Last heard the lovely ladies 3, we had said our goodbyes on the finale of the school play and we parted our ways. At this point I felt a strong connection to Big Girl, Lady Jayne and Ringer. They seemed like fun, good girls however fate would not bring us together properly for another 2 years… In the middle of those two years were probably the hardest of my scholastic career. Billy had just screamed out of the closet, bless him. However that is another tale…. (remember how chronology was not my thing…. pissing you off yet?)

We had entered our 6th year in secondary school. Up until that point it was a single sex environment only ever mixing in school productions or a tiny crack in the shutters at lunch. All other mixing was prohibited. Even the crack in the lunch wall was frowned upon. We had this one corridor where the two schools linked and we would talk to the girls during break. This is where the majority of the pubescent mating rituals would commence. Some teachers viewed this as a cardinal sin and I do believe their view was that some girl would end up impregnated in a 5 minute conversation in the hallway. That is of course my understanding of how it works.

Lower 6th as it was called (we had a lower and upper, why it wasn’t 6 and 7 is beyond me) this year changed all the rules. The sexes were mixed. I think this is rather ironic seeing as this is the point they choose to mix the two sexes. Hormones have reached a crescendo, females and males are introduced…. sound logic here. Of course for me that wasn’t an issue. I went to my first class that was English. I sat down beside Billy and two girls. The first girl was ‘Lexxy’. She was a gorgeous brunette, quite tall and oozed self confidence. She seemed very sure of herself and knew what was going on. The other was ‘Nadia’. Nadia was tanned, beautiful teeth and probably one of the prettiest girls in our year. Pretty but quite withdrawn. We talked to the two girls and instantly I found Lexxy a hoot. She was the chattier of the two and I knew straight away I loved her sense of humour. She had a sardonic sensibility that really appealed to me. I could tell as well that she was giving away the full story and this onion had layers. I remember thinking at the time that I would love to be there friend. I had a difficult two years myself and Billy and really wanted the next two to be great…. I would get my wish.

Over the next few days Lexxy dropped out of English, actually this was the only lesson she took, it obviously wasn’t for her. It didn’t help that the English teacher was a complete bitch. I’m not even talking slightly bitchy- the women was the word personified. One of the pupils walked in and instantly she looked at him with a steely gaze and said; “IM NOT TEACHING YOU. GO TO THE PRINCIPALS OFFICE!!”. To this day I have no idea why she refused to teach him. This demonstrates the women’s professionalism. She would also sit with her mobile out and text her ‘boyfriend’ at the time and giggle away to herself while shushing the class if we as much as moved our chairs into a better position. How this ‘English’ teacher taught Shakespeare was enlightening – “read it!”. She was clearly in a job she lacked any sort of passion for and was coasting from pay check to pay check. She had about as much interest as teaching as I do for becoming a professional footballer. Needless to say Lexxy had seen enough and decided to take a more structured class. She was more a science girl anyway so it worked out for the best. Nadia would remain with us, constantly complaining about the teacher and how much of a ‘cow’ she was. That was what out English lessons were like… good times. Thankfully for me I actually enjoyed Shakespeare otherwise my A levels would have been a joy with the amount of ‘learning’ I received.

The best thing about 6th year was the 6th form centre. It was an upstairs area exclusively for A level students. Fully kitted out with a quiet room, a large social area (which would only remain so for 1 year due to our shenanigans) and a café… yes a fully functioning café. No canteen crap for us! Many a day we would raid this little café of all its wears…. although I think It will have its own blog as their are too many stories to share from it. From the Alcoholic manager that worked there, to the students operating the till…. yes that’s rights… but more on that soon. The 6th form centre felt like an exclusive gentleman’s club or a V.I.P section in a nightclub. We felt like celebrities… in our own heads we were! I remember walking in with Lexxy and Nadia, we sat down in a little group of seating and they said; “these are our friends”. Low and behold it was the 3 thespians I had grew so fond of 2 years prior. What were the chances. I smiled, eat my pasta and we all chatted. I felt home.

More tomorrow. Lots more.

Skepts since I got in from work, can’t keep my eyes open. Night night everyone xxxx

(edit) – ok ive just realised how sleepy I was and skipped ten days lol, its actually day 34 🙂

So I have been writing on here for over a month now, only 11 more to go ahhhh. The truth is I started this really not knowing what I was doing, why I was doing it and would I even have enough of a voice to express the things I wanted to. The beautiful thing about this process is that it happens in the moment so everything is never pre-planned. I think that would take the spirit away from the words. Some people have asked me do I have a loose structure I follow and points to cover, the simple answer is no. I have things I know I want to talk about and stories I want to share however that is it.

Every morning or evening I sit down in front of my lap top and everything is in the moment. That’s what I love about it as it is raw and real. My little brain goes into overdrive as soon as the digits hit the keyboard. I swear she is possessing me and enabling this weird ability to go into auto pilot…. ok that’s kind of scary actually, lets scrap that notion! I feel today is a bit of a milestone as I look back and reflect on the previous month. Things to reflect on that I have learned about myself;

• I love sharing these stories as I feel I am reliving them.
• I should never drink wine and write the blog at the same time, at least not after a whole bottle.
• I love the fact I feel I am sharing this experience with many people and in a way it makes it all that much easier.
• I am an ugly crier (FACT).
• Wine + Crying = a Pablo Picasso ( and not his early scenery paintings!).
• Their is no hard and fast rule to this whole grieving business.
• nature is awesome.
• people are awesome.
• writing is cathartic (I’d highly recommend it!).
• you can be very lonely in a crowd (very cliché teen movie however still relevant)
• The bottom of a Pinot Grigio does not make you feel better, and even worse the next day.
• you still get the sad eyes sometimes when you walk into a room, I must be wearing a metaphorical shroud. Actually I think I could pull off a shroud, very Madonna circa Like a Prayer.
• The world moves on even if you don’t want it too.
• Anger is healthy but shouldn’t be all consuming.
• Everyday is different.
• loosing to your best friend at Mario Kart sucks, even if it was only the once it burns!
•  Putting on Celine Dion when feeling emotional + Drunk = Suez Canal

So in a month have I learned anything…. Probably not. Though was that the initial purpose? Not particularly. I just need to keep up the steam for the next 11 months and perhaps I will learn something. Maybe I will have a really profound lifechanging epiphany in the third Act. All the best stuff usually happens in the third Act.

So to everyone out there, I hope the past month has been as fun to read as it has been to write. Until tomorrow Grievers …. XO

I’m home from work, love island is on the tv waiting to start (yes I’m one of the many who enjoy trash tv). It was something we both shared (trash tv not love island). I tried to convert mummy last year but it was too far gone for her to fully appreciate its rich artistry. We did however share a love over the years of such other tv milestones like big brother and the real housewives franchise. I was watching the Wright Stuff a few mornings ago. For those who  haven’t seen it, its a semi political show that talks about the days headlines, any moral panics that have permeated society that week and pop culture. This episode featured a defaming commentary from pseudo intellectuals lauding about their vast superiority over those who watch this kind of television, specifically love island. One such commentator was appalled that people would watch such ‘drivel’ as he called it over great dramas like ‘Victoria’ or ‘The Crown’.

The problem with this narrow assessment is that it is just that, narrow. Are we to be pigeonholed into categories as intellectual properties that deserve our time and priority over the ‘drivel’ of reality shows. Why cant we taste from the buffet of life and try all its dishes. I am not here to advocate or elevate the stature of such shows, in fact in part I agreed with the commentary. however as a complex human being I am entitled to use television for the purpose intended, escapism. That surely is the purpose of all media. This debate has raged over the 20th/21st century. When television was first introduced many would view it as a subpar form of story telling whereas a novel was snobbishly more acceptable. The humble comic book was deemed as a story book before the term graphic novel was applied and people started to take it as a serious art form. Again just to reiterate I am not advocating that love island is the new art form, I am simply suggesting that all forms of entertainment go through the scrutiny of the elitist intellectuals of their age. Walt Disney was seen in his early days as pandering a childish medium, fast forward to the modern era where Frozen has went on the win and be nominated for multiple Oscars, the highest accolade of that industry. Even my humble love island has won a few BAFTA’s!

Myself and Mummy loved to watch all sorts of shows together, usually our favourite Sunday pastime was watching the latest episode of Agatha Christies Poirot, a fantastic who dunnit series which would gripe us into a guessing game until it revealed we were both wrong. We would also spend hours on the phone talking about which housewife of New York we loved, and which we Loathed (Jill Zarin for the win!). It was all relatively harmless fun, and we would enjoy every second of it. We would also spend hours talking about the semi biographical drama Victoria. One thing my mother loved above everything was a good period drama, as does her baby boy. We could spend hours talking about either, and did. The intellectual elitist would not put us into a convenient box. We could have an hour long discussion about history, art and popular culture, should the notion take us. It must be very satisfying to take a high brow approach to life and spend every waking moment discussing topics of intellectual merit. It is also depriving our lives as I’ve said before, of the rich tapestry. I could not spend my whole life eating Chinese food. I love it, but I would never deprive myself of the other amazing foods on offer either.

This particular blog topic was actually something myself and the Lioness would discuss on a regular basis. Anyone that knows her will be aware of her insatiable love for big brother, from the Davina Mcall days, to Brian Dowling, right through to the current Emma Willis generation. She was gutted when live steaming was no longer a thing. She could spend hours of her Summer days watching a group of people effectively…. doing naff all! Her favourite was meal times as she would put it, “usually something happens during meal times”. I don’t think anything particularly earth shattering did happen however to her it was worth it. She would chat to me about who was bitching about who, who was a game player and who was downright devious…. Also who her winner was after 3 weeks, as of course the first three weeks she was, “Getting to know them all”. When I moved to England she would start the  conversation in a very familiar way, the general routine followed the same pattern however Big Brother would add an additional variable;

• How was your day, anything exciting happen?
• How’s the weather with you?
• What do you think about what’s happening in Big Brother?

This third point was the one she was most eager to talk about however she was programmed to comply with the first two points. Like Windows 10 she was hardwired to a firm set of start-up protocols. When I started to wain from Big Brother I could tell she would get disappointed in her tone. She loved to chat about it and had no comrade to share her journey with. That is why after 2 years hiatus I myself started to watch again, If only to hear my mothers voice light up in sheer joy. I willingly made this sacrifice of one hour an evening so mummy could vent her Big Brother frustrations with me. After all she was always my ear when it was needed to bend.

So to all the intellectual elitists out there, have your opinion that is fine, but I have an opposing one. On the surface of these seemingly idiotic shows lurks a real connection a mother had with her son, that not only bonded them further but also gave them great joy together. That is exactly what entertainment should be. When all else fails, like Mummy would say, lets not all take it that seriously.

She didn’t.

On a beautiful day like today what is the best thing to clear a cluttered head. A little walk into the woods. I decided to take myself on a little trek and get in tune with nature. Well as in tune as I can get really, I had my earphones in belting out some Celine Dion which made the walk even more epic, why wouldn’t it? The reason for the French Canadian diva? Well for some reason it always reminds me of mummy. I have been filling my days with work and with social occasions galore. It was time to really sit back, assess my feelings and actually sit still, alone and not distracted.

As I was walking the familiar grip took my chest. It is hard to explain but anyone who has experienced grief may attest to this, it is a gripping sensation in your chest. I googled it a few weeks ago and is perfectly normal. Its like something is lying their, foreign and unwelcome. I have come accustomed to my little stowaway showing up from time to time. It doesn’t happen a lot but sometimes it just tugs, literally at the heart. As I got closer and closer to the woods in question I started to feel the tug sensation pass. I looked up as the power of love was belting. I seen the canopy of the treetops and I felt still, I felt at peace. As I walked around I seen lots of families taking their children around Worsley woods. It was so peaceful. It is big enough that everyone isn’t stepping over each other. The nearest human is within a 5 minute walk so the feeling of isolation felt rather comforting.

Nature has that affect. As we can often feel lonely and isolated in our homes, especially at night, nature has the opposite effect. We often grave this sense of freedom. Almost like another person would be intruding in our private world. The sun beat down over the trees and the gripping sensation had completely dissipated. I felt free. It was like all my emotions had subsided, even just temporarily in this oasis within the city. As I walked around I would love to say I had reflection time and was feeling very philosophical. The truth in fact is that my mind was blank. For the first time in a long time my brain had quietened, the thoughts went into mute and I started to relax like I haven’t done in a long time.

I approached this beautiful area in the open with a little wooden bench. I sat their, on my own for 2 hours. Normally these situations require armour like a book or a phone call however this time was different. I was happy to soak up the solitude and just pause. Those two hours passed away in a heartbeat. A beautiful breeze broke up the high temperatures every few minutes. I looked around on this gorgeous summer day and felt oddly that she was with me. Their were no tangible signs, no apparitions bearing prophetic statements. It was just a feeling. A very comforting feeling.

When I arrived home a few hours later I realised that its ok to be alone. I need to stop filling my life with distractions. Don’t get me wrong I wont be pausing my life completely but every now and then I will take time by myself and just feel what I’m feeling. Modern life can take over sometimes with the hustle and bustle intertwined with responsibilities and obligations. I know now that every now and again I will take time for myself. Take time to just breath.

🙂

One day after work once I got home I was greeted by a curious red piece of card. We have all seen them it was a Royal Mail cared to notify you something was attempted to be delivered. I searched threw my brains to try and figure out what this mystery parcel could be. Was I expecting anything? Had I drank too many glasses of wine one night and decided to order a Subaru? It was too late to go to the post office as it was already shut so my curiosity would have to subside until the following day. That night though as I lay in bed I couldn’t get it out of my head, it was really bothering me. I eventually got to sleep (after 5 minutes as I can sleep like no ones business).

I was on an early shift in work so would have to wait until after my shift. It was on my mind the whole time. Every task it was at the back of my mind. What curious little Pandora’s box was awaiting me at five o’clock at Eccles post office? That day seemed to pass much slower than usual. The ticking clock felt like thunder as the minutes passed like hours. Eventually the hour hand complied and it was time to leave and discover what was waiting for me. As I approached the man at the window he looked up at me, grunted and took my little red piece of card. I felt like when Charlie got the golden ticket. “Run home Michael, As fast as you can!”. Unfortunately I was not greeted by Gene Wilder but a very gruff gentleman who smoked 40 a day and perhaps had a solvent abuse problem judging by his bloodshot eyes. Eventually after searching for 10 minutes the gruff gentleman handed over my parcel.

Like Charlie I ripped open my metaphorical chocolate bar to reveal the treasure inside. It was all my favourite sweets. Their were Haribo’s, Astro belts, even the cola laces which I absolutely adored. As I looked down at the cutely wrapped parcel I noticed a little key ring doll. It was a panda. I knew instantly who they were from, Mummy.

I ranger her up as soon as I wrapped it all back up again. I asked her why she sent it.

“Cause you are my son and I love surprising you.”.

These little care packages would come once in a while, always at the most expected times. Sometimes they were sweets, sometimes a card if I was feeling blue. She always surprised me every single time. I can just picture her walking round the shops selecting her little gifts and smiling. She was one of the most generous people I ever knew. She loved to give. It brought her so much joy. Even though the value of these care packages was minimal. They felt like a lottery win every single time to me. She would always put something really random in them to make me smile.

We had lots of little traditions like that. I miss them all but the one thing I miss above all is her hugs. I would trade it all for that one last hug. I always felt so safe in those arms.

I cant remember when exactly the last one was, but I can remember how each and everyone of them felt.

They felt like love

Jock!!!! That one word sealed our fates. We knew it was coming. Michaels dulcet tones set an echo of which had never been heard before. I must of been channelling my inner Julie Andrews and thought I was dancing around the French Alps (apologies if that reference is incorrect, I find the sound of music dreadfully dull). We were marched outside the principals office and made wait until the annual trophy day extravaganza was over. We were such an inconvenience. We all had time to come up with our ‘story’. Safety in numbers, we all pretend we never said anything. Dreadfully naïve at the time however it seemed like a completely reasonable plan. Unfortunately we had one chink in the armour. A little boy called Aaron. This isn’t even a pseudonym, he actually was called Aaron. He was like a little albino rat with a  piercing nose for trouble. He pipes up;

“I’m telling the truth that it was Michael, I’m not getting into trouble for this!”.

Granted I was the loudest however I was not on my own shouting the name, I unfortunately was blessed with the lungs of an Alto Tenor. Hardly my own fault? My fate was sealed. I was the captain of this ship, well appointed by my peers captain, and I was definitely going down with it. If only I had Celine Dion in the background to at least make it a little bit more glamorous. Alas I didn’t. So we were all lined up in the principals rather spacious suite. He walked up and down us shaking his head like a disappointed brigadier officer. His troops had let him down. He then proceeded to give a longwinded speech about honesty and how it would come out eventually. He then asked the question; “who shouted that name?”.

“It was me Sir”.

I can still see the look of confusion in his face. “who are you covering for? I will find out!”. I was never an angel or model student however I wasn’t smoking at the bike shelter (not yet) and certainly was not harassing teachers. I was rather green at this stage. I reiterated my pervious confession with a lump in my throat, “Yes Sir it was me I wasn’t covering for anyone”. He excused the other boys and we had a one on one conversation. He asked me why I called the teacher Jock. I gave him a puzzled look and stated that he has always been jock as long as I can remember. He didn’t look convinced. I then started to say it was because he taught ‘Jock’raphy, that ever so clever portmanteau of Jock and Geography. I however at this age didn’t know a portmanteau from a portcullis. The next phrase stuck with me for years. He bellowed in shear frustration,

“You are either incredibly stupid or incredibly naïve, I cant decide which”. I hope it was the latter.

I was excused and sent home it was 3.20pm. He said he would be calling my mother this evening. My heart sank. I had never been in trouble before and I was really scared of disappointing mummy. That’s the thing about parents. We would rather they were angry, as soon as they say they are “disappointed”, it feels like a knife straight to the gut! No one wants to disappoint their mummy’s. As I got in the car I started to tell her the full story. I wanted her to hear it first from me, and what my perspective was. Also I wanted to cushion the blow so she wasn’t shocked on the phone. At first she seemed angry then she kind of looked at me and said “so you shouted his nickname…. am I missing the reason why this has turned into a huge drama?”.

She received the phone call. Apologised to the headmaster on my behalf who was befuddled as to my intentions. He again asked my mother where the jock nickname came from to which she said “well his brother used the same nickname so you might need to research your origins somewhere else”. Mummy wasn’t always the most confident however when the lioness mode took over she could go toe to toe with anyone. She told me I had to apologise in writing to the teacher and due to my clean ‘record’, that’s as far as it would go. I was rather relieved. It was the end of the school year, summer was  nearly here and I thought the whole nasty business was behind me.

I thought wrong.

2 months later………………..

The first day of school is always rather erratic, We receive our new schedules. Potentially meet new teachers and settle into the new year. I checked my new timetable to discover I had a new Geography teacher this year. Fate had conspired against me and it was none other than the infamous jock. Of course my little heart sank. Not of shame but of awkwardness. This was not going to be pleasurable. I walked into his classroom sheepish and sweating, sat down towards the back as I thought it would shield me from the potential awkwardness. No such luck.

“McCarney……. you will sit in the front!”. Great. The front was the exiled land of all the geeks. (sorry geeks I myself now self prescribe to my geekish tendencies and cast no judgment but in school social hierarchy the front of the class was social suicide). Also it was straight in front of jocks desk so he could “keep an eye on me”. Which he announced proudly to the whole class. Ok was I under the wrong impression? Before the summer had I slaughtered a lamb on his doorstep? Had I Missold him PPI? Lets be realistic. I shouted a nickname. Capital crime indeed. What I did was wrong however calling out a teenager in front of class is slightly odd behaviour.

Three weeks came and went and He called me after class. Great what was my offence now. Probably blinking too hard. He looked at me dead in the eye and said, “I have still not got that letter of apology from you”. He was correct and with the summer months It had escaped my notice. OK I would write him an apology letter. This would be no standard apology letter. I sat down with mummy who knew how he was treating me and we concocted the most sarcastic and intelligently wrote apology letter. It included phrases like “prepubescent pranks” and “teenage angst”, all very high brow for a 14 year old. The tone however was key. When reading it out loud at no point do I actually apologise for my act. I used the expression “I’m sorry this has had a deep and meaningful impact on your ability to teach me”. It was my favourite line and mummy roared. To sum up he was making my life a living hell in the classroom and this was my little form of payback. I shouldn’t of had to point out to an adult in the teaching profession that he was acting very immature. I will let you all decide where the fault lies on this one. Yes I shouldn’t of shouted the nickname. However the reaction was unfitting to the crime. It was like sending someone to prison for the rest of their life for spraying graffiti.

I handed in the letter and nothing was mentioned of it again. I was relieved that maybe we could move on from this and focus on the thing that seemed to be escaping him, my education. The letter sat on top of his desk for weeks. It was like a badge of honour for him. Sat their open for all to see. It stayed their like a stand off for weeks. I refused to acknowledge this. He wanted a reaction. He wouldn’t get it. One day the boy sitting next to me remarked, “Your letter is still there after 4 weeks. Does that annoy you”. In a moment of defiance I looked up at Jock who overheard the whole conversation and said “Not really, A little bit pathetic to be honest but it doesn’t bother me.”.

The next day the note was gone.

A few weeks later we were lined up outside his classroom as usual. I always kept dead silent, I would not give the slightest reason for my behaviour to be called into question. It had became a battle of wills. A battle I would not loose. My classmates were getting a little giddy and excited and the next thing someone screamed “Jock!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”. The bass tone could be heard round the corridor, a bass tone that did in no way match my alto. Myself and four other boys were called into a room. They were giggling and laughing. My eyes went dead pan. I knew what was coming. He questioned the other boys who said it was me and were excused. “You couldn’t help yourself could you. You did it again.”. I protested my genuine innocence. It was not satisfactory. He raised his voice to me and said, “Right we shall see what the Principal says”. The red mist descended and their was no going back.

“Perfect, lets go to the principals office and we can explain how you have accused a boy with no evidence based on hearsay. Furthermore we can have a chat about how you are interrogating an underage boy without the accompaniment of his parent. We shall see who is the wrong. Also Id like to comment how inappropriate your behaviour this whole year has been and would like to lodge a formal complaint into your conduct as a teaching professional”.

“Oooo well maybe I got the wrong end of the stick”.

Yes indeed you did, if that’s everything I have 5th period. I stormed out of his classroom shaking in anger and tearing up due to the adrenaline. I had never spoke to a teacher or even an adult with so much sass in my life. I felt vindicated. I felt justified. I felt I wanted to go home and tell mummy.

I never received another complaint from jock and myself and mummy would often have conversations about why is problem seemed so blown out of proportion. We would often discuss the elephant In the room.

Jock was a homosexual, albeit a closeted one. He presumed me shouting Jock was a form of gay slur. Ironic really. I only really discovered this with having conversations with Billy about the fact afterwards. Myself and mummy would have a giggle about it many years after. However their is also a glaringly obvious fact. This man was in charge of shaping young minds. He was allowed to express a personal vendetta on a child. We laugh about it now however that is incredibly serious and would we want our children exposed to this bitter old queen. Id love to say he was the only one on the faculty who was inappropriate. He wasn’t.

Mummy would have a run in or two with another gentleman. The lioness came into full force with this one. That however is another days tale.

So today has been majorly crap. My plan was to continue the marvellous adventures of jock however I literally am mentally exhausted. Everything reminded me of her today. I love the memories but today I constantly felt anger. Everything was getting my angry today. I know this is part of the natural process however in practice it is not so fun. I was getting my mop out of the cupboard and seen the Christmas decorations she bought for me. I burst into tears. I realised we had spend our last Christmas together. That made me angry.

Tomorrow is another day as they say so I’m going to put my feet up, turn on Netflix and watch something mind numbingly easy. Nighty night. More on Jock tomorrow

xx

isn’t it a wonder? the wonder being jock? Was it me? Did I do something wrong?

yes!

ok so let that settle. we were immature, we were people with ridiculous humour, we were people with immature behaviour…. ok then.

when we talk about immature behaviour we seem to deem ‘laddy’ type of behaviour. Why would one decide that when we see that type of behaviour……………….body………abs…..………..pecs…… sorry I got distracted!

I know many of you are wondering where the new blog is? and do you know what my answer is?

love you ………… but….

I have a simple to a simple request… is I wrong we are wrong to decide….. ok im a little drunk and need to decide,

ill let you all decide………….. however lets sing

DISNEY

side note – the real blog will continue tonight

What is in a name anyway? I was always brought up respecting my full title. I was ALWAYS ‘Michael’. I was never Mike, nor Mick and certainly not Micky. My mother has this instilled into my very being from a young age. I can recall in primary school a group of my friends called me by ‘the name that shall not be named’.. Micky. My Mummy took one look at those boys and bellowed at the top of her lungs;

“He was Christened Michael!”.

That’s the thing about a name, It can be so precious to some and not to another. By that I mean in way of a nickname. I was quite lucky in that I never received a vile nickname at school, well not to my face and that is really all that mattered to be honest. One of my teachers in school was not so lucky……

It was the annual tradition of school Olympics whereby the pantheon of Gowns and Motor boards descend upon the mere mortals to judge young althletisicsm. Or as it is most commonly known to mere mortals. Sports day. It was a day I dreaded every year, the only heats I would pass was the triple jump. Once that was done I would spend the rest of the day sat around. Lucky for me that particular day was incredibly sunny, so for a change it was a pleasure to sit outside. We would be required to watch the other boys perform amazing feats like throwing a metal ball in the air and see how far it would land. A bit precarious to teach a young lad how to throw a metal ball with the proper technique but who am I to argue with the national curriculum. It was the one day of the year that all academic activities were suspended to sit around (for the majority) and marvel at our classmates throwing spears, metal balls, themselves, into large sand pits. Back then I failed to see the merit in this, I still do truth be told. If our school had an amazing track record (I’m sure their is a pun in there somewhere) for training Olympians, however this was not the case. Also we had a 4 hours a week of court assigned sport activity so it wasn’t like this annual affair was of much benefit surely? Wait their was that dusty cabinet that needed filling with store bought trophies I assume….

As with many sporting activities a lot of the boys who were not the ‘chosen few’, blessed with genetic dispositions of athletics, would find themselves getting restless and bored….. very quickly. We did many childish activities like dares and such. One such dare was to shout out a teachers nickname, OK so it started with teachers first names as that seemed a rather bold place to start. It then quickly escalated to their First Year assigned monikers. Every teacher had one. They were rarely imaginative and even rarer could their origins be traced. I believe a right of passage in many schools was to pass on these monikers onto the next generation as a last rite. Once such teacher was named ‘Jock’. Many theories arose about such origins of this curious nickname. My favourite was that he taught ‘Jock-Raphy’ (see how clever that is), another was because he was a ‘jockstrap’. A curious thing to be really and at the time I had absolutely no idea what one was, after all I wasn’t the sportiest so why would I?

The dare was set… Everyone shout Jock. That will be funny wont it? Their is no way this could possibly backfire is their?

Side note- All my life I have been blessed with a superb gift. The gift of a voice that even in a whisper can be heard by the pantheon of gods. All of them! A voice that can be heard around the world in a single breath, I’m very lucky. It has never caused a single issue of detriment. Like Hell it hasn’t…

The stage was set, the dare in place. We all inhaled in a single breath, opened our lungs and screamed….. JOCK!

The acoustics were amazing. So amazing that every member of the gown and motor board brigade turned round instantly. It was like a display of flamingos all turning head in unison. Holy shit! Why did we not expect this to happen, why did we not think anyone would hear us in this open area….. Jock started to parade this way with another teacher, ‘Dinger’ as he was called Mr Bell (clever again right?). He gave us all a steely glaze, and bellowed his own dare…. OFFICE NOW!

To be continued….