Life really does start at 60, and I've met the people to prove it

I went along to Download, one of the first (and wettest) festivals of the year last weekend. It rained endlessly until we were shin-deep in mud, and on the first night I learnt that my sleeping bag just wasn't enough to keep the cold at bay.

I can feel the associated aches and pains even now. When I get up, I crack and pop in places that one oughtn't, and I felt a million years older than I did even just last year.

Age got the better of others too. During the festival, my friend Alix and I made our way to see Marilyn Manson – that supergoth from the 90s who was blamed for every teenage-perpetrated crime going. Your kid pulled the head off his little sister's Barbie? Blame Manson. There's a school shooting? Blame Manson.

The 46-year-old singer performed more than a dozen songs in front of tens of thousands of fans, and none of them with even one ounce of the enthusiasm, skill or ability as he does on record. He was slurring lyrics, shouting incomplete sentences and popping off stage between songs for a few minute's breather. Marilyn acted like a 40-something who was a victim of the excesses afforded to you when you're the biggest goth icon since Edgar Allan Poe.

I turned to Alix who was staring with adoring eyes at the man she has loved since we were littler goths. "He is getting older," she offered as an excuse for his poor performance.

It might have washed with me, until Kiss played their set the following day.

Turns out that life begins at 60. Who'd have thought it?

Clad in their iconic make-up, wearing platform boots even the Spice Girls would be too health and safety- concious to wear, the sexagenarians took to the stage looking at the top of their game. There was no hint of age, no backing track to support their musical output and no limits on their performance.

Frontman Paul Stanley, 63, delivered a show unlike any we'd seen during the three days of music. He sang relentlessly in tune, ziplined over the audience like a true Starchild, and was passionate to the point where we all found ourselves welling up with pride and joy, despite none of us ever really loving Kiss before this moment.

They've been performing to crowds for more than 40 years, and even now, they're recruiting new fans to their ever-expanding Kiss Army. For their two-hour set, I danced and sang and watched in awe, the aches and pains of sleeping on a deflating airbed ebbing away with every perfectly-executed harmony. If Paul Stanley could party after two hip-replacement surgeries, who was I to bemoan a few aches?

At the end of the show I turned to Alix, who also looked shell-shocked by the enormity of the best gig ever. "You were right," she admitted, "Manson wasn't very good was he?"

If Kiss can carry on delivering shows of that magnitude way into their 60s, then what excuse does any other band have for less than a stellar show? We felt on top of the world afterwards, and partied long into the night.

Back at work after a hot shower and a 12-hour sleep, I was further surprised by super 60-somethings. A colleague, Marion, was celebrating her birthday with cakes, non-alcoholic drinks and a few balloons. You could've knocked me over with one when I discovered that she was 60. I had no idea – I'd have never put her a day over 50. If I look that lovely when I'm 60 then I'll be over the moon.

I forewent a slice of cake – just in case it added to my chances of premature ageing – and returned to my desk. My phone rang, and I answered. "Kirsty! It's David Hasselhoff here! How's it going?" he asked all at once, and I was overjoyed. We'd arranged to chat previously, but I didn't think he'd be quite so . . . energetic.

I couldn't get a word in edgeways with The Hoff and I didn't even want to. The 62-year-old talked at length about his new stage show, sang 80s songs down the phone to me and chatted about life as a dad, a boyfriend and his busy life. He was like a ball of energy and enthusiasm that never seemed to dull for a moment. I was swept up in his excitement for just about everything and I realised how daft I'd been for complaining about my achey limbs. Before he put the phone down, David told me he was going to Germany to have his knees fixed. Arthritis had been causing him problems, but he certainly didn't act like it. "Oh they're fine!" he said when I asked about them, shrugging it off like you'd swat away a gnat. "Right kiddo, it's been great talking to you. When we get there on tour, come out and party Hoffstyle!" he said, before zooming off to his next interview, leaving me staring at the phone as though a firework had just exploded inside it.

That night, I looked at my face in the mirror and noticed a slight line – my first ever wrinkle – appearing on my forehead. Where I might have once panicked and Googled the best place to get Botox, I didn't mind one bit. Getting older isn't anything to worry about I thought. As long as I can channel Paul Stanley's unwavering talent, Marion's beauty and The Hoff's infectious enthusiasm, I'm going to be fine.

Fingers, and crows-feet, crossed.