Want to know if a man is having a midlife crisis? Well, don’t go looking for a Harley in the garage or cheerleader ‘wallpaper’ on his laptop because that’s not a midlife crisis – no, that’s just...creepy (like seeing a 60-year-old smooching his mail-order bride).

If you want the definitive tell-tale sign of an ageing male’s age-related meltdown, just look to see if he wears jeans with a pin-stripe jacket.

And no prizes of course for guessing I do.

What’s worse is I should know better.

Why should this be the case? Because years ago I was sent to cover a 48-hour rave in Wiltshire.

I was meant to go undercover, which meant my work colleagues couldn’t help but express an opinion on how to transform me.

And clothes, not surprisingly, were considered the key.

A pair of jeans was the numero uno suggestion, followed by a Smiley print and a sew-on badge with a rude message.

I agreed (why wouldn’t I? – I thought finishing every sentence with ‘Man’ would complete my disguise).

So out I went, a lamb to the slaughter, bought the above, grew some stubble and rehearsed saying ‘coooooool’.

Fortunately, on the day of the rave, I came to my senses (I’ve thanked God every day since), realising I could no more pass for a raver than a millinery expert off Antiques Roadshow and instead did the opposite – dressed up smart to ‘stand out’, not ‘fit in’.

Which meant cuff links, brolly, beautiful pin-stripe and aftershave by Chanel.

Why I had this revelation I’ll never know, but it was clearly a ‘Eureka’ moment because from the second I arrived to the moment I left the rave, I was treated with a quiet, almost old-fashioned respect.

I wondered in fact if they thought I was Old Bill but one partygoer reassured me early on, “If you were, you’d try to be one of us”.

Yet not once was I actually asked why I’d dressed so peculiarly (odd, since clearly I’d be sleeping, drinking, dancing and passing out in my Gieves whistle-and-flute).

I had a brilliant time and never once queued to use a toilet. I tried of course, but every time I joined a line snaking its way toward a portable toilet, I got waved to the front. At first I thought they were all fans of The Wicker Man and meant to pick up the portable toilet, with me inside, carry it over to the bonfire nearby, and toss me on to it while chanting fertility songs.

But no, the truth is, I just scared ’em... (after all, what could be more unsettling than a guy in a pin-stripe dancing to Fatboy Slim at 2am while still holding on to his brolly? Anyway, back to the moral of this story which is if you want to look young, don’t dress it (jeans with suit) or act it (Harley, cheerleaders) – just think it.