The fake ID

In a country where the law states that you must be eighteen or over to consume alcohol, it is the single biggest thrill of a sixteen year old's life to get one over on the legal system by engaging in weekly infrigements of that law.



Of course, buying alcohol isn't the real challenge. You can always ask an older brother or cousin who would be more than happy to supply you and your friends with alcohol for a small profit. After all, you've been doing that every Friday night since you were fourteen. At sixteen, you need a new thrill, a new way of rebelling against a system that intends to mark you as a child, below the status of the regular citizen. This law is crazy to you. You refuse to succumb to its meek limitations.



You want to go out.



The phrase came out of nowhere for me. I had no intentions of 'going out' when I turned sixteen. Surely it would be impossible? Dangerous, even? Yet suddenly all my friends were brimming with the excitement and buzz of exploring this new world and by Wednesday every week the question was circulating the school corridors - the only question anyone seemed to be asking: 'Are you going out Saturday night?'



There were those who had been going out for months now. They would tell stories of their encounters in the city's most famous pubs and clubs, planting the seed of curiousity in the rest of our heads'. Suddenly, schoolwork and grades took a backseat - we had to find a way to go out, to become part of this intriguing world filled with new opportunities, a far cry from getting drunk in a bush before running from the police who inevitably caught us every week.



But how could we reach this new world??



Suddenly, everyone in the world seemed to be on the hunt for one thing: ID. The bouncers in this city demanded identification off everyone. Unlike other countries I'd traveled to, there was no such thing as getting dressed up to look old and sneaking in. Here you needed proof.



There were, of course, the lucky ones who had older brothers and sisters who resembled them enough in their Passport pictures to fool a bouncer on a dark night. They were sorted straight away, immediately ready to begin going out. The other option was to have a fake ID made. These came in the form of driver's licences or college ID cards. A huge business was created by those who were competent in computer skills. They could charge up to 40euro for an ID card. Of course this was a risky option as many bouncers had UV lights which, when shone through the card, would reveal them to be fake.



I wasn't so lucky. I had no older sisters, cousins or neighbours who I could pass for in any way. And at first I had no links with anyone who could create fake IDs. This didn't cause me much disappointment, as I wasn't quite as eager to hit the club scene as many of my friends. I was happy to stay home and do my English homework while they planned a weekend 'out'.



Unfortunately, my fervent pals weren't taking no for an answer. The first weekend they had decided to go out, I was literally dragged away from my homework and forced into a car which brought me to my friend Elaine's house. The girls had decided that I WOULD go out, no matter what I said in protest. They arranged my outfit (always black to make us look older - the less slutty the better as eighteen year olds were oh-so sophisticated), did my make up and straightened my hair. Donning me with 6-inch heels and a black handbag, they proclaimed that we were ready to go.



'But I don't have any ID', I moaned.



I was duly informed that a girl that Elaine worked with had kindly supplied her with her Passport, along with a college card and a bank card to back it up. I was assured that I would DEFINITELY get away with it.



I looked at the picture of the girl staring up at me. She was about fourteen in the photo. She looked absolutely nothing like me. While my friends got ready, I practiced scrunching my face into the same expression that she wore. How could this possibly work?



My knees trembled as I walked up to the bouncers in the first pub. The rule was to go up on your own, you had a better chance of getting in. My friends were already in there, I was the last one. I tried to look breezy and confident as the looked me up and down. The doubt in their faces was unmistakable and it was the big, bald man who said gruffly, 'ID please'.



He looked from the picture to me, back to the picture, back to me. I thought he'd surely be able to hear my heart thumping as he handed it was to me and nodded his head towards the door. I was in! It was a miracle. Never have I felt so elated and stimulated. I had beaten the law!! It was the single most exhilerating moment of my existence.



That night I partied and danced until 2am. The same the next weekend, and the one after. I grew more and more confident as I realised that I could pretend to be someone else and get away with it. It was the only real crime I'd ever committed, and I loved it.



Of course, as the months went by, identification had to be changed and I had a few incidences. On one occasion a bouncer fooled me by asking questions about my college course, which I had no clue about. Another time I couldn't tell them what my starsign was. Sometimes when this happened. they just gave you back your fake ID and told you to go home. Other times they took them off of you to hand over to the police, or worse, ripped them up right in front of you.



It was all just part of the thrill of being grown up. At 16, we could pass for 21 without being asked any questions. We got into the 21s club in town, which most 18 and 19 year olds had never set foot in. We were on top of the world. On Mondays and Tuesdays in school, all anyone talked about was the previous weekend out, and by Wednesday everyone was planning the upcoming Saturday night. Some people had to undergo serious and risky schemes in order to get by their parents who wouldn't give them permission to go out underaged. But for most of us, our parents seemed to accept it, even admiring the high quality of our fake IDs. It seems they enjoyed the thrill of deceiving the law almost as much as we did.



Through all this time with the drama and issues created by fake IDs, each of us prayed for the day when we would be 18 and legal. Yet when that day finally came, it was somewhat bittersweet. Gone was the excitement and exhileration of getting in somewhere. Now it was just a formality. There was no feeling of success or achievement and suddenly the notion of going out every weekend lost its thrill. Also, as hyproctical as it is, watching the new 16 year olds as they entered the club for the first time is a source of great annoyance to we oldies. Now we spend our nights bitching about the stupidity of the bouncers: how did they let her in, she looks about twelve!



Now we find ourselves leaving early and trying to find a more sophisticated place, where the bouncers won't fall for the curse of the fake ID.