I don’t look cool. I have aged ungracefully. At 18 I was Morten Harket meets the Milky Bar Kid. Now I am Gary Oldman’s Dracula meets a potato. Yet I bonded with the coolest guy in my town this week. He and his mates invaded the bus en masse, all tumbling hair, skinny jeans and laughing eyes, fanning out around me, thinking it best not to bother the hobo in the ski jacket and ankle wellies.
I caught sight of the screen on Cool Guy’s phone. My heart flipped and I said the words that have united a million people around the world recently.
