Teens do the craziest things

It is often said that kids do the craziest things, which, if I am honest, I am not entirely convinced is true.

If we are talking degree – which we are, because I said so – I would be inclined to say that adults probably do the craziest things.

They do all the big stuff, anyway.

You know, the nuking, the warring, all the strange and sordid sexual adventuring. Meanwhile, kids eat play doh and stick their fingers in plug sockets.

However, to dichotomise the issue would be to leave no space for the teenagers – and those sweaty, angry, half-hairy lunatics are the maddest of all.

A small, but powerful, subsection of the population, teenagers are confused, hyper, and often half-demented beings.

Possessing the mind of a child, but with the developing brain of an adult, a teenager is driven around the earth by a terrible cocktail of hormones and self-conciousness. On one hand, they are like animals, wild and feral. On the other, they are the most neurotic, awkward, self-critical variety of the human species.

I am not a betting man, but, if the heavens happened to crack open, and the slow, sonorous voice of the almighty behest me to name the most looped of his peoples, I would feel fairly confident naming the teens as the strangest of all his kingdom’s tribes.

But this is all meaningless, baseless, unsubstantiated conjecture, and that is not what this column is about. Much like a good aul’ Irish granny, this column is supposed to be all about the yarn.

So here’s a yarn for ye, one that relates to the topic at hand. Namely, teenagers and their fundamentally not-wise nature.

The strange scene was painted for me by a person who holds a privileged position that allows them to legally linger near groups of secondary school pupils as they socialise during break and dinner times.

It was while surreptitiously lurking on the fringes of a flock of first years, my source saw the following act play out. You will not understand it. That is okay. I do not understand it either.

“Right, first bid,” whispered the covert auctioneer.

In a shady corner of an already quite shady corridor of a local school, a few young lads were huddled together.

A black market auction was underway. The contraband up for grabs was a half-drank can of juice.

“I’ll start ye at a pound,” low-balled some wee joker.

“Wise-up,” dismissed the maverick auctioneer.

“Three pound,” said another young lad, in restrained exclamation, marking the start of the serious bidding.

The auctioneer smiled and shook the can, swooshing the derisory contents around as though trying to tempt prospective bidders to buy his slabbers.

“Anybody else feeling flush,” he said, with a devilish grin.

In a moment of madness, a hand flew up, moving the bidding to four pound.

“Who’ll give me five?” said the lad wielding the half-can of backwash.

“I’ll give you a fiver,” blurted out a bespectacled, ruddy-faced boy.

“We have a fiver,” cheered the auctioneer, holding the can of liquid detritus aloft.

Apparently, some of the other cubs, reckoning that the buyer’s impulsivity had gotten the better of him, tried to dissuade him before he parted with the money.

“You are all just raging yous didn’t get it,” he said smugly, handing over the blue note, thus completing the transaction.

And with that, the story goes, he put the can to his lips, tilted back his head, and proceeded to triumphantly empty the contents into his mouth.

After hearing the story, I asked the person who told it to explain what the hell had just happened.

“I don’t know,” she said, “but that’s what I am telling ye. Teenagers these days just aren’t wise.”

A fiver for a half-drank can of juice…

“They certainly aren’t,” I agreed.