In the spirit of over-sharing I will now regale you with one of the most embarrassing night’s of my life. That’s right; one of, I still have plenty more in my arsenal. I was 14 and had been given a ‘parental pass’ to an evening disco after some well-thought out lies had been told. Most of my friend’s from school would be there; given that it was at a farm (the spicy sausage equivalent of a 90’s illegal rave) in the middle of nowhere but in close proximity to school. Don’t ask me who had organised it, how we knew about it or anything else; all I knew was I had ten ‘Superkings’ concealed in my bag and I planned to deep-throat each and every one. I was getting changed at ‘Jan’s’ therefore I could get away with a radical outfit change as her Mother was either ‘cooler’ than mine or ‘busier’ not sure which. I arrived at Jan’s in a pair of lemon calf-length trousers and a sort-of yellow matching shirt; looking not unlike a Sherbet Lemon. Once in her bedroom I transformed from Clark Kent into a punk-version of Super Man. Think skin-tight black dress, fishnet tights and a freaky leather cap with a chain across the front. Previously smooth hair now glued into crimped peaks and sporting a vile, pale lilac lipstick plus regulation shit-load of black eyeliner. In short I was a goth-goddess, cool as fuck and ready to party.
On reflection Jan’s Mum looked a little startled as I descended the stairs jangling under the weight of 55,000 bangles. I didn’t care though; all I cared about was Jan and I getting into her ‘Cortini’ and escaping to what would undoubtedly be the ‘best night of my life’. How could it not be? I looked ace, cosmic and mega.
We arrived there and I immediately stashed my bag under the bar. The cheap lager was flowing and like a gift from God ‘Bauhaus’ started playing launching us into a giddy whirling dance around the uneven barn floor. I recall being drunk approximately 14 minutes after arriving. Laughing like a mentalist at literally everything. It also seemed to get dark almost immediately which only served to make ‘dreg surfing’ easier. That’s right; I was a master of the fine art of downing everyone’s leftover drinks because my lemonade fund didn’t stretch very far. Gross? At this point my finest hour was yet to come.
Outside of the ‘disco barn’ a large courtyard played host to the coolest posse of punky fucknuts and I was proper stroked to find myself among them. Like ‘Anne of Green Gables’ finally got a chance to let her bun down. I was strutting like an emo chicken, weaving, tripping and sloshing my stolen ‘lager and black’ down my smiley face. Congregating outside the block of demountable bogs my friends and I giggled, lit fags, blew smoke rings and eyed the talent. I fancied most boys during this time of my life to be fair; a whiff of desperation about me even Mum’s Opium perfume couldn’t mask.
I was pretty pissed at this point and the rough concrete courtyard was not helping my cause as I paraded between the barn and the bogs. It was getting late and thus far I’d been unsuccessful in securing any snogging activity or over-the-jumper fondles. Upping the anti I downed half a can of Special Brew and took my feverish dancing up a notch. I still thought I looked megataurus but could feel my crimped hair now hanging limp across my sweaty forehead and thought perhaps a further layer of thick lilac lipstick might just clinch the deal with any penis-bearing human in attendance. Back in the smoke-filled toilets my panda eyes, smeared white foundation and ruddy red cheeks confirmed my worst fears. I was fucked; the 75 units of alcohol combined with heady cocktail of my teenage hormones was suddenly all too much. So I did what any drunk 14 year old would and pissed my pants.
With less than 30 minutes to go before our lift home ‘Operation damage limitation’ commenced. For some God forsaken reason I took off all my clothes in the toilet’s dropping them into the puddle of my own shame. I then appeared to think it appropriate to call out to my pals to retrieve my bag whilst…starkers. I was apparently cured of all angst and body image fears whilst revealing my full bush to a courtyard of my contemporaries. Luckily my bag arrived quickly so I stumbled back into the bogs, emerging 5 minutes later in my lemon outfit with my wee-sodden alter-ego in my school bag.
Feeling dizzy, sick and hideously embarrassed to be back in my good girl outfit, but still bearing the leather cap which now only served to make me look a prize twat. Treading air, chin up and staunchly refusing to look at those cool peeps I’d earlier coveted I knew that for me it was game over. Jan’s Mum once more did a double take and I like a whipped dog crawled into the back of the car with my damp bag between my legs.
You might think my humiliation was over but no; no I’d not finished yet! Upon getting home I had to summon up an Oscar-winning performance, playing a sober girl with standards which was a bloody stretch believe you and me. Then I prayed to the porcelain Gods as quietly as I could silently freaked out by the regurgitated satsuma I didn’t recall eating? That night I lay in bed with the room spinning and silently crawled up my own backside with embarrassment. From the giddy heights of my earlier sterling effort at being a goth/punk; mash-up. To my episode of incontinence and subsequent unveiling of my Bermuda triangle.
Was that the end of my humiliation? Unfortunately, again no. Monday at school brought fresh revelations and I was given my first proper nick name! I’ll not be divulging what it was as the reason for its acquisition would be horribly clear; suffice to say I’d been more successful in the petting department than I’d recalled. So it came to pass that at the tender age of 14 I realised I would never be cool…though I’ve had years of subsequent fun trying!
So that you have it, just one little tale from my Chronicles of excess alcohol…remind me to tell you about my 40-minute night out in a flower bed which culminated in me vomiting into a Boots bag in the back of my daughters car another time…ciao!