85. 04.04.2012 35 years ago Wednesday afternoons were always like today’s Wednesday afternoon. Bloody cold, wet, windy with the bitterness of Siberia thrown into the mix. They used to fill me with dread and horror. It was the worst time of the week and even now the thought of it makes me shiver with horror. Outside PE.
We had two PEs each week, one was inside in the assembly hall with a strict dress code of blue knickers, shorts, white vests and pumps – not trainers, but pumps. Trainers hadn’t been invented for children back then. Green rubber mats that smelled of fish, wee-wee, or damp caravans depending on which one you got, were dragged out of the sports cupboard, benches were turned upside down and balancing techniques were practised. Shins were skinned on the horse, crotches were burned sliding down the ropes and shimmying up and down ropes and bean bags were thrown into rings. And each other. The best bit was when Mr Haddock was in a good mood and let us play pirates. These days such danger filled potentially lethal games are a thing of the past on account of health and safety bollocks.
There was also another thing called mime and movement. The fishy mats were dragged out again and the big speaker with a radio in it was plugged in and a woman encouraged us to pretend we were trees in the winter, or dying swans or a dripping tap or a leaking colostomy bag and my all time favourite, an electric current.
However it was the outside PE on a Wednesday afternoon that I still regularly discuss with my psychologist. It was called PE but it basically meant football practise on the muddiest side of the pitch with corner flags for goals. What exactly we were practising for bugger only knows and if anything the only practise we ever came close to was as a target as Mr Haddock viciously kicked balls at chapped and red thighs, or deliberately pushed you over in a pool of mud.
Even in the middle of summer, there would still be puddles of water with ice on them. The school playing field was a micro-climate and even in the hottest summer ever recorded in 1976, the last year before I went to the big school shards of ice stuck up like glass in concrete on the wall behind the corner shop. Ice that was so sharp it could at worst amputate a leg (fact) and at best circumcise your willy regardless of creed or religion (fear)
I hated it with a passion and spent most of my time as far away from the ball as possible whilst Mr Haddock shouted at me for being a pansy. There was no way out of it. Forgetting your shorts was something you did only once, the dreaded spare kit box was never far away and just like the crash mats the contents smelled of fish, wee-wee, or damp caravans with stains to suggest far worse.
I am left handed and also left footed. Mr Haddock, the monster with a beard, insisted I kick the ball with my right foot. I couldn’t. So whenever the ball did manage to find me, instinctively my left foot would shoot out but then fear of a clip around the ear hole from Mr Haddock would have my right foot moving forward as well as my gangling arms hung down by knees. Years before Michael Flatley invented the Riverdance, I was doing it on Wednesday afternoons. I was well into my thirties before I discovered that I could actually kick a ball with my left foot and it would vaguely go in the direction I wanted it to.
Anyhow, I took this picture last night as I popped out to the shop for an emergency Turkish Delight. And bear in mind how bitter it was last night and how ships were being thrown on to rocks and sleet and snow was falling. And they actually do this for their pleasure!
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