Oh, the shame!
Miscellaneous: Humiliations
I’ve had my fair share:
Being beaten seventeen–nil at a football cup match.
Spending a whole day at work with a piece of toilet roll attached to my trouser leg.
Danny and Charlie pinning me to a shop window (blindfolded and naked) after my stag night, two hours before opening time.
Hopefully, you won’t be as lucky as me in the humiliation stakes. You might think your mum turning up at parents evening wearing the most embarrassing floppy hat is the worst thing that can ever happen to you – but believe me when I say you ain’t seen nothing yet. Humiliations have this unique ability to rise in number, with age. But how you deal with it will also change as you mature – an ability I hope you’ll put to good use along with your ever growing wisdom, experience, mortgage costs… well, you get my drift.
Two weeks of after-school detention was not a surprise. But the offer by Carla and a couple of reliable cronies offering to ‘deal’ with Sharlene for me, was. Touched, I decided to let it go. I only had a year left at secondary school and getting good GCSEs had to remain my priority. Nothing else mattered… Oh, except perhaps becoming a revolutionary. Well, sort of.
One assembly, the headmistress announced the local council’s plan to amalgamate our school with a rival comprehensive. The hall fell into a hush, as our minds contemplated what this meant. My own thoughts drifted to the next twelve months, possibly spent surrounded by members of the opposite sex – new boys, non-friend boys. And this new batch had to include someone mad enough to even glance my way. But as we filed out of assembly that morning I could almost taste a new energy around us, alive with titters, whispers and opinions – ones turning against the new school.
‘I can’t believe they’re mixing us with THAT lot!’ spat Sharlene Rockingham, typically.
‘Boys!’ drooled Carla, almost licking her lips in happiness.
‘Not everyone’s a –’
‘Just say it and see what I’ll do to you! I’m not Lois, you know!’ spat Carla.
Sharlene backed down as another girl spoke up. ‘This is what they want! Us fighting amongst each other. Well, you know what…?’
‘What?’ we asked in surprised unison.
‘We ain’t gonna stand for it! Why should we?’
This question seemed to pump the now larger crowd full of adrenaline. So I thought it a good idea just to join in with it all.
At lunch, I followed Carla and a few others to the back of the science block.
‘You know, we can’t let this happen!’ said one.
‘No way. We’ve got to fight it!’ said another.
‘Too right! They can’t amalga-wotsit us with another school, can they?!’ added Carla, punching the air, the quickest change in opinion I had ever witnessed. I’d also never seen this side to her, or any of the other girls assembled on the wooden bench-cum-podium. They reminded me of check-coated old men on rallies, shouting at the television camera as placard-holding masses chanted and nodded their heads in agreement – the type of thing you saw on the six o’clock news and certainly not in my secondary school. Even after Mrs Codrington shooed us all away, the meeting continued behind the gym block and by the next day even our Home Economics teacher had pledged his support.
What followed over the ensuing weeks were lunchtime ‘rallies’ and meetings to decide how we were going to see off this threat to our education. My thoughts of handsome new boys became a sad but not forgotten memory as I joined the cause, secretly enjoying the togetherness. So, if this meant singing ‘We shall not, we shall not be mixed!’ in the street, then so be it. If this meant welcoming Sharlene Rockingham into the fold, then so be it. We were a team, after all. Women, united in our quest to secure a good education for ourselves and future generations to come.
Lowey, if you’re not prepared to fight for what you believe in, then you might as well pack up and go home.
When the head announced the amalgamation would be put on hold until further notice, I knew a bunch of fifteen-year-olds couldn’t have swayed the minds of a selection of evildoing council heads. But still, the taste of ‘victory’ collided nicely with my taste buds: refreshing and unfamiliar.
But I was still glad to get back to normal, dodging Mum and studying for my GCSEs, which worked well until Mickey Mills asked me out one rainy evening as I stood outside Lanes chomping on a steak pie.
Now, Mickey Mills could hardly be described as handsome. Skinny, he resembled two legs sticking out of a neck and probably needed a bottle of Clearasil for his birthday. He wasn’t cool, but at the same time held his own among the cooler kids at his school, commanding respect among the boys as well as having a small but creditable fan club among the girls. He dressed okay (even if his feet weren’t in the latest Adidas). And he was mad enough to ask me out to see Jurassic Park, more to the point. I was quick to say yes, hungry for a morsel of what Carla and all the pretty girls at school had been consuming for years now.
Luckily there were no sex scenes in the movie, so I didn’t have to check for any bulges in Mickey’s trousers. Plus, I made sure I never bent over to pick up any popcorn (or pencils!) either.
‘I…I really had a great time,’ stuttered Mickey Mills outside my house. If I really squinted my eyes and ignored the spots, he could almost pass for quite a good looker.
‘Me too. Thanks for the ticket.’
‘Erm, thanks for the popcorn,’ he said. His faced moved in closer to mine and he squeezed his eyes shut like I did the last time I was constipated.
‘What are you doing?’ I asked.
He opened his eyes. ‘I was going to give you a…kiss?’
We stared at one another for ages before I moved in and planted a huge wet kiss…on his cheek.
‘Goodnight!’ I said, the key already turning the lock. My heart was racing as I shot up the steps with a great big smile on my face.
*
You may think you’ve found the best thing since, I dunno, video laser discs, but it’s best not to fall for the first person to pay you any sort of special attention or hair compliment. There will be plenty of other lads who will comment on your lovely hair, sweet little laugh and your special ability to do fractions without a calculator (you can, right?). Besides, if he is truly ‘the one’, then surely it’s meant to be and you’ll end up together anyway. Only, later. Much later. When you’re, like, thirty-six? Okay, thirty.
I couldn’t wait for school to start in just over twelve hours, so I phoned Carla right away with the news.
Mum appeared as soon as I replaced the receiver.
‘You see each other every day and she lives next door. Why do you have
