What Bob Dylan is to Sir Menzies Campbell, I am to Noel Gallagher — not immeasurably richer than him, or even better at singing (although I don’t know . . .), but an exact contemporary.

Last week, during the Lib Dem conference, there was a rather unmannerly focus on Ming Campbell’s age. It struck me as odd. The most striking thing about the Lib Dem leader’s appearance is not his grey hairs but his exquisite suiting — not even the most soigné new Labour fixer or well-set-up Tory grandee dresses with quite such Savile Row smartness as Ming. But in all the commentary about his antiquity, one fact sang out. He’s the same age as Dylan. For both of them, an inquiry about what they remember of the Sixties is a test of both long and short-term memory.

But if Ming is dated by that comparison, how much more damned am I by the parallel with Noel. Like the Oasis star, I am just 40, a father of two (his second was born this weekend), I have unruly eyebrows and I’m not too keen on Phil Collins. There, however, the comparison ends. In Noel’s 40 years he has overcome a tough start with an absentee father and an alcoholic mother to become an iconic figure of youthful rebellion, a songwriter responsible for at least three tracks that will be played generations hence and the most scabrously funny rock star alive.

After 40 years all I can say is that I’ve written a book about a politician (Michael Portillo) whose career ended within days of my work’s publication, I’ve been a convinced sceptic about the Northern Ireland peace process (now universally seen as a huge success) and a consistent supporter of the war in Iraq (now universally decried as an almighty disaster). Stopped clocks have probably been more right more often than me. But in making mistakes I’ve learnt certain things and now, having just reached 40, I feel emboldened to pass on my advice.

It’s probably worth a moment’s attention for two reasons. If you never make mistakes you never learn. And I’ve done a lot of learning. And, simply according to the laws of probability, for someone who’s been wrong as often as I have, it must be just about time that I started getting things right.

My first rule of fortydom is: it’s never too early to call it a day. In my youth I always made it a point of pride to be the last to leave the party, always felt let down when dinner guests left before 2am, always thought an evening at home was, like sleep, time down the drain.

But now that I have less time to play with I’m far less keen to spend time playing. The bitter experience of days blighted by hangovers, the grimy recollection of hours spent, glass in hand, in unsatisfyingly ephemeral conversation, the knowledge that the law of diminishing returns sets in roughly 60 minutes into any social encounter lubricated by alcohol, have all led me to formulate certain precepts.

Never spend more than an hour, tops, at any event where you are not sitting down. Always leave every dinner party before Newsnight ends. Indeed, if it’s a school night, and Newsnight is actually likely to be on, better to leave for home before it starts, even if the guests where you are seem more interesting than the ones on Newsnight. Because the longer you stay up after 11, after you’re 40, the less likely you are to be able to enjoy the next of your rapidly diminishing stock of days.

My second rule of fortydom is: it’s never too late to give it up. All of us developed bad habits in our teens or twenties. Whether it’s smoking, a centre parting or an aversion to hanging up any discarded clothing, all of us will have certain traits we regard as integral to our character and cannot envisage changing even though they expose us to hatred, ridicule and spousal abuse. But the truth is that none of us is “just made that way”. Take the trouble to find out what it is about yourself that gets on the nerves of those you love — there will always be at least one thing — and stop it.

That’s why there are yellow Post-it Notes in our lavatory at home with the words “SEAT DOWN” written in marker pen.

My third rule of fortydom is: never have more than two courses unless, that is, you want to be that guy in Gap whispering: “Is this really the biggest size they come in?”

My fourth rule of fortydom is: newspapers do not become more accurate the longer they hang around your house. You know all those sections and special articles that you put aside, believing that you’ll read them later? You won’t.

My fifth rule of fortydom is: learn to cut your losses. Bored by a film? Can’t get into a book? Tired at a concert? Then leave. You may not be able to get your money back, but at least you get a refund on some of the time that you would otherwise have wasted.

My sixth rule of fortydom is: learn to trust our ancestors. I don’t mean that in some freaky, Shintoesque way. Just let the passage of time save you time. So, if you’re bewildered by which new novel to pick up, then don’t. Go for a classic. Posterity may one day rank Jenny Colgan with Jane Austen, but you and I don’t have the time to wait on that judgment. Instead of gambling on the basis of a couple of newspaper reviews that this or that novel is worth the investment, trust the accumulated wisdom of the generations which has given us a canon of great work from which to choose.

There is one exception — and it’s my seventh rule. Avoid anything by, about or involving any member of the Mitford family. Whether or not you’re in your forties, the sight of another book about those gels inspires just one thought: life really is just too short.

— Michael Gove is Conservative MP for Surrey Heath

Heroic effort

There is one thing that can keep me up past 11, although I have no idea whether it has the same effect on Noel. I’m addicted to Heroes.

Every Wednesday evening the BBC plays the same trick with this show that it used to with 24. After screening one episode on BBC Two, it runs the next, for those who can’t wait, on BBC Three. And last week it had a special double bill which kept the Gove household glued to the screen until well after Paxo had drunk his cocoa.

The premise of the show is so wildly, apocalyptically implausible as to make 24 seem like You and Yours. A random number among us have evolved genetically to acquire super-powers (the ability to bend the space-time continuum and fly/walk through walls and regenerate) and the heroes must work together to save the world before they are, literally, consumed by a pitiless watchmaker (echoes of Richard Dawkins) bent on acquiring their powers.

What makes Heroes work is the absolute faith that its creative team have in their world. It is perfectly internally coherent, filmed in vérité style and psychologically convincing. It also makes you remember what it was like to be a teenager, gripped by a sci-fi universe. Indeed, it plays to the deepest desires that some of us have for one particular special power: the ability to bend time so that we could be 17 again.

Brown takeover

There is one way in which Britain has become much more European in the past year or two that has nothing to do with either the EU constitution being smuggled back or the goal tally in the Premier League. It’s shoes; men’s shoes.

It’s now positively fashionable to wear brown leather shoes with business suits. Until a few years ago that was a style tic restricted to Mediterranean countries.

I must say I think brown leather much more handsome than black. But I suspect that most people think this continental trend is a lowering of standards. I’d be interested to be proved wrong.

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