And suddenly I am fourteen again. Sitting on a leather couch watching Lacoste tracksuits snort what looks to me like soap powder. Adidas is in the corner crying cause the girl he’s “in love” with is upstairs with Nike. Lelly Kelly and Kickers have made an entrance and they’ve overstayed their welcome, I’m sure you’d agree. Somewhere in the mix is dancing on my own surrounded by every broken-hearted, dragon soup-infused child screaming she’s a grown woman.
Reebok’s demanding the screws are unmarked and onto us (we’ve come to the agreement he should never been invited back) Ellesse made an appearance but he can’t even spell tennis never mind play it. And I can promise that every upstairs rooms occupied by a young girl trying to prove she’s in love with the whisperings of her behaviour spreading through the house faster than chlamydia on the Maga strip. I’ve suggested the Stone Roses about five times but I’ve been landed with Wonder Wall.
And here I am still sitting on a leather couch with a different postcode. On the edge of seventeen. There’s a pretty green T shirt on guitar finishing every sentence with “as you were” and that one guy nobody knows claiming he’s slept with more people than Charlie sheen. It’s the typical Byres Road accent but it’s not Byres Road it’s Maryhill. It’s sitting nursing a vodka lemonade wondering if your patter is the same. It’s playing drinking games but not quite sure what to admit to. It’s the side eye from people who don’t even know you, but for some reason your card’s marked and you better believe you’re not invited to the birthday do next month.
You’re bobbing your head along to some guy with “lil” in front of his stage name, because these days that makes you a rapper, alert the authorities. Half the gaff’s working in the morning, the other half are Tories, which they haven’t admitted to but they turned their noses up to a cider and vodka mix, that’s Thatcher all over the back. None of this will matter in McDonald’s however.
Tan, lashes, gaff, repeat.