Never ever ever will I…

Never ever ever will I…

…Drink Tequila

My son has reached the age when a cheeky Kopparberg with his friends is on the cards. I have lectured him about not getting too drunk and ruining his own night out by getting sick. What I haven’t mentioned is the time I nearly killed myself with Tequila, not literally, I was fine, but 25 years later the very mention of Tequila makes my throat tighten and my jaw watery. No, never ever will I ever again. I don’t think I could even touch a bottle of the stuff.

When I asked my husband what his Never Ever drink was, as quick as a flash he said Brandy. Him and his friends had drunk numerous brandy and chocolate milks one year on holiday. Oh, yep, that can’t have been good.

So what’s yours? We’ve all got one, or at least one.

Who remembers going to a nightclub sparking up a Marlboro light and ordering a Taboo and Lemonade? There’s three things that turn my stomach; cigarettes, Taboo and nightclubs. But oh to be young and out wearing jodhpurs or ski pants (stirrup over the Chelsea boot for a very flattering leg look thank you) and having no idea of your limits or of what a true hanger can do. Spritzed to within an inch of my life with Bodyshop’s White Musk I was up for a shot, a jelly shot or even something that had flames on and sometimes all three.

I often think we are the first generation to really micro-parent, because we have means of getting hold of our offspring while they are out. My parents had to set me free and just hope I’d come back at some point with no mobile phone to call, text or track. I can’t imagine it, I’d be a nervous wreck. But then again as my Dad said, no one was going to mug us as we had nothing valuable on us, a fancy zippo was probably be a big haul.

But I have to say, the best thing about coming from a tech free generation is the lack of evidence. Occasionally someone would bring a throw away camera out but would invariably lose it or forget to use the flash so there are no pics of my tequila filled night in Corfu dancing on the bar, falling off the bar, being sick against a tree and a pack of wild dogs snapping it out of the air, me laughing and sick coming out of every orifice of my head, and for that I’m grateful. Give me a strip of passport photos with six of us wedged into the booth any day.



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