My Name is Miss Spent-Youth

I think I was a Teenage Bogan.

Bogan=
1. (Australian) A member of a lower socioeconomic group historically classified by the wearing of black jumpers, black T-shirts decorated with designs including such bands as Led Zeppelin, The Doors and Nirvana or favourite drinks such as Jack Daniels or Jim Beam. Bogans often drive larger cars and are often referred to as petrolheads.

Why do I think this?
My boyfriends' name was 'Snake'. He owned a HQ Monaro *see above pic, I use to drive that car around with big L plates on it(yellow squares with a BIG CAPITAL L). Which is what you have to do when you are learning to drive in Victoria, Australia (or at least you did). None of his mates were allowed to drive it, but I was. The reason being that most of the time I was the designated driver. There I was 17yrs old with a carload of drunk guys telling me to spin the wheels. Snake of course was meant to sober as he was 'instructing' me, instead he would be slurring his words and turning the stereo up, Metallica's 'Justice For All' was a favourite.
That Monaro was legendary and so was Snake. Then again in a town of 3000 people it's not too hard to become a legend.
He was 6 foot tall and was always doing stupid shit like butting cigarettes out on his forehead and getting into fights. He didn't talk much when he was sober, so as a result he drank a lot... and I drove.
One time I was driving him back from a party in the middle of nowhere and we decided to call into one of the country pubs. He went to the toilet as I sat at the bar and drank a soft drink. He came back to the bar in stealth mode, ducking and weaving through the lounge, which was a tad ridiculous as there was about 4 people sitting in the pub. He leaned toward me smelling of cheap bourbon " Dan, Dan... There are kegs outside the toilet. I saw 'em. I wanna get one"
Now I was always up for a bit of an adventure, I must have been I went out with him for friggin' years. The plan unfolds...
I go back to the Monaro that is parked in the gravel beside the building whilst Snake snuck around to the back of the pub.
I am in the drivers seat, that big old chevy motor idling really lumpy, like a drag car ready for the green light. Next moment I see Snake in the rearvision mirror, staggering under the weight of the full keg in his arms and the tray of bourbon and coke shooters he had earlier. The boot is already open, he kicks it up with his foot and then drops the beer keg into the blue carpeted interior, making the back end drop a little. Bang, he slams down the boot and runs to the passenger door, he throws himself into the car yelling "Go Dan, GO!" and I do, I fishtail that monster car out of there, sending gravel up in a plumb as Snake is whooping at the score.
"A FULL FUCKING KEG DAN... FUCKING FULL"
We speed out of that little town along tight country roads, half expecting the flash of blue and red lights behind us, which of coures never come.
Beside me Snake is thinking about where to hide it, after all taking it home would be stupid, that keg is hot.
"I KNOW !" Snake turns to me with drunken excitement " the RESERVOIR!". It does seem a little overly cautious but I take the car off the highway onto the gravel track that leads up to the scrubby area of the local catchment. I park near some gum trees and Snake jumps out and gets the keg, again staggering in the headlights as he wanders around looking for the perfect spot and hides it in the darkness of some bushes.
We then cruise back out onto the highway and make our way home. Snake is practically hugging himself by the dashboard light " Fucking Full Dan!"
Next day we drive out to pick it up, Snake is beside himself. He hops out of the car to retrace his previous nights staggerings as I drive, inching behind him with the v8. Finally he disappears into the bush and returns hugging the keg, his smile wider than his armspan.
I pop the boot and wait for him to come back in the car. I can't see him past the popped boot, all I see is the expanse of metallic flecked blue behind me, he seems to take a while. Finally the boot is closed I watch him slump his way back to the car, he sits in the velour seat staring at his feet. I think that perhaps it was empty, but I know it was too heavy for that, but something isn't right.
"What is it?" I ask, Snake turns to me looking sad as can be,
"It's Fosters Light"

* for anyone out there who thinks that Fosters is Australian for beer, you are sadly mistaken. Fosters is the beer you take to parties when you don't want your friends to drink your stash. Fosters Light is what you take to parties when you don't want friends at all.

The story turned out ok in the end. Snake has lost a bet a few days earlier and the cost was a slab of beer (24 bottles/cans) instead he took the tag off the keg and gave that instead. They were none-the-wiser ( obviously they were dickheads).