I first met alcohol in the late 1980s. It was the morning after one of my parents\u2019 parties. My sister and I, aged nine or ten, were up alone. We trawled the lounge for abandoned cans. I remember being methodical: pick one up, give it a shake to see if there\u2019s anything inside and, if there is, drink! I can still taste the stale, warm metallic tang of Heineken (lager; 5% alcohol by volume) on my tongue. Just mind the ones with cigarette butts in.<\/p>\n
Other times we\u2019d sneak a sip of Dad\u2019s R\u00e9my Martin VSOP (cognac; 40%) when he wasn\u2019t looking, even though we didn\u2019t like the taste. It came in a heavy glass bottle that he kept in the sideboard. He\u2019d pour himself a glass at night, the ice cubes clinking as he walked to his small office to make phone calls. On special occasions \u2013 family birthdays, Christmas lunch \u2013 we even got to drink legitimately: usually half a glass of Asti Spumanti (sparkling wine; around 7.5%), served in the best glasses.<\/p>\n
In my mid-teens I started to\u00a0drink\u00a0<\/em>drink. It was easy enough to get our hands on booze, even though it\u2019s illegal in the UK to sell alcohol to anyone younger than 18. The bigger chain pubs checked IDs, so we stuck to the ones we knew to be less stringent. My older boyfriend would buy me Archers (schnapps; 21%) and lemonade in the pub opposite the supermarket where I worked on Saturdays. Trips to music festivals and birthday parties always involved booze, invariably in violently flavoured and oddly coloured forms. Standouts include Apple Sourz, a neon-green fruit liqueur with an ABV of 15%, and Hooch, a classic alcopop that looked and tasted like lemonade but was stronger than many beers.<\/p>\nReference:<\/h4>\n
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