I was about 13 years old when I had my first pint. To be more precise, most of my first pint, and I remember it so well, which is unusual with much of my early years lost to archives deep buried somewhere in my aged mind. It was the mid 60s and we were living in our house opposite the old Moreland’s Match factory in Gloucester. My junior school was about a mile away, and those were the days when a child walking the streets home alone wasn’t in any danger.
This particular day involved a rare treat. My parents had saved enough money for me to go on a day out with the school, by coach to Cheddar caves. I had been given five shillings as spending money, a pack of sandwiches, a chocolate biscuit, and a small bottle of orange squash. Not being someone old enough to understand time concepts and rationing to make things last, I ate the food on the coach on the way, and finished the bottle of weak flavoured squash in a few big gulps.
I don’t know where this next tradition started, but for some reason, I knew that I’d have to buy a little gift for my brother, sister, and mum and dad, from the five shillings spending money. That, by the way, is 25p in today’s currency. I bought my sister a pencil, my brother a pencil sharpener, and some pointless Cheddar cave tat item from the tourist gift store for mum and dad. Probably a snow globe! I wonder what happened to it? There wasn’t enough money left to buy anything other than a few 4-for-a-penny blackjacks and rhubarb and custard chews for myself.
For a child my age, there wasn’t much to see or do at Cheddar Caves. To me, it was just rocks and a hole in the ground! Pretty soon into the adventure, I needed a drink though. I was getting thirsty. The day seemed to go on forever, as it does when you’re young, and my thirst became the only thing on my mind. I had no money left and just wanted to go home, so I was excited when the teacher ordered us all back towards the awaiting coach, ready for a head-count and the long journey back to the school. The M5 wasn’t built back then and the journey involved lots of country roads back towards Gloucester.
I didn’t have a lot of friends, even in those days. Actually, writing this recollection is feeling like therapy! Perhaps I’ve never like people. I’m certainly fussy about who I’m with these days. I digress! There was one kid on the coach that I’d always hated. He was a posh kid with a new uniform every term and shoes without holes in them. He was popular with the other kids in the class because he always had sweets to hand out. Things like Spangles, Fruit Polos, Fruit Pastels and the like. But he never offered me any. Even at that age I was lanky, gangly as my mum described me, red-haired, big eared, and ugly (again according to mum every so often).
I don’t think this posh kid knew that I was dying of thirst on that coach, but he seemed to have great delight in revealing a massive bottle of unopened Corona Cherry Aid pop from his Pandora box of spoilt kid’s supplies. My mouth was literally filling with saliva from the thought of having a bit of that. Corona was a treat that our family could only afford once in a while. Those were the days when the ‘popman’ would drive his van around the neighbourhoods for the lucky families that could afford a bottle. Water was our default drink, or if we were lucky, cheap watered down orange squash, diluted to a ratio of probably 1 part squash to 100 parts tap water. Right now, I would have done anything for drink of that.
Anyway, this kid knew I was staring at him. He had a smirk on his face as he slowly unscrewed the metal cap, the fizz sound grabbing everyone’s attention in the process. With both hands, he lifted the bottle of red liquid amber to his mouth and took a few guzzles before offering the bottle to his creepy friends. But not to me! I was slowly dying and somehow knew I wasn’t going to get a look-in. He didn’t like me. I knew because he had bullied me a few times, target that I was.
When we got back to the school gates, most of the other kid’s parents were there to greet them and take them back to their homes. Mine weren’t. So, dying even more with a terrible thirst like I’d never had in my short life, I started the long walk home, dragging my old satchel through the puddles in a desperate attempt to quinch my thirst. Puddle water tastes awful, by the way!
When I got home eventually, I asked my mum if there was any squash I could have. The bottle was usually stashed somewhere out of sight!.
“No“, she said, “you’ll have to drink water, and if you’re thirsty, that’s good enough.“
I went to the glasses cupboard and chose Dad’s big pint mug. No problem, I thought, I can easily down one of them filled, though I’d never done such a feat in the past. I filled it to the brim with tap water before declaring to mum that I was about to drink it all in one go. I gave it a good try too, though at that age a pint is a massive quantity of liquid to drink in one go without stopping a few times.
So, there you have it! My first pint. Not what you were expecting I suspect. I wonder what came of the posh boy? I caught him playing with himself once outside the classroom, though at that time, I couldn’t work out what he was doing with it. By the way, I was probably 18 before I had a real pint!
