There was an advert in the 80’s that compared drinking Coke to being in love. For the Very First Time. A stonking power-ballad advised teenagers everywhere, especially me -
It’s an uncharted sea, it’s an unopened door,
But ya gotta reach out, and ya gotta explore
Only then, do you know, you’re in LOVE
For the very first time, for the VERY FIRST TIME.
I don’t drink Coke now, I haven’t for decades. (Hark, is that a puritan smug alarm?).
But COKE and LOVE and ADVENTURE were all one to me, on the fateful day we left Ireland to move to Scotland. Next slide please: Young Family Emigrates From Civil War.
For some unknown reason, Mum and my 3 younger siblings flew to Edinburgh. Probably Aer Lingus, my mum breastfeeding my baby sister at 400mph, mid-air, shamrock on the tail fin. Dad took me on the ferry. He led me straight to bar, where he ordered a Guinness.
“What dy’a want to drink, love, a can of Coke?’ he asked me, casually, completely unaware of his power.
A CAN OF COKE? TO MYSELF? I am 7 years old.
As one of four kids, I never, ever, had anything to ALL to myself.
Every Mars Bar or Crunchie was gently sawn into 6 pieces, and arranged in semi-circle: a chunky chocolate necklace, on a side plate, passed round the sofa with reverence. Bless Me Father.
Weak Quosh orange squash was poured from a plastic jug into doll-sized glasses. Once, I tearfully refused a pancake that my sister had tried to grab, because I would, ‘feel her feel.’
The status of having an iconic can of Coke raised to my lips, in a smoky bar full of truckers on a Stena Link ferry, as it crashed the waves of the Irish Sea, was a lightning strike moment in childhood.
I was the advert, years before the advert existed.
What would Scotland be like? Narnia? Switzerland? Land of Highland cows and Edinburgh rock in a tartan box?
The flat surprise of the blue Motorway signs. They are the same! The roads are the same, the cars are the same. The weather is the same. The fields are bigger and ploughed bare. The fields look more lonely; less like a childhood jigsaw of The Farm.
But I would not be dissuaded. This was an adventure.
And, true, on the very first night, my sister and I watched from the bedroom window of our new Wimpy House near Edinburgh. The local kids put on a Cul-de-Sac circus for us. They cycled in circles on Chopper bikes, doing wheelies, and 'no hands' as we clapped furiously.
Here were the kids, here was the street, where we would share sweets, love and life.
The Cola Bottles, the Fried Eggs, the Dolly Mixtures, The McCowan Toffees, the Penny Chews.
The Penny Chews became a standard metric measurement. If something cost £100 – say, a lawnmower or a new carpet – we’d say, ‘IMAGINE that in Penny Chews! A bath full of Penny Chews? A Kitchen, filled to the ceiling with Penny Chews!’
In the late 1970’s my brother, John went to our new, Scottish village shop and asked the shopkeeper –
Excuse me please, how much are your Terry’s Chocolate Orange?
Eighty-nine pence, she replied.
‘I’ll just have a penny chew, then,’ said John.
*
Maybe I had a sheltered upbringing, but it seemed as if sweets were more of a Scottish thing. There were always kids clutching white bags of pick and mix on the street corner.
At eight years old, I thought the pinnacle of adult freedom and liberty, would be the ability to eat as many Cornflakes as you like. Seriously. I have always loved Cornflakes an unreasonable amount. More than sweets, or ice cream. They hit the bliss point in my brain. I think a bowl of Kellogg’s ‘Sunshine Breakfast’ Cornflakes with soya milk would be my last supper on death-row. Philistine or no.
In 1980, we made another big move from Edinburgh to the Island of Islay. It’s a horseshoe-shaped island, half way between Ireland and Scotland. As if the Mull of Kintyre was kicking a football to Ireland, trying to land a decent pass. Oi, Paddy!
My Dad drove our family on to a Cal Mac ferry, this time, no Coke-to-Myself glory. At first, we lived in a council house, perched on an outcrop of rock, overlooking the bay.
The house had chip board floors and no carpets. It was pebble-dashed, the colour and texture of a Bourbon biscuit. On a clear day, we could see Ireland across the sea.
My dad had warned us that the island was so remote, ‘there’ll be no television.’ He was trying to toughen us up. Lower the bar, so we weren’t disappointed. But there was television, of course. Coke adverts.
And there was a High School of 350 kids, where my dad took up his new job, as Principle English teacher. He wore an M&S tweed suit jacket with two toggle buttons like polished, wooden mushrooms. I was embarrassed about those mushrooms. What’s with the mushrooms, I used to think. Whose idea was that?
After a while, Dad recruited two 14-year-old girls from his class, called Ann and Caran – to babysit while he took my mum to meet the locals in the pub (the glamour of the Ardbeg Inn).
Ann and Caran always brought us sweets. From the pockets of their matching fleece jackets, they eased out packets of Maltesers, Juicy Fruits, and Caramac bars; placing them on the sofa, as if setting down a family of baby birds.
To my 11-year-old self, Ann and Caran were impossibly beautiful. Caran was blonde and shy, soft as cotton wool, a hint of fabric softener, or baby powder. Ann had chestnut shiny hair WITH A FLICK! Ann knew how to deploy that flick. Her smile and her cute white teeth. Ann and Caran. Caran and Ann. They were white chocolate and brown chocolate. So mysterious yet, so incredibly real.
They turned the green dial on my Dad’s Hi-Fi radio to Radio Luxembourg. They danced about the living room, in front of the fire, laughing and being generally spectacular. They talked about kissing boys, late at night, in the red telephone box.
But how did you BREATHE? I asked.
They fell about laughing. They taught us to dance, by rolling our pelvis like Elvis. They knew all about Being in Love for the Very First Time. I lapped them up then, and I raise a glass to them now. Or at least a golden spoonful of Kellogg’s Cornflakes.
