Rupert The Teenager: Surviving Brock College

My hormones stepped up into overdrive. The pale, gingery goddess with crystal blue eyes stared back at me.

My heart pumped in my chest. My body tingled all over with that warm fuzzy feeling. My mind was aghast in a cringey teenage tornado. I even got goosebumps.

⚠️ WARNING ⚠️
The following blog entry is from the perspective of my virginial, awkward teenage self. People who read my blogs often ask ‘why did you do that’ etc, but I am older, wiser, and far more cynical these days.

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This teenage moment happened back in the 2000’s. Our phones weren’t smart and neither was I.

As you have read before, I had decided to become a gothical emo alternative schmuck. A year later from this decision, disappointing facial hair had now grown, and I adamantly refused to shave the fluff. My theory was that if I shaved, it would grow back into a scary full-on man beard I would never be able to get rid of. Hipster was a mere trend-foetus at this stage.

My new life ambition was to become a charismatic and popular rockstar – despite not knowing how to play any instruments and only drinking Watermelon Barcardi Breezers. I was studying at Brockenhurst college – and my goth, I was having a social renaissance.
I could wear what I want!
Well, what I wanted back then was a t-shirt advertising Iron Maiden. Complete with TK Maxx leather jacket and various bandanas. Said jacket was worn so much, I was known as The Fonz around the Hard Brock Cafe. Yep, it was actually called that.
This fashion had replaced the Matalan red fleeces and T-shirts with pressable sound effects (the only clothing I’ve ever worn that came with it’s own battery pack.)
On went the tight drainpipe trousers (with great difficulty), black shag bands and dangling chain then went around my jeans pocket for no reason whatsoever. This infographic pretty much sums me up:

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Each day seemed more amazing than the next. I wouldn’t get told off for not turning up to college! However, GTA: San Andreas ruined my education and I didn’t get the A-Level grades I probably should have got.
Everyone at colleague was friendly. I could even call teachers by their first name!
I had gone from shy wallflower to someone who would just sit next to someone on the college bus and strike up a conversation. I was giddy and no doubts could stop me.  My confidence was growing at a great rate, but my decisions, like my unbeard, were ridiculous.

I aimed to be part of the Goth clique at college. Not by talking to them, but by dressing like them and listening to their music. My logic was that my alternative aura would naturally pull me into their black-cladded, growling ensemble that looked like an economy Lost Boys mixed with the Addams Family. Their leader had nostrils that looked like the arches of a viaduct.

To further my transformation, I decided not to have my hair cut for about 14 months. It grew into an unkept mane with the colour of mocha, of which was wrapped up in a burgundy bandana. My Dad said I looked like Jim Morrison. Looking back I resembled  like a poor man’s Tarzan.

Everyone was banging on about Natasha Bedingfield and Britney, but my dream girl back then was Amy Lee.

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Bring me to life :p

At the time girls were confusing and elusive (this is still true!), yet I yearned for a girlfriend. I would see prancing couples at college, and goopy long haired barons doing handstands on the field, lapping up the attention. I’d think, ‘what is the boyfriend saying that is so magical? What is he doing?’
I lived in a town (New Milton) where the average age was 70 and fun was outlawed. Any women my age were mostly likely pregnant or were aiming towards their first ASBO.

There was Michaela, a girl from Winchester. She was very lovely and talkative, we could have a potential future, but there was one stipulation.
We never actually met.

So in summary, my love life was pretty much dead. Maybe my destiny was a microwaveable Meal for One – or like my once stepfather, order a Thai Bride off the internet.

I went to visit my Nan in Wales, over Easter and we’d just popped to see Auntie Vi. She wasn’t even an Auntie, it was just one of those affectionate terms, like Nan. Vi’s accent was so thick with Welshness her voice sounded like she swallowed a cheese grater.  She always gave me money so I could buy sweets, as would many of my Nan’s friends. I instead saved all these coins enough over the years to buy my own Playstation. My inner businessman started to salivate when any of them got their purses out around me.

On the way back from Vi’s, my pocket now full of well-earned coins, I passed by something that usually escaped me.  I was wearing a grungy black T-shirt with a mud design, the fashionista that I was, with my mocha mullet flowing and my Will-from-Inbetweeners spectacles on.  I saw a ginger girl. She had a slightly pale complexion with ocean blue eyes. She was very pretty, and I think she smiled at me.

Hang on. Oh my god.

I loitered around the town centre, contemplating this rare phenomenon. I later saw her with three African girls perched up near some steps.

“Hi” they said in chorus.

I almost did a double take. Were they speaking to someone behind me? Were they drunk?

Nope.

Girls.

Were.

Actually.

Talking.

To.

Me.

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