And next thing you know you're standing beside a hedge watching the piss roll down your trouser leg.
Except you don't get an Oscar for it.
Or a hand-job.
My first drink was taken from a skip. My first proper one anyway. There were the parties and the family gatherings when you ask half-heartedly if you can taste this stuff that everyone else loves so much they punch each other in the jaw over. When you're laying on your stomach watching TV with your feet high in the air behind you, and someone sets down a tin of Harp or some-such right beside you.
But apart from those innocent lip-wetters.
The first proper one was a bottle of Budweiser lifted out of a skip.
Some daft bugger had thrown a crate's worth of the stuff into said rubbish receptacle, and myself and another enterprising young eleven-year-old decided to salvage two of the items, lest they perish amidst the unforgiving crunch of the garbage disposal vans.
I didn't know much what to make of it, other than I liked it, and it was certainly something I could see myself devoting a substantial amount of leisure time to the pursuit of. Y'know, when I was a grown-up and such. Older and so on. Mature. Those kinds of things.
But here's the first of the big twists. And it's quite a good one, too. Maybe not like finding out Bruce Willis was a ghost, or that Kevin Spacey was Keyser Sosye, but reasonable, certainly better than when Neve Campbell's brother turned out to be the fucking killer.
What the fuck was that all about?
The twist is that by the time I was legally permitted to partake in the consumption of alcohol and any derivatives of such, I was no long mentally able to do so. Pain in the balls, you would think, but no. You would be wrong. Because I no longer want to partake of such. And that right there is the first of many miracles you will encounter herein.
Maybe it's not as impressive as Lazarus sitting up and rubbing the maggots out of his skull, or wine springing from a tap, but I'm still quite shagged by the whole affair.
I was raised a few miles from the nearest town, in a housing estate little bigger than a car-park. Big enough to have its own primary school, mind, and how many car-parks can claim that? Not many, I'm guessing. For the young lad or laddess, the centre of all social activity, however, was the bus shelter, unless you were allowed to go into town on your own at such a young age, in which case you were probably some kind of delinquent tearaway and it's the fault of your parents.
Article comments
1 - Chakan
Please continue.
2 - Aaron, Duke De Mondo
OK. thank you. note the time that this was posted. It took me to 5 in the mornin to finally decide upon it. As for the book that's linked to there, obviously any help is to be appreciated, and thanks to whoever put the link on, since i was half asleep when i was posting this. Personally, tho, i found books and literature and all that to be little help without human contact. But whatever helps, man. Thanks for the encouragement. Il get Part 2 up ASAP, though it might take a day or two. Thank you.
3 - Chakan
Thanks. :)