For some reason this week I have been thinking about bullying (the subject I mean. I haven't been going out and trying to duff up little kids if they won't give me their pocket money. But now I've had that idea, I might start).
There is no doubting that bullies are cowards and are attempting to make up for some shortfall in themselves by attempting to make someone else's life a misery. I can be sure of this because like most people I have experience of both being bullied and being a bully. I think I was pretty horrible to Clifford Hart in Upper School and I am sorry about that Cliff if you're reading.
Even though my dad was the headmaster in that school I was surprisingly (or maybe not surprisingly) not bullied all that much.
At Middle School I did get the odd bit of hassle, but then I think we all did.
I didn't get into many fights though, in fact I can only think of two. And funnily enough they both involved people from the same family, the Fords.
The first fight was with Theresa Ford. Now, that may sound bad, but I think she started it and you have to remember that at this point I was maybe 9 and she was 11 and she was thus physically my superior.
She won easily.
All I really recall (apart from the crowd gathering round and shouting "Fight! Fight!") is that she hit me in the nose. I felt liquid coming down my face and thought she'd given me a nose bleed, which in my eyes meant she'd won. I probably cried. A dinner lady came to break it up and then led me to the toilets to clean me up. I remember feeling quite proud about my bloody nose, especially when the other kids in the playground made urghing sounds of disgust and turned away from the spectacle. Even though I'd lost the appearance of blood was like a badge of honour. I was quite the little hard man.
It was only when I got to the toilets and looked in the mirror that I saw that what I thought was blood was in fact a long trail of snot, that had for some reason poured out of my nostril in surprise. The dinner lady cleaned me up. I was utterly humiliated.
The other "fight" involved Stephen Ford, Theresa's younger brother and took place a couple of years later. I put fight in inverted commas because, perhaps learning from my failure to land a punch on Theresa (and out of incompetence rather than because I was a gentlemen) in this case I made no attempt to join in.
Stephen Ford had targetted me as someone who deserved to be beaten up. I can't remember the exact reasons.
Although my mum was an occasional teacher at this school, I don't think this was an issue. Stephen Ford was one of the gang of hard lads and I was one of the swotty top set clever clever boys. I think this was justification enough for his otherwise unprovoked attack.
We were on the school playground and I was innocently walking around with my friend, when Stephen Ford ran at me from behind, then jumped up and gave me a tremendous flying kick in the back.
This time I retained my dignity and my snot and carried on walking, trying to pretend that nothing had happened. This behaviour aggrivated Ford even more. He dad another run up, leapt and kung fu kicked me in the spine. I can't say this didn't hurt, because it really did. But I wasn't going to be beaten by him. "What was that?" I asked in a loud voice, so that Stephen and his gawping cronies could all hear. "Did a fly land on my back?"
I have to say I am pretty impressed with my coolness even today. Stephen wasn't though. He was enraged. He took a longer run up and again lunged at me, even harder than before.
Still I retained my composure, despite the pain of the assault. "There he is again, I think. I'm not sure if I felt anything or not."
This violent pantomime continued for maybe five or six more kicks. But I refused to rise to his bait. I didn't turn and fight, I didn't fall down and cry. I just carried on walking around.
I don't think it would be hyperbole to say that what I was doing was more impressive than anything Ghandi ever achieved with similar tactics.
Eventually Stephen Ford gave up. Despite all his efforts I had remained totally unaffected. He left with his gang to find someone else to torment. Someone who would give him the satisfaction of squealing like a baby, or bleeding, or at least have a string of bogies coming out their nasal passage. He had been defeated. I had won.
The shock of what had happened hit me. I went over to a grassy bank and sat down with my friend and finally I cried the tears that I had pent up for all this time.
Later Paul "Tom" Cambridge who was the hard boy in our tutor group and who was in Ford's gang (though he was reasonable and kind hearted as well as hard. He followed a code. I remember on another occasion I did a big spit on the floor outside and left it there and he chided me saying "Come on, you can't just spit. You have to smear it into the floor with your shoe. Even us hard lads do that." There was honour and fair play amongst the hard lads of Fairlands in those days), came up to me and said, "The lads were very impressed with the way you stood up to Fordy today. That was very brave. You did well..... but you still went off and cried on the bank afterwards didn't you? We all saw."
So even though it had been a moral victory, after all that, I had spoiled it by showing my weakness. That's all they had wanted. To feel better about themselves by causing pain and humiliation to another.
And looking back at those ten and eleven year old boys now I can guess that they had plenty of reason to want it to be someone else who was miserable for a few moments. I was unbelievably lucky and they didn't have half the breaks I had got. They were all clever enough to know how far my ability to do well at exams would get me.
I am glad that I didn't totally deny Stephen Ford his victory.
But evenso, because I hadn't let it get to me in the most part I did achieve a certain degree of respect from those boys that day. I don't think any of them ever bullied me again.
Maybe if Clifford Hart had had the balls to stand up to me and tell me to fuck off when I verbally abused him years later, then I too would have been defeated. But Clifford Hart was never going to stand up to anyone. And that's the only reason I felt safe in carrying on with my hilarious and never ending greeting to him of "Clifford Fart".
I wonder who Clifford bullied in return.
Funnily enough the main time I ever got bullied was actually at college, where the blokes in the bar took a (not totally unreasonable) dislike to me in the first term, because I was a bit loud and dressed in kipper ties and loud jackets. It was a horrible, lonely first term and they sensed my weakness and would make a hilarious sort of chicken bucking noise every time I walked into the bar.
I eventually began responding by making a sheep baa-ing noise every time one of them did it to me. I'd rather be an individual annoying idiot (and they were right, I really was, but even so) chicken, than an exact-same hair cut and sweater as your friends sheep any day.
I can't say that the bullying didn't occasionally get to me, but I didn't let them intimidate me. Even though there were lots of them and they were strong sporty types again I didn't run away.
Most of them stopped quite quickly. One of them, a bloke called Tom was too stupid to notice that the game was over. I remember him doing the chicken noise to me once in a pub in the third year. I went quite close to his face and shouted "Baaaa" at him. He looked a bit freaked out.
That was the last time he did that too.
I suppose you never lose the sensitivity and the rawness that an unpleasant comment can bring to you. Occasionally things will still get to you and however much you hold things together in public, you occasionally have to go and sit on the grassy bank and cry.
But having experienced two years as a quite bad stand up comedian doing open spots in the early 90s it would be hard to have anything that was more humiliating and upsetting and yet strangely exhilirating as the barracking of a room full of strangers who hate you for no good reason.
But at least I never snotted all over the stage.
And boy do I know the pleasure of standing up to that crowd and carrying on doing what you were doing however much they disapprove.
Eventually they go away and look for someone else to harrass.
Eventually they begin to look in on themselves and work out what deficiency in them made them want to make someone else unhappy.
Then one day in a distant future, when the object of their cruelty might well have forgotten the whole thing ever happened, and when it is much too late, they apologise.
Sorry Clifford.
