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Do Unto Others?
I can remember at school always managing to more or less tread
the middle ground and avoid the notice of the school bullies,
being content at the time to thank my lucky stars and watch them
take it out on someone else less fortunate. I guess I was
actually a bit of a coward but somewhere along the way being
blessed with the ability to run faster than most everyone else it
seemed quite natural to make full use of the ability whenever the
situation warranted it. I have absolutely no memory of the
incident at all but apparently there was one occasion where full
of fear I ran like the wind deserting a friend who couldn't run
as fast. The price he paid for being somewhat slower afoot was to
be thrown bodily into a river. It is a source of some
embarrassment that almost every time I see him or a member of his
family now, the tale is retold no matter what the company.
Bullying is in the news a lot these days and thankfully seems no
longer to be tolerated but looking back it was rife and some of
the kids who were those that were constantly picked on must have
had a life of unimaginable hell. I tried being a bully once. I
can't remember too many of the details. Just vague impressions
remain of how I was in a group of kids and how we were taunting
our victim who was scared. Somehow I strayed over the line of
simple name-calling and ended up pushing shoving or maybe even
hitting him. Try as I might I can't remember which action caused
the result but I don't suppose it really matters because he
wasn't really hurt but what did matter to me was the result. He
started to cry. I had made him cry. I remember him running away
from the group shouting back at us through his tears . . . and I
remember feeling sick. Sick that I had caused someone to suffer
in that way. Sickened by the way I had abused the power I had
been given by the group around me. I've never really tried
bullying since.
I stood up to one of the lower ranking bullies once. We were in
the changing rooms after a 'games' lesson of some sort and
somehow this boy singled me out for some extra sport. Whatever he
did was pretty insignificant but perhaps because games was never
my favorite subject somehow I was pushed that little bit too far.
I guess you get a feel for who you may have a chance at and who
to stay well clear of and just accept your punishment if it's
your turn although I don't know if conscious recognition of this
entered my mind at the time. He pushed me just a little too far
and I ended up pushing back. There was a small and very brief
'tussle' before the games teacher interrupted and separated us.
His retribution for our misbehavior for a worrier such as I was,
could not have been worse. He announced that if fighting was what
we wanted to do then so it would be. A couple of days later
toward the end of the week we were both to turn up at his office
after classes for a form of detention where we would have a
boxing match and sort out our differences. Well it is one thing
reacting on the spur of the moment with a full flow of adrenalin
pumping through your veins, it is a very different thing having
to wait and anticipate getting beaten to a pulp for a couple of
days. I've always worried about what to others are the smallest
silliest of things. Being put into a running race on our school
sports day would see me unable to sleep or eat normally for days
beforehand even being physically sick with the worry and stress.
Having to powerlessly wait those couple of days was pure,
agonizing hell. I don't remember what sort of an act I put on but
I obviously couldn't let anyone know I was scared to death. At
last the time arrived and trying to mask the fact that I was
shaking like a leaf and was about to end up sat on the floor
because my legs would surely soon give way I joined my nonchalant
opponent and knocked at the teachers office door. I was sure that
my heart must be audible pounding in my chest and perhaps it was
and it was that which induced the teacher to announce he didn't
have the time. He made us shake hands and that was the end of
that. That particular bully seemed slightly less bullying toward
me from then on but it was no happy 'Disney' ending and we were
certainly never friends.
With hindsight it is possible to wonder if the teacher was
actually particularly clever and had used the psychological
approach to resolve the situation. Then again it seems unlikely
when I remember this was the same teacher that singled out a
member of a class, set him running around the football field and
then announced to the rest of us that if we could catch him we
should 'debag' him! Like baying hounds off we all set in eager
pursuit but the memory sits uncomfortably with me now. Thankfully
he escaped an uncertain fate and reached the safety of the last
corner flag.
I was seventeen at the time. I was just starting to develop an
'adult' social life and was regularly going out on an evening
with school friends to local pubs for drinks. We were under legal
age but most of us, especially the taller ones like me, could get
away with it without being challenged about it.
After a brief dalliance with 'punk' I'd been introduced to heavy
rock music and because of their association with motorcycle
culture and my parents disgust, had really started to enjoy
listening to the heavy metal bands of the time. By all reports
the loudest, and of course being immature that meant the best,
was Motorhead. I went to see them a couple of times at the
Colston Hall in Bristol and even on one occasion camped out
overnight with a friend in the ticket queue to ensure we got the
best seats in the house. With hindsight I don't think it would
have much mattered where we sat, and in fact sitting in the
street outside would probably have given us a better appreciation
of the sound. They were loud. They were very loud. They were so
loud you couldn't hear them. All you got was a deafening wall of
noise with no distinguishable hint of a familiar tune. For days
afterwards my ears would whistle and hiss as they tried to repair
the damage! 
It
was the custom of the time that fans of the group would emulate
their heroes by wearing bullet belts and biker style jackets with
the Motorhead emblem meticulously hand painted on the back. This
appealed to me not least of all because I was childishly
fascinated with firearms and the war and had a collection of
shiny, brass,7.62mm cartridge cases laboriously collected from
the grass of an army firing range in Pilning on the banks of the
River Severn. To buy one of the belts was beyond the reach of my
meager income so I set about trying to make one up. I didn't have
enough of the necessary machine gun belt clips so I spent hours
and hours in my fathers garage with a drill carefully drilling
twice through each cartridge case so that I could string them all
together with some old push bike brake cable. It was not
adjustable so it was 'made to measure', with the couple of clips
I did have acting as the buckle. I'd managed to buy a cheap biker
type leather jacket from somewhere but so precious was it to me
that I was loathed to paint on it so instead I set about painting
the logo on a suitable old waistcoat that served as my 'cutoff'
worn over the top of it. I spent hours and hours on that logo
copying from a record cover, painting Dulux gloss white with a
fine paintbrush, freehand onto the fabric. Studs and various
other badges adorned the lapels and this was what I would go out
wearing! In my innocence I knew nothing of the significance and
danger of wearing such clothes. It just made me feel ok.
The pub we were in on this particular evening was I believe
called the 'Beaufort' in Downend, Bristol. I was there with
others, which included a distant relative of about my age. As
usual I felt awkward and insecure when encountering what I
thought were unfriendly stares from a couple of the local 'hard
nuts' but had started to learn to accept it as part of pub
culture. Around closing time my cousin and I left the bar and
went outside to begin our walk home in the darkness. All I
remember now is that quite unexpectedly I found myself lying on
the hard, cold asphalt of the gutter with kicks and punches being
directed at my head by the 'hard nuts'. Quite understandably ( I
would have done the same if I'd seen them coming ) my companion
had run away in terror. Eventually, satisfied I wasn't moving, my
punishment was ended and I was left to lick my wounds. Somehow I
picked myself up and managed to walk the mile or so home to wash
away some of the blood and go to the safety of my bed.
Sheepishly appearing in the
kitchen the next morning all swollen and bruised and unwell with
swallowed blood, my mother was startled and called my father in
from the garage. I'm sure I was fearful of the consequences but
my father was insistent that the police HAD to be called.
Statements were made and photographs were taken for evidence. I
had to go to hospital to have my broken nose examined but no
treatment was deemed necessary.
Eventually the case was heard at the Staple Hill magistrates'
court. I had to go, dressed in all my best clothes, and face the
men who had done this to me. There was no defense and they were
found guilty of assault and were fined.
I was awarded a small sum as compensation but it was a small sum
even then and is laughable when I consider that my whole life
ever since has been moulded by the experience.
I live in constant fear of a repeat, even now!
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