a touch of time blindness, you often lose track of your train home.

All of a sudden, it was time to dash. I set off at a canter, comfortable that I still had plenty of time to catch my ride. Suddenly, a wily kerb attacked me from out of nowhere. And, once again, down the big man went.

This was probably the least spectacular fall of them all, it was a basic tumble to my hands and knees. No blood, no drama. But this was the one that prompted a couple of outrageously young Gen Zedders to rush to my aid.

They were very concerned and conscientious, making sure I hadn’t hit my head before urging me to be careful and sending me on my way. An emphatic point for the had a fall brigade there: youth helping a greybeard back to his feet.

So it’s 2-2, perfectly poised between comedy and tragedy.

I’ve had plenty of lumps and bumps in my time, but this recent run have hit harder and hurt longer. I’m not a kid anymore, I’m not fleet of foot or deft of hand (was I ever?). I can no longer walk between the raindrops. And you lot have got to remind me of that fact on the regular, because I can’t keep chipping bits off me any longer.

This is not my usual clumsiness. This is a fundamental shift. The lesson, and it’s only for me because I doubt any of you are slow learners, is that I have got to take a little more care.

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Thanks for reading. My ego is huge but fragile, so please show some love before you leave. Bang that like button on your way out, or leave a comment if anything in the piece landed with you. I’m between jobs at the moment, so if you’re feeling really flush you can chuck some coin in my Ko-Fi and I’ll love you for all time. Cheers, see you again soon.

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1. Fucked off.

2. Excellent name for a metal band.

3. Despite the fact I’m out of work, we’re trying to stick to routine as much as possible, otherwise I’d slide into the sofa like JD Vance.