A 90’s Child In The Noughties.

I remember vividly the day that we bid farewell to the good old 20th century. I was a 7-year-old eagerly anticipating a neighbor’s house party that night. I’d picked my best shirt out (my mam had picked my best shirt out), and I sat staring out of the bedroom window all day, as the hours seemed to drag. This is probably inaccurate, as I was probably listening to some NOW compilation pissing around with my WWE figurines on my bed.

For a 7-year-old it was a rare social event, with stature. Most of the street would be there. What if this particular neighbour had some younger relatives I could impress with my incredible hide ‘n seek skills. I jest, as a 7 year old I was a far cry away from the corruption and emotional scarring caused by women. Meet the lads, get off my tits on sugary drinks, and play football in the hall with anything that remotely resembled a ball.

The evening didn’t go to plan though. My abiding memory was Madonna playing on a music channel at 00:30am as I was hauled off home to bed for being gobby.

Happy New Year.

So the noughties began. I’d leave primary school, and join high school. I’d develop complex emotions. I’d develop pubic hair. I’d go to my first ever concert, Busted at Liverpool Summer Pops. I’d play air guitar in my room. I’d buy a black shirt with flames on it because Charlie Simpson wore one once and looked fucking cool. I’d end the decade having seen Oasis and the lyrics to Live Forever tattooed on my arm.

I’d weep for days as my dad laughed his tits off at me when Busted split. The bastard.

I’d start as a center forward, begging for Ronaldinho’s Nike Tiempos. I’d finish at left back, with black Puma’s and an unrivalled affection for Gareth Barry.

I’d devote my life to the World Wrestling Federation. I’d wrestle with my pals as we imitated every hero of the Attitude Era. I’d get DDT’d into a wasp’s nest, and as a result having to be rushed to A&E.

I’d stay up later than I should and watch late night television on Channel 4, which incidentally gave me my first look at lesbian sex. I’d finish the decade with my first encounter of casual sex under my belt. Around 32 seconds – world record set.

I’d go to the Post Office around the corner and buy the biggest fuck off pic’n’mix going and come back with change. I’d walk to the very same Post Office with a Nokia 3210, with a Stone Cold Steve Austin case, ringing my Nan, just cause I could. This would develop into sending pornographic videos via Bluetooth on a Sony Ericsson Walkman during class.

I’d have around 435 chipped games for my PlayStation One, and be pissed off I only had the one wired pad when the lads came round. I’d move onto the PlayStation 2, before making the controversial leap to an Xbox 360. This would ultimately ruin my education and further flower the idea my parents had, that I was indeed homosexual.

I’d stand in my front room as the World Trade Center crumbled on television, as I was introduced to the demons that resided in the world outside my 9-year-old bubble.

I’d go from a short back and sides to the most botched attempt at a George Harrison hairstyle imaginable. I’d then allow a mate to hack it off with kitchen scissors ’cause she said she had a qualification in Hair and Beauty. She didn’t have any qualifications in Hair and Beauty.

I’d lose my beloved gran. I’d be confused, alone and scared. I’d learn later on she’s always on my shoulder.

I’d form bonds with friends that will last a lifetime. I’d disconnect from other human beings that no longer mattered.

I’d fight with my dad, regularly. I’d disregard my mam. I’d learn that they are the two most important people in my life.

I’d have weird black shoes with flashing aliens on, and later be fuming if I didn’t have Rockports, or Ben Sherman. Short fat school tie, long narrow tie, susceptible to peanuts.

I’d have more 2 week relationships with a myriad of girls, I’d later buy a girl a $50 dollar necklace from Florida, and then get dumped. I’d declare my love for everyone, as a confused little weirdo.

I’d try to be the cool kid, and later accepted that I’m not a cool kid. I’d pretend to enjoy listening to T2 – Heartbroken in an abandoned school with the crew in attempt to be a cool kid. I’d weep when I first hear Pink Floyd “Wish You Were Here”.

I’d become obsessed with Big Brother and that fella with Tourette’s. I’d develop a great business acumen as I negotiated bed times on a daily basis.

I’d buy Beyblades, Yu-Gi-Oh cards, and sell cans of Coke for the schools “dealer”. I’d drink all the cans of Coke and have to negotiate a settlement figure.

I’d scramble with the stampede at the whisper of an organized scrap after school. I’d shit myself when a stampede scrambled towards me for an unorganized attack.

I’d stay out til all hours making up different variations of “Delivo”. I’d stumble home rapidly to meet my 10pm curfew, forcing Airwaves down my throat to mask the fumes of whatever cheap alcohol I was consuming.

I’d own a Burberry scarf and a McKenzie T-Shirt. I’d wear three-quarter jeans on holiday with a Brazil top. I’d wear a chain purchased from Argos. I’d use wet look gel as opposed to some imported matt clay. I’d pay a fiver for a hair cut.

I’d get my first job washing pots, I’d lose my first job for sitting on the toilet eating Mars Bars.

No responsibilities, no pressure.

Take me back to the Noughties.

 

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