Steve had a moving out party. Despite falling out with the lanky git those malicious “one bollock” rumours, I foolishly accepted his invitation. Turning up on my bike, I leant it against the skip outside his soon-to-be vacated council house and dived into the throbbing mass of humanity.
Perhaps the skip was a bad idea. People, turning up from miles around, drawn in by the thud of music and the waft of barely clad student, mistook the affair for a demolition party, and were setting about the place with a certain amount of gusto. It was clear, right from the start, that Steve was going to lose his deposit.
Not that I cared. This girl from college I had fancied for ages was there. Julia had come all the way from Bracknell just to be leered at by me. She had huge norks, a tight jumper and really, really tight jeans, and tonight would be the night that I would be the manly man and make my move. Right.
But first, a little drink and friendly banter to calm my nerves.
Then, another drink and a few matey laughs to calm my nerves.
And a calm to drink my nerves, buddy. Buddy-bud-bud.
And a nerves to …err… yer me best mate, hic!
And this was proper scrumpy, from genuine, traditional plastic jugs with bits of tree at the bottom, not that fizzy crap I was forced to sell to winos in my Presto Supermarket Saturday job (Presto’s – the one stop shop for Reading’s underclass that only existed because they hadn’t invented Lidl’s yet).
With the party spinning, and Frank Zappa's classics "I promise not to come in your mouth" and "The Illinois Enema Bandit" ringing in my ears, I stumbled across the room to my beloved, perched as serenely as is possible on a beanbag in the living room. And I did exactly what any teenager would do after several pints of yokel-strength scrumpy and half a bottle of Russian paint-stripper.
I grabbed her norks and puked down her front.
Putty in my hands.
I was hounded out of the party on a wave of disgust, stopping only to puke once more all over everybody's coats and jackets by the front door, and then onto two people scavenging from the skip in the front garden. I would be persona non grata round that neck of the woods for some time to come, and rightly so. I am still haunted my the look of horror on my beloved's face as I chundered booze and party snacks over her billowing cleavage.
I mounted my bike and made for home doing a whole 3 mph all the way, followed by the local plod, who was laughing too much to write me a ticket for drunk in charge of a bicycle. Besides, I would only have added diced carrots to his freshly-pressed uniform. I was home by nine o'clock, much to the surprise of my parents, who were holding a rather posh candlelit soiree with a small group of friends and influential colleagues.
"Oh! Scary! Home already?" said my mother whilst passing round a rather pungent curry dish which my father had spent the best part of two days preparing.
"Uh," I said, "I don't feel too good."
There was a pause before I added: "Yaaaarch!"
All over the dog, who ate the lot and was soon as pissed as I was.
Thrown out of two parties in one night, and a hangover to match. The shame of it.
Meanwhile, in a council house in nearby Wargrave, my so-called mate Steve had taken pity on the love of my life, taken her upstairs, cleaned her up and had a go on her tits. Bastard.