Anarchy In The UK
So, would you have a go? Would you intervene if you saw a bunch of youths vandalising your property? Would you intervene if you saw someone being attacked in the street? Up until recently, my answer would always have been “yes”. But now, I am not so sure.
Indeed, it is not all that long ago since I did tell two yobs off for causing damage. They were aged about fifteen and they were climbing on an ornamental hedge in the ornamental gardens of Tatton Park. They were standing on top of the hedge and beating it with a big stick. I told them to “Get the f**k down!” They did. It was a bit of a relief because it was a very big stick. And, imagine my surprise when I realised that the woman who was sitting on the bench in front of the very same hedge was their mom. She, their mom, batted not an eyelid, neither at their unruly behaviour nor at my aggressive admonishment.
I also, regularly have been known to have “a quiet word” in the ear of groups of teenagers who are making noise in cinemas. But, maybe I am foolish to do so. Even if the gang of kids don’t take you on themselves, you run the risk that they will have phoned their big brothers who will be waiting for you outside the movie theatre, with pit-bulls and baseball bats at the ready.
But recently, there have been too many murders of have-a-go heroes, or even, of innocents just trying to protect their own homes. And, it seems that every hoody in the ‘hood is walking around “tooled up” and prepared to use their weapons. On anybody. On everybody. Young male testosterone, bad attitudes, knives, drugs and alcohol are not a nice mix.
Now don’t get me wrong, my teenage years were far from non-violent and I was always more than ready to respond with my fists. Nor is it the case that knives were particularly rare in downtown Handsworth in the early ‘80s. As readers of earlier posts will know I had a boy die in my arms as a result of being stabbed in a schoolyard fracas. And, I have personally had a knife pulled on me three times in my life – once when as a school prefect I was trying to remove a fifth former from school (it was a very small knife and his arm hurt very badly afterwards!); once when someone tried to mug me in London (I only saw the knife after I had smashed his nose and he ran away); and, once when I stepped in to protect my next door neighbour from her enraged boyfriend (see earlier posting).
Knives and sharpened metal combs were omnipresent in my youth. Bouncers on the pub doors in Erdington would regularly confiscate penknives, flick-knives and metal combs. But, they were rarely used. Fights were frequent too. But in my day there were still rules. No kicking. If someone went down in a fight you would never have dreamed of kicking them or stamping on their head. And, the fights were largely self-contained, involving like-minded violent youths only. My teenage friends would never have dreamt of having a go at anyone who tried to stop us from doing something that we shouldn’t have been doing, or of picking on an innocent in the street or on a bus.
People seem to be getting more and more fearful. I read that black army officers are to be drafted in as positive role models to try and deter black youths from joining gangs and getting involved in violence (unless it is on the streets of Basra or Helmund Province that is). But I fear that we will see a growth in gated communities and a polarisation of society. We will find metal detectors and security guards in our schools. I fear that David Cameron’s plan to provide tax incentives to encourage people to get married and to stay together will fail to prevent the decline of our social make-up in which so many young men lack positive male role models. I fear that the Guardian Angels will soon be back on the London underground and groups of vigilantes will be roaming our estates.
So, would I have a go? I really, really don’t know. Would you?
Showing posts with label Handsworth. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Handsworth. Show all posts
Monday, 20 August 2007
Thursday, 8 February 2007
Fighting Part 3
Handsworth was a dangerous place in general in the 80s. There were race riots in 1981 and again in 1985. In the latter, an Asian family lost their lives. They were burnt alive above the Post Office they managed. During the first race riot, I had to be "evacuated" from school. It was a Sunday and we had been playing cricket and just returned to school in the mini-bus. Normally I would have made my way home by bus. But, on this hot, Sunday evening the riot was kicking off, prompted by the arrest of a local drug dealer. The school, being predominantly white, became a target. We had to be escorted out of school under police guard. It was quite exciting. It was quite frightening. When we returned to school on Monday, Handsworth was a mess. The Soho and Lozells roads were littered with burnt out cars. School had most of its windows smashed. It was quite exciting swapping stories with the other kids, especially those who lived in the area. The W twins had been arrested and subsequently released. They claimed they had just gone to watch but got caught up in a police baton charge. They got a beating, but not from the police. They got their beating from their mom – five foot nothing of old-fashioned Jamaican maternal discipline. They were good lads and should have known better than to get involved.
Things were always a bit more tense in the area after that. I remember once bunking off with a mate and going to the local snooker club. It smelled of weed. We were in there for just 30 seconds. We were the only white faces. Everything stopped. It was like a movie. It was like the pub scene in American Werewolf (Jenny Agutter. Since the Railway Children, I've never seen a film where she kept her clothes on. And, I'm not sure I want to. Sigh....). Nothing was said, but the look in their collective eyes shouted. We were not welcome there. We went back to school.
Suffice to say that at Grammar School I learnt to fight. I learnt to stand my ground. Actually, by building a certain reputation and by developing a certain stern look I managed, mostly, to avoid an actual fight. Normally the other guy would back down. Indeed I can still conjure that “stern look” today. I t is very effective when dealing with noisy teenagers in cinemas, or, when kids try to push into queues.
Fortunately, there has not been much cause for fighting since Handsworth. True my nickname at Oxford, at least within the public school circles of the “Iffley Yahs” was “The Inner City Lad”. It could have been worse though. They referred to one of my best mates from Birmingham as the “Neanderthal” (but if you had met him then you would have understood why)……I did get a bit “feisty” when captaining the so-called “Animals” football team. And, there was a time when I did terrorise one of the “Iffley Yahs” by pinning him against the college wall by the throat. Sorry Simon. I hope this does not explain your absence from the Friendsreunited website.
Otherwise, Oxford was pretty fight free. One of my duties as Social Secretary seemed to be to “intimidate” certain rowdy types to leave the Beer Cellar on “Sweaty Bop” disco nights. It was my experience that your average Oxford student was pretty easily intimidated. Your public school types are not so streetwise and tend to rely on their wits more than their fists. Certain more direct pressure was brought to bear on one MD when he refused to leave my girlfriend alone.
Indeed, I only have few recollections of real violence while at Oxford. One was when I was back at college a year after leaving. We were there as part of the Old Members Football team playing the annual fixture against the current college team. I had to intervene between my mate (the Neanderthal) and a “Townie” who had insulted his fiancée. My mate knocked the “Townie” clean into the middle of the street (and next week) even though the “Townie” was wearing a motorcycle helmet. I stepped in, with the two other mates we were with, when he came back with a tyre lever. It was the night that Frank Bruno was fighting (and losing) against Mike Tyson in the World Heavyweight Championship. …Frank lost. The "Town v Gown" fight had been much more impressive.
Things were always a bit more tense in the area after that. I remember once bunking off with a mate and going to the local snooker club. It smelled of weed. We were in there for just 30 seconds. We were the only white faces. Everything stopped. It was like a movie. It was like the pub scene in American Werewolf (Jenny Agutter. Since the Railway Children, I've never seen a film where she kept her clothes on. And, I'm not sure I want to. Sigh....). Nothing was said, but the look in their collective eyes shouted. We were not welcome there. We went back to school.
Suffice to say that at Grammar School I learnt to fight. I learnt to stand my ground. Actually, by building a certain reputation and by developing a certain stern look I managed, mostly, to avoid an actual fight. Normally the other guy would back down. Indeed I can still conjure that “stern look” today. I t is very effective when dealing with noisy teenagers in cinemas, or, when kids try to push into queues.
Fortunately, there has not been much cause for fighting since Handsworth. True my nickname at Oxford, at least within the public school circles of the “Iffley Yahs” was “The Inner City Lad”. It could have been worse though. They referred to one of my best mates from Birmingham as the “Neanderthal” (but if you had met him then you would have understood why)……I did get a bit “feisty” when captaining the so-called “Animals” football team. And, there was a time when I did terrorise one of the “Iffley Yahs” by pinning him against the college wall by the throat. Sorry Simon. I hope this does not explain your absence from the Friendsreunited website.
Otherwise, Oxford was pretty fight free. One of my duties as Social Secretary seemed to be to “intimidate” certain rowdy types to leave the Beer Cellar on “Sweaty Bop” disco nights. It was my experience that your average Oxford student was pretty easily intimidated. Your public school types are not so streetwise and tend to rely on their wits more than their fists. Certain more direct pressure was brought to bear on one MD when he refused to leave my girlfriend alone.
Indeed, I only have few recollections of real violence while at Oxford. One was when I was back at college a year after leaving. We were there as part of the Old Members Football team playing the annual fixture against the current college team. I had to intervene between my mate (the Neanderthal) and a “Townie” who had insulted his fiancée. My mate knocked the “Townie” clean into the middle of the street (and next week) even though the “Townie” was wearing a motorcycle helmet. I stepped in, with the two other mates we were with, when he came back with a tyre lever. It was the night that Frank Bruno was fighting (and losing) against Mike Tyson in the World Heavyweight Championship. …Frank lost. The "Town v Gown" fight had been much more impressive.
Fighting Part 2
Handsworth was a violent school in a violent place at a violent time. This was a time of the Handsworth Revolution (Steel Pulse) and of race riots. Being a predominantly white school in a very black and Asian area meant that bus rides home were often "stressful" and menacing. Actually, they could often be dangerous. Handsworth Park was officially out-of-bounds. I n reality though it was the place where scores were settled between rival schools. Rivalry within the school itself was handled in-house. Fights would break out most breaks. A circle would form and a fight would ensue until broken up by Prefects. Unless it was Prefects who were fighting…..
Prefects were responsible for all discipline in the school outside of the classrooms during lesson time. Prefects gave detentions, meted out litter duties, and could send boys to the Head for the cane. These were the official punishments. They were rarely carried out. More often than not Prefects preferred to administer a clip around the ear. I should know. I was a Prefect. Indeed, I was a Prefect Team Leader. Prefects, like velociraptors, preyed in packs. I had two naval-like stripes on my cuffs to show my rank. As a Prefect Leader I organised a roster of duties for the team on the days when we were “on duty”. Duties included ensuring that the school was cleared of all boys when lessons were not taking place, unless it was raining. Before classes, after school, and at break times, the school had to be cleared. We would patrol the corridors and search the rooms. “Sneaking in” was a favourite prank. Prefects also had to ensure that boys entered the school in an orderly fashion. Upon the sounding of the school bell, boys were expected to line up in single file against the wall and were filtered through the two main entrances, one-by-one. Prefects would physically eject boys who pushed in or who were being noisy.
Rainy days were the worst because then the boys were allowed inside. But, they were expected to remain within the confines of their own class and the corridors were to be kept free. Prefects were allocated a Form. I was assigned the worst Form in the school. Fifth formers in the lowest stream. I got them because I was "hard". They got me because I could not be intimidated. When this Form was in the fourth year they had beaten up the Head Boy. Incidentally, I had never aspired to the position of Head Boy. The Head Boy was a ceremonial role that required you to give readings and speeches during assemblies and other high profile occasions. Not for me. Not back then. My job during assemblies was to stand in the middle of my Form and keep order. To stop the serious crimes of giggling, key rattling, talking and making up rude words to hymns. Why the music teacher insisted on playing Bread of Heaven quite so often was beyond me. With so many Aston Villa fans in the school, it would quickly deteriorate......
The other main responsibility of the Prefects was to keep order in the Quad, and the immediate vicinity of the school and at bus stops. We had to break up all of the fights. We had to stop boys from smoking while in school uniform. To do this we raided the bogs (toilets). There were 3 main bogs – one for the juniors, one for middle school and one for seniors. Many a senior school toilet raid resulted in cubicle doors being kicked open by a Prefect to find a boy sneaking an illicit fag (which meant a cigarette in them days!). Punishment would involve a clip round the ears and confiscation of all cigarettes. It was rare to get a whole pack though as most local newsagents would, illegally, sell fags in singles. Confiscated contraband would be sold off in the Sixth Form Common Room, where smoking was allowed.
The Prefect System worked pretty well in my opinion. As Boys, all Prefects had been through the system on the receiving end. We knew all the tricks. We knew all the hiding places. We were streetwise. While Prefects never had an official sanction for meting out a “clip around the ear”, it was rare that Boys complained about it. Any complaints would most likely have resulted in the cane.
“Clips around the ear” mostly meant that bullying was rare. Young kids who were being bullied were far more likely to seek the assistance of a Prefect than go to a teacher. They got to see their bully receive his “clip around the ear”.
However, in my time as Prefect there were two occasions when the System did not work, with serious consequences.
The first was quite literally because the Prefects withheld their labour. We went on strike. I cannot remember the incident that provoked such unprecedented strike action but it must have been significant for us to cross the Head and the teachers – the Establishment. In any case, we Prefects went on strike to protest against something or other. I n hindsight, I hope it really was important.
The Boys responded to the strike predictably. They acted like any hormone-filled mob might. There was a near riot. A real “Lord of the Flies” kind of rebellion and loss of control. Anarchy. Despite notice of the strike the Teachers had not assumed the day-to-day responsibilities normally carried out by the Prefects. They should have seen it coming. They didn’t. On this day when the school bell rang out at the end of break there were no neat lines of boys against the walls, filtering into the two main entrances. Instead there was a scrum, a melee. Everyone rushed to the door. Everyone pushed to get through the doors at the same time. Everyone thought it was a huge game. And then…….the front of the scrum collapsed. Some of the boys fell. Others continued to push. More boys fell. The boys that fell got trampled on. At this point the Prefects ended our industrial action. Order was quickly restored, teachers were summoned, ambulances were called for. I seem to remember that four boys went to hospital that day – a concussion, a couple of broken limbs. I also seem to remember that the incident was reported on local news. I think that this has had a long-lasting impact upon me. Strike action has consequences. People get hurt. But, it could have been a lot worse……….
The second time that the Prefect system failed it was a lot worse. It was as bad as it could ever get. As I have said, these were violent times in Handsworth. Grammar School kids were often targeted by kids form the local comprehensives. There had been a couple of instances when smaller lads had been beaten up on the way to or from school, or on the mile and a half walk from school to the playing fields for Games. Smaller boys, mostly, began to carry weapons for protection. At first these would include metal combs with sharp handles, the odd compass set, penknives and worse. In the year after I had left Grammar I heard that a “raid” on one form discovered a crossbow!
On this particular day I must not have been on Prefect duty. I was in my form room – one of the “temporary” wooden structures on the far side of the Quad away from the main school building where the Sixth formers hung out at break. A “fight” broke out outside and a kid came running in to get me. It would seem that a second-year boy had been being bullied by a third-former. This third-former was a known bully. The second-year boy had apparently brought a flick-knife to school to ward him off. Somehow the bully had run onto the blade – a single puncture wound to the stomach. A single puncture wound through the stomach. A single puncture wound through the stomach and into the heart of a 13 year old boy.
The next few seconds are just a distant, foggy blur in my memory. My mind plays back the events almost as if I were a spectator, watching from a distance. I barked at Sixth-formers to push back the growing circle of boys who had assumed another fight was taking place. I shouted for someone to call an ambulance. I screamed for someone to get a teacher. It all happened in slow motion. Excited faces turned to grimaces of fear and horror as realisation hit home. I cradled the bully in my arms and that is where he died. I had told him he was going to be OK. He was not. The situation was made worse – if such a thing could be worse – by the fact that both boys had brothers in the school in the same fourth-form class. The bully’s brother was holding his hand as he died in my arms.
A teacher arrived, and, to be honest, I do not remember much at all after that. I remember looking out of the teachers’ rest room. I must have been sent there to clean myself up. There was not a lot of blood but there must have been some. I remember peering out of the window alongside a couple of fellow Prefects. We could see the body lying across the Quad next to our form room. The body seemed to lie on the cold tarmac for an absolute age before the police finished their business, before they had drawn their chalk outline and the hearse arrived to remove the body. Small kids would later examine the spot eagerly for signs of blood.
I have a faint memory of being interviewed that afternoon while sat at a single desk set up examination style in the Main Hall. But, I could not tell you if this interview was by the police or by a counsellor. I would imagine it must have been a plain-clothed PC. These were the days before counselling, before we worried about the impact of a traumatic event upon the witness. These were days of stiff upper lips.
I think we must have been sent home early that day. But, I have no memory of it. I have no memory of it being marked as a memorable event at home. “Hi mom, a kid died in my arms today.” I have no memory of the incident being discussed at all. I remember no follow up action with the police or other authorities. The “killer” was expelled and sent to borstal (Young Offenders’ Institute). The two brothers used to look at me a little strangely, as if I served as a constant reminder of what had happened. I don’t remember much discussion about it at school either. Except, on one occasion, when the Senior Football Team was playing in the FA Schoolboys’ Cup at West Brom’s ground. The “killer’s” brother was playing and his brother – the “killer” – was spotted in the crowd, flanked by his parents. It made me feel a little uneasy. There again, with the wisdom of hindsight, I can understand that he had been a victim too. And, so perhaps, was I.
Prefects were responsible for all discipline in the school outside of the classrooms during lesson time. Prefects gave detentions, meted out litter duties, and could send boys to the Head for the cane. These were the official punishments. They were rarely carried out. More often than not Prefects preferred to administer a clip around the ear. I should know. I was a Prefect. Indeed, I was a Prefect Team Leader. Prefects, like velociraptors, preyed in packs. I had two naval-like stripes on my cuffs to show my rank. As a Prefect Leader I organised a roster of duties for the team on the days when we were “on duty”. Duties included ensuring that the school was cleared of all boys when lessons were not taking place, unless it was raining. Before classes, after school, and at break times, the school had to be cleared. We would patrol the corridors and search the rooms. “Sneaking in” was a favourite prank. Prefects also had to ensure that boys entered the school in an orderly fashion. Upon the sounding of the school bell, boys were expected to line up in single file against the wall and were filtered through the two main entrances, one-by-one. Prefects would physically eject boys who pushed in or who were being noisy.
Rainy days were the worst because then the boys were allowed inside. But, they were expected to remain within the confines of their own class and the corridors were to be kept free. Prefects were allocated a Form. I was assigned the worst Form in the school. Fifth formers in the lowest stream. I got them because I was "hard". They got me because I could not be intimidated. When this Form was in the fourth year they had beaten up the Head Boy. Incidentally, I had never aspired to the position of Head Boy. The Head Boy was a ceremonial role that required you to give readings and speeches during assemblies and other high profile occasions. Not for me. Not back then. My job during assemblies was to stand in the middle of my Form and keep order. To stop the serious crimes of giggling, key rattling, talking and making up rude words to hymns. Why the music teacher insisted on playing Bread of Heaven quite so often was beyond me. With so many Aston Villa fans in the school, it would quickly deteriorate......
The other main responsibility of the Prefects was to keep order in the Quad, and the immediate vicinity of the school and at bus stops. We had to break up all of the fights. We had to stop boys from smoking while in school uniform. To do this we raided the bogs (toilets). There were 3 main bogs – one for the juniors, one for middle school and one for seniors. Many a senior school toilet raid resulted in cubicle doors being kicked open by a Prefect to find a boy sneaking an illicit fag (which meant a cigarette in them days!). Punishment would involve a clip round the ears and confiscation of all cigarettes. It was rare to get a whole pack though as most local newsagents would, illegally, sell fags in singles. Confiscated contraband would be sold off in the Sixth Form Common Room, where smoking was allowed.
The Prefect System worked pretty well in my opinion. As Boys, all Prefects had been through the system on the receiving end. We knew all the tricks. We knew all the hiding places. We were streetwise. While Prefects never had an official sanction for meting out a “clip around the ear”, it was rare that Boys complained about it. Any complaints would most likely have resulted in the cane.
“Clips around the ear” mostly meant that bullying was rare. Young kids who were being bullied were far more likely to seek the assistance of a Prefect than go to a teacher. They got to see their bully receive his “clip around the ear”.
However, in my time as Prefect there were two occasions when the System did not work, with serious consequences.
The first was quite literally because the Prefects withheld their labour. We went on strike. I cannot remember the incident that provoked such unprecedented strike action but it must have been significant for us to cross the Head and the teachers – the Establishment. In any case, we Prefects went on strike to protest against something or other. I n hindsight, I hope it really was important.
The Boys responded to the strike predictably. They acted like any hormone-filled mob might. There was a near riot. A real “Lord of the Flies” kind of rebellion and loss of control. Anarchy. Despite notice of the strike the Teachers had not assumed the day-to-day responsibilities normally carried out by the Prefects. They should have seen it coming. They didn’t. On this day when the school bell rang out at the end of break there were no neat lines of boys against the walls, filtering into the two main entrances. Instead there was a scrum, a melee. Everyone rushed to the door. Everyone pushed to get through the doors at the same time. Everyone thought it was a huge game. And then…….the front of the scrum collapsed. Some of the boys fell. Others continued to push. More boys fell. The boys that fell got trampled on. At this point the Prefects ended our industrial action. Order was quickly restored, teachers were summoned, ambulances were called for. I seem to remember that four boys went to hospital that day – a concussion, a couple of broken limbs. I also seem to remember that the incident was reported on local news. I think that this has had a long-lasting impact upon me. Strike action has consequences. People get hurt. But, it could have been a lot worse……….
The second time that the Prefect system failed it was a lot worse. It was as bad as it could ever get. As I have said, these were violent times in Handsworth. Grammar School kids were often targeted by kids form the local comprehensives. There had been a couple of instances when smaller lads had been beaten up on the way to or from school, or on the mile and a half walk from school to the playing fields for Games. Smaller boys, mostly, began to carry weapons for protection. At first these would include metal combs with sharp handles, the odd compass set, penknives and worse. In the year after I had left Grammar I heard that a “raid” on one form discovered a crossbow!
On this particular day I must not have been on Prefect duty. I was in my form room – one of the “temporary” wooden structures on the far side of the Quad away from the main school building where the Sixth formers hung out at break. A “fight” broke out outside and a kid came running in to get me. It would seem that a second-year boy had been being bullied by a third-former. This third-former was a known bully. The second-year boy had apparently brought a flick-knife to school to ward him off. Somehow the bully had run onto the blade – a single puncture wound to the stomach. A single puncture wound through the stomach. A single puncture wound through the stomach and into the heart of a 13 year old boy.
The next few seconds are just a distant, foggy blur in my memory. My mind plays back the events almost as if I were a spectator, watching from a distance. I barked at Sixth-formers to push back the growing circle of boys who had assumed another fight was taking place. I shouted for someone to call an ambulance. I screamed for someone to get a teacher. It all happened in slow motion. Excited faces turned to grimaces of fear and horror as realisation hit home. I cradled the bully in my arms and that is where he died. I had told him he was going to be OK. He was not. The situation was made worse – if such a thing could be worse – by the fact that both boys had brothers in the school in the same fourth-form class. The bully’s brother was holding his hand as he died in my arms.
A teacher arrived, and, to be honest, I do not remember much at all after that. I remember looking out of the teachers’ rest room. I must have been sent there to clean myself up. There was not a lot of blood but there must have been some. I remember peering out of the window alongside a couple of fellow Prefects. We could see the body lying across the Quad next to our form room. The body seemed to lie on the cold tarmac for an absolute age before the police finished their business, before they had drawn their chalk outline and the hearse arrived to remove the body. Small kids would later examine the spot eagerly for signs of blood.
I have a faint memory of being interviewed that afternoon while sat at a single desk set up examination style in the Main Hall. But, I could not tell you if this interview was by the police or by a counsellor. I would imagine it must have been a plain-clothed PC. These were the days before counselling, before we worried about the impact of a traumatic event upon the witness. These were days of stiff upper lips.
I think we must have been sent home early that day. But, I have no memory of it. I have no memory of it being marked as a memorable event at home. “Hi mom, a kid died in my arms today.” I have no memory of the incident being discussed at all. I remember no follow up action with the police or other authorities. The “killer” was expelled and sent to borstal (Young Offenders’ Institute). The two brothers used to look at me a little strangely, as if I served as a constant reminder of what had happened. I don’t remember much discussion about it at school either. Except, on one occasion, when the Senior Football Team was playing in the FA Schoolboys’ Cup at West Brom’s ground. The “killer’s” brother was playing and his brother – the “killer” – was spotted in the crowd, flanked by his parents. It made me feel a little uneasy. There again, with the wisdom of hindsight, I can understand that he had been a victim too. And, so perhaps, was I.
Wednesday, 7 February 2007
Fighting Part 1
Another common attribute of the Middle Manager is competitiveness. You have to enjoy a good fight. I certainly did and I did so from a very early age. Well, when your local newspaper says of your birth “Miracle Baby!”, what would you expect. An immaculate conception? I have been dining out on that particular headline for years. It actually probably means that my mom was a fighter too. After all, it was she, not me, who lost all the blood. I just had to hang on in there and survive. I came out the wrong way up, back to front, choking myself with my own umbilical chord. But, I survived to be told the story of it.
I can remember with some clarity one of my early “lessons for life”. This time from my mom. I guess I must have been about 3 years old. Indeed, it may well have been prompted by the “Battle of Batman’s cape” at Playgroup back in Selly Oak. (See Early Education - an earlier posting). “If anyone hits you, “ mom said, “you just hit them back. Stick up for yourself!”
And so I did. And so I do. If anyone has ever hit me I have always hit them back. That is, with the exception of any women (and there have been a couple who have given me a slap or two over the years). Hitting a woman is a big taboo. Real men do not use their fists on women. But men, no matter how big or how many, I always hit back. Never show fear. Never back down. Sometimes I got my hitting in first – what Americans might call “pre-emptive” hitting. On occasions I would take a beating. But, mostly I won. I was pretty hard. I am still quite capable of aggression if called upon but I rarely play the hard man these days. And, I hope I won't have to.
I learnt mom’s lesson quickly. Not long after this the “incident with the dog” happened. My aunt and uncle (he of the Marvel comic collection) had a boisterous boxer dog, Spicer, that was just about the same height as myself. On one particular visit the boxer dog apparently came whelping into the lounge, its bobble tail firmly between its legs, followed by yours truly with blood around my mouth, declaring: “Doggy bit me so I bit him back!” Sorry doggy. I guess I’ve always been more of a cat person. And, for those of you who are interested........it DOES taste just like chicken! Sorry Spicer.
There have been other notable scraps through the years. At the Junior School I was once concussed enough to be sent to a doctor after being set upon by "Big Boys" from the local comprehensive. Apparently they had entered the playground, stolen our ball and dared us to go and get it. And so I did. And so I received a bit of a kicking until a teacher came and chased the gang away. I got the ball.
There was the time I hit LH around the head with a cricket bat. LH was one of the rare black kids at Junior School and was by far the hardest kid in school. But, at least he respected me after being knocked for six. He turned out to be a thoroughly nice guy once you got to know him, but, I admit that this was a rather extreme ice breaker. Sorry LH.
Then there was the time I made the boy in the year above me at the Junior School cry, and, apologise to my sister. I forget his name, but he was bullying my sister. He made her cry. I twisted his arm until he apologised. He didn’t learn his lesson though for some years later, when I was about 15 or 16, my sister came home from school in tears. This same boy, who went to another all boys Grammar School and big rival of my own, recognised her on the bus on the way home. He hurled abuse at her all the way. Without a word to anyone, not to mom, not to my sister, I sought him out. I took a different route home. In the full uniform and regalia of my own school, alone, I got onto the number 40 bus which carried Erdingtonians home from Aston. He was sat right at the back, in the middle of the back seat, on the top deck of the bus, surrounded by his mates. When I stepped up it was like a scene from a Western bar-room gunfight. The whole bus went quiet as I walked the length of the bus. It seemed a very long way. As I neared him there was an instant of recognition. Calmly, I simply told him, “Don’t you ever make my sister cry again” and then pummelled him in the face. No-one intervened. And, when the 16 year old bully began to cry in front of all his mates, I simply turned on my heel, walked back down the bus, and got off at the next stop. I said not a word when I got home. He never made my sister cry again. I hope he has never made anyone else’s sister cry either. Bullying and cowardice often go hand-in-hand.
Grammar School itself was one big fight. Even the organised “sports” were violent, with punishments meted out by hard men. The gym teachers. Ex-Royal Marines and utter bullies. Most of the “games” organised by this pair involved cruelty, torture or pain of some kind. Never their own. Their behaviour would not be tolerated today – the kids would sue. But, it did help to make men out of most of the boys.
PE (Physical Education) consisted mainly of two games – “Pirates” and “British Bulldog”. Pirates was rarer because it involved getting every piece of gym equipment out, and we only had an hour. The “trial” consisted of being chased around the room by the two best athletes in class. If (i.e. when) you were caught, or, if you put a foot on the floor, you were sent to the Sacrificial Altar. You would be made to take off your PE vest (not as rare an occurrence as you may think in days when you played games in either “colours”, i.e. with vest on, or in “skins”). You would be made to lie face-down over a buck with arms by your side. And, then, the gym teacher would slap you hard in the middle of the back with the palm of his hand! The game would not end until an inspection proved that every boy wore “the mark”……
British Bulldog was much simpler. It involved all of the class except the two biggest boys standing at one end of the gym hall. The Bulldogs stood in the middle. The boys then had to run from one wall to the other without being “captured”. To be “captured” you had to be lifted physically off the floor. This was the job of the Bulldogs. These two twin brothers were very good at it. They were big, black, and proud. They were both giants from a family of giants. Just look up any history of British athletics and you will find a member of their family, famous for throwing something very heavy a lot further than anyone else. In these days that included me and my classmates. There was just one rule. Boys had to resist. If you were not considered to be resisting enough then the Sacrificial Altar would come into play. Once “captured” you joined the twins as a catcher until there were no more boys to catch.
I do not remember a single boy complaining about such treatment. They did not dare. To show such weakness was an unwritten taboo. I am sure that no parent was ever told, otherwise there would have been complaints, parents to see the Headmaster. I t never happened. The only complaint that I can remember being made against these two complete b*stards involved a boy in another class but in the same year as myself. He was the boy who smelled. Every school has one and he was ours. He was scruffy, he had no school blazer, his hair was long and unkempt, and, he smelled. Apparently after one particular PE lesson he refused to join his classmates in that other ritual humiliation which came with PE – the communal showers. This humiliation involved stripping naked in front of your classmates. You have to remember that this was a time before central heating and power showers, before boys discovered underarm deodorant. We were the talcum powder generation. The generation who bathed once on a Sunday or after football. We were also at an age when involuntary erections were common. Adolescence, what fun! Once naked you had to run the gauntlet of cold water jets.
This boy refused to strip. I don’t know what kind of home life the poor wretch may have had. I cannot imagine what lack of parental care produced such a feral child. And I did not care. None of us cared. We were young boys and all we knew was that he smelled. The gym teacher lost it. He stripped the boy himself. He produced a wire brush – often used to cajole slow gauntlet runners. He yanked the boy into the shower and he scrubbed him clean. This boy complained……
Such institutionalised violence was not without side effects of course. Violence often erupted in the Quadrangle and elsewhere. From time to time boys would organise mass contests of British Bulldog involving the whole school, and all ages. The other Quad favourite was Murder Ball. This involved two teams whose purpose was to score by throwing a tennis ball through the opponents goals (hitting the wall between two wall-mounted dustbins). That was rule one. Rule two (and there were only two) was that whoever held the tennis ball could be murdered – punched, kicked, wrestled, anything went…..
I can remember with some clarity one of my early “lessons for life”. This time from my mom. I guess I must have been about 3 years old. Indeed, it may well have been prompted by the “Battle of Batman’s cape” at Playgroup back in Selly Oak. (See Early Education - an earlier posting). “If anyone hits you, “ mom said, “you just hit them back. Stick up for yourself!”
And so I did. And so I do. If anyone has ever hit me I have always hit them back. That is, with the exception of any women (and there have been a couple who have given me a slap or two over the years). Hitting a woman is a big taboo. Real men do not use their fists on women. But men, no matter how big or how many, I always hit back. Never show fear. Never back down. Sometimes I got my hitting in first – what Americans might call “pre-emptive” hitting. On occasions I would take a beating. But, mostly I won. I was pretty hard. I am still quite capable of aggression if called upon but I rarely play the hard man these days. And, I hope I won't have to.
I learnt mom’s lesson quickly. Not long after this the “incident with the dog” happened. My aunt and uncle (he of the Marvel comic collection) had a boisterous boxer dog, Spicer, that was just about the same height as myself. On one particular visit the boxer dog apparently came whelping into the lounge, its bobble tail firmly between its legs, followed by yours truly with blood around my mouth, declaring: “Doggy bit me so I bit him back!” Sorry doggy. I guess I’ve always been more of a cat person. And, for those of you who are interested........it DOES taste just like chicken! Sorry Spicer.
There have been other notable scraps through the years. At the Junior School I was once concussed enough to be sent to a doctor after being set upon by "Big Boys" from the local comprehensive. Apparently they had entered the playground, stolen our ball and dared us to go and get it. And so I did. And so I received a bit of a kicking until a teacher came and chased the gang away. I got the ball.
There was the time I hit LH around the head with a cricket bat. LH was one of the rare black kids at Junior School and was by far the hardest kid in school. But, at least he respected me after being knocked for six. He turned out to be a thoroughly nice guy once you got to know him, but, I admit that this was a rather extreme ice breaker. Sorry LH.
Then there was the time I made the boy in the year above me at the Junior School cry, and, apologise to my sister. I forget his name, but he was bullying my sister. He made her cry. I twisted his arm until he apologised. He didn’t learn his lesson though for some years later, when I was about 15 or 16, my sister came home from school in tears. This same boy, who went to another all boys Grammar School and big rival of my own, recognised her on the bus on the way home. He hurled abuse at her all the way. Without a word to anyone, not to mom, not to my sister, I sought him out. I took a different route home. In the full uniform and regalia of my own school, alone, I got onto the number 40 bus which carried Erdingtonians home from Aston. He was sat right at the back, in the middle of the back seat, on the top deck of the bus, surrounded by his mates. When I stepped up it was like a scene from a Western bar-room gunfight. The whole bus went quiet as I walked the length of the bus. It seemed a very long way. As I neared him there was an instant of recognition. Calmly, I simply told him, “Don’t you ever make my sister cry again” and then pummelled him in the face. No-one intervened. And, when the 16 year old bully began to cry in front of all his mates, I simply turned on my heel, walked back down the bus, and got off at the next stop. I said not a word when I got home. He never made my sister cry again. I hope he has never made anyone else’s sister cry either. Bullying and cowardice often go hand-in-hand.
Grammar School itself was one big fight. Even the organised “sports” were violent, with punishments meted out by hard men. The gym teachers. Ex-Royal Marines and utter bullies. Most of the “games” organised by this pair involved cruelty, torture or pain of some kind. Never their own. Their behaviour would not be tolerated today – the kids would sue. But, it did help to make men out of most of the boys.
PE (Physical Education) consisted mainly of two games – “Pirates” and “British Bulldog”. Pirates was rarer because it involved getting every piece of gym equipment out, and we only had an hour. The “trial” consisted of being chased around the room by the two best athletes in class. If (i.e. when) you were caught, or, if you put a foot on the floor, you were sent to the Sacrificial Altar. You would be made to take off your PE vest (not as rare an occurrence as you may think in days when you played games in either “colours”, i.e. with vest on, or in “skins”). You would be made to lie face-down over a buck with arms by your side. And, then, the gym teacher would slap you hard in the middle of the back with the palm of his hand! The game would not end until an inspection proved that every boy wore “the mark”……
British Bulldog was much simpler. It involved all of the class except the two biggest boys standing at one end of the gym hall. The Bulldogs stood in the middle. The boys then had to run from one wall to the other without being “captured”. To be “captured” you had to be lifted physically off the floor. This was the job of the Bulldogs. These two twin brothers were very good at it. They were big, black, and proud. They were both giants from a family of giants. Just look up any history of British athletics and you will find a member of their family, famous for throwing something very heavy a lot further than anyone else. In these days that included me and my classmates. There was just one rule. Boys had to resist. If you were not considered to be resisting enough then the Sacrificial Altar would come into play. Once “captured” you joined the twins as a catcher until there were no more boys to catch.
I do not remember a single boy complaining about such treatment. They did not dare. To show such weakness was an unwritten taboo. I am sure that no parent was ever told, otherwise there would have been complaints, parents to see the Headmaster. I t never happened. The only complaint that I can remember being made against these two complete b*stards involved a boy in another class but in the same year as myself. He was the boy who smelled. Every school has one and he was ours. He was scruffy, he had no school blazer, his hair was long and unkempt, and, he smelled. Apparently after one particular PE lesson he refused to join his classmates in that other ritual humiliation which came with PE – the communal showers. This humiliation involved stripping naked in front of your classmates. You have to remember that this was a time before central heating and power showers, before boys discovered underarm deodorant. We were the talcum powder generation. The generation who bathed once on a Sunday or after football. We were also at an age when involuntary erections were common. Adolescence, what fun! Once naked you had to run the gauntlet of cold water jets.
This boy refused to strip. I don’t know what kind of home life the poor wretch may have had. I cannot imagine what lack of parental care produced such a feral child. And I did not care. None of us cared. We were young boys and all we knew was that he smelled. The gym teacher lost it. He stripped the boy himself. He produced a wire brush – often used to cajole slow gauntlet runners. He yanked the boy into the shower and he scrubbed him clean. This boy complained……
Such institutionalised violence was not without side effects of course. Violence often erupted in the Quadrangle and elsewhere. From time to time boys would organise mass contests of British Bulldog involving the whole school, and all ages. The other Quad favourite was Murder Ball. This involved two teams whose purpose was to score by throwing a tennis ball through the opponents goals (hitting the wall between two wall-mounted dustbins). That was rule one. Rule two (and there were only two) was that whoever held the tennis ball could be murdered – punched, kicked, wrestled, anything went…..
Monday, 5 February 2007
Early Education Part 4
The Teenage Years
The Grammar School for Boys which I attended was a very different world from that of Junior School. Apart from one or two of the teachers and staff it was a male dominated environment. A world of boys and of men. Situated between Birmingham’s Asian quarter of Soho and the West Indian quarter of Handsworth, the school was still strangely dominated by a white, middle-class teaching and pupil population. But for sure, black and Asian kids were a lot more prevalent than they had been back in the Erdington.
Grammar School was a world of strict discipline, rules, detentions, being sent to the Headmaster, the cane, and of Prefects. In the ranking of punishments, Prefects were the most feared and second only to being expelled.
Grammar was a world of sports and of academic excellence, good manners, and of tradition. It was a time of selection and streaming (putting the brightest kids in the best classes). It was a time of school uniform and of standing when a teacher entered the room and of placing chairs on top of desks at the end of the day. Grammar was a world which displayed prefect stripes, and coloured sporting badges. A world with a House System, school colours, bullying, fighting, and testosterone. It was a world where boys were men, or, they were failures and victims. Like the public schools of old, it was a place which produced leaders (of industry at least). Many a Middle Manager came from its ranks.
Testosterone. Fill a school with 700 boys aged between 11 and 18 and you get a heady mix of flatulence, pimples, acne and hormones. There was just a handful of female teachers, the school secretary, and one lab assistant, the occasional student teacher (usually French!). Some of these were past it or downright ugly. The others were the subject of many a hormonal schoolboy’s infatuation and frantic masturbation at some point. And, do you know, I suspect they knew it…..and, some of them probably enjoyed that knowledge.
A number of these “femmes fatales” had a distinct sexual mythology built or constructed around them. Take Miss M, the art mistress. Many would have like to. She was pretty, with a good figure, and a wardrobe full of tight fitting and short outfits. There was a rumour that she never wore any knickers and would lure young boys into her storeroom cupboard. I spent many an art lesson with my eyes locked on Miss M’s crossed legs, hoping for an uncrossing of Kenny Everet proportions. None ever came. On one occasion she did actually call me into the storeroom. I was very excited. I was 11 (or 12, or 13) and I was terrified. I was in Miss M's infamous storeroom. Gulp.
She stood on a chair and leaned up somewhere high to pass something down to me. She did this in a “suggestive” manner. She had really great legs and a good body. It did cross my mind that this might be a come on and that I was supposed to slide my hand up that leg and touch a trembling thigh. But I didn’t, thankfully. I was all too aware of the growing erection in my trousers. Trousers which all too soon would have to return to the classroom and the attentive eyes of boys who knew the goings-on in Miss M’s storeroom.
Another probable urban myth about Miss M involved a homework which she set to “draw your favourite teacher”. The story goes that one boy submitted a headless cut-out torso of a topless page-3 model onto which he had sketched a passing resemblance of Miss M’s head and for which he receive a mark of 10 out of 10……and what else we wondered. Another Miss M myth involved sightings of Miss M in a lesbian clinch with Ms T (note the “Ms”!). This took place during a sports day. They were sat together in Ms T’s mini-cooper. But, I must admit I do have a recollection of seeing this with my own eyes. I am not sure if the memory is real, but it remains a memory nonetheless. Happy days…happy thoughts…..happy nights.
Ms T taught biology. She was one of the younger teachers. She was blonde, buxom, very buxom, with a tendency towards erectile nipples that would protrude through button-stretching tight tops and skirts that would ride up sufficiently to expose a firm, shapely thigh when seated. She was sexy! I used to sit front right whenever I could in biology, being at the best angle to admire a thigh and catch a glimpse of bra, always hopeful that an over-worked button would succumb, pop, and yield even more treasures. It never did, unfortunately. Sigh.
Testosterone. Christ, I even used to think Frau W, veritable witch, teacher of German and my fifth form mistress, had great legs, and she must have been 50 if she was a day. Maybe it was the way she insisted we called her “Frau” with its clearly sado-masochistic undertones. More likely it something to do with the fact that double German last thing on a Friday afternoon usually involved the secret passing around of pocket sized porno books and not much German reading……….although some were in German. Actually, it was as simple as being 16, sex-obsessed, she was female, there……and she did have good legs.
In fact, Frau W was the closest I got to having sex with a teacher. Twice. There was one clear near miss when I must have been taken ill at school and for some reason Frau W took me home. This is probably completely against the rules of today when teachers are advised not to be alone with pupils for fear of accusations and legal cases. She had a sporty little two-seater and a short skirt and I stared at those two legs all the way home and felt much better for it. The closest was when she kissed me. I was 18. She actually kissed me. She took my head in her hands and kissed me on the lips. She did this in the middle of Quadrangle (no playground in a man’s school), in front of everyone. Yeeucchh! But this was not sex. This was a “reward” for gaining my place at Oxford…..and maybe an apology for having accused me of cheating in my German mock “O” level exam. C o-incidentally, I had used the previous year’s O-Level paper to revise for my mock exam the following Christmas. Consequently, I got a very high mark and much higher than my term work would have indicated. She accused me of having cheated. I thought I was just showing initiative. No worries. I got my A in the real thing in any case.......
The Grammar School for Boys which I attended was a very different world from that of Junior School. Apart from one or two of the teachers and staff it was a male dominated environment. A world of boys and of men. Situated between Birmingham’s Asian quarter of Soho and the West Indian quarter of Handsworth, the school was still strangely dominated by a white, middle-class teaching and pupil population. But for sure, black and Asian kids were a lot more prevalent than they had been back in the Erdington.
Grammar School was a world of strict discipline, rules, detentions, being sent to the Headmaster, the cane, and of Prefects. In the ranking of punishments, Prefects were the most feared and second only to being expelled.
Grammar was a world of sports and of academic excellence, good manners, and of tradition. It was a time of selection and streaming (putting the brightest kids in the best classes). It was a time of school uniform and of standing when a teacher entered the room and of placing chairs on top of desks at the end of the day. Grammar was a world which displayed prefect stripes, and coloured sporting badges. A world with a House System, school colours, bullying, fighting, and testosterone. It was a world where boys were men, or, they were failures and victims. Like the public schools of old, it was a place which produced leaders (of industry at least). Many a Middle Manager came from its ranks.
Testosterone. Fill a school with 700 boys aged between 11 and 18 and you get a heady mix of flatulence, pimples, acne and hormones. There was just a handful of female teachers, the school secretary, and one lab assistant, the occasional student teacher (usually French!). Some of these were past it or downright ugly. The others were the subject of many a hormonal schoolboy’s infatuation and frantic masturbation at some point. And, do you know, I suspect they knew it…..and, some of them probably enjoyed that knowledge.
A number of these “femmes fatales” had a distinct sexual mythology built or constructed around them. Take Miss M, the art mistress. Many would have like to. She was pretty, with a good figure, and a wardrobe full of tight fitting and short outfits. There was a rumour that she never wore any knickers and would lure young boys into her storeroom cupboard. I spent many an art lesson with my eyes locked on Miss M’s crossed legs, hoping for an uncrossing of Kenny Everet proportions. None ever came. On one occasion she did actually call me into the storeroom. I was very excited. I was 11 (or 12, or 13) and I was terrified. I was in Miss M's infamous storeroom. Gulp.
She stood on a chair and leaned up somewhere high to pass something down to me. She did this in a “suggestive” manner. She had really great legs and a good body. It did cross my mind that this might be a come on and that I was supposed to slide my hand up that leg and touch a trembling thigh. But I didn’t, thankfully. I was all too aware of the growing erection in my trousers. Trousers which all too soon would have to return to the classroom and the attentive eyes of boys who knew the goings-on in Miss M’s storeroom.
Another probable urban myth about Miss M involved a homework which she set to “draw your favourite teacher”. The story goes that one boy submitted a headless cut-out torso of a topless page-3 model onto which he had sketched a passing resemblance of Miss M’s head and for which he receive a mark of 10 out of 10……and what else we wondered. Another Miss M myth involved sightings of Miss M in a lesbian clinch with Ms T (note the “Ms”!). This took place during a sports day. They were sat together in Ms T’s mini-cooper. But, I must admit I do have a recollection of seeing this with my own eyes. I am not sure if the memory is real, but it remains a memory nonetheless. Happy days…happy thoughts…..happy nights.
Ms T taught biology. She was one of the younger teachers. She was blonde, buxom, very buxom, with a tendency towards erectile nipples that would protrude through button-stretching tight tops and skirts that would ride up sufficiently to expose a firm, shapely thigh when seated. She was sexy! I used to sit front right whenever I could in biology, being at the best angle to admire a thigh and catch a glimpse of bra, always hopeful that an over-worked button would succumb, pop, and yield even more treasures. It never did, unfortunately. Sigh.
Testosterone. Christ, I even used to think Frau W, veritable witch, teacher of German and my fifth form mistress, had great legs, and she must have been 50 if she was a day. Maybe it was the way she insisted we called her “Frau” with its clearly sado-masochistic undertones. More likely it something to do with the fact that double German last thing on a Friday afternoon usually involved the secret passing around of pocket sized porno books and not much German reading……….although some were in German. Actually, it was as simple as being 16, sex-obsessed, she was female, there……and she did have good legs.
In fact, Frau W was the closest I got to having sex with a teacher. Twice. There was one clear near miss when I must have been taken ill at school and for some reason Frau W took me home. This is probably completely against the rules of today when teachers are advised not to be alone with pupils for fear of accusations and legal cases. She had a sporty little two-seater and a short skirt and I stared at those two legs all the way home and felt much better for it. The closest was when she kissed me. I was 18. She actually kissed me. She took my head in her hands and kissed me on the lips. She did this in the middle of Quadrangle (no playground in a man’s school), in front of everyone. Yeeucchh! But this was not sex. This was a “reward” for gaining my place at Oxford…..and maybe an apology for having accused me of cheating in my German mock “O” level exam. C o-incidentally, I had used the previous year’s O-Level paper to revise for my mock exam the following Christmas. Consequently, I got a very high mark and much higher than my term work would have indicated. She accused me of having cheated. I thought I was just showing initiative. No worries. I got my A in the real thing in any case.......
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