Me Moir - Volume One by Vic Reeves

Author:Vic Reeves [Vic Reeves]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Biography & Autobiography, Entertainment & Performing Arts, Performing Arts, Television, General, Humor
ISBN: 9780753547724
Google: OgLIFSkmqkIC
Publisher: Random House
Published: 2011-06-30T00:14:16.862535+00:00

CHAPTER ELEVEN

‘The soup, it transpired, was made from the pigs’ testicles we had removed’

My most important educational experiences of the following autumn were to take place outside the sombre confines of Eastbourne Secondary.

A new shop had opened at the top of the street. Where the sweet shop used to be was now an off-licence. This was of no interest to me, unless I required a bottle of Lowcock’s or a Tizer However, one warm afternoon, as I cycled along McMullen Road, I was beckoned over into the fields where a gang of vague school-friends were sitting sipping on cans of beer.

‘Here, have a tin,’ said one of the slightly tipsy youths.

‘Where did you get these?’ I enquired.

‘We nicked them from behind the new off-licence, they’ve just moved in and they’ve left all their stock outside in the yard, so we helped ourselves.’

Two crimes for the price of one: underage drinking and theft – contraband liquor, pilfered plonk, embezzled booze. I was deep within a criminal fraternity. I was on a slippery slope. The feds could arrive at any time and I would be caught up in this crookedness and whisked away to a young offenders’ prison.

‘Go on then, give us a tin,’ I said boldly, and took a long draught of the illicit hooch. It was revolting, although I didn’t let it show. My face remained cool and collected, although inside I was wincing at the taste of the disgusting brew.

‘Yeah,’ I confirmed, ‘that’s good beer – it’s quite malty.’ I had heard Dad opine that a particular beer was ‘quite malty’, so it seemed the right kind of thing to say, and having nothing much else to contribute, I expanded upon this theme.

‘In fact, it’s very malty. It’s probably the maltiest beer I’ve ever had. And I’ve had some malty beers in my time, but in the end this is maybe a bit too malty for even my tastes, so I’ll leave it if you don’t mind, and go home . . .’ and off I cycled. I felt I had got out of that one rather successfully, even if I did feel a bit squiffy and light-headed, so much so that as I wove my way home, I rammed my front wheel into the kerb and bent the front forks.

This was a disaster. What would I tell Mum and Dad? This was my new bike, the one that Dad had spent weeks building from bits of top-quality racing bikes in the garage, and now it was buckled beyond repair. I couldn’t tell them the truth; I had to concoct a believable yarn that would get me off the hook. Perhaps I could say that a powerful gust of wind blew the bike against a wall, or that I plummeted into a sinkhole, or a fissure that mysteriously opened up before me.

When I finally arrived home, I went for the safest bet.

‘I was riding along McMullen Road when a puppy ran out in front of me and I skidded to avoid it and ran into a tree,’ I blurted.

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