Once upon a time, it was a very warm day at school. The sun was as out as prominent LGBT figures, my tits were more roasting than the Sunday dinner chicken and the only thing helping to pass the time away was knowing I’d be back at Scarbados’ North Bay beach some day.
That very day in history, I had just sat in a GCSE English Literature exam. That was the very exam that I’d been told at the beginning of the year I wouldn’t be taught but got made to sit anyway. The only thing I wrote on that paper was my candidate number before I sat staring at the clock for an hour. Not much fun, it must be said.
The school is on fire!
As I began to leave the school site, I walked past an open door and saw a student’s arm jerk to the right, just out of view. All of a sudden, the fire alarm began sounding. “Oh my god”, I thought — disaster time. I asked the student “what the hell’s happening?”, to be met only with a sharp “f**k off” in response. “What a helpful answer”, I muttered under my breath, “so helpful”.
I waltzed back into the school (where’s my George Cross, Lizzy?), almost confident that the student who had set it off was just messing, but I’m not one for taking chances. I walked just through the isolated entry, and into the main corridor, where floods of staff had come out to query the sudden interruption that had been forced upon their lessons.
As I did, I noticed Jemima (not her real name, sorry to any Jemima’s out there!), one of the only teachers that I knew well. I began to beckon her over with my arm, but she quickly put me in my place: “it’s just a false alarm”. Well, Jem, I thought: you’ve been stood there all of 10 seconds, I don’t think you have a clue what’s what right now. Funnily enough, I’ve actually just watched it be done, so get your arse over here… please.
Of course, I didn’t say any of that — I just yelled back to her: “I know, I watched someone set it off”. At that point, Jemima ran faster than a child for the ice cream van, the child’s parents for their money back and the rest of the estate following. All of a sudden, she stopped and asked me to point her in the direction of the lad who’d done such a silly and inconsiderate thing. “Sure thing”, I said.
We wandered back out of the very entrance that I had very stupidly ran back into — they don’t say never to run into a burning building for no reason, I suppose — and caught the very boy walking out. I pointed him out and she shouted him back. Crikey, this was going to be eventful.
As he approached, he gave me a look dirtier than some of the videos one can find only on PornHub.com. Remember I said “this was going to be eventful”? No lie. He stared me in the face as he approached, and the wonder of how many punches the human head can take without dying may or may not have flown through my head.
He was finally there. A boy one can only describe as a “brick shit house” (an all-too British reference), and she asked me whether it was this boy who had set off the fire alarm. All of a sudden, I felt a lot more nervous dobbing him in: I got the impression he was going to break every bone in my body. “Bit late to back out now though”, I thought, and the word “yes” came out of my mouth at God speed.
Jemima told him to follow her, as she led the way and as he walked off, he muttered something about how he was going to kill me. The way he walked off as soon as instructed told me that he wasn’t going to do it, so I laughed under my breath. “Try me”, I thought — little did he know I would never again set foot on these premises.
The final walk home
I was free. It was the most liberating feeling in the world, knowing I had three months to do anything: travel, cook, program, discover myself. That was the best bit of being free of school — education wouldn’t have stopped, but the 6am starts would. No more having to justify why I’d totally forgotten to do my homework. Honestly, Miss, the dog ate it. Pinky promise!
As the trek home began, I got a phone call from a friend. The mundane stuff — “what are your plans for summer?”, “I miss you”, “we need to meet up”. Of course, in true teenage fashion, we constantly say we need to meet up and never do. As you can probably guess, my friend and I never met in the summer as we said we would. Perks of long-distance friendships (Internet friends, I love you.)
20 minutes into my journey, I come across the local Morrisons. This was almost a sanctuary — the complete opposite to school, and a place of many a bargain of a meal deal on a day as hot as my girlfriend back in the day (though she has gone down in standards since dying her hair, I must say — sorry, DH). I wandered in, uncertain as to whether I fancied a triple sandwich (complete bargain, 3 halves of a sandwich for the price of two!) or pasta (less but more filling). A tough decision, amirite?
I settled, after many minutes of deliberation tougher than that seen on Who Wants To Be A Millionaire? (…that was a good show), on a sausage, bacon and egg triple sandwich, a chocolate brownie and an ice-cold bottle of orange Lucozade. I truly felt like life was complete — all my favourite foods, no school and a girlfriend I was well and truly head-over-heels for. What could ever be better? As I was about to find out, a hell of a lot, actually.
Continuing back home, I wandered through the sweltering heat, feeling like my skin was going to melt faster than that of the heroes who delayed the awful effects of the Chernobyl disaster in Ukraine in 1986. This heat was beyond my ability to stand, and I was getting really bloody sick of it. Luckily, at the very moment I thought of that, I wandered through my front door.
Being a typical hormonal teenager, I completely ignored the fact that my family were sat in the living room as I waltzed down the hallway and religiously marched up to my bedroom. It was my number one sanctuary, with Morrisons being a close second at that point in life (okay, maybe it still is… when I’m not broke!) and my Nan’s house being very close third. Maybe I should swap them around, or just not tell her I wrote this post…!
As I sat precariously on my bed, all too eager to tuck in to the two-course banquet that had just rid my wallet of three more pound coins, I opened the bottle of Lucozade, spraining my wrist in the process. Honestly, the cap seemed to be tighter than a nun’s snatch, but the smell was good (read as “non-fishy”). Yeah, about that… little did I know I was making the biggest mistake of my life.
I began to take a sip, but it was akin to an dodgy organ transplant: my body rejected it instantly. My first thought was “oh shit, the Russians have done a Litvinenko on me”, thinking back to the case of Alexander Litvinenko who was murdered in London in 2006 with radioactive Polonium-210 in his tea, allegedly by the Russians. “I might want to die,” I thought, “but not this way!” Who knew one could be so fussy over death?
It tasted… I don’t know, different. Vile. It tasted like I’d taken my own urine, mixed it with a drunken man’s vomit, and purified it into a liquid. Whether that’s possible, of course, is entirely another question, but it bloody well tasted like it. Of course, I’m also unsure on what said combination would taste like, but I have a rather vivid imagination. You’re just going to have to trust me on that one, but my description above is probably testament to it — thank my school’s English teacher for that.
Curious as to what the absolute f**k had happened, I decided to Google it. Social media users were going mad: the word “Lucozade” was trending on Twitter, and I debated calling the Cabinet Office to ask them to let Theresa May know there was a national emergency coming together. Of course, my common sense prevailed, however depleted it was by this weird fluid that I had just inserted into the oral orifice known only as “my mouth”.
Apparently, Lucozade decided it’d be a good idea to change the recipe of their world-famous oral solution (get those innuendos out of your head or head off to Bangkok… anyone’s but mine!), and had royally f**k*d up my day. That was severely disappointing that day, and continues to give me night terrors to this day.
You’ve reached the end of this blog post, and just read almost 1,600 words about how I’m pissed off at Suntory for ruining my life. Thanks, Suntory — no wonder the word “Tory” is in your name, and you ruin lives. It’s all starting to make sense now!
If you enjoyed it, please do subscribe at the left-hand side of the page (or the bottom on mobile), share it amongst your friends and family (if you can find your Dad, of course), and chuck me a like and a comment. I’ll try not to disappoint you, because I’m too busy disappointing my own Dad. Just kidding, our Kevin loves me really.