Have a Crate at One of Your Mate's Houses Like You're All 20 Again
Remember being young
(Photo via Jamie Clifton)
Maybe I’m insane and the old man’s mind is degrading at a rate of knots, but there is a certain tangible smell that reminds me of seshing as a newly non-teenage human being, and that is: a denim jacket that is cold from being outside too long. Am I… is my mind gone? The buttons let out a metallic smell. The denim itself, from months of heavy use without being washed, has its own private scent. Everyone is wearing a denim jacket because they are 20. Everyone walked here in the cold because they are 20 and their mums are absolutely sick of giving them lifts everywhere, but they can’t afford the insurance on a car (because they are 20). Put that in a room full of lads who have only just emerged from their "wearing a hat in lieu of having a personality" cocoon-phase and you have a room that smells like sweat and metal and the cold outside and the first gush of a can of Carling burst over a table littered with dirty glasses. It smells like eight people watching a YouTube video in silence. It smells like a Father Ted quote-a-long. It smells like sesh.
Anyway, as a throwback and because it’s a week until payday and you’re all a bit tight for it, you have decided to go over to a mate’s house for a crate sesh like you’re all 20 again. You’ve brought a £10 crate from a nearby supermarket. When you arrive, three other people have brought the precise same crate. There are two bottles of vodka and loads of own-brand coke. Exactly two bags of crisps. Loads of people sitting on the floor watching two lads play FIFA. Someone has the AUX cord and keeps playing fucking Pendulum. Someone is smoking out of a window, but ineptly, so it keeps just blowing in and whipping you in the face. God, you feel young again, in that awful, uncomfortable way you felt when you were young, happy in a way that didn’t feel particularly strong, constantly awkward and uncomfortable and sitting on the fucking floor. You have those youthful urges you always used to have: you want to toast an entire loaf of bread and chain-eat it with supermarket peanut butter, you want to call your mum a “bitch”, you want to lock yourself in your room all day and play Metal Gear Solid all the way through. You eat a small stack of neon-orange Doritos and wipe the dust on your thighs like you're 20 again. You want to start a four-piece and enter a Battle of the Bands contest. You want to turn a small portion of bike chain into a necklace. You think very hard about getting a tattoo simply because a mate-of-a-mate is a trainee and he reckons he can do you one for £30 all-in. This is how Ed Sheeran happened, isn’t it? Someone sat in a beanbag at a 20-year-old’s crate sesh for too long, playing with a toy keyboard they got down from the attic, big pile of shoes by the door, and someone spilled an excessively strong vodka-coke with no ice on them, and a plume of smoke erupted and Ed Sheeran came out of the steam, scratching the back of his head and beatboxing into a loop pedal. Go home, now, before someone’s mum comes in off a night shift, throws a shit-fit about the amount of crisps that have been stamped into the carpet and chucks you all out.
YOU HAVE FAILED SATURDAY NIGHT AND YOU ARE NOW INEXPLICABLY FOUR-TIME GRAMMY AWARD WINNER EDWARD ‘ED’ SHEERAN