Last weekend, at a family get-together, I learned that the term ‘lads’ holiday’ has an expiry date.

I had casually mentioned a forthcoming mini-break I have planned with a group of fellas my own age - assorted dads, deadbeats, male friends, and acquaintances.

“It’s a ‘lads’ holiday’,” I declared,

My sister-in-law was having none of it.

“A ‘lads’ holiday’?” she chortled. “But you’re all pushing 50... or even 60,” she added, a tad cruelly I felt.

Said sister-in-law proceeded to twist the knife, indicating that 25, or perhaps 30, was a cut-off point in age for a ‘lads’ holiday’. Anything after that was just a load of men failing to hold their drink and swapping prostate stories.

“And you’re going to the Isle of Man... hardly Ibiza central,” she trumpeted, in a final blow to my pride.

I tried to protest, but she was right of course.

Way back in the 1990s, me and ‘the lads’ were 24-hour party people. Now we were a bunch of paunchy, middle-aged men with various hair-related hang-ups.

The boys who went ‘on tour’ in Malia in 1994 would be meeting up in Douglas in 2025 as 2.4 hour party people. Or even worse for us lightweights, 2.4 pint party people... then off home for an early night.

Away the lads indeed...

If that didn’t make me feel old, my eldest son then began to eagerly regale the family gathering about his forthcoming first........

© Evening Echo