not really into whatâs going on right now: computer games for a start, Play Stations, Xboxes, Facebook, My Space, Twitter, downloading ringtones, getting all the cool apps for whatever phone is in vogue. All that crap. Iâm old school in my new school. I watch films, read books, listen to music, play my guitar. Nothing special.
I used to play rugby at my old school, you had no choice really, but I wouldnât say I was, like, Mr Sports Fan, either. I appreciated that I may not have been the life and soul for other lads my age. I wasnât appealing. People wouldnât clamber to be around my sharp and witty diatribes. Iâm not good friend material.
The place was like a town in itself. A maze of corridors and doors. I was lost. I flicked on the iPod and searched for Meat is Murder , I blasted The Headmasterâs Ritual into my ear. How apt, I thought. I plonked myself in a secure spot in the schoolâs foyer and took in my new surroundings. Were the students in this place of learning that different from those in my last school? Actually, yes they were. For starters they had girls here. Lots of girls. Now, I wouldnât say that on first glance the school was undisciplined but a quick scan of what was before me unearthed puerile scurrying, hostile harrying, pushing and shoving, the odd spit, dead arms, slaps on the head, vocal vandalism and bag throwing. In my last school, there was an eerie hush at this time in the morning; all students were expected to walk in the one direction down the halls and corridors. Military style. Dead Poetsâ Society style. Draconian style. Uniforms were immaculately worn. Collars starched. Trousers pressed. However, I much preferred the dress code here. I liked that many students had artistically altered the original, it said a lot about the place. The people. Although saying that, many didnât wear a uniform, favouring instead the uniform of the chav: the tracksuit and hat amalgamation. Abomination. The more self-aware stylishly tucking their tracky bottoms into their white socksâ¦nice. Maybe Iâd alter my uniform too. Maybe Iâd go crazy and undo my top button or something more radical like turn my tie around to the thin side. What an iconoclast! Hold on to your seats.
Then there were the conspicuous groupings: geeks, rockers, goths, Kaiser Chiefsâ f ans (and groups of a similar ilk), Topman/Topshop/H&M/River Island clones, etc. etc. I sat there thinking what grouping this school would thrust me into; whoâd label me first. For sure, I wanted to be in a minority group. A minority group of one: the English Geezer Group. I suspected the word âgeezerâ was a no-no however. The English Twat Group. That sounded like a good group to me. How many folk listened to The Smiths in this school? How many people knew who they actually were?
I had never seen so many girls in the one place, not all at the same time anyway. Especially this time on a Monday morning, with an intriguing array of styles and sizesâ¦and attractiveness. I didnât consider myself unattractive, nor particularly attractive for that matter, but being new in a school did have a certain weight of allure about it. Perhaps the accent could weave its way into some girlâs heart. Or more. After all, I had to concentrate on the positives. Plural.
School
I never know how many steps you should take, or how many seconds to count in your head, before you turn around to look at someone passing you by. The last thing you want to do is to turn at the same time and catch each otherâs eye. You want to avoid that awkward pause, which seems to last an eternity, before you flick your eyes off to something else, a place so incongruous to the reason for turning around in the first place. As much as I wanted to, I didnât turn around. I gazed from a distance. Stared from the security of a class back seat. Gawked behind a sandwich in the canteen. Each day was an exercise in
I used to play rugby at my old school, you had no choice really, but I wouldnât say I was, like, Mr Sports Fan, either. I appreciated that I may not have been the life and soul for other lads my age. I wasnât appealing. People wouldnât clamber to be around my sharp and witty diatribes. Iâm not good friend material.
The place was like a town in itself. A maze of corridors and doors. I was lost. I flicked on the iPod and searched for Meat is Murder , I blasted The Headmasterâs Ritual into my ear. How apt, I thought. I plonked myself in a secure spot in the schoolâs foyer and took in my new surroundings. Were the students in this place of learning that different from those in my last school? Actually, yes they were. For starters they had girls here. Lots of girls. Now, I wouldnât say that on first glance the school was undisciplined but a quick scan of what was before me unearthed puerile scurrying, hostile harrying, pushing and shoving, the odd spit, dead arms, slaps on the head, vocal vandalism and bag throwing. In my last school, there was an eerie hush at this time in the morning; all students were expected to walk in the one direction down the halls and corridors. Military style. Dead Poetsâ Society style. Draconian style. Uniforms were immaculately worn. Collars starched. Trousers pressed. However, I much preferred the dress code here. I liked that many students had artistically altered the original, it said a lot about the place. The people. Although saying that, many didnât wear a uniform, favouring instead the uniform of the chav: the tracksuit and hat amalgamation. Abomination. The more self-aware stylishly tucking their tracky bottoms into their white socksâ¦nice. Maybe Iâd alter my uniform too. Maybe Iâd go crazy and undo my top button or something more radical like turn my tie around to the thin side. What an iconoclast! Hold on to your seats.
Then there were the conspicuous groupings: geeks, rockers, goths, Kaiser Chiefsâ f ans (and groups of a similar ilk), Topman/Topshop/H&M/River Island clones, etc. etc. I sat there thinking what grouping this school would thrust me into; whoâd label me first. For sure, I wanted to be in a minority group. A minority group of one: the English Geezer Group. I suspected the word âgeezerâ was a no-no however. The English Twat Group. That sounded like a good group to me. How many folk listened to The Smiths in this school? How many people knew who they actually were?
I had never seen so many girls in the one place, not all at the same time anyway. Especially this time on a Monday morning, with an intriguing array of styles and sizesâ¦and attractiveness. I didnât consider myself unattractive, nor particularly attractive for that matter, but being new in a school did have a certain weight of allure about it. Perhaps the accent could weave its way into some girlâs heart. Or more. After all, I had to concentrate on the positives. Plural.
School
I never know how many steps you should take, or how many seconds to count in your head, before you turn around to look at someone passing you by. The last thing you want to do is to turn at the same time and catch each otherâs eye. You want to avoid that awkward pause, which seems to last an eternity, before you flick your eyes off to something else, a place so incongruous to the reason for turning around in the first place. As much as I wanted to, I didnât turn around. I gazed from a distance. Stared from the security of a class back seat. Gawked behind a sandwich in the canteen. Each day was an exercise in
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