I thought you were supposed to mature as you got older.

Like a fine wine, we all begin life as a bottle full of sweetness, only to end up bitter and covered in dust at the back of the wine rack.

Or so I thought.

While physically I’ve matured (probably more so than I should have done in my 30-plus years), it appears that any progress I have made mentally has been stunted.

In fact, said progress has actually been reversed over the years.

I can honestly say I feel like a 12-year-old trapped in the body of a 45-year-old.

As I’ve got older, the urge to party hard has become overwhelming. No copies of Take a Break and Weight Watchers ready meals for me.

My main meal consists of a large helping of gin and some AC/DC.

This is much to the chagrin of my neighbours, who had to cart me back inside at 2pm after I’d filled a Pot Noodle up with alcohol and was screeching Highway to Hell on the front garden.

Recently, my dear friend (fellow middle-aged, mid-crisis cougar) stumbled across repeats of MTV’s Jackass while scanning Sky for repeats of Ex on The Beach because, and I quote: “I like it when they punch the chairs and that.”

Good old Wukintun folk are easily entertained, marra.

Obviously, me and the bestie had had a few so we thought it would be downright hilarious to re-enact some Jackass moments of our own.

We decided against the snow cone fiasco (please don’t watch it) and, after a stern phone call from my bro, decided not to steal a trolley from a local supermarket and steer it down Murray Road.

“High five!” we both squealed in unison after watching a giant, hand-shaped contraption knock someone halfway across the room on Youtube.

After a ratch, we found my little boy’s foam hand from a footie game. We sat for hours trying to figure out how to attach it to the door then trigger it to whack our unsuspecting victim when they entered the room.

It was painful to watch. How should I put this? The pair of us are what an intelligent person would call ‘thick’.

In the end we came up with a plan whereby I would shout “high five!” and my friend would jump out and assault someone with the foam hand. “Genius”. No one said, ever.

I convinced the bro to pop round after feigning an ‘episode’ whereby I’d accidentally activated the parental lock on Sky – something he would believe. He agreed to come on the promise that he could nick one of my pre-Easter eggs.

Friend waited behind the kitchen door with the foam hand.

I told her the TV was in the living room but she was busy with an American-style, popcorn frying pan thing.

I tried to usher my bro into the kitchen, failing to hide my excitement.

Just then we heard a yelp and ran in the kitchen to discover the comedy hand aflame.

I immediately screamed and shoved the friend outside and began whacking her with a tea towel until the flames died down.

My brother left, disgusted and a Creme Egg Easter egg under his arm.

“High five for effort?” my mate whispered, holding up her melted, foamy hand. The sad thing is it didn’t stop there.

Later on, we got a parking ticket for our shopping trolley. Those 30- minute zones!