The Mint That Nearly Killed Me

This challenge initially seemed like a strange idea. I get it. AI and plagiarism are on the rise. But every single thing I write is mine and mine alone. Can you really imagine anyone else writing half the things I’ve written since I joined Vocal? But a challenge is a challenge.

Let me take you back to the 90s. Yep, the 90s—when grunge and Britpop, thrash and hip-hop, and electronic dance music were the soundtrack to my existence. Life was strolling along at a nice pace. Okay, I was feeling the strain of the teenage years and the looming adulthood horizon—but aside from that, things were alright.

Until one day, when my life nearly ended.

Shock horror!

No, I wasn’t almost murdered, don’t worry. It’s not that kind of story. It’s not about the time I had a head-on collision with a hatchback and lost. Not about the time my twin tried to kill me in our dear mother’s womb. (That last one didn’t happen. Probably…)

This one’s more in the tragicom vein—the sort of embarrassing tale you’ve probably come to expect from Mr. Paul Stewart. You know, the guy who kicked a girl in the vagina when he was a kid. That kinda story.

Trebor Extra Strong Mints. A name many will remember as the strongest mints on the market. Chalky tablets of pure mint-flavoured sugar that took an age to suck down—unless your teeth crunched them into oblivion first.

They were the perfect “I can’t be arsed to brush my teeth but need a mouth refresher just in case I get to kiss Kylie Minogue or Gillian Anderson” mint.

Well.

My undoing came thanks to one of those very mints.

It bypassed my teeth, my tongue, and slid straight down my throat—halfway.

That’s right. Halfway.

Cue panic. I was about to die. On a mint.

An Extra Strong Mint, sure—but still not a death befitting a legend like myself. That’s my own skewed view, of course.

In classic fashion, there was no one else home. I was alone. Gasping, wheezing, slowly losing my shit, trying to cough up this stubborn disc of doom.

I’m pretty sure the 15 years of my life prior flashed before my eyes—but there wasn’t much worth seeing, so I’ll spare you the highlight reel of me in nappies babbling nonsense.

I ran to the bathroom. Where else would I go?

I hit my chest, tried to force a cough, and was seconds from accepting my fate—curled up dead on the bathroom floor. But then, in one last desperate lunge, I drank water straight from the tap, hoping to dislodge it.

Eventually, it moved.

Premature death avoided.

I lived. To tell this tale and many others. To make it to 45 and counting. To have been in a rocky marriage, that was entirely my fault, which is now, thankfully, on the mend. To have two amazing kids, and to be at a point where I am starting to turn things around and make up for all the wasted time I lost to addiction. To win an award for a rhyming poem, no less, along with several other achievements for my writing. Death didn’t win. Like some anti-climactic, creatively-bankrupt Final Destination reject, the Mint did not get its man.

Next time, life—send Anton Chigurh. Not a bloody Trebor Extra Strong.

I still can’t eat one of those things without eyeballing it suspiciously.

Will they ever get their revenge for me taking out one of their elite? Stay tuned.

So far, nearly 30 years on, and I’m still alive and kicking.

But really, that’s life, isn’t it?

One day you’re sitting down with a cup of tea—milk and two sugars—peanut butter and jam sandwich in one hand, TV remote in the other, Common People playing on the telly.

Next, you’re in a death match with a chalky mint.

Never a dull day.

Here is me reading the story - proof that I actually wrote it. Please excuse the poor quality and the fact that I sound like a croaky old fart:

Thanks for reading and watching!

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Author's Notes: Yes, 100% true story. I don't like how my voice sounds, or that my teeth are gappy, but in keeping with the spirit of the challenge - there you go - me reading it to you!

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