The Rebellion of Doing What I’m Told

In 1993, at the age of fifteen I lost my virginity and started drinking alcohol. It was an auspicious year.

Buzzing from winning a national rowing competition, my pals and I decided to get outrageously drunk in a public park to celebrate, a rite of passage for many English teenagers. Beyond a sniff of mum’s Cinzano or a cheeky weak shandy it was my first attack at booze.

My parents liked a drink. I grew up familiar with the stale caramel musk of pubs whilst learning pool tricks, multitudinous ways of folding empty crisp packets and razor sharp mental arithmatic as scorekeeper during darts matches. My family didn’t have a problem with alcohol, but our social life vigorously embraced it.

Nothing in the world seemed more fun than the laughter, magic, skill, knowledge and jokes which flooded forth when people drank. Everyone smiled, people were silly, rules were relaxed, games were competitive and pride was upheld. It was a noble and fun place to exist. It’s no suprise that I wanted to be part of that inebriated world.

That’s why five friends and I arranged to procure twenty-four cans of super strength cider and a few bottles of fortified wine. Our supplier was a car owning sixth-form pal who worked at a cash and carry. Not only could he get the booze, avoiding the need for fake ID, it was cheap and would be…