The Time of Our Lives
Ricky Martin wasn’t the only one livin’ la vida loca in 1999. Oh no. Jason Biggs did unspeakable things with an apple pie on his parent’s kitchen worktop, Dr Evil held the world ransom for the measly sum of one million dollars and Britney Spears’ uniform was most definitely in contravention of the school dress code policy.
It became apparent in the late ‘90s that so long as Katie Holmes lived just across the creek, Joshua Jackson was never going to fancy me.
Life was magnificent. Much like my teenage forefathers before me, I was answerable to no-one. Well, apart from my parents, my boss, several teachers and a boyfriend. But I was certainly a rebel without a cause.
Sort of. I was rather keen to go to University, so in truth, embodied something of a nerd.
I definitely got in with the wrong crowd though. Okay, I didn’t. Without exception, my friends at college were bright, studious and destined for greatness. Upon reflection, I’m not entirely sure how I made the cut.
Together, We Had the Time of Our Lives
16 years old, but looking closer to 12, we decided to do the only sensible thing: Go clubbing, get drunk and snog random intoxicated moderately attractive people.
For the girls, this was surprisingly easy – with a little help from some generously portioned chicken fillets, heavy eyeliner, microscopic mini-skirts and seriously questionable fake IDs.
As the only boy, John decided a mini-skirt wasn’t for him, so resorted to spraying himself liberally with his father’s Old Spice instead.
I don’t think our gang fooled anyone, but we were hot, so the Bouncers overlooked the fact we were significantly underage and out way past our bedtime.
Lambrini was our pre-clubbing drink of choice. It tasted like vinegar coupled with porcupine urine, but cost less than tap water and had an alcohol content of 7.5% – so who were we to complain?
There were certain logistical disadvantages to getting tipsy early on in the evening however. We established this en route to a much anticipated Ibiza-themed foam party, when we were turned away from the club, due to our inability to stand or walk unaided.
It turned out that reciting our GCSE results to a police officer in an attempt to convince him we were 18, didn’t actually help. Who knew?
The taxi driver didn’t take too kindly to being called the “leakest wink” on the way home either. I couldn’t understand why; it was meant as a compliment.
In between classes, we often sought sanctuary in the college library, though were frequently evicted by the highly strung, postmenopausal librarian woman, who sadly didn’t share our appreciation for the latest Backstreet Boys single, or the fact we knew all the dance moves.
So instead, we commandeered a vacant classroom. This was our place to put the world to rights, throw chips into light fittings, watch Carrie fall backwards off her chair for the 32nd time that day and generally laugh until it hurt.
In a moment of genius, we once decided to adorn said classroom’s notice board with a message written in drawing pins. “Who let the pins out? Who? Who? Who? Who? Who?” Congratulating ourselves on our brilliance for several months thereafter. There was also an unfortunate incident involving John’s hamster and me sliding down the stairs in a sleeping bag at 100 miles an hour, directly into its cage.
But I don’t like to talk about it. Needless to say, even a microscopic mini-skirt couldn’t help me with that one.
We haven’t changed a bit.