Back at school
I knew I wasn't going to be one of the cool kids. I was (and am) something of a porker, I had a ridiculous slicked-back-4-tonnes-of-gel hairstyle, and a godawful giant leather satchel in green with Jaguar emblazone don it, bought from a charity shop since we were poor. I was crap at sports and average at everything else, but smart enough to know that as soon as I started secondary school (a rather rough all boys school), my best bet for survival would be to quickly pick out and befriend the other down and outers. There was one kid who looked like skeletor who earned the nickname "Flibble", a fat ginger kid, also known as "Ginger fivebellies", a short kid who drank from a young age and acted like a 12 year old Joe Peschi, and a kid whose surname, whilst Dutch, actually translated as "wanker" in German.

Myself and my motley band of friends looked out for each other throughout the 6 years, but nonetheless one particular group of lads did enjoy picking us off in our alone moments, be it through egging, the old deoderant plus lighter near the face trick, stealing calculators/trainers (which were the most valuable things schoolkids had back in my day), and generally being utter cunts.

Despite us all reaching the age of 17 and starting A levels, the bullying continued unabated. Luckily I got off fairly lightly, though I did receive a kicking as a reward for missing an easy catch during cricket once. Ginger fivebellies got the worst of it. At its peak, he'd often be set upon before even making it into school. By this time he'd been able to grow a ginger goatee, and I still remember him doing the whole "I'm a man, I'm not gonna cry" face when he'd come in bleeding from the head or lip.

Anyway, there were 4 lads in this group. The ringleader had bought himself a rather chavvy Fiesta and one night whilst out racing other kids-whose-parents-never-loved-them, he lost control of the car, killed one of the town's most beloved residents (he'd been a tattoo artist in the town for decades), and wrapped it round a tree, killing all but one of the gang.

For the next two years the one that lived sat very quietly in all lessons. I never heard him talk again. I felt really bad for him.
(Tiny Blindfolded Horse Kitten sound car horns would end road rage, Thu 14 May 2009, 19:54, Reply)