His name was (redacted) J will suffice. "Sir” to the likes of us "oiks".
He is dead now, a couple of years ago, I read his obituary, I smiled.
I passed my 11+, back in the day when education was not like it is today. You came first you were a winner; you came second you were the first loser. Nothing more to be said.
All the boys in the school had a winkle, (communal showers after games); across the road in the all girls grammar school the girls had something different, though as a naive 12 yr old I had not got a clue what! That was to be discovered.
The masters in my all boys grammar school still wore flowing black gowns. It was strict, very strict,. Teachers earned respect and it was returned, if one was seen as worthy. Discipline was strict, lines lines and more lines for simple misdemeanours. The cane for more serious wrong doings.
I guess for the first year or so I towed the line, a goody two shoes; then came the summer holidays and I found girls, fags and rock music.
September soon came around and the Michaelmas term started. J, “Sir” to you boy”, was our art master, and he expected us all to be able to draw to a certain standard, ( I could and still can fuck up painting by numbers). Jesus H Christ on a bike, then came calligraphy.
Fuck that was completely over my head.
He though, would enthuse ecstatically as he took chalk to the blackboard describing each swoosh and swash with great vigour and energy.
My mind would constantly be wandering to - ( yes, I mean YESSSSSS, I got there in that long hot summer of 69) - boobies...and more, Oh my days! NO WINKLE.
C'mon..... it was the 60's when the world was a better place to be, we were more relaxed, more liberated. We lived life to the full, no wokery no PC bollocks. Boys and girls doing what boys and girls do.
“Boy, (names hidden to protect the innocent, as I am, when I last checked still alive), I think the words useless and spider on page were in the monologue somewhere.
Fuck me I needed a ciggie.
Do you dear reader know how long it takes to write out 100 lines in ones' best copper plate script? That’s my weekend pointlessly ruined then. Twat.
Thank fuck at the end of the second year I was able to drop art for something more suited to my style. I was soon to enjoy the clang and bang of hammers on steel as I fell in love with what was simply called “metalwork”. This was a suitable companion to my classes in “woodwork” and “tech. drawing”.
Anyways, as mentioned discipline was strict, rules mostly were stupid. Always walk on the left in corridors, always give way to masters and prefects. No one under the 6th form allowed off the school premises. Rules are there to be bent; fuck it rules were there to be broken.
It was like escaping Colditz; but where there is a will there is a way. I had a will and several ways, regularly put to good use. Lunchtimes often dine and dashing at the pebble fish and chip shop, god that was so easy ( maybe another time I will tell), shop lifting to order at Woolworth.
Or just popping to Jackie Issac’s , a jewish peddler who would sell one woodbine and a match for 1d in old money, then a quick visit to the fence at the girl’s grammar to hang around, and look cool with a fag hanging out of my mouth, like some lustful film star.
“You, boy. yes you, put that cigarette out, my study after school”
Fuck me ! I exclaimed as J drove off in his fucking maroon Austin Allegro.
Unlike in an English court of law where you plead your case before a judge and jury, school punishment was immediate. Whilst fucking about with his piece of chalk and getting a hard on over copper plate he was no doubt thinking of what should be done with yours truly.
“Fuck it, its only the whack” I mentioned to my mates.
“ Yes, but it is what he does before hand ya got to watch for, creepy bastard” was the consensus of opinion.
Apparently once his victim was bent over he would “check” to make sure that there was no pain reducing book stuffed down the back of ones trousers.
My thoughts were to risk getting expelled for punching his teeth out if he tried that on me, then facing a fate worse than death.......the wrath of my parents, or just accept it and move on.
J, apart from his over powering love of art was also crazy about golf and fly fishing, he had a good swing. Shit that stung, it stung twice, one for smoking, one for being off the school grounds without permission. and the fucking nonce enjoyed stroking my ass before hand.
Apart from letting his tyres down several times over the next couple of years, I never felt I got even.
School ,College, University and work into the real world I went.
Fast forward to 2014.
Myself and Dianne my squeeze at the time were enjoying cruising, well her more than me ,( too sterile and false bonhomie for my tastes), we were a few days in and were disembarking in Naples.
You are fucking kidding me? He still had that longish lank thin hair, stupid little moustache atop that supercilious smug grin.
Now in his 70’s I guess, looking remarkably fit for his age. Must be all that golf and fishing, as obviously his noncing days are long gone.
Oh my good god almighty, the evil voices in my head came up with a perfect plan, one chance that is all I had one chance I had to take, and take it I would.
The driver’s shindig, or as Di pointed out to me, the Captain’s cocktail party.
I fucking hate getting dressed up like a right stuffed shirt at the best of times, nowt wrong with shorts and a tee shirt and comfy crocs but, give and take I guess makes a relationship work.
Di an unsuspecting partner in crime played right into my hands, spa and makeover booked in early doors, got us down to the bar in plenty of time to watch the ( unable to decide an apt noun here, let's go..... wankers?) in their Moss Bros hired DJ’s queue up patiently with their ladies to get their photo taken against a fake background of marble stair cases and gold leaf bannisters before going to meet the driver, shake his hand, for another snap, another treasured memory.
God it is no wonder I detest cruising.
We waited, and waited, patience is a virtue and all good things come to those that wait.
‘“When did you start drinking red wine socially then?” asked Di as we nonchalantly joined the queue for the photographer.
“Time and a place for everything my sweet” I replied as she took my arm and we followed the couple in front of us.
You see...... I can walk miles in my crocs without any problem, but put me in a pair of lace up formal shoes and well anything can happen.
What was once a pristine white DJ was soon a bright red in places, slightly more pink at the edges if the truth be told.
Oops! silly me, maybe I should have been holding my glass more firmly, one never knows what will happen when one trips over.
J knows.
Oh yes, he fucking knows.
Vengeance is a dish best served cold
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