As the chorus to Green Day’s famous song Basket Case rolls around, my hands are high in the air with 3,000 other people around me and as usual, we change the lyrics to shout in unison – I think I’m fucking up.
Because, ‘I think I’m cracking up’, just doesn’t seem to do our angst and frustration any justice. And as I look into the faces of the twenty something’s surrounding me, there’s frustrations seeping out of every pore. We’re a generation in which everything seems so far out of our control. We’re not doing it the way our parents did it, and we’re definitely not doing it the way the baby boomers did it. No matter how great your job and social circles are, there’s a constant feeling of failure that’s adamantly following us around; that somehow we’re not doing it right.

All you have to do it talk to anyone over the age of 45 and you’re inundated with questions of marriage, property and babies. Which honestly, is a joke. Most of my friends are single and we sit and laugh at the idea of getting a foot on the property ladder. We just about manage to get our toes in the door of the local butcher once a week.
While some of our generation may be buying toasters with their significant others, you’re lucky if you can find someone you like enough to sit through an awkward drink with, and even then, it’s touch and go whether they actually turn up in the first place.
As for babies; when you’re living pay check to pay check in a rented apartment wondering what happened to your date that night, babies don’t even appear on the spectrum.

In a world of tech start ups with painfully young CEOs, and a generation of pop stars not long out of the nursery, you look down as the wealthy bop across your screen while looking up at the generations before you sitting in happy matrimony with multiple properties and you can’t help but wonder, where the hell did I go so wrong?

All it takes is a little bit of perspective and a pause on the Hollywood dramatics to realise that we’re not doing too badly. Our blessings are many, and in the grand scheme of shelter, food and comfort, we’re in the top percentile.
But as we crouch beneath a few golden generations who look down on us with raised eyebrows, and sit in the shadow of the generations coming up after us, it’s oh so easy to fall into the trap and start believing you are in fact, a fuck up. Which is why it feels so good to scream your failures at the top of your lungs; head high and your middle finger even higher. Because as the beat drops and I look around, in among the frustration there’s also a reckless abandon there. An absolute joy in admitting that you feel like you’re a total mess. It’s almost glorious!