Once a week, my grandad would bring me a McDonald’s strawberry milkshake. For a poor kid in the eighties, this was a mega treat.
I have a clear image of him, standing impressively large in the doorway to our kitchen, holding the giant cardboard cup out to me.
Everyone is smiling. My mum and I know what’s about to happen. My grandad definitely knows what’s going to happen. And, inevitably, it happens.
I suck the delicious thick liquid up through the straw with the power of a vacuum cleaner yet to be invented in 1988. The sugary strawberry goodness slides down my gullet, an avalanche of glucose and e-numbers. Approximately 40 seconds later, the intense stabbing behind my eyes begins. Needles. Lasers. Ice picks.
I fall to the floor, clutching at my temples, scrunching my eyes against the anguish.
BRAINFREEZE.
The pain eventually subsides, and I go again. This operatic cycle of ecstasy and agony repeats for 10 intense minutes, punctuated by laughter and shrieks. The pleasure always outweighing the pain.
My grandad always did take a unique enjoyment in inflicting mild pain on me – a hot teaspoon on the back of the hand, a giant knuckle in my tickle spot, the wooden bead seat cover on the Volvo passenger seat that pinched my leg and arm hair, the Megger electrical testing device (he was a council electrician) that he cranked until it sent a shock of electricity into my gangly body. It wasn’t malicious, it was mischief.
My grandad was a man with a serious sweet tooth, a pudding lover extraordinaire: chocolate fudge sundaes and cheesecake were his favourites, but basically any form of sweetness you could pile high in a bowl would do. Having said that, I can’t imagine my grandad ever eating anything in a McDonald’s, so I can only assume that he made the special trip for me. Perhaps it was his attempt to foster an inter-generational addiction to desert, with a light dusting of sadism.
Every now and again, I get a strong craving for a McDonald’s strawberry milkshake. Not for the flavour but the experience. In reality, more so to see my grandad and mum laugh again. I actually don’t want the milkshake at all.
Enjoyed this? Read about my granddad’s socks.
