There’s a hilarious middle ground between 16 and 18 when you look old enough. You start practicing your “tough, I’m-not-asking-for-ID” face in the mirror.
You send your tallest mate to the corner shop. He buys the booze, you stand outside acting like you’re not with him. It’s a low-stakes heist that feels like Ocean’s Eleven to a 16-year-old.
And then you get to the pub and the bouncer—who has seen a thousand other identically desperate teenagers—just glances at you and says, “Not tonight, pal.” The walk of shame back to the bus stop is a rite of passage.
