He wasn't brought up to do this

Gavin Innes

My mother's words stung my ears but the truth was undeniable. I wasn't. There was of course, a great deal of things that I had been brought up to do. Things like chewing with my mouth shut, shaking hands firmly, never speaking to strangers and ensuring that the lady always went first. But despite strict adherence to the aforementioned tasks, a decade of good parenting was being judged solely on a fifteen minute window of my life. As my eyes bore holes into the worn carpet below, I felt my mother's disappointment reach out across the room. It's moments like this and with a heavy heart you realise the futility of the word 'sorry'.

I had spent most of that summer with two friends, Paul and Walter, better know as Hastie and Wilf respectively. Adventures along the riverside whittled away our summertime freedom to the best of their ability; but by mid July, the springs of our imagination had started to run dry, turning our minds in search of bold, new endeavours to help fill the day. We were desperate for something to do. Girls would not be invented for at least another three years and even the faintest whiff of my dad's home made brew conjured up emotions closer to Hannibal Lector than amber nectar. When an answer finally came, it came by accident. Seriously, it WAS an accident. Well. . .at first anyway.

The eighties posed stern deliberations for a young boy growing up. What music you liked, what team you followed, which member of the A-Team was your favourite? Your preferences would speak to the world about the person you were, the circle of friends you moved in, and inevitably the person you would become. But forget about Shaky Stevens, Dundee United and Howlin' Mad Murdoch; the real deal breaker was between the Beano and Dandy. The Dandy? PAH! The Dandy was for tinks and girls. In typically immature behaviour, as was the fashion at the time, it was irrelevant to me that both comics came from the same writers and cartoonists. I was a die hard Beano fan and only the Beano would do. Both comics would feel the need from time to time to supplement their weekly adventures with a free gift. This could be in the form of a badge, a sweet, or even a small plastic toy. This particular week, the Beano had decided to serve up packets of Panini stickers to entice the moths to the flame, and this is how it all began.

We stood in the magazine section of John Menzies with our pockets turned out and our faces tripping us. No money, no Beano and no stickers. The stickers were attached to the front page of each comic by a solitary piece of Sellotape. Near the counter, an electric fan grumbled hypnotically to itself, wafting bouts of warm recycled summer air across the shop and lifting newspaper pages up like drunken hags latching on to a kilted stranger at a wedding. Eventually, looking was not enough and we started pawing at the pages with our grubby little mitts, reading it cover to cover to cover. During one such foray, something fell to the ground and landed next to my shoe. Peering down, I recognized the item below.

'That Sellotape's a bit rubbish.' 'You what?' 'The Sellotape,' I replied. 'P***.' I motioned with my head to the packet of stickers lying on the ground before me, the Sellotape still attached and with a thin residue of paper remaining from the comic hovering above. At first no one spoke. At least not out loud. Part of me is certain that each of us reached the same conclusion at the same time. That no one in particular orchestrated the initial act and therefore no one should be held accountable for what happened next. Finally a voice broke the silence. 'It would be a terrible shame if that happened to the other comics. . .'

Within a matter of minutes we had evacuated the shop. Our pockets loaded with detached packets of stickers, all snatched away from their rightful resting places like scabs from a wound. By slipping our hands behind the front comic, we had been able to prise away the remaining packets, shielding our nimble fingers from any suspicious eyes as we pretended to read the exploits of Dennis and co. with angelic innocence splattered all over our faces. As we inspected our bounty in a disused alley, we could feel a rush sweeping through our bodies, propelling us to giddy new heights that even an afternoon binging on Irn Bru couldn't touch. We felt invincible. We could have what we wanted. No item too large or expensive was beyond us as we seized the moment, hitting the shops in a manner that would make even the likes of Fagan blush.

Drained from our exploits, we agreed to make one final 'purchase' to reward ourselves for a job well done. Nothing fancy like the ornament I procured in preparation for my mother's birthday. Nothing ridiculous like the giant Garfield I had blatantly stuffed under my jumper. A simple bar of chocolate would suffice. A Terry's Mint Pyramid. However, there are a few drawbacks living in a small town and deciding to embark on a gratuitous shoplifting spree for an entire afternoon. Sooner or later people will start recognizing you, especially after your tenth visit to the same store in one day. We discovered this on our final outing. I have never been able to stomach peppermint since that day, and the very smell of it transports me straight back to that guilt ridden sweat box of an office, and the first time I have ever heard shame through my mother's voice. You can keep your stickers. No free gift is worth that.