Hello again. Last time I took you on a meandering path through my early childhood, so tonight we get hot and steamy with the sordid tales of my teenage years. People of a nervous disposition should look away now...
My time at Townhill Primary came to it's logical conclusion, and my move from primary, to secondary education, courtesy of the teachers and fellow pupils of Queen Anne High School. It was like being ripped from the comfort zone which was the familiarity of primary, and thrust, wide eyed and restless into the shark pool of high school - at least that's how it seemed at the time. So indoctrinated were we of tales of never ending bullying and brutality, that we took to travelling in packs, the Townhill people in one pack, those from Commercial Primary in another, and so on for all the feeder schools which populated QAHS. I remember bits of my first day, we were herded to the assembly hall, where we were given an introduction by, I think the rector, but can't be 100% sure, anyway, we had already been assigned houses and classes, and I found myself in class 1C2, in the house of Carnegie. We were rounded up by the person who would become our registration teacher (the name of mine escapes me, she was a woman, or so it was alleged) and like the proverbial lambs to the slaughter, out we trooped. Still, the ties to our primary schools abounded over all else, and our troupe of reprobates still found itself factioned by primary school. All old grudges or vendettas were instantly forgotten as you bound yourself with familiarity in the shape of people from your old primary. It would take a while for the barriers to come down, but slowly, they would.
I actually don't remember much of my first year at high school. There was so much to take on, gone was the cosy environment you were used to, in it's place was a bewildering array of classes, rooms, teachers, protocols, we were shunted from pillar to post. Maths, English, Music, Languages (in my case German), Classics, History, Modern Studies, Geography, Chemistry, Biology and Physics. Throw in the odd class here and there of SHE (Social and Health Education - I still don't know what the point of that was), Domestic Science (where I learned to bake an apple crumble), Technical Drawing (where I learned that even with a ruler, I could be trusted to draw a straight line), Woodwork and Metalwork (I still can't believe they let me loose with power tools), one class per week of Religious Education, and of course, gym. Gym was a particular brand of misery for me, for the sports I enjoyed (and showed at least some degree of competence at) were those which weren't 'cool', in other words, I didn't like football. I didn't mind watching football, but unlike my father (who in his younger days was semi-professional) and my elder brother (who played for well known Junior teams), my footballing prowess was... well, non existent. I liked racquet sports (tennis particularly), I wasn't bad a cricket (I remember cracking someone's ribs with a well aimed full toss once), I had enough size on my side to be fairly reasonable at rugby, I was pretty good at hockey, but that was pretty much it. Track and field bored me, my absolute lack of ability at basketball was matched only by lack of ability at football and at Queen Anne, basketball and football were the two dominant sports. So, it came to pass that I was never one of the 'cool' kids, but I actually found that I was ok with that. I had some friends who were in the cool group, but I was always on the periphery, hanging around like a fart in an elevator.
The big changes in my life, however, were starting to manifest themselves outside of school. By the time the summer holidays at the end of first year had some and gone, and I was a world weary 2nd year (Still in C2, but now prefixed by the all important '2' - I wasn't one of the new kids on the block any more!) returning to school, I found myself paying more and more attention to the girls in my class, for lo, the interesting bumps they had betwixt their neck and navel were starting to demand attention.
There was a reason for this. For, during that summer, I became familiar with a rite of passage known to boys since time immemorial. Any gentlemen reading this will find themselves nodding sagely, with a wistful look on their face, as they too recount the first time they learned of the particular pleasure which can be found from 'relaxing in the gentleman's way'. As there is no delicate way of describing this part of my life, I shall just barge on like a bull in a china shop. Yes folks, you have guessed. That summer, my left hand stopped being just the thing I wrote with, and became my self-contained portal into the world of shaking hands with the unemployed. Before long, it appeared that there was almost nothing on earth which was incapable of causing some degree of urge from the nether regions. All of a sudden whoever it was who decided that 'Page 3' was a good idea was essentially worshipped. It didn't take much to act as a starting gun for another bout of hand to gland combat. I'm pretty much convinced that my parents were on the verge of sending me to the hospital, I spent so long in the bathroom I suspect they were worried I had dysentery. All of a sudden, school became an exercise in trying not to walk around all day with a semi, lest your school trousers (the fashion of the day demanded that they be fairly tight of leg and snug of groin) act as a sanding pad against the old soldier. What made it worse for me, was that my English teacher was the legendary Mrs Riddell. Mrs Riddell was, it was widely agreed, a looker. One of my memories from 2nd year English was overhearing some construction workers as they passed my classroom, ogling at teacher from outside, when one was heard to utter "she's a f**king stunner eh, she'd get it". The classroom went silent, Mrs Riddell went scarlet and all the boys in the room I think crossed their legs as if controlled by some Pavlovian instinct, whilst all the girls narrowed their eyes and looked accusingly at whatever boy they had a crush on. Being a competitive soul, even with myself, eventually I decided to see how many times in one day I could crack one off. I'm not going to lie, it hurt, but, in true Mastermind style, I'd started so I was going to finish. By the time I did, my left arm was cramping, my heart was racing, my nether regions were howling in distress, but I had managed it.
I was still at high school (just) when I had my first proper encounter with an actual living, breathing girl, as opposed to the underwear section of the Kays catalogue. I won't reveal the (un)lucky girl's actual name, let's call her Jemima, but she was my first real girlfriend, and my first physical encounter of the interesting kind. We were both of the age where experimentation gets the better of you (although as it turned out, Jemima had been more experimental than I was - I wasn't the only one grateful for her existance!). I remember the event with startling clarity, what was on the tape she put on (a mixture of Black Sabbath and AC/DC), the day of the week (it was a Saturday), although the actual date escapes me. Anyway, we had been going out for what was essentially forever (i.e., more than a fortnight) and we had kissed, I'd given her boobs a few nervous fondles, and we were in her house, everyone else was out, we got to kissing and then she started to divest herself of clothing. Again, not going to lie, this actually confused me, I remember it being a warm day, but even so... Eventually, she took pity on me and more or less commanded that I too make my birthday suit the Mode de Jour. She presciently ascertained that I'd never done this before (I'm not sure how, although I think the mixture of lust, confusion and blind panic in my eyes may have something to do with it) and so pushed my back on the bed and more or less just jumped on top of me. I will be forever grateful that she did for, if I'm being honest, I wasn't really sure what the hell I was meant to be doing. I'm sure if you ask any of my exes, they will say that not much has changed!! At least then I had the excuse of being 16 (as was she, so it was all legal!). Anyway, as it finally dawned on me that I was actually doing IT, twanging the one string bass suddenly became the second best thing I could do, and second by a long distance. It was all I could do not to sing out loud. I clearly remember afterwards wondering "ok, so what do I do now..." I wasn't sure if I asked for feedback, tips on how to do it better, did I ask her to give me a score, I was utterly ignorant of post coital protocol. I think I said something like "wwwuuuuuhhhh.. Uuuuuuhhhhhhh. Crikey. Phhhhhhhhhhhhh.. wow... ". What can I say, I've always had a way with words.
Of course, I was now convinced that I was a ladykiller of the highest degree, second only to James Bond (and even then, only just second). If only I knew that I was about to embark on what can only be called "a bit of a dry spell".
Tune in again tomorrow for part 3, where our hero completes high school, eventually gets a girlfriend and learns that consuming too much alcohol and vomiting all over your friend is, for some inexplicable reason, frowned upon!
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