Party at The Met Bar? I partied with my parents

My new-found sixth-form mates were at an unchaperoned house party, dancing to King Of My Castle by the Wamdue Project and necking bottles of Hooch. And each other most likely.

I was stuck at a fire station in the Black Country.

I had wanted to be with my friends. Really wanted to be with them. It was that age when your mates matter more to you than anything else in the world.

But my parents were having none of it. Fireman Dad was working nights and, not wanting to be away from their nearest and dearest on the biggest party night in a thousand years, the boys of Walsall Red Watch held a little shindig at the station.

I think ma and pa were also worried about that whole Y2K thing. Remember that? That was a nice slice of madness, wasn't it? 'Twas a funny old thing, either preparing for the biggest party of your life or Armageddon. But, whichever side of the fence you fell on, I bet you still went to Hooties to get the necessary supplies. You've gotta love it.

Anyways, that's where I was on that most historic of nights: a fire station eating cheese-and-pineapple sticks and doing my best moody, awkward teenager impression. Only it wasn't an impression.

A decade earlier and I was still in primary school, happily entertaining myself with handwriting sheets, Lego and episodes of Rainbow.

But a 10-year journey signposted by Oasis, GCSEs, a big slug of American culture and my first-ever boyfriend had turned me into a fully-fledged typical teen, teetering on the brink of adulthood.

I was shy, sarky and socially awkward, saying nothing in class and hoping my Fila coat would act as a Harry Potter-esque cloak of invisibility in the corridors. My thick, eye-covering fringe and train-track braces acted much in the same way, screaming "Please, whatever you do, don't look at me. And definitely don't talk to me."

I wish I'd gone through it all a decade earlier.

Let's face it, the 80s were lame, nothing happened. Other than Kristin Shepard shooting JR. Hope I didn't spoil that for anyone.

If I'd made the whole child-to-teenager transition in the 80s, it would have left me free to enjoy the 90s as God intended – in a blaze of sex, drugs and rock n roll.

I could've gone to the Met Bar. I could've got a dolphin tattoo. I could've had The Rachel. I could've been raving in a boiler suit and gas mask.

But no, I was stuck in double maths and forced to party with my parents.

Basically, if you were 18 plus in the 90s, you were a lucky so-and-so. You got the best of everything. You got to enjoy the time when the whole country was buzzing with music, fashion and swagger.

Those of us who came of age in the early noughties had naff all, apart from alcopops and Westlife.

So yes, if I had my way, I'd change it all and be a neon-wearing, whistle-blowing raver of the 90s.

You were On A Ragga Tip. We were Flying Without Wings.