What advice would you give to yourself as a 16-year-old? You probably have no idea. Me, I know exactly what I’d tell the young fool.
I was sixteen more than fifty years ago so I’ve had plenty of time to brood over it.
I was a bit of a ‘jack-the-lad’ and full of cock; smoking dope, boozing, and screwing. I lost my cherry when I was fourteen. I wasn’t especially good looking but I had a little of the Bad Boy about me that got girls excited. And they wanted it alright. Thirteen-year-old girls were getting pregnant on my council estate.
I was a right menace at school, not interested in learning and upsetting the class so other kids couldn’t either. I was forever bending over for the headmaster. There was a gang of us: we called ourselves ‘The Rascals’ – it sounds like we were from the Beano, but we were hard nuts. I got my first flick-knife when I was twelve.
Saturday nights we’d go to this particular pub where they weren’t fussy about underaged drinkers. We’d get wellied and then go over the Wimpy to take the piss out the courting couples there. There wasn’t much to do in the 1970s so we hung around the shopping centre mugging old ladies.
So, what advice would I give my 16-year-old self? Don’t show off to mates by jumping on a train as it’s moving out the station. Then you won’t spend the rest of your life in a wheelchair.
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Words: Richard Rooney
Illustration: A.I.
Flash Fiction 250
Flash Fiction 250 