The Word Cloud

Right…

Following on from Vin’s schooldays blog (http://www.thewordcloud.org/magazine/read/gameand39;s-uptrousers-down_1049.html#comments) here is my collection (none of which are a patch on Vin’s experience.) All true.

And, as per Vin, may explain a lot…

 

 

 

There were three things you were warned about when you joined my senior school; “The Rat Trap”, “Crucifixions” and “Burials”. We’ll take them one at a time.

“The Rat Trap.”

Walk with me, if you will down a long, wide corridor. To the right are doors to the toilets and to the left, against the windows and perpendicular to the corridor, are row upon row of metal frames, the lower part being bench seats and above each head a coat hook typical of sports changing rooms of yore. This is the main indoor thoroughfare.

The “trap” was to populate the seats, usually at lunchtime, with eight lads per side and two lads hidden in the toilet doorway. The victim strolled along (alone, possibly, but not necessarily) and when he reached the toilet door, the two lads pushed him into the gap between the benches. The outside lads tripped our victim up and, once on the ground, the rest of them “stuck the boot in”. Depending upon the year that you attended highly influenced the level of sadist and psychotic “Rats” you were subjected to. When I fell victim to this, oh most hilarious of horseplay, I found “foetal” was my favourite word throughout the short bruising time on the ground.

Interestingly, one of my mates was somewhat of a nut-job. Lovely lad; we had a great laugh even though he did tend to call me “Loppy” (due to a nose-twitching affectation I had at the time which he decided reminded me of his rabbit… Loppy… *cough*.) Anyway… he happily informed us one day that he couldn’t wait for his turn in “The Rat Trap”. I remember his evil grin as he hauled up and waggled his foot heavily. His foot had acquired a dirty, damaged and overly large boot. In truth, he sported a pair of dirty, damaged and overly large boots. An old pair of his fathers hob-nailed work boots he happily informed us. S’funny, it’s the first time I actually remember that I couldn’t wait for lunchtime, either. Sadly, due to some misunderstanding that I am certain was not my usually well behaved self’s fault *cough*I missed his danse macabre but others tell me it was a sight to behold with him going into a full mock “tap” routine in the crowded trap. Only for a couple of seconds, you understand; bullies, by their very nature, depart quickly when they gain bruises to toes, shins and ego’s.

Not so “interestingly”, the last time the trap was sprung elucidated blue’s and two’s and a never to be seen again victim. The coat-rack benches were dismantled and the corridor became a happy place. (Except for an abortive attempt at high-brow education in the form of fencing lessons; honestly, what right minded 14 year old boy wants to wear what looked to all the world like gold lame? Although, to be fair, I did look rather fetching. Beaten to a pulp, maybe, but fetching nonetheless.)

 

“Crucifixions”

Now let us stroll outside and down one of two sets of steps separated by a long wall, a wall against which we played headers and volleys; a wall, sadly, which held the dubious honour of being another favoured method of schoolboy torture.

Grabbing a victim, usually from the same group that played headers and volleys, “the lads” would push him against said wall whilst their colleagues (is that the right word?) rushed up the stairs to grab his arms and haul him up until his feet were off the ground; “the lads” at each hand pulled in opposite directions and, bar the nails, entered a new name into a very exclusive club. Two more lads hung onto his feet and then the “penalties” would begin. Each direct hit with the ball taken at short distance, high velocity and elucidated an “oooh” from the complicit crowd, especially the "sweet" spot took a direct hit. Although, to be fair to the mindless thugs they were if nothing else adaptive; if a football was not forth coming they would happily just run up and punch their victim in the stomach or genitalia. If sad (sic) victim was lucky he was released “soon” and spared one final act of humiliation; to have his trousers and shorts pulled down. I think I must have been, oh I don’t know, five days into my new school before my first (of a few) crucifixion. Thank god I'm hung like a donkey otherwise it would have been very humiliating... (Dammit! Where’s the emoticon for sarcasm when you need it?) 

To my knowledge these barbaric acts continue today – the wall will not have been demolished and the school lowered six feet accordingly and modern children are likely no better behaved than their parents.

 

“Burials”

I love snow, me. Well, most of the time. But there was a time when snow was not a friend.

Here we walk out from the playground and onto the playing field, a wide expanse of deep powder that any ski-freak would be proud of were it not for a lack of gravity powered movement on account of it being flat. Well… flat-ish. (Never play goalie to the road end; it’s slightly downhill and easier to be beaten by a roller-ball and then, more importantly, by your team mates.)

Anyway… this time “the lads” (I’m thinking the same group as the previous two entertaining diversions) snatched their victim off the perilous safety of the giant ice-slide previously known as “the playground” and marched him down to the fields. The long journey was always accompanied by soothing talk explaining that this was merely “a rite of passage”; “everyone had been buried in their time”. All they were going to do is lie him down, cover him with snow and walk away. It was that simple.

Duly covered, head to toe, with a foot and half of snow, the victim would then be pleased to hear the fading sound of laughter as the band duly, and as agreed, moved away. A wily victim, however, decides to wait that little bit extra, just to be sure. But this was, as you have probably guessed, subterfuge at the most base level.

Once he sat up and cleared the soft snow from his face the shout (which was heart-achingly nearby) went up and he was pelted with snowballs at point blank range. It appeared, humourlessly, that the wags were duping him all along; only a couple had wandered off talking and laughing loudly. The rest had remained armed and cocked waiting for him to sit up. Of course snowballs most people could, barely, cope with. Those snowballs, however, had pebble cores and were premade out of snow and ice. Each victim was pummelled long enough for the return of the “red-herring” half of the crew and to continue the “jape”. And whilst they were firing away, the others reloaded. I heard tales of a half hour pummelling when the poor kid didn’t even try to have it away on his toes (not that he would have got far, indubitably).

 

Well, there you have it (and I reiterate that in no way do I compare my experience with Vins’); three of my most endearing memories of “school”. And people wonder why I scraped four ‘O’ levels and an attitude. I rarely wonder why, I do wonder how though…

 

Love and hugs.

Ez

The other day I was telling some people about games lessons at school and at the end they all looked at me and one said, ‘Y’know, Vin, that was very dodgy.’  And for the first time in more than 30 years I thought, how come we never realised at the time?

I went to an all-boys grammar school in the mid-1970s.  It tried to model itself on a public school ethos but somehow it didn’t work on boys who had not already been primed in that mindset in prep school.  We were just 11+ successes from state primary schools, not the offspring of the wealthy middle and upper classes.  Nevertheless, it tried to pretend it was a public school in the state sector.

Every Wednesday afternoon was games.  The word ‘games’ implies a range of sporting activities but in fact there were only two at our school: cricket in the Summer and rugby in the Winter.  Certainly not football; we were, after all, a public school – well as good as at any rate.

All schools are run on rules – most of them sensible, but an awful lot incomprehensible.  One inviolable rule when playing rugby at our school was NO UNDERWEAR.  We were not allowed to wear anything under our shorts; no pants, no jock-straps, not even swimming trunks.

Why?

Apparently it was to save our mothers the trouble and the cost of washing muddy pants.  That was the rationale.  To ensure this rule was being followed the teacher would line us up before a game and randomly pull down a boy’s shorts.  Of course, if a boy was following the school rule he would be naked underneath.  If, however, he took a gamble that he would not be picked out of the line-up and wore some pants he risked exposure.  He would be ordered to take his pants off right there and then AND be given a detention for his trouble.

In all the years I was at the school I was never once selected for a kit inspection.   Certainly on some cold days I took a risk and wore pants but I never got found out.

NOW I can see that was very dodgy.  Yet we never questioned it at the time and we all took the rule at face value.  We didn’t even twig that the nickname we had given the teacher should have caused suspicions of his motives.

Bearing in mind we were teenage boys at an all-boys school in the 1970s; no one had ever heard of the phrase ‘politicial correctness’.  And few of us knew the meaning of ‘homophobia’ even though, I’m sad to say, we were enthusiastic practitioners at the time.  So it’s even stranger that we never thought it odd that a teacher, whose behaviour in all other respects influenced our choice of nickname, should pull our shorts down every games lesson. 

A teacher we all called Bummer.

 

 

Just to add insult to injury, I spent fifteen minutes typing this blog and then firefox crashed. Arrrrrrrrrrgh!!!!!

I have been having problems for some time, and it has gradually become worse. Programmes not opening and/or not responding. Typed words appearing fifteen minutes after I typed them, and slow ... paint drying is faster. I had a hot line to my support service, who I think had visions of moving premises to avoid me. I tried every solution and cure they suggested, nothing worked, in fact it just got worse.

Eventually, some bright spark suggested I run a full recovery, which took the computer back to manufacturer's state as if it  had just come out of the box. After running the recovery, windows informed me there were 87 updates. Every time I thought I had reached the end, it found another 20. Five hours later (yes, you read that correctly) five long hours later, the updates finished. I then downloaded my security and started the long process of downloading all my software and programmes and creating short cuts etc. I realised that I had lost my 'word' word processor and had originally installed it from a borrowed disc. I couldn't keep borrowing my brother's work colleague's disc, so had to buy one. Of course, you can't buy just the word processor. You have to buy the whole damn office suite. Story of my life. After a couple of days, eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeek, the problems were back.

I drove my support service mad. I'm sure they knew it was me and all avoided answering the phone. Eventually, some bright spark identified the problem. My security was using the whole cpu, leaving me nothing to use for other functions. Today I rang the security company (AVG if any one is interested). I spent five and a half hours watching the screen as they used remote fix and tried to solve the problem. After the five and a half  hours, they conceded defeat and have passed it to second level support. Now I have to wait and see  if they can come up with a fix. Currently, I have the task manager open, and I am having to keep an eye on the CPU and ending processes that are using it all up. Tonight the cloud has thrown me out twice. I don't know whether to blame the cloud or the computer. As you can imagine, this hasn't done a great deal for my ME.

So now we come to the purpose of this blog. I ask you all to please include me in your prayers and for those that believe in miracles, wish for one for me.

This is just something I wrote after I weird day at with some friends of mine when we were all tired and taking it out on each other. It's only the second poem I've written that I didn't hate. So let me know what you think. :)

The War

 

How goes the war tonight?

Couples locked in dancing fight,

All’s clear on the western line.

Our precious moments lost in time.

 

A steady beat above the screams,

Some stand alone or move in teams.

Through dark cut flares of flashing light.

Sweat, blood and tears coat the night.

 

How goes the war tonight?

With lurking spies out of sight,

All’s clear on the western line,

In the centre heroes shine.

 

Hearts pounding fast with fear,

Wait as our enemies appear.

Constant battles to win the prize,

One mistake could end our lives.

 

How goes the war tonight?

Holding courage with all our might,

All’s clear on the western line,

But behind our backs the wolves will dine.

 

Our fiercest battles are fought with eyes,

Our words decide who lives and dies.

Love and friendship cause us pain,

When they ship us off to war again.

 

How goes the war tonight?

Skirmishes of jibe and slight,

All’s clear in the western skies,

But within our ranks the true war lies.

Why am I drawn to the flame of your eyes
When I know you can burn me with one glance?
Why do I come to your sweet siren call
When I know that I don't stand a chance?
I'm a fool.
I know it.
Treat me cruel
Coz I deserve it.
Bleed me dry
and leave me shaking
Coz, I know that I am nothing without you.

You came to me when I was abandoned
Or did I dream the love we shared?
Did you take me to your stairway?
Baby, was that Heaven really there?
I'm a fool.
Don't you think I know it?
You treat me cruel
But, babe I need it.
Milk me dry
and leave me blind
Coz, baby you're the state of my mind.

She was Asian, fine-featured and stunning.  I didn’t have the exclusive contract on being attracted to her – every guy on the course did, too.  She had long black hair and she wore lots of bangles and necklaces which made a soft chink-chink sound when she walked.

We were on the same course at Preston Poly in 1988.  Well, not quite the same course; she was on the Newspaper Journalism course and I was studying Radio and TV Journalism.  We were on different courses – I was on the second floor and she was on the floor below.  But I used to see her around.  She was way out of my league so the best I could hope for was to at least look cool and likeable when she saw me. 

So I settled on the strategy of worship-from-afar; that way, if we never got together at least she was indifferent to be which was far better than actually disliking me.  And that left the tiniest sliver of hope that maybe, just maybe, she would approach me.  Fat chance.

There were factors in my favour:  we were roughly the same age, we were both trainee journalists and we were both the same species.  In fact that last one was the ONLY thing which we really shared.

 

The School of Journalism occupied three floors: the ground floor was the reception area, the first floor was newspaper journalism and the second floor was radio and television.  The upper floors each had a ladies’ and a gents’ toilets but the ground floor had just one unisex loo.  It was a small cubicle comprising a sit-down toilet, a wash basin and paper towel dispenser. 

One morning I needed to ‘powder my nose’ and nipped into the unisex toilet.  I closed and locked the door behind me and it was only then that I was hit by the foul stench.  The toilet was a disgusting mess of un-flushed shit and pulpy paper towels.  Now when you sit on a loo your buttocks should form a seal on the seat.  So how did someone manage to get faeces OUTSIDE the bowl?  The only way could have been if they stood against the basin and tried to projectile shit into the toilet.  There was crap everywhere and the smell made me gag.

I took all this in in a split second and made my escape.  I unlocked the door and stepped outside.  Just as the beautiful Asian girl was arriving to use the loo.

I froze.

I SHOULD have said, ‘I wouldn’t go in there.’  That’s what I SHOULD have said.  I might even have told her the loo was unusable.  But I suddenly realised she might think I was responsible for the disgusting mess.  She would have seen me unlock the door and step outside.  There was no sign of her when I went in, so even though I had only been in there a few seconds, to her it looked like I had just used the facility.

What could I say?  ‘I didn’t do it’?  That’s just what I would have said I HAD done it.  Even if I had simply advised her not to go in she might have drawn the conclusion that I was responsible. 

She smiled and stepped past me into the toilet and I fled the scene of the crime I didn’t commit.  I didn’t hang around for her to come out, as she must have done a few seconds later.

From then on my shame was as complete as if I had fouled the unisex loo.  I felt as guilty as the real culprit.  It was as if the cops had burst in and found me standing over the dead body holding the smoking gun which I had picked up a few seconds earlier.

I desperately wanted to say, ‘Remember that time outside the toilet?  I swear it wasn’t me.’  Instead I carried my undeserved shame in silence.  I could imagine her telling other people what a disgusting animal I was and how I lacked even the basic concept of hygiene, spreading my ill-repute like a drifting stench.

It’s actually quite easy to get people to be indifferent to you; you simply exist in their presence, you don’t do anything to cause a blip on their radar and everything is just fine.  I hadn’t even managed that.

 Every time I saw her after that I cast my eyes down in embarrassment and felt my face flush – which is more than that damned toilet had done. 

 

1.  Paradox

Beauty understood because it’s absent
like god, democracy or maybe joy
Half grasped in an existential insight -
fleeting, elusive. Hunger for the not.
So confounds me when it, clothed in present
tenses, conspires - eliminates destroys
the fledgling yearning birthed in half light
the lingering cadence of the song forgot.
Your voice should not be whispering, for its sound
might disappoint the longing in my ear
Your eyes should not be smiling, for around
my need, my hunger, you might disappear.
When you were gone I loved you dearly
As you approach I cannot see you clearly.




2.  From Rachael for Brenda

My monument for you is wet tears. I
mark the place in me; feel the space in me
demand that time will not erase from me
the fragments of our hurried last goodbye.
Never again will I be gathered up
in you; enfolded, sleeping, in your bed.
Now somehow circumstance has put a stop
to you I grasp at sentences unsaid.
My eulogy for you was raw pain. I
learned lines for you, committed crimes for you
desperately acted out my time for you
in search for love’s approval in your eyes.
   My gift for you is this child. He healed me.
   I will recapture all you left for me.

The Daily Mail is home to one Jan Moir, who seems to be some sort of uneducated fucktard bitch of the redneck world in american, who felt Gately's death wasn't a already proven natural death, but a death that had something to do with his sexuality and civil union--only a hugely thick fucking bitch would ever consider that suitable to be typed up, printed in the pages of some Tabloid and finally claiming everyone is conspiring against her about it....but wait, it did happen and now JAn Moir is trying to defend herself from everyone in the free thinking world of her ability to be completely certain that she's right about the connection between civil unions and the recent death of Matt Lucas's ex and Gately as proving gay people shouldn't marry.

I don't want to quote anything from her article, as it seems befitting people should read it in full rather then assume anything from snippets of information--wait, did I say information, I meant retard news that only the BNP would ever read and then quote on a poster to prove how right they are about everything.

So to everyone, post a comment in support of Jan Moir  to be placed in a casket (David Blain style) and left for a number of weeks to be poked with sticks of pointy-ness.

Before you can vent your anger at her, please give the time to read the article and know the full extent of her uneducated opinion on matters she seems to view from behind a lense of stupidity:
 //www.dailymail.co.uk/femail/article-1220756/A-strange-lonely-troubling-death--.html

Also view this guy's video on his reaction to the article: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yFo1Oh1zLKQ&feature=related

Also make it another point to read Charlie Brooker's brilliently written article of his disgust towards the Daily Mail, Jan "The Talking Pile of Shit" Moir and the article in question: He's should lead us.

The Ringy-a-Bill Man rattled down our street once a week, pushing his handcart piled high with the junk of local households.  I called him the Ringy-a-Bill Man because that’s what his cry sounded like; ‘Ringy-a-bill!  Ringy-a-bill!’ 

He was an old man – well, everyone seems old when you are young but he looked really old.  A horseshoe of silver hair clung to the back of his head, like a slipped halo.  A full beard wrapped around his face, silver like his hair but yellowed at the moustache wear the nicotine of his ever-present roll-up stained the hair.

He must have been toothless because his lips were sucked in as if he’d just sucked on a lemon.   But his dental emptiness didn’t effect his call.  His legs were so bowed he would never catch an escaped pig.

The Ringy-a-Bill came every Thursday and people would come out their houses and give him things: pots, pans, battered old washboards, lengths of pipe – all manner of metal objects.  All would go on to the handcart which itself looked rescued; the green paint was flaking and the wheels were misaligned, creating a precarious wobble which rattled the scrap on board.

Rattle-clatter-Ringy-a-Bill!

It was years before I figured out what he was saying.  Years of repeating the same cry, combined with an absence of teeth had distorted ‘Rag and bone!’  But he never collected any rags or bones, only scrap metal.  The nature of his trade had changed, over the years, but his call remained the same – a cry past its time.

The other regular caller to the street was the mobile grocer.  He drove a bright yellow 3-tonner and when he opened the roller door at the back a stampede of vegetable smells rushed out.  There was the sweetness of apples, the mustiness of greens and the earthiness of the soil still clinging to the potatoes.  The inside of the lorry was shelved from floor to ceiling and I was always amazed at how much he could cram in there without compromising the sense of space.

Mum used to send me out with an order for potatoes which he weighed on scales before tipping into a brown paper bag.  I was always given money to treat myself to some sweets ‘for going’.  The sweet section was filled with jars of Black Jacks, Penny Chews and toffees.  Caramacs, Sherbet Dips, Pink Panther bars, the most teeth-rotting drinks of Cresta and Corona – all the sickliest confectionary in the known world in one 3-ton truck.

The loose change weighed heavy in my little hands; dirty brown pennies, the size of a £2 coin, with a picture of a young queen on one side and Boudicia on the other.  Chunky half-crowns and tiny sixpences, multi-cornered threepenny bits and shillings as big as the modern ten pence piece.  If you fell in the canal with ten bob of loose change in your pocket you would drown.  And the coins all left a sharp coppery tang on the hands.

The arithmetic of pounds, shillings and pence seemed to defy logic; 240 pence to the pound, a half-crown was worth twelve and a half pence, a coin worth three pence and five pence was called a Bob.  Decimalisation, when it came in 1971, made life so much easier; 100 pence to the pound made much more sense, even though some die-hards accused Harold Wilson of stealing 140 pence from everyone in Britain.  Some unscrupulous shopkeepers did use the conversion to sneakily increase their prices.

You could also get beer delivered to your door like milk.  My dad used to get two crates every week – one of bitter and one of Guinness. Poured together they made a Black and Tan, his favoured pint.  In fact when I first went into a pub (under-aged) and was asked what I wanted, I asked for a Black and Tan.  It was the first thing that came into my head but it had the effect of making me seem an experienced drinker.

The creaminess of the Guinness was given a sharp kick by the bitter.  It wasn’t fizzy, which was a disappointment to a palate trained on Coke.  I didn’t really like it, but it wasn’t undrinkable, although I enjoyed the attention of being asked what it was. 

The beer was delivered by a company called Davenports and its song still sits in my head; ‘Beer at home means Davenports/That’s the beer/Lot’s of cheer......’  Every night Dad would enjoy a pint of Black and Tan and the crates of bitter and Guinness would see him through the week.

Another man who used to come to the house was the insurance collector.  Before Direct Debits and Standing Orders many people paid their dues in cash.  The insurance man carried a leather satchel of cash over his shoulder and a ledger book.  All our weekly bills were set aside, each in their own brown envelope for payment to the relevant collector.

If my parents were out they would leave the money under the doormat or just hanging from the letter box.  Life seemed to run effortlessly.  An old saucepan left on the pavement would be picked up by the Ringy-a-Bill Man, the grocer came to your street, collectors would knock on your door and beer would appear on your doorstep.  And all paid for with chunky, dirty, smelly coins with an arithmetic all of their own big green pound notes stuffed into brown envelopes. 

 

Quite a few of you endured a read of my silly little Who-dunnit, "All the Usual Suspects", yesterday and most of you probably thought, Not the best of prose - the old guy must be slipping.

Well, all was not quite what it seemed. True, the text contains all the suspects, but how many did you spot? Maybe not that many, I'm thinking. For hidden within the text are the names of 38 of the more prolific writers here on WordCloud - the real suspects!

You can find their names spelt out eitehr within another word or, more often accross two or more words, ignoring any punctuation. As an example the first hidden name appears towards the end of the opening dialogue:

“Oh well. Come on then, John, there’s plenty of room for Gwen, too. That’s better. Now, are you sitting comfortably, Gwen? John?

“Once upon a time, in a little village far up in the Scottish hills…”

where we have John Onceupon's name clearly revealed. Others may not be so easy to spot. Most are the full names, but a few are commonly used abreviations. Just so you don't waste your time, the last name is hidden in paragraph 57; there are no more after that.

YOUR CHALLENGE, SHOULD YOU CHOOSE TO ACCEPT IT, IS TO SEE HOW MANY OF THE 38 NAMES YOU CAN FIND BY MONDAY.

Whoever spots the most, wins the PRIZE of a customised Limerick written just for you! In the event of a tie, the person who messaged me first will be declared the winner. If you're newer to the Cloud,  you might want to look in the Members section to remind yourself of some of the names.

Using the private messages, so no-one else benefits from your efforts, send me the names you spot together with the paragraph they are in (I've numbered all the paragraphs and added the second half to the end of the first half so it's all together, for convenience). When you've had a go, I'll post the answers and the winner.

Just something to while away the odd five minutes over coffee, between editting sessions.

You'll find "Allthe Usual Suspects" here:

http://www.thewordcloud.org/forum/topic/1569/page/1#13281

Good luck, everyone! Tony.