The call of the C

We’re not very keen on formal rites of passage in this culture, are we? And confirmation doesn’t count. A confirmation candidate is a child who was inducted into a cult at birth and then fed cultish propaganda for a decade or more. Dressing her up and asking if she’s still “in” is not a rite of passage, it’s a Movie of the Week. But I digress. We don’t abandon our adolescents in the woods at midnight, for example, leaving them to find their own way back to the village using nothing more than a sharpened bone and a cow’s heart. “Last one back’s a succubus!” No one does that, mind you, I just made it up as an excuse to say “succubus”. And yet our adolescents seem perfectly capable of finding the woods all on their own. Take a walk through any leafy glade in the land – even a park will do – and you will find unmistakable traces of the ceremonies that they themselves have been conducting since time began in the late sixties. As far as we can tell from the detritus, these ceremonies are brought to us by the letter C: cider, cigarettes, crisps and an occasional crusty condom. (That was an image you could have done without, I’m sure, but don’t shoot the messenger. Take a walk in the park.) What have crisps got to do with it, that’s what I want to know. “Right, I’ve got the booze and fags and johnnies. And take a look at this bad boy – a six-pack of smokey bacon!” Is that what they imagine adulthood is all about? Drinking, smoking, screwing and eating crisps? Jesus. If only.