We were probably thirteen. I told my parents I'd be bowling, borrowed five pounds and you did the hard part. Asking men out- side the off-licence to help us. I tried to make if look like we were old-
er or together but it wasn't long before we had the bottle or six of Bacardi Breezer. Prising each lid off with my keys, you picked out seats from the dusk deserted cricket stand.
A couple through, you showed me how to put my hand in someone's pants as sticky alcopops slopped round and down again. I couldn't open our last nightcap so we stamped its neck against a brick and doubled up.
We didn't kiss goodbye, just staggered into swaggers step by step across the Common. My mouth fizzed with syrup residue and blood from broken glass.