Kiss My Name Page 10

  Now, I suppose you are wondering how a child with disproportionate dwarfism was going to set about bullying a normal sized, ginger psycho? Well, my plan, which I have to say worked pretty effectively, was rather than to try to avoid him, to go looking for him. Bullies want to look good in front of their mates. They don’t want to look like an idiot. I wanted to do everything possible to make Luke Booth look stupid. If I was the least compliant of Boffin’s victims, eventually I believed he would look for easier prey. Petrels will try to make a meal out of a young penguin, but if the little penguin pecks them enough times, the petrel will soon conclude carrion is an easier option.

  Strangely, I decided to call my plan ‘The Ha-Go Project’. In our History lessons, we had been doing about Japanese involvement in the Second World War. Operation ‘Ha-Go’ was the Japanese action to isolate and destroy Indian and British forces in Burma. My ambitious plan was to ‘isolate and destroy’ Luke Booth, so I felt ‘The Ha-Go Project’ was perfect. Well, it seemed perfect at the time anyway, now it seems a pretty ludicrous name!

  My first plan of attack involved Wednesday lunch rotas. We were in the Third Year at Parklands at the time so the lunch rota worked so we were the third year allowed in on a Monday, fourth year in on a Tuesday, last on a Wednesday, first on Thursdays and second on Fridays. When we were last in was the best time to attack.

  Boffin had beans on toast every day. He always pushed or bullied his way to the front of the year queue, so as I was still queuing every day, I’d see him putting mountains of pepper on his beans on toast. I’m glad I wasn’t in his class, but I’m sure most afternoons he would have released gases that would have made a Chemistry teacher blush. Beans on toast followed by strawberry sponge and custard. Every single day.

  This particular Wednesday, the lunch rota was working particularly badly. I couldn’t care less that we were kept waiting for our food, I had already brought a sandwich from home that day and eaten it at the start of lunch. I was just queuing for lunch as part of the plan. Once we eventually got into the dinner hall, I bought macaroni cheese on toast, which I didn’t even like, but it was 45p well invested. I also poured myself a glass of water from the silver jug and poured it to the brim. I carefully carried my tray over to the long, rectangular table that Boffin and his band of bullying men were sitting at and sat at the closest available seat to Boffin which was diagonally opposite. They were used to kids avoiding them, so they all stared open mouthed as I nonchalantly sat down. I am sure one of them let out a bewildered growl.

  “Afternoon!” I greeted them cheerily.

  “What the hell are you doing, sitting here?” Boffin demanded.

  I wasn’t there to exchange pleasantries, I was there to carry out my ‘Ha-Go Project’.

  I smiled, “This!”

  I tipped my water over so it ran across the table and on to Boffin’s lap and before he even had time to stand up as a reflex reaction, I followed it up by leaning forward and tipping my macaroni cheese over his lap, almost instantaneously followed by Boffin’s baked beans on toast and strawberry sponge and custard. My sleight of hand would have impressed Paul Daniels and Debbie McGee. Boffin just sat there, shocked, with water, baked beans, soggy toast, macaroni cheese, sponge pudding and custard soaking into his trousers. Having accomplished my task, I wasn’t hanging around, I stood up and ran and as I did the school bell rang to signal the end of the school dinner break and the start of afternoon lessons. Loads of other kids, hundreds of them, stood up and headed out the canteen, so I just mixed into the crowd and disappeared.

  As I ran back to afternoon registration that day, I knew it was only a temporary reprieve. I knew once Boffin cleaned himself up, he would come looking for me. So, in afternoon break, I hid in the school library as it was the least likely place in the whole of the school that Boffin would be. Having lived through afternoon break, home time was even more of a hazard, as it was almost guaranteed that Boffin and his cohorts would split themselves into two groups and wait outside the two potential school exit points. Luck, however, was on my side. French was my final lesson of the day and Madame Scotland was late. I sat next to Marc Harrison in French who had been tormented by Boffin a few times himself, so once I told him of my predicament, was keen to lend a helping hand. Marc had a massive school bag, so after the French lesson, we crept into the boys toilets and Marc squeezed me into it, zipped me up and then carried me out. Marc told me that, as anticipated, Boffin and his mates had split up and were guarding the exits. Marc carried me past Boffin and Phil Moss, so deliberately swung his heavy bag into their shins, as they stood with folded arms at the gates.

  That night, I knew I wouldn’t survive a second day. I couldn’t go hiding in the library every break time and be carried home in a bag at the end of every day, like a pampered Chihuahua. I needed to strike again before my anticipated beating though. Spilling lunch on Boffin would not be enough to persuade him that the other victims were better options than me.

  The following day, Thursday, first lesson was ‘Games’. I did football, which at three and a half foot tall, I wasn’t particularly good at. I certainly wasn’t going to score many headers from corners. Boffin didn’t do football, he did Rugby League, so our paths only crossed in the changing rooms. Thankfully Mr.Pike, the world’s most uncoordinated Physical Education teacher was around. Boffin made hand signals towards me indicating that he was going to slit my throat once he caught up with me, so I just gave him a middle finger salute back.

  Football finished later than Rugby League that morning. Boffin was one of those kids who used to enjoy a long shower after ‘Games’. Some kids just ran through the showers, barely catching the spray, but others, like Boffin, used to stand under the shower for ages, admiring their own naked form. I think that day Boffin also prolonged his shower as he knew Mr.Pike would ensure every boy had a shower, but wouldn’t actually go in there himself, so in Boffin’s mind, this would provide a window of opportunity for revenge. What Boffin didn’t know though, was one of the teachers, Mr.Holmstrom, a Technical Drawing teacher, came to tell Mr.Pike that there was a phone call for him in the staff room.

  “Can each and every one of you boys ensure you shower and change, please,” Mr.Pike requested before departing to take his call.

  The previous evening I was trying to formulate a plan of attack, but could not have anticipated things would work out this well. I dressed quickly, ignoring the request for a shower, I was so rubbish at football, I was never muddy anyway. I went over to the corner of the changing room where Boffin had left his clothes, picked them up and headed straight towards the showers.

  “I wouldn’t do that if I were you, Tim,” I heard someone warn, but they weren’t me and if they were, they would have done it.

  Boffin was in the shower with a bottle of shampoo and a bar of soap. He had his head tilted back, running his hands through his copper hair. He loved himself. You could tell he had convinced his warped little mind into believing he was gorgeous.

  “Oi, Boffin!” I shouted with his clothes tucked under my chin. I had every item he wore, his shoes, socks, trousers, boxers, shirt, tie, jumper and blazer. Confused, naked schoolkids were running past me wondering what the hell this fully dressed dwarf was doing walking through the showers carrying someone else’s school uniform.

  Boffin didn’t spot me at first. He was too busy finishing his pruning routine, but eventually, once the shampoo had run off him, he opened his eyes to see my head popping out above his school clothes.

  “Timmy, your head’s already too big for your body, lad, if you don’t want it to be even bigger, with a few new lumps, I would suggest that you take my clothes back to their peg, right now.”

  “I’m not doing that, Boffin.”

  “You best had or I’ll find you and I’ll snap your neck like you’re a baby bird who’s fallen out its nest.”

  “Keep picking on me, Boffin and I’ll keep doing things back to you!”

  “I’d like to see you try with ten broken fin
gers and two black eyes. You ruined my clothes yesterday lunchtime. Don’t even think about doing it again today. The Incredible Hulk is scared of me when I’m angry.”

  “I’ve thought about it Boffin and I’ve decided you can piss off. I’m not running scared of an ugly, ginger kid like you.”

  “Have you got a problem with gingers, Timmy? That would make us equal as I have a problem with midgets.”

  “Dwarves, you dickhead and anyway, I haven’t got a problem with gingers, every other ginger kid I know is alright, I just have a problem with you.”

  Boffin’s shower stopped and he took a step towards me.

  “Pass me my clothes, Timmy!”

  “Catch!”

  I threw all Boffin’s clothes up in the air. Boffin made a vain attempt to catch his school blazer but it floated away from his grasp like a weary ghost and joined its brothers and sisters on the soapy, wet, shower room floor. Andrew Nelson, who had been late getting back to the changing rooms from football, as Mr.Pike had made him collect the corner flags in, for missing a sitter, appeared in the showers. Andrew was one of those kids who was fearful of the school showers, so was attempting to run through them, just as I threw Boffin’s clothes. Andrew ended up standing on Boffin’s blazer, tripping up then sliding through the whole of the showers with his naked, muddy backside using Boffin’s blazer as a jet ski. I didn’t hang around long enough to see the end of Andrew’s slide, but I can only imagine the blazer was wetter than Duncan Goodhew’s Speedos, by the time it came to a halt.

  Having witnessed the chaos that ensued within five seconds of me throwing the clothes, I ran. Boffin mustn’t have hung around long enough to retrieve his clothing either, as I could hear him charging after me. Once again, my height was advantageous. I hurried through the changing rooms, at one stage glancing over my shoulder to see Boffin’s shiny, ginger pubic hair getting ever nearer.

  “I’m going to rip your head off and make mincemeat out of it!” yelled Boffin.

  Just as Boffin yelled this, Mr. Pike opened the changing room door, returning from his phone call. I slipped past him and out the exit, but Boffin’s wet, naked body charged straight into him. Some of the lads told me later that without a moment’s hesitation, Mr.Pike grabbed hold of one of Boffin’s ears and twisted.

  “And who’s mincemeat head are we discussing, Booth?” I heard Mr. Pike ask, as I shuffled down the corridor.

  Once again, I had escaped from Boffin’s clutches, but it was only ten o’clock in the morning, I anticipated my survival chances for the remainder of the day were slimmer than a supermodel prior to a fashion show in Milan. I still felt I needed to carry out at least one more offensive for the ‘Ha-Go Project’ to have at least partially succeeded.

  My second lesson that day was History in one of the first floor rooms. I knew from speaking to Marc Harrison, who was in Boffin’s Languages set, that they were going to be having French in the room below. Back then, most desks were the wooden ones that you could lift up and store all your school books in. Before Miss Pulis, the History teacher arrived, I discovered that there was a large, hard backed Holy Bible in the one I was sat at. I believe in God, I’m not sure I believe in the King James Bible God though, he seems to be a different bloke in the Old Testament to the one described in the New, but nevertheless, I believe in a God of some description and don’t think our Creator would have any problem with retaliatory action against bullies. I put that Bible into my black and yellow Gola school bag.

  Five minutes before the end of an interesting lesson about the Third Reich, I began to cough and cough and cough.

  Miss Pulis was one of those young teachers who thought having a young dwarf in her class was ‘cute’. She was always saying ‘Arrhh’ after I said anything. It was a bit patronising, but it enabled me to manipulate her a little, so I let it go.

  “What’s the matter, Tim? Are you alright, love?”

  A couple of classmates sniggered at the mention of ‘love’.

  “I don’t know, Miss, I think a bit of my Berol pen top is jammed in my windpipe.”

  I coughed again for dramatic effect.

  “Timmy, come over here, I’ve done First Aid, I know the Heimlich Maneuver.”

  “It’s not too bad, miss, a glass of water would do the trick. It’s just scratching a little.”

  “OK. Go and grab yourself a glass of water from the canteen.”

  “Thanks, Miss!”

  Perfect! I gathered my stuff together and left the class. I had no intention of returning. I only went a few metres down the corridor, just far enough so Miss Pulis couldn’t spot me. I peered over the wooden balcony to the classroom door of the class below, Boffin’s French class.

  Luck was on my side that day. Mr.Pike arrived after his phone call to save me in the morning and that afternoon, Superman flew in, in schoolboy form, to rescue me again. Sandwiched between the two, Boffin’s French class finished before my History class and when he came out the door, sloshing around in his wet uniform looking like a snowman in Spring, the King James Holy Bible that I sent down from the wooden balcony managed to hit Boffin right on the top of his head. He collapsed on to the floor, star shaped like a cartoon character flattened by a steamroller. It was one of those moments when time moved in slow motion, as the Bible descended slowly and accurately from the balcony and then, after striking Boffin, there was a satisfying, stunned silence until Mr.Hurst rushed out of the French classroom, checked Boffin was still alive, helped him to his feet and began shouting,

  “Who did that? Who dropped a Bible from up there? You could kill someone doing that!”

  “Maybe it was God,” Marc answered with a shrug, as I shot down the stairs and took myself to the canteen to establish an alibi as quickly as I could. I knew once Boffin came to his senses though, he would realise who the perpetrator was. I knew the fight that I have already started to describe would come, it was inevitable. Despite that inevitability, as I asked Mrs.Stranks, the school dinner lady for a glass of water, I felt, for the first time in my life, that I had really achieved something. I was euphoric. I just felt that after the beating that would soon arrive, life would just get better and better from here on in. If I could use my brain to fight injustice, I could become a Member of Parliament, Prime Minister even, putting right not just my own problems, but all the issues and inequalities of our nation.

  If a crystal ball had shown me back then, how my life would turn out, I would never have believed it. I am a wealthy man now, I don’t want for anything materially, but I would give my riches away in a heartbeat to get that feeling back, that feeling of youthful optimism, that ‘world is your oyster’ feeling.

  By lunchtime that day, Boffin had recovered and he came looking for me. I didn’t even try to hide, that would have given out the wrong message if I’d have kept it going. I wanted to portray an aura of calm and that I was ready for whatever Boffin threw at me, even if it was a Chinese burn, a knuckle sandwich and an almighty kick in the ribs.

  TIMMY ANDERSON – September 1986

  I was taking the beating of my life. When a fight starts on the school playground, boys aren’t generally concerned about fair play, they just want to see blood. As my fight with Boffin involved one thirteen year old who had the brawn of Arnold Schwarzenegger and the brain of an amoeba, weighing in at around ten stone, up against a disproportionate dwarf who weighed in at under four stone, they were always going to get what they wanted. There was always going to be one winner and it wasn’t me. A fight between Muhammad Ali and Billy Elliot would have been fairer.

  As soon as Boffin threw his first punch, the cries of ‘Fight!’ rang out and a crowd gathered. I swung back occasionally in the forlorn hope that I may just catch him somewhere it might hurt, but for every punch I threw, Boffin must have sent half a dozen my way. My nose was soon dripping blood and one of my eyes swelled up and began to close. I didn’t even have the luxury of someone ringing a bell so I could return to the corner for my corner man to patch me up. Boffin, not no
ted for his sympathetic nature, soon decided that rather than us just having an old fashioned boxing bout, we would wrestle too. It was now Hornswoggle against The Rock. Boffin pounced on me like a tiger on to a fawn. Some of the older lads spectating were chewing sherbert straws and us rolling around on the floor in front of them, gave them the perfect opportunity to flick ‘greb’ all over us. In a sea of spit, Boffin began banging my head on the tarmac like he was trying to get a hazelnut out of it.

  I was starting to wonder how much longer I could last before passing out, when I heard a male voice shouting, the volume increasing as it neared. My spirits lifted, as I felt it must be a teacher who had come to break up the fight. The voice spat out each word it spoke, but by the time it had finished its first sentence, from the language it used, I knew it couldn’t possibly be a teacher,

  “Get...out...the...way...dickheads!”

  The pounding of my head against tarmac suddenly stopped. Boffin had let go of me as ‘the voice’ had grabbed the back of Boffin’s ‘greb’ filled blazer and swung him around and to his feet. The baying throng collectively took a couple of steps back as both Boffin and the other lad raised their fists. I wasn’t sure who this lad was, I vaguely recognised him though as a lad in our year. There were seven classes in our school year, so I didn’t know everyone. Boffin knew him though. As they squared up, I crawled through spectators legs to safety, dabbed my nose with my shirt sleeve to make doubly sure I wasn’t bleeding to death and once I knew I wasn’t, I listened in. I also managed to get to my feet and watch glimpses of the ensuing brawl through gaps in the crowd.

  “Piss off Simon, this has nothing to do with you.”