Quent of a Woman

It used to be just the preserve of universities but now it seems they are everywhere. They live in shared houses with usually 4 other women but haven’t slept with any of them, their opinions are safe and measured not to offend anyone and worst of all they use collective terms like “guys “ and “people” and when they occasionally get in a bad mood they might summon up the hatred to utter –“oh for sure”

I don’t know what you call them, a friend of mine who first spotted them  in the early 90’s calls them Quents. And the mere mention of the word conjures up goatee beards, rizzlas and a staunchly macrobiotic diet. The Quent in essence is a heterosexual man who latches on to one or more attractive women for the sole purpose of trying to one day, although in most cases fruitlessly, get into her pants. And yet when questioned they strenuously deny this.  

Now there is nothing wrong in this course of action  were it not for the fact that they totally relinquish all vestiges  of who they once were.  At some stage in their teenage years they must have stood for something but the one year spent living in a stoodent house has turned them into the worst kind of lap dog. Think Tony Blair with a roll necked sweater and James Blunt CD.

It’s not always obvious from the start when a quent will rear his head.  The catalyst is normally a filthy joke.  Years ago they probably would have belly laughed or at least nodded in agreement but now they shake their heads for all to see – “That's disgusting ” they cry as if their whole sensitive disposition  has been violently destroyed  by a mild joke about penises.  It’s one thing to feel cold, it’s another openly critiscise. He’s playing the sensitive card and he wants her to see it. However this move has back fired as she is now on the floor crying with laughter in to her snake bite. Sensing this he joins in , completely forgetting the po-faced stance he had taken. It’s ok, she is not offended I must therefore join in.

There’s nothing wrong in standing up for or displaying chivalry but the quent does it purely for brownie points rather than based on principle. Some people, believe it or not grow tired of the football team they have supported since childhood and change allegiances, the quent would do it after 5 minutes but first checking with their friends which team they support.

When  you have a man who is perpetually joined to the hip of a woman and they are not dating, the initial reaction might be – “ Is he gay”. The problem is with this is that it works on the assumption that gay men do not have opinions of their own, that they do not answer back or chastise their  friends.  I’m sure even Elton John bollocks David Furnish now and then.

And therein lies the problem. The quent is neither a work colleague or mate neither is he a boy friend so he is stranded perpetually in a buffer zone of a muted voice.  As he is neither he is not free to vent his frustrations or anger as he does not have the solid ground of love or true friendship to fall back on or at least he is not prepared to find out.  His role is very much akin to the chef who refuses to tell unruly customers to fuck off because he needs their money. And so she has him on a string but share no pity because he loves it there.

The quent’s true colours are shown when he feels threatened by another man  who might be making inroads on the object of his desires. Even worse if she actually enjoys  the advances.

“ Listen, fancy coming to Cream this weekend, there’s an all nighter on “ says the young man trying his luck. Before she has a chance to respond the quent is in  “  Yeah I wouldn’t bother ,  Laura and I went to the real Cream at Amnesia in Ibiza this summer , it was banging, no chavs or anything like that just proper good looking, intelligent clubbers .. the pills were amazing, not like the weak one’s you get in the UK.”

Before Mixmag reaches the end of the runway, Laura speaks-

“ I’d love to go “

“ But we were going to go shopping in Manchester this weekend?”

“ Oh we can re-arrange that for another week”

And lo and behold they never do re-arrange as she has now found a boyfriend. And so the quent steps up his game to win her back. He’s in the same pub when they go out and just has to go over and share the stressful day of one lecture he has had , he’s  watching telly downstairs when they come back from the nightclub and refuses to make himself scarce and plans nights out knowing she won’t say no -

“ I got tickets for Dirty Dancing being shown in the Student’s Union, I know it’s your favourite “ . He says beeming like a Cheshire cat.

The poor boyfriend hasn’t had a chance to work these things out yet. Why ask direct questions about the hobbies and interests of your girlfriend when you have her world’s biggest fan sitting on a bean bag.

When the issue of the quent’s interference is raised it is normally met with – “ oh he’s ok “ , “ he means well “ or even worse  “ he’s  a mate , mate’s look out for each other.” Just not in the same fucking bed.

And so her inability to tell  “ Si “ to fuck off results in another relationship casualty. And so the status quo is resumed.  He continues to massage her ego – “ Smoking is so passé unless of course you like it “ and she continues to retain the upper hand which he is happy to revel in. On this basis who needs honesty.

Get up, stand up........and stay standing

A friend of mine hates American sports, partly because they don’t play “proper” sports like football, cricket and snooker but mostly because as he puts it they “can’t sit down for 5 minutes without wanting to get up and stuff their faces”. And I have to admit growing up watching American movies the crowd at  baseball or basketball games  always seemed more interested in what was going on around the stadium rather than on the pitch. But then again when you have James Bond dressed as a clown trying to defuse a bomb it can admittedly be distracting.

Whether this is a true reflection of the recreational habits of the average American remains to be seen but from my own recent experience of watching cricket these worrying habits seem to have penetrated international cricket in this country, particularly within the realms of 20/20 where you are from the moment they open the gates seemingly against the clock in terms of gluttony.

From the moment you arrive at the ground there is very little desire to actually strap yourself into your designated seat and spectate. Like a school boy avoiding homework the average 20/20 cricket fan will do anything to avoid watching the action. And maybe there is a valid reason behind this ambivalence as once you are comfortably seated and a level piece of tarmac has been found to rest your beers you are then having to rise from your newly acquired seat every 30 seconds  to let the whole townsfolk through.  Instead of following the easy to read signs on the end of each row to find their seats they stop mid row and chat – you wouldn’t mind if it was cricket related. “ Hang on there Dave, Bill is just bringing  the beers, Mary is getting the Cornish pasties , June is taking a wee and Brian is buying some programmes, if we sit now they’ll never find us “

Hard reading a ticket stub isn’t it? So they stand obscuring everyone's view. That is until a juiced local who can stand this bourgeois flower show shit no more shouts- “Find a seat and sit down”. So they find the nearest seat. But this isn’t good enough as now that the group is fractured they are worried that Bill, Mary, June and Brian will not find them, so they begin to locate, like looking for a patch of sand on a pebble beach, a group of seats so they can all sit together. And guess what, they don’t do this sitting down or between overs. England by this stage have lost 2 wickets and barely anyone has noticed. 

By overs 7 and 8 spectators become like newly born babies demanding their next feed. If you are a part of a stag do, a gopher is normally despatched to bring back quantities of beer an octopus would struggle to handle.

“Get a dozen fish and chips “shouts Mad Brian “and more beers “. More beers? On top of the 50 you’ve just ordered?  It’s thirsty work missing cricket. When you do get to see the action the general response is one of goading, constantly daring the batsman in the middle to hit the ball out of the park as it gives them another chance to rise to their feet. " Do it again KP" shouts a man who thinks trying to hit a tight line and length spinner for a six is like trying to do that trick when you pop your shoulder out. And then a hush descends and everything settles down, no one needs the toilet , no one needs refreshment and suddenly like the sermont on the mount everyone is paying attention. " This is shit " shouts one and suddenly it's over. Normal service resumed. 

Don’t for a minute get me wrong, sporting atmospheres are built on crowd participation and when you are paying £45 for a ticket you want to get the most enjoyment out of it as possible. However, when one’s enjoyment comes at a price of stopping others from enjoying the action out in the middle then it is to the detriment of people who are there first and foremost to enjoy the game 

 

Logan's Fun

Pick up any celebrity magazine and they'll be a cover shot of a celebrity looking pensive with the caption - " Since turning 30 it's time to grow up." Now I wasn't aware there was an age when you had to grow up, in fact I'm fairly sure it just happens. You don't hit 15 and go - " it's time for my balls to drop" or at 50 - " right it's time to get fat" so why is 30 so significant? Part of it is I believe due to this compartmentalised and pigeon holed society which orders you to do things by a certain age and yet they never give a date by which time you should become a decent human being. I was talking to someone recently and we were talking about plans for the weekend and I explained that I was probably going to hit the town on Saturday night , " What about you?" I enquired,  " Oh God! I don't go out these days, I'm way beyond that." Way beyond what? Having fun? Generally enjoying oneself away from the drudgery of every day life?  I wasn't for a minute suggesting she anadon all her principles and have a one night stand (although granted she was attractive and probably wouldn't fail in that department) so why this fulsome reaction? Stating that you are beyond going on a night out is like saying you're beyond sleeping or walking in a straight line. I can fully understand someone who says they can't be bothered with nights out as in the last few years nights out have had  a tendancy to be very samey and in truth they prefer to stay at home with their partner and kids, but when did going out become a phase rather than a part of everyday living ? The implication is that if you're still drinking at 30 then you're stuck in the dark ages. You could argue that being in the dark ages is more fun and it's society that needs to get on the bus to enlightenment,  not you. The worst part of the opening statment is the notion that people who enjoy nights out beyond 30 are somehow immature, that they don't exude the same level of responsibility as the stay at home adults. But how do you measure maturity? Whether they pay their mortgage on time or remember to pick their kids up from school? At least with cheese you can stick your finger in it. Can one not be a responsible citizen and still get rat arsed in the process?  I would argue that having the freedom to escape life for a few hours actually galvanises individuals in action. Carrying out those actions beyond walking home singing Maggie May eating a deep pan Hawaian might be awkward but at least the intent is there. Would you get the same motivation to write a song or a sonnet watching the Vicar of Dibley? I doubt it.
Granted drinking has it's casualties but it's arguable that if it wasn't drink it would be something else and if they are of the mind to run away from their responsibilities then they will irrespective of the catalyst. Some of the smartest brains on the planet have been drinkers, as God hater and all round wit Christopher Hitchens once said- " I drink because I don't want to be boring." Or words to that effect. Some people deserve to be boring, when you're spending an hour in TK Maxx looking for a pink frying pan to go with your pink toaster you know that fun dosen't really figure on their radar.  But just because you party  that dosen't make you any less of a bore, bizarrely i've met people who become even more boring the more they drink. Me included. Conversely I've also met people who never go out because they simply don't like it and they are some of the most entertaining people I've ever met, the difference is that they  base their actions on a personal preference rather than because they are not 19 any more. So until you can find a reason better than because you've got a stack of washing and ironing to do because that's what adults do, then don't. After all you never see Jack Nicholson with an iron.

Weigh Out

Of all the diets my favourite is the one like the vegetarian diet where you chose to throw all your morals in the bin, you know the one, the “ I’m vegetarian but I eat chicken and fish for the protein.”  My favourite diet involves watching carbohydrate and fat intake for 6 days, taking regular exercise to burn off excess fat and then on day 7 you can eat what you want. Sounds a good diet no? Well that is until you review one’s choice of meal on pushing the boat out day, no slightly larger salad for them. No, it’s ringside seats at the arena of kebab meat and chips.
Of course it’s never the dieters fault, the scales were too big, the floor was too shiny, my hair was too thick. Excuse after excuse and all for £5 each week to stand in a cold, dank church hall and clap for Deborah who can now see her feet after 17 years.
But they love it and what they love more than talking about it is talking to people who really don’t give a flying fuck. Remarks such as “Careless “ are forbidden when congratulating Sandra on losing  her pound and not maintaining for that week. Jenny thought she’d never lose her baby weight but eating a stick of celery every day followed by a period of incarceration caused for assaulting her husband who dared to eat a KFC in front of her, got her to the target weight
Of course the simple answer to dieting is to go and live in the jungle, but such suggestions are met with fierce rebuttal. “ Where am I going to find a blender to make my macrobiotic shake in the jungle?” Brenda wants to know as she has parted with £300 for 8 sachets of NASA dung and a paste which goes under the arm pits and is suppose to generate “diet energy”. Presumably this is the energy that replaces the need to run around the block a  few times.
Of course, the mere mention of going for a run is met with the kind of look that Bob Dylan once gave to one of his backing singers who suggested he should try an electric guitar to jazz it up a bit. Its gyms now, gone is physical, heart pumping aerobic exercise, guaranteed to result in weight loss , instead we’ve replaced it with exercise which causes the fat to harden and sit on top , a bit like left over curry.
“ Have you lost weight?”  No I’ve just firmed it up and pushed it through it through my ankles. “ You look great though”.  Thanks.
Like the reformed smoker and the reformed drinker there is naturally the reformed dieters. So indoctrinated into the way of the fat fighter that to even suggest half a vol au vent is an undoing of everything they live for. So they sit, waiting to pass judgment on the nearest passer by who is unfortunate to pop their Marks and Spencer ready meal into the staff canteen microwave
“ Do you know how many calories there are in that ?” they ask if it is some sort of quiz. You ask if they can give some options but in the end  it would just be a guess. “ There’s 400 calories in that one meal” said with the kind of authoritative tone normally reserved for Historical Documentary presenters. But this isn’t Iron Bridge, this is lunch and I’m starving. She continues - “ You’ve eaten one 6th of you daily dietary intake of calories in just that one meal”. I see a flaw in her argument - “ So I can eat 6 of them?”
“ Well yes if you want to get big and fat.” But if I did I could go to fat club with her and eat her diet and she can be my mentor. Never has over weight seemed such a desirable option.
She on the other hand sits and eats lettuce, iceberg to be precise, once described by  film director John Waters as the “ polyester of greens”, contained as it is in Tupperware. Tupperware is not the vessel of choice of someone who is having regular intercourse. They then proceed to get out the rest of their calorie counted condiments, the thimble of butter, the atom of mayonnaise (low fat ) and proceed to paste it on like they’re doing a water colour. I’ve seen diabetics throw more caution to the wind.
Once they’re prepared their low calorie, low carb, low fat, low enjoyment ryvita they are ready to begin eating. That is until their colleague  from “ It’s the World’s Fault Not Ours slimming club” comes in to give some support and at the same time share with the rest of the diners the pain and torture they have been  experiencing over the last week. “ I couldn’t believe when my husband replaced my shovel with a tea spoon last week.” complained one  “ The scales always vary from Tuesday night weigh in to Wednesday  night, so you can take off at least half a stone “ reassured another. |And the world continues to revolve.

Who the fucking Mel are you....?

Who the fucking Mel are you....?

I think back to the 1980's it seems that 3 things always happened. Liverpool FC always won the league championship, Steve Davis always won the World Snooker Championships and Mel Gibson was always an Aussie. The truth is that during this decade Liverpool only won the league championships 6 times , Steve Davis only won 6 World Championships and Mel, well , Mel still seems to me to be Aussie Mel. Even all these years on I can still sSometimes when

ee Mel, clad in leather , chasing the Toe Cutter through the ravaged wastes of the outback in the movie Mad Max. You couldn't get anyone more Australian than Mel Gibson, unless you spliced the DNA of a kangaroo with Paul Hogan's craggy face. If he told you he was born in the back of his father's utlity truck you wouldn't doubt it. Ask a contestant on Family Fortunes to name a famous Aussie and they wouldn't say Merv Hughes or Rod Laver or Dame Edna. Pound to a penny they would say Mel. He was as Australian as Alice Springs, sheep shearing and short term memory. Whenever a newspaper ran a story on Mel it always included a caption; " Aussie hunk Mel Gibson", unless of course it was The Sun when it would read "Ayres Cock". To the average Brit in the 80's Mel and Australia were as inextricably linked as Max Clifford and making money is today. And then he went to the United States of America to film Mad Max 3 and it spelt the beginning of the end. The transformation of Mel wasn't sudden but built up over time. At first he made references to his upbringing in New York, something that was news to about 99% of world's population. Remember these were the days before wikipedia. Then he began slowly diluting his aussie twang. Now supporters of Mel would contest that anyone who lived in the States as long as Mel had would start to talk with an American brogue. It was only a matter of time before his voice changed. But I didnt buy it one bit, to me it seemed too convenient. And when I saw him in the Lethal Weapon films sporting a mullett I knew the conversion was complete. Mel had defected to the other side.
I didn't resent Mel chasing fame and fortune in the bright lights of Tinsletown but the way in which he became a different person seemingly overnight I found odd. I don't recall, during his time as Aussie Mel, him ever making references to his upbringing in New York (he only moved to Australia at 12 years old) . I don't remember him ever giving a shout out to the New York Knicks or Yankees or complaning how much he missed Taco Bell whilst someone shoved another shrimp down his gullet. Likewise when he became an American hero, I dont remember him ever commenting on the policies of Paul Keating, the music of Inxs or even looking out for the score in the Ashes. Even the most fairweather of Aussies (if there is such a thing) would look out for the score in the Ashes. It was as if the road he took from 12 years old to super stardom never existed. It's natural for people to be ambivalent about their home town if they endured a tortuous upbringing but there seems to be no clear reason for Mel's reticence. Particularly when we are talking about Australia, a nation that would get it's flags out if they found out one of their natives was taking part in a tiddley winks contest. I don't dislike Mel, I don't necessarily agree with his views although I admire him for speaking out amongst the banal liberalism that pervades Hollywood. I just find it intresting how he seemed to surgically remove any reference to his Australian life as if it never existed.

er existed. It's natural for people to be ambivalent about their home town if they endured a tortuous upbringing but there seems to be no clear reason for Mel's reticence. Particularly when we are talking about Australia, a nation that would get it's flags out if they found out one of their natives was taking part in a tiddley winks contest. I don't dislike Mel, I don't necessarily agree with his views although I admire him for speaking out amongst the banal liberalism that pervades Hollywood. I just find it intresting how he seemed to surgically remove any reference to his Australian life as if it never existed.n. Remember these were the days before wikipedia. Then he began slowly diluting his aussie twang. Now supporters of Mel would contest that anyone who lived in the States as long as Mel had would start to talk with an American brogue. It was only a matter of time before his voice changed. But I didnt buy it one bit, to me it seemed too convenient. And when I saw him in the Lethal Weapon films sporting a mullett I knew the conversion was complete. Mel had defected to the other side.
I didn't resent Mel chasing fame and fortune in the bright lights of Tinsletown but the way in which he became a different person seemingly overnight I found odd. I don't recall, during his time as Aussie Mel, him ever making references to his upbringing in New York (he only moved to Australia at 12 years old) . I don't remember him ever giving a shout out to the New York Knicks or Yankees or complaning how much he missed Taco Bell whilst someone shoved another shrimp down his gullet. Likewise when he became an American hero, I dont remember him ever commenting on the policies of Paul Keating, the music of Inxs or even looking out for the score in the Ashes. Even the most fairweather of Aussies (if there is such a thing) would look out for the score in the Ashes. It was as if the road he took from 12 years old to super stardom never existed. It's natural for people to be ambivalent about their home town if they endured a tortuous upbringing but there seems to be no clear reason for Mel's reticence. Particularly when we are talking about Australia, a nation that would get it's flags out if they found out one of their natives was taking part in a tiddley winks contest. I don't dislike Mel, I don't necessarily agree with his views although I admire him for speaking out amongst the banal liberalism that pervades Hollywood. I just find it intresting how he seemed to surgically remove any reference to his Australian life as if it never existed.dn't resent Mel chasing fame and fortune in the bright lights of Tinsletown but the way in which he became a different person seemingly overnight I found odd. I don't recall, during his time as Aussie Mel, him ever making references to his upbringing in New York (he only moved to Australia at 12 years old) . I don't remember him ever giving a shout out to the New York Knicks or Yankees or complaning how much he missed Taco Bell whilst someone shoved another shrimp down his gullet. Likewise when he became an American hero, I dont remember him ever commenting on the policies of Paul Keating, the music of Inxs or even looking out for the score in the Ashes. Even the most fairweather of Aussies (if there is such a thing) would look out for the score in the Ashes. It was as if the road he took from 12 years old to super stardom never existed. It's natural for people to be ambivalent about their home town if they endured a tortuous upbringing but there seems to be no clear reason for Mel's reticence. Particularly when we are talking about Australia, a nation that would get it's flags out if they found out one of their natives was taking part in a tiddley winks contest. I don't dislike Mel, I don't necessarily agree with his views although I admire him for speaking out amongst the banal liberalism that pervades Hollywood. I just find it intresting how he seemed to surgically remove any reference to his Australian life as if it never existed.

Don't call us we won't call you

Don't call us we won't call you

A few months back I happened to switch over to Channel Five's Wright Stuff with the conveniently name Matthew Wright. During the course of the show one of thepanellistslaunched into a tirade concerning cold callers and tele-marketers constantly blocking up their phone. They then proceeded to read from the newspaper in front of them a list of tips to avoid such nuisance calls. Unfortunately, this wasn't a topic up for wider discussion. Had it have been then I would have been first on the phone advising that if you wish to stop the phone from ever ringing then simply register with a Recruitment Agency. They'll never ring back.
Recruiters in such agencies are the best bosses, the best life coaches you've never met. They are like a teacher who invites you into their office to give you words of comfort shortly before an exam. They are Mickey to your Rocky. Brierley to your Botham. And yet unlike these father figures once you leave the room they want nothing more to do with you.
You spend one hour filling in a form in a drafty reception area, another hour sitting in a small room with a ZX Spectrum in front of you being asked if the "Glass is Half Full" or alternatively asking you whether you agree, strongly agree or are just not sure that "finishing second is the same as failure". By this stage your brain is so shot that you just want to write " well it depends , if someone had a gun to your wife and kids head then I guess finishing second would be construed as failure but if it was the olympics then at least you get a silver medal."
After the form filling and the aptitude test you are then welcomed into a suite to go through your application. They will then read from the form "I note you don't drive and you have a phobia of chickens. Let me just check. Ok a job has just come up at a KFC in Edinburgh. It's a 300 mile round trip but we will pay a 16th of your expenses. " That tedious job you wanted so desperately to leave doesn't look so bad now.
You point out a job you saw in the window that you might be suited for and they immediately try to skirt over it as if they've reserved it for a friend.
" A vacancy has come up for a washer up, any thoughts?" Yes, plenty, but in terms of work I was looking for something more permanent.
" Well they might take you on full time." You ask if they have anything in the field of office work.
" Well we might have something come in next week but they go quite quick."
It's not the bloody Next sale. Isn't there a priority system for these things? Surely once a job comes in that matches my skills my name will be put forward. And just as you are about to give up the ghost a nugget of salvation is thrown forth. " As regards references " she says as you move eagerly forward in your chair " do you think you'll have a problem getting references from your employer in China".
You put down your pen, your clipboard and move closely before whispering in their ear;
"I said fucking Cheltenham."

It's double points if you go on the floor

It's double points if you go on the floor

Schools love to show off their achievements. They love to wax lyrical about the time the school came third in the National Schools Choir contest and that summer many moons ago when the first XI Cricket team went a whole season unbeaten. They'll even point you to a headline about it from the local newspaper stuck above the head master's office. History, teachers will tell you, is what schools are built on. Each pupil passing through the front gate, each academic or sporting success is only adding to the history of the school. But this is only the history that is documented. A lot of a school's history goes un-recorded and the only proof is in the memories and testimonies of those who were there when it happened. Every school has a sub culture, an underworld where achievement is measured not in how many people pass their Wood Work GCSE (or Wood and it's Environment AppreciationStudies GCSE as it is probably called these days) but in how many 1st years Biffo Wilkins kicked the shit out of in one day or how many up skirt shot of Frau Renard one was able to get during german conversation. These are the achievements that galvanise the pupils.
At our school it was the infamous Dump League of 1992 that did it.The Dump League wasn't a conscious teacher/pupil initiative to eradicate the litter problem around school or take a keener interest in the welfare of the planet. No, the Dump League involved a pupil taking a shit and getting it marked. The concept was simple. The participant excused them selves from their lesson, completed the deed in as long a time possible without arousing suspicion and then returned to the class only for the appointed "Judge" (i.e any pupil willing to stick their head down a toilet) to then excuse themselves to do some marking. The results were then passed onto the official recorder and then presented in the form of league table, kept at all times in the safe keeping of Martin Dirkin. Dirks, as he was known, was too street smart to be accosted by bullies so there was no danger of the results being leaked.
The league started in February 1992. It was made up of 8 competitors; of which some volunteered freely but others had to be persuaded. They approached me because as they put it I was a " fat bastard and my shits are bound to be massive". I was reluctant at first but after some verbal harassment and a threat of a dead leg I agreed. The rules were set out on day one. The "attempt" would be judged on size, smell, texture and how many flushes it took to wash away. Any "attempt", big or small that disappears up the U Bend is exempt from full marking. Should any section still be visible after it has disappeared up the U Bend then that section alone will be marked. You could go as often and little as you liked and there was no law against what you ate or drank before hand. Like a chef in a Michelin star restaurant it didn't matter what ingredients you used so long as you produced the goods. Oh and if you dropped the kids off on the toilet floor you got double points.
Despite the interest shown towards me taking part I wasn't one of the pre-race favourites. Simon Barker was head and shoulders above the rest. His pedigree was well known way before the tournament; which was surprising as he seemed to exist solely on a diet of Super Crunchies and chewing gum.
After week one I was in 4th place, respectable I thought. By week 2, I was in 7th. And by week 3, I was last. Dirks' sole words of consolation were always ; "remember it's double points if you go on the floor. " Taking a dump whilst semi - bunking off lessons and getting some one to mark it had a sense of danger to it but taking a blatant crap on the floor was just wrong. I mentioned this to him and all he would say was " Well you won't get into Europe with that attitude" . After 4 weeks the competition was going global, well Europe anyway. It wasn't just Europe that was taking notice. Girls who have never even paid us time of day in the past would stop us on the way to the geography block. " Is it true you're in some sort of turd league?" To which you'd nonchalantly agree before preparing yourself for the inevitable snog. But of course it never happened, but at least people were talking. Unfortunately it wasn't just the pupils who were talking. I had a habit of being quite regular. Which was quite handy when you're participating in a Dump League but it always meant that my toilet trips coincided with double Maths, more precisely around 11.45 on a Monday morning . As per normal I put my hand up to be excused and normally the teacher Mr Johnson would say " be quick" but for some reason on this occasion he put his foot down. " No! You know it's come to my attention that you and Parsons ( John Parsons, committee member and lying in 3rd place) always seem to go to the loo on the same day. I don't know what's going on, I'm not entirely sure I want to but I'm keeping my eye on you." Someone at the back of the class shouted "nonce" but I didn't laugh. All I could think was that we'd been rumbled. That lunch time we organised a meeting. I was adamant we should stop so were 2 others but all the rest were eager to carry on. The eager beavers it should be noted weren't exactly propping the league up. They had good reason for carrying on. And so in the light of the majority decision, even though they wouldn't agree with us if we had the majority, we continued onwards. Shortly after this decision I became aware that there always seemed to be school maintenance men in the vacinity of the toilet every time we went. It wasn't unusual to see them around school it just seemed a bit of conincidence that they should be there every time I went for a bowel movement. But there was no knock at the door, we were not frog marched there and then to the headmasters office to spill the beans so I put it all down to my paranoia. And then everything went quiet until one lunch beak everyone was milling around the yard when Simon Barker emerged from the lavatory, arms aloft, nodding his head shouting "Double Points". The unthinkable had been done. A parka clad first year lept out in front of Barker nearly retching. Within minutes word had got round and pupils flocked to see this 7th wonder of the world. As the dust settled and the lunch bell rang, I saw 2 workman in deep conversation with the deputy head. This time I was sure it wasn't paranoia. That afternoon in French I expressed my feelings to Dirks and all he could say like a true humanitarian, was: " You're talking out of your arse, if you shat out of it once in a while you wouldn't be bottom of the league."
I felt vindicated when they came for us the next day. Parsons and I were dragged out of Maths and interviewed separately. I was first in. But no one had de-briefed me on what to say. There was no point in lying, especially when you've been under surveillance by maintenance men ( one of which was ex-Army) . Should I name names or just take the rap myself? I had visions of me sitting there stoney faced, muttering "no comment " whilst the charge sheet was read out. The minute I got back into class Parsons or maybe even Dirks would put their arm around me and say; "You learnt a valuable lesson today, you never rat on your friends". As it was I owned up to my side of it, didn't mention any other names and signed the confession in the presence of the deputy head and left. I returned to Maths and nothing more was said. When Parsons came in, he sat at the back: " Did you say anything?"he said. " No " I answered with a certain amount of gangster pride. " I did " he replied " I ain't getting kicked out of school for those numpties" So much for loyalty. Until then I hadn't even thought about the punishment. I was so relieved to get my story straight and not drop anyone in too much shit that I hadn't dwelt on the repercussions. Had they all fingered me after all?
I spent an uneasy night contemplating my fate. To get kicked out of school for fighting or cheating was one thing. At least you could argue that it was a moment of weakness or in the case of fighting that you were defending someone's honour. But to be involved in an operation whereby you examine each others poo and then grade it in terms of smell, colour and whether or not it disappears up the U bend. I'd never be able to hold my head up high again.
The next day we were marched into the Head Master''s office like squaddies facing a court martial. The Head gave a speech on being young and the exuberance of youth. I felt at one stage that he was about to allow us into some secret that he had from his school days. Had he himself partaken in some such activity? As it was he said no further action would be taken and more importantly our parents would not be informed. Probably more out of wishing to spare the school secretary's blushes than our own.
For the next couple of weeks random pupils would come up to us to call us twats or make them laugh by regaling some of the stories. I later found out that I was only one who hadn't named names during the interrogation process. I may have finished rock bottom with possible relegation to the second division if Dirks' plan for resurrection came off ( his proposal was that we do it in our own time and in public loos) but I learnt that in the face of overwhelming pressure I didn't buckle and more importantly I didn't rat on my mates. Something that in the 17 years since I have taken absolutely no comfort from what so ever.