Ever since my little sister got caught with a fag in her mouth on the playing field during her first week at secondary school, I have relied on her to make all the mistakes that young teens are supposed to make, so that when I write my autobiography I can steal her anecdotes and pretend that I was cool at her age.
It was with great joy, then, that I learnt she was to attend the birthday party of the most baddass kid in her year. He has been expelled twice, he regularly comes in with a hangover, he has had more girlfriends than most of the guys I know. And he turned 13 this weekend.
My sister, having returned and come down off her energy drink high after a few hours of eating Ritz crackers and twitching, deigned to show me some choice iPhone snaps she’d taken of the party (village hall location, naturally) and after flicking through loads of posing tweenagers in mini skirts and heels, she alighted on this bad boy:
Colin the caterpillar cake, come back, all your e-numbers are forgiven…