If you think that previous generations had it so easy then you’re kidding yourself. Photo: Getty
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Despite the best efforts of Cameron’s Britain, being in your twenties is actually great

Yes, we’re facing a housing crisis and mass unemployment, but your twenties can still be the time of your life.

Ah, millennials, they’re such arseholes, aren’t they? What with their Buzzfeeds and their hashtags and their Tinder-swiping and their “special snowflake” senses of entitlement bequeathed to them by the baby boomers. Yep, millennials get a seriously bad rap, mainly because the word “millennials” in itself is the ultimate in media douchebaggery (though “Generation Y” must surely come in at a close second.) And really, considering the fact that we’re universally acknowledged to have been financially shat on by our parents, it doesn’t seem fair that we have to deal with the bad press as well.

Obviously, only a fool would think that all the members of a single generation are slaves to the same motivations, but from reading daily media coverage you’d be forgiven for assuming that we’re all Whatsapping pictures of our newly trendy American Apparel-endorsed bushy vaginas to each other over dinner at SushiSamba. Either that, or we’re being forced into sharing beds with one another in between our various unpaid internships for start-up companies based on the Silicon Roundabout, all the while bemoaning how much easier that pesky parental generation of ours had it with their free educations and the houses they paid £2.50 for in 1973. But guess what, media people? We’re going to buck the trend here. Being in your twenties is actually great.

Though “millennials” are either cast as entitled hipster layabouts too complacent to pay their dues, or an entire “lost” generation robbed of opportunity, the truth is, we’re neither, or maybe a bit of both. True, recession and living under the coalition has been no picnic, and it’s no wonder that we may hold a smidgen of resentment towards the cushy nineties lifestyles of our elders (we fully missed out on the dizzy heights of Britpop and have never been to the Groucho Club – it’s a wonder we can still go on), however, things aren’t as bleak as all that. They may say we have no future, and believe us, when you’ve just been sick outside the Jobcentre and you’re on a comedown and it’s raining and a man is standing inside, demonstrably dry and sadistically tapping his watch, it may well feel that way – but there are plenty of other things to be thankful for.

It’s become rather fashionable to say that your thirties and forties are way better than your twenties. Hell, they probably are, because you might actually have money and no longer be a prisoner to regular panic attacks about who’s going to pay the internet bill and what might happen if you get cut off from Twitter. Yes, we’re facing mass unemployment and a housing crisis resulting in such low rental standards that the rising levels of damp enable you to grow your own mushrooms for sustenance, but your twenties can be the time of your life. If you think that previous generations had it so easy then you’re kidding yourself. When Rhiannon’s mum felt that she was being too picky over finding a place to rent, she made a list of all her twentysomething abodes, and most of them had no central heating and collapsed ceilings. It was like, “Bitch, please: you think you’re the first person to have had a garden full of mattresses?” Holly’s mum squatted in an abandoned house in Cornwall in her teenagehood, and mentions ominously of that time that she will “never discuss” the intricacies of the living situation. In other words, we need to stop thinking we’re the only ones who’ve had it rough.

Being in your twenties in 2014 is great for a number of reasons. You can fuck up and people will look kindly on it because, hey, you’re only 24 and you don’t know any better (one of our friends’ dads says that you’re not a proper adult until you’re 30). If things go wrong, you can move back in with their parents and no one will automatically assume that you’re spending your time harvesting organs in a soundproofed cellar to a soundtrack of the Carpenters (if you don’t have parents, then it’s the foodbank for you, but let’s not kill the optimism while we’re in the flow, yeah?)

You can make terrible relationship and fashion and career choices and come back from them unscathed and in possession of a brilliant amateur stand-up routine - in fact, if you don’t, you’re seen as needlessly vanilla. You can get an interest-free overdraft, at least for a little while before they start sending you endless letters and you have to move house. If you’re renting, you can up sticks at relatively short notice, without having to worry about the terrifying consequences of a mortgage and a partner. Unless you’re in your twenties and you actually have a partner and a mortgage - in which case, all your friends will be jealous of you.

You have the entire internet at your fingertips, and you know how to use it to your best advantage. You’re young enough to harness its powers, but old enough to realise that people really do screenshot their Snapchats and a lot of what goes online might stay forever. You can still think your band is going to make it, and no one will think you’re pathetic. You’re sexually liberated, perhaps even more so than the previous generations – you’re certainly much less likely to be called a slut when sleeping with who you want, when you want, if you’re a woman. Among your age group in the UK, whatever the class bracket, homophobia and racism is fast becoming a huge taboo and is pretty much guaranteed to make everyone hate you. You can marry whomever you want, regardless of their gender. You can move anywhere in the EU and be in your twenties there instead. And when it doesn’t work out, you can come home crying and have a complete life rethink and no one will think you’re a failure; they’ll just think you made the most of your youth.

That’s not to say that everything in your twenties is easy breezy. This government couldn’t give a toss about young people at the moment, and there are huge social and economic problems that need tackling urgently, but it’s time that we reclaim our twenties and acknowledge the positives. So many of the people we know, regardless of their race, class background or economic situation, are doing incredibly exciting things (even if it is in between signing on). Whether it’s becoming young parents, travelling around Argentina, writing a novel, doing up a dilapidated terraced house and turning it into a home, going back to university after raising a daughter, living in Berlin, making your own clothes, doing TEFL in South Korea, becoming a champion pole dancer, working in the best pop-up cocktail bar the hipsters of Hoxton have ever seen, taking your two babies on a crazy-round-the-world trip, setting up your own business or working shitty long hours in an underpaid job and getting spectacularly lashed on the weekends, chances are you’ll be having some fun while doing it. Your twenties are a time where you, for fear of sounding corny, work out who you are. You make mistakes, drink too much, embarrass yourself, and you may be perpetually skint, but you’re also making stuff happen. And in light of the mess the country’s in (altogether now: Cameron’s Britain!) that’s a huge fucking achievement. Let’s carry on doing it.

Rhiannon Lucy Cosslett and Holly Baxter are co-founders and editors of online magazine, The Vagenda.

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All the Premiership teams are competing to see who’s got the biggest stadium

It’s not just a financial, but a macho thing – the big clubs want to show off that they have a whopper.

Here in NW5, where we live noisily and fashionably, we are roughly equidistant from Arsenal and Spurs. We bought the house in 1963 for £5,000, which I mention constantly, to make everyone in the street pig sick. Back in 1963, we lived quietly and unfashionably; in fact, we could easily have been living in Loughton, Essex. Now it’s all changed. As have White Hart Lane and Highbury.

Both grounds are a few metres further away from us than they once were, or they will be when White Hart Lane is finished. The new stadium is a few metres to the north, while the Emirates is a few metres to the east.

Why am I saying metres? Like all football fans, I say a near-miss on goal was inches wide, a slow striker is a yard off his pace, and a ball player can turn on a sixpence. That’s more like it.

White Hart Lane, when finished, will hold 61,000 – a thousand more than the Emirates, har har. Meanwhile, Man City is still expanding, and will also hold about 60,000 by the time Pep Guardiola is into his stride. Chelsea will be next, when they get themselves sorted. So will Liverpool.

Man United’s Old Trafford can now hold over 75,000. Fair makes you proud to be alive at this time and enjoying the wonders of the Prem.

Then, of course, we have the New Wembley, architecturally wonderful, striking and stunning, a beacon of beauty for miles around. As they all are, these brave new stadiums. (No one says “stadia” in real life.)

The old stadiums, built between the wars, many of them by the Scottish architect Archibald Leitch (1865-1939), were also seen as wonders of the time, and all of them held far more than their modern counterparts. The record crowd at White Hart Lane was in 1938, when 75,038 came to see Spurs play Sunderland. Arsenal’s record at Highbury was also against Sunderland – in 1935, with 73,295. Wembley, which today can hold 90,000, had an official figure of 126,000 for the first Cup Final in 1923, but the true figure was at least 150,000, because so many broke in.

Back in 1901, when the Cup Final was held at Crystal Palace between Spurs and Sheffield United, there was a crowd of 110,820. Looking at old photos of the Crystal Palace finals, a lot of the ground seems to have been a grassy mound. Hard to believe fans could see.

Between the wars, thanks to Leitch, big clubs did have proper covered stands. Most fans stood on huge open concrete terraces, which remained till the 1990s. There were metal barriers, which were supposed to hold back sudden surges, but rarely did, so if you were caught in a surge, you were swept away or you fell over. Kids were hoisted over the adults’ heads and plonked at the front.

Getting refreshments was almost impossible, unless you caught the eye of a peanut seller who’d lob you a paper bag of Percy Dalton’s. Getting out for a pee was just as hard. You often came home with the back of your trousers soaked.

I used to be an expert on crowds as a lad. Rubbish on identifying a Spitfire from a Hurricane, but shit hot on match gates at Hampden Park and Ibrox. Answer: well over 100,000. Today’s new stadiums will never hold as many, but will cost trillions more. The money is coming from the £8bn that the Prem is getting from TV for three years.

You’d imagine that, with all this money flooding in, the clubs would be kinder to their fans, but no, they’re lashing out, and not just on new stadiums, but players and wages, directors and agents. Hence, so they say, they are having to put up ticket prices, causing protest campaigns at Arsenal and Liverpool. Arsène at Arsenal has admitted that he couldn’t afford to buy while the Emirates was being built. Pochettino is saying much the same at Spurs.

It’s not just a financial, but a macho thing – the big clubs want to show off that they have a whopper. In the end, only rich fans will be able to attend these supergrounds. Chelsea plans to have a private swimming pool under each new box, plus a wine cellar. Just like our street, really . . . 

Hunter Davies is a journalist, broadcaster and profilic author perhaps best known for writing about the Beatles. He is an ardent Tottenham fan and writes a regular column on football for the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 11 February 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The legacy of Europe's worst battle