Under age drinking

Thanks to Linda Pointon for suggesting the theme of this week’s blog.

I used to be the Director of Graduate Studies for my Institute. It sounds rather grand, but it just means that I looked after the PhD students. One of the most pleasant duties of the post was to organise the annual Postgraduate Research Day. On this occasion, each PhD student would give a ten-minute presentation to the other PhD students, whichever supervisors could attend, and myself. This would take up perhaps half of the day. The other half was devoted to lengthy tea, coffee or lunch breaks in which the students could network among themselves, which was actually the chief purpose of the event.

The day would close with an hour or so of drinks and nibbles. As our institute is a small one, this was a relatively intimate affair, with perhaps myself and a dozen PhD students sitting round in a circle, drinking wine. Our institute at the time comprised the Centre for Cancer Prevention, the Centre for Environmental and Preventive Medicine, and the Centre for Psychiatry. On one of these occasions, one of the forensic psychiatry PhD students, who often have quite an impressive knowledge of criminology, remarked that by age 50 more than half of British men have been arrested at least once.

I was about to pooh-pooh this statistic when I reflected that I was part of its numerator, having been arrested at age 16. But let’s back the train up a bit, as my son Tom used to say.

Being a teenager in Cowdenbeath in the 1970’s wasn’t all that exciting. I looked forward to the time when I could legally go to the pub. In the meantime, a pal of mine had a book of recipes for home-made wine and we did brew up wines from apples, rice, wheat, anything except the grapes from which they are supposed to be made. Surprisingly, once we had got the hang of fining out the sediment, these were OK. I can’t remember what they tasted like, and almost certainly I would look down my nose at them now, but they fulfilled their purpose in my dad’s words, of ‘Putting fine ideas in my heid.’

However, psychologically, it wasn’t the same as illegally bought alcohol, and it definitely did not taste as good.

I have to be careful about avoiding names here, as the protagonists might read it and the  story is an embarrassing one. One summer Saturday evening, in either 1972 or 1973, myself and a few pals elected the most mature-looking amongst us to purchase a substantial carry-out from a licensed grocer. Over the earlier part of the evening, we got stuck into this booze in the basement of my mum and dad’s house. After a while, we decided to take a stroll around the town. This turned out to be a mistake.

As we walked, I felt the effect of the booze getting stronger and stronger, my gait getting more and more unsteady, and my mind becoming emptier and emptier. One of our number, unknown to me, pulled the wing mirror off a parked car as we promenaded along. We found out later that this prompted a socially responsible citizen to telephone the police. Our first intimation that the law had been invoked was when a police van drew up alongside us, and two gigantic representatives of Fife’s finest got out and ordered us into the van.

At this point we must have looked a rather peculiar bunch. I was leaning against a wall in order to ensure that I stayed upright. One of our number had developed a nosebleed and had adopted a position which he assured us ‘works every time’, getting on all fours on the pavement and resting the top of his head on the ground. When ordered to board the paddy-wagon, one member of the merry band attempted to get into the passenger seat beside the driver. The two policemen soon convinced him that this was a social blunder.

In the police station, we all started to worry about the reactions of our parents to our spot of legal embarrassment. One member of the sorry crew, in fear of his family’s ire at the disgrace of being ‘lifted’ by the polis, said to one of the interrogating officers, ‘Just give us a kicking and let us go home.’ His companions urged him to look at the size of these police officers and shut his face for Christ’s sake.

The coppers eventually took us home to the rage of our parents. I spent most of the following day projectile vomiting, and I was in disgrace for some time after that at home. In the end, no charges were brought, perhaps sensibly, since what it amounted to was a handful of teenagers plastered following their summer exam results.

One other thing, and this restores one’s faith in human nature. The following year, I was getting the bus into Dunfermline and was puzzled that the conductor hadn’t asked me for my fare. I eventually approached her and offered it. She told me that it had been paid, indicating a man and his family up at the front. At first I didn’t recognise him from the back of his head, but later as he got up to leave the bus, I saw that he was one of the arresting officers.