Chop Chop Chop
The Boys Grammar School I attended was a traditional affair, and the Head of Games, Mr S, was an odious little tosser who had obviously studied hard the book of cliches for all PE teachers. He did them all: watching rather too closely as we showered; dishing out random slipperings; standing on cold sports fields addressing pupils whilst rummaging around in the front of his tracksuit bottoms. And then sniffing his fingers. Dirty bastard.

Now this man was obsessed with 2 things (apart from the smell of his own balls), the first being Rugby and the second being Cricket. Nothing else mattered, any other sports were for spineless faggots, heaven forbid anyone mention that soccer was a more skillful game than rugger, he'd explode.

Mr S also had a long-running feud with a lad I shall call Baldy who was the school rebel. He was the one getting arrested for being pissed at the age of 14, getting proper tattoos, bringing flick-knives into school, he was the one pushing the boundaries of acceptable behaviour, the barbarian at the gates. Nowadays it would probably be seen as normal, but back then he was like the Anti-Christ to my old-fashioned Grammar school.

Baldy had several run-ins with Mr S, most notably when he had been sniffing glue and broken into one of the huts, vandalising the classroom. Mr S fancied himself as a detective and brought Baldy to book, having amazingly linked the fact there was glue all over the blackboard to the fact that Baldy had glue all over his blazer and was completely off his tits. Case closed, one nil to Mr S.

The things was, Mr S had a love/hate relationship with him because Baldy was a thug, and thugs are an asset to a school rugger team. Yes, there were the sportsmen, the skillful ones who scored tries, but when it comes to the scrum-down, you need lads in there who can flail away and more importantly, take a few knocks without crying off to Mummy. Baldy was that kind of lad. In the heat of the match you'd hear Mr S bellow from the side-line "Fists!! Fists!! No feet!!" as Baldy got carried away and trampled the opposition. Punching was fine in Mr S' book, but trampling was a sin. As much as it pained Mr S, Baldy had to be in the school's First 11, we needed a hard man in the pack. Hostilities didn't cease, they were scaled back, but Mr S still had to bite back when Baldy was goading him in the corridor, he didn't need his star hooker quitting the rugger team if he bollocked him.

The passage of time has robbed me of the actual date, but one day he'd be walking about in his tracksuit and rugger boots, then the next, as if a switch had been thrown, he'd be in his cricket jumper. That's how you knew what time of the year it was. Nothing to do with clocks going forward, birds nesting, or what it said on the calendar, the division between winter and summer was the day that the white jumper came out. Instantly, just like that.
Of course, once the rugger season ended, open season on Baldy began. Mr S picked him up for every infraction of school rules, and to be fair, there were plenty to choose from, Baldy was a bad kid.


Cricket was Mr S' summer passion, but more than that, the absolute love of his life was his cricket square. To be caught anywhere near the cricket square meant serious trouble, even in winter. If someone told me he clipped the grass with nail-clippers, I'd believe them, he was obsessed with this little strip of grass. He had a supernatural sense of impending tresspass and even when you thought you were safe to retrieve your soccer ball during break, he'd lean out of the staff-room window and bellow at you to get off his fucking square. Detention would follow to ensure you didn't forget the square was Out of Bounds. It was seeded (yeah, exactly what you think I mean, I reckon) and fed, loved and cherished by Mr S. Sometimes he'd even let us play cricket on it, but not the clod-choppers like me, only the best cricketers in the school, and only in non-studded shoes.

One day, as we went into school, a huge crowd had built up around the gates, it seemed that a heinous crime had been committed, a vile personal assault upon Mr S.
Yes, some cunt had climbed the fence in the night and comprehensively chopped the cricket square into pieces. Not only that, some kind of chemical had bleached the yellow outline of a huge spunking cock and balls onto what was left of the grass. Mr S was there, 9am, on his knees in the middle of it all, rocking back and forwards and crying "why?".
No-one dared laugh or shout,this was deadly serious, and there was no way any teachers were going out there to tell him to get a grip. Instead we were herded in through side doors to our classes.
Mr S, meanwhile, once he had composed himself and finished briefing CID, MI5, SAS and the Upper 6th Prefects about the crime, was on the case. He had one suspect in his sights - Baldy.

I recall a lesson where Mr S came in, sent the junior member of staff out and spent the whole period quizzing us on who we thought might be responsible, whilst never making eye contact with Baldy. He cajoled and coaxed us, promising retribution and reward if we just told him who did it. Just one name, that's all he needed. Pieces of paper were handed out for us to write the name down. (Mickey Mouse, Mrs S, the Headmaster, Hugh Janus and Adolf Hitler all were named, but I believe instantly discounted. Maybe Mrs S was quizzed again.)

No other forms were targetted thus, just Baldy's. Of course we didn't tell because we didn't know, no-one knew, even Baldy: we'd asked him. Obviously, Baldy being that kind of chap, if he'd done it, he'd have been boasting about it.

After weeks of spot-checks to see whether any of us had heard whispers or decided to turn the cuplrit in, Mr S ratcheted up the pressure. Baldy spent a whole double period sitting alone opposite Mr S who repeatedly just said one word "Why?"
Still Baldy denied any knowledge, and after other staff intervened about their pupils being frogmarched out of lessons for interrogation, about this blatant victimisation of poor Baldy who was obviously innocent, Mr S grudgingly accepted that someone else was responsible and a tense truce was drawn, the matter dropped. The culprit was never apprehended.







Many years later I met Baldy in the pub, by now a fully mature head-case. We drank and laughed about schoolmates, the old days, life in general. When it was time to leave, him to catch a train back to wherever he now lives, he shouted after me "Oh, by the way, I chopped up that fucking cricket square".
(Rsoles, Fri 20 Nov 2009, 12:08, 4 replies)

Brilliant!
However, there are 15 people in a Rugby Union team.

*click*
(ConanTroutman thought we would free the vulture, Fri 20 Nov 2009, 12:52, closed)

Ah fuck it
As you might have guessed, I was one of the kids who were picked to play rugger because we were bigger and rougher than the others, not due to our sportiness. Or knowing how many were supposed to be on our team!
(Rsoles, Fri 20 Nov 2009, 13:26, closed)

Revenge!
A click for the underdog!
(Woofie, Fri 20 Nov 2009, 19:58, closed)

Beautiful.
If only I had done that to our hockey field.

You also get a sympathy click for going to a grammar school. Foul places.
( Maladicta, Sat 21 Nov 2009, 0:09, closed)