Why 27 is a cult figure

And this is the headline I wake up to on my 28th birthday. I shit you not. The Observer Music Monthly no. 60, pg 10.

Broadcasting news of an exhibition at Proud Galleries in Camden (not one of my favourite spaces before, you can only imagine my ambivalence now) which celebrates the late and great of the music world, who all croaked right before the big 2-8.

The so called 27 Club or Forever 27.

Well bugger me, it appears today, by the mere fact of my survival, I shall never join these exhaulted ranks.

I can't figure out what depresses me more - that I'm subjected to yet another editorial on the persuasive and pervasive power of youth on my birthday, or that it's an oh so pleasant and completely unnecessary reminder of what I haven't achieved by the time these people had already lived & died... on my birthday.