The hard kids generally spent their break times loitering at the front of the school smoking. Behind them on the wall was the faded but still clearly legible words "Wilkinson is a woofter" in one foot high red letters. Wilkinson was the headmaster, a man totally devoid of the respect of the pupils and most of the staff. The occasion on when he was chased through the school by the hard kids and had to take refuge by locking himself in the office did not enhance his standing. Wilkinson was eventually removed from his post in my final year after deliberating mowing down one of the pupils in his car. His explanation was that on leaving the school the youth had made an obscene gesture at him and he finally snapped. Upon his 'early retirement', which took the form of disappearing overnight, he at least had the satisfaction of knowing that he broke both the youth's legs.
However such an atmosphere did have it's amusing moments. That is if you find the suffering of others amusing. In my schooldays it was very wise to find the sufferings of others funny and not try to object. I remember one objector being bound to the school gates with wire and having bricks thrown at him. The two stories I have been asked to relay involve Dunny and an unfortunate loser who's name I never knew.
Dunny was infamous for "having fits". These fits seem to be induced by a large number of youths encircling Dunny and pushing him violently around whilst shouting. Eventually this would result in Dunny having a fit and screaming. Looking back on it now I doubt Dunny was really epileptic. It was probably more likely that he had just been conditioned into freaking out as the only way to stop the torture.
The unknown loser's fate was to be the subject of the rumour that he had a colostomy bag. Again I have no idea whether this was true of just somebody's sick joke. Either way it resulted in the unfortunate youth being frequently attacked by gangs of youths armed with compasses. The only time I remember seeing him he was a yelping ball on the floor being repeatedly stabbed.
It made me what I am today - paranoid.
There was also the memorable occasion when we decided to sleep out in Astley park. After a session at Harry's. At approx 3am everyone decided it was far too cold and uncomfortable a proposition and fucked off home. I spent the remainder of the night on a park bench before being disturbed by a golden labrador at about 4.30am.
At about 8am, suffering from sleep depravation and a hangover, I staggered around the park wrapped in a tartan car rug. Pretty soon I realised I had no idea which exit I should take out of the park. I eventually approached a man accompanied by the a small girl and asked him which exit led towards the centre of Chorley. He looked very scared and dumbly pointed at a gate some 20m behind him. I will never forget the look of terror on the young girls face as she hid behind the man's legs. I managed to leave the park and navigate to Mantas' house.
It was still only about 8.00am and though the thought of yet another of Hall's pies was tempting I daren't ring the doorbell. Somehow I suspected that Mantas had not yet risen himself and the thought of Hall in his pyjamas opening the door to me was far too scary. So I went to the Water tower at the end of the road and spent the next hour and half or so hiding in bushes out from the view of the house next to the tower. Eventually hunger and exhaustion drove to call at the door. Relaying my adventure to Mantas he gleefully informed me that the end house in the road was empty.
I believe we had spent the night at a party near Southport, and Ian had to come back to my house due to difficulties with Beard at the time (I think this was around the period when Beard put signed and framed pledges from Ian on the walls of the house, stating that he would not go out, but would do his homework instead).
Anyway, my father came into the room and announced in loud voice, "Its time for your friends to leave John," even though there was only one friend in the room. I believe Cruyff's appearence may have affected my father's decision, since at some point during the night's festivities he had decided to rub his face with coal, resulting in what looked like an extremely poor and sleep deprived Al Jolson impression.
As regards Hall's decision to make you sleep in the garage (with the dog), in retrospect I believe he made the right choice. If memory serves correct, you got a good eight hours sleep that night, followed by a refreshing twenty six hours sleep starting that very afternoon. Beard was correct in his analysis - a more obvious case of being on drugs would be difficult to find.
The garage incident followed a live gig at the Gillibrand Arms by my piss poor teen band Eat Me. The night was crammed with quality entertainment, from the ambling tunelessness of my band, through the three ball juggling skills of Dr. J. Cruyff (M.D.) to the stand up comedy routine of Neil, wasted on "some chemical substance" (in the words of my father) while wearing a kilt. Although you have often amused me with your drunken ranting Mr. D., I'm afraid this was not one of your wittiest performances, the funniest line I can remember being "lets get the police down the front and give them a kicking." Not classic stuff, I think you'll agree.
Working with the likes of Danny [convicted for hitting someone over the head with a scaffolding pole] and Bobby [convicted for punching someone standing the other side of a closed window for "looking at him funny"] improved my skills at dealing with people no end.
One example would be when I unwisely went for a night out with them. We were thrown out of the first pub we entered in under 5 minutes. Later in the evening the playful tykes decided to smash open the juke box in another establishment as we were leaving and steal the Sex Pistols Never Mind the Bollox CD. They then went to tell the bouncer that they had witnessed this crime and gave him my description.
I was by now at the next pub waiting to be served. The next thing I knew I was grabbed from behind by a psychotic looking bouncer. He accused me of the act vandalism and demanded that I turn out my pockets. I thought about refusing on the grounds that I knew my rights but something about the menacing glare in his eyes persuaded me not to. I handed over my jacket which he proceeded to search unsuccessfully. (Thankfully they didn't have the brains to actually plant the CD on me).My jacket was thrust back into my chest and Mr Psycho turned to leave.
Feeling somewhat more confident and
realising I had looked a bit soft while there were ladies present I called
after him "Oh don't bother apologising!". To my dismay the departing figure,
stopped, turned around and walked back towards me. Something about his
manner convinced me it was not to deliver the apology. Instead he pushed
his face into mine and growled "I don't apologise to scum like you". I
bravely decide no to pursue the matter any further. I turned around to
see a gathering of my laughing work mates on the other side of the bar.