Читать книгу It’s Not What You Think - Chris Evans - Страница 14

10 Mr Warburton, the school caretaker, who looked like he’d been cast from Grange Hill. He was perfect: brown overall, flat cap, pipe, black plastic specs, the works

9 Mr Antrobus, our headmaster saying, ‘If you can’t say anything good about a person don’t say anything at all’

8 Going swimming once a week on a big red Routemaster bus, never having enough time to get dried properly afterwards and wondering how come the other kids didn’t seem to have this problem—did they have special quick drying skin?

7 The hot chocolate from the vending machine after swimming

6 The first day I told my dad it would probably be a good idea if he stopped kissing me goodbye outside the school gates when he dropped me off

5 Making plasticine puppets that took me ages to produce and then performing a play with them on a stage constructed out of a crisp box (they’d fall to pieces before the end of the first page of dialogue)

4 The kid who thought it was hilarious to defecate anywhere but in the toilet cubicles—his tour de force was to do it in the pool when we were swimming

3 Competitions to see who could keep their hand on the hot radiators longest

2 Amanda, my first kiss

1 My packed lunch

School is in many ways the beginning of those shark-infested waters we call real life—when people, young innocent children in this instance, are hauled out of the utopia that is the family unit, hopefully full of love and warmth and protection, to be thrust instead into a whole other world where they are instantly told what they are and are not good at, who’s better than them and why they need to change immediately.

What a particularly stupid idea. Within days, the humiliation begins. There are sports team selections that you do or don’t make, the latter always being the case where I was concerned. Immediately you’re made to

feel like a loser and maybe, like me, then start to consider the rounders team as an option as long as it means you might get picked.

Then there’s the endless giving out of gold and silver stars and house points and merits and the ticks and the crosses and all manner of other things that start suddenly coming at you. All designed to let you know whether you are currently a chump or a champ—so many things that can cause a kid to become paralysed as the first pangs of the fear of failure begin to set in. How many self-help books have been written on the selfsame subject? Yet it’s something that’s bred into us almost from the word go. And how about the poor kids who never get a mention?

How often do we hear of a professional sportsman who suffers career-threatening dips in confidence because of a run of poor results? Think about the poor little kiddies peeing their pants waiting for the humiliation of another set of spelling test results.

Then there’s the social aspect of the pecking order, evident nowhere more than at lunchtime.

 There’s the kids that go home for lunch—does this mean their parents love them more than yours love you?

 The kids that bring packed lunches—does this mean their folks can’t afford school dinners?

 The kids who receive free school dinners—surely this should be kept a secret?!

 The kids who go back for seconds—is this the only meal of the day they’re getting?

 The kids whose mum is a dinner lady and get extra chips as a result. (Not that we ever had chips at our school, not once—we had scooped mash that tasted strange, nothing resembling any other mash I’ve tasted before or since!)

For the record I was a packed-lunch child, not for any other reason than that I didn’t like school dinners. My packed lunch was without doubt the pinnacle of my school day, it truly was manna from heaven and the thought of it was one of the few things that kept me going through the interminable hours that made up my morning lessons. Cold toast was included for break, an item of fruit, a choccie bar, usually a Breakaway but sometimes a Kit-Kat, a Blue Riband or a Penguin, a flask of soup* and the unquestionable stars of the show: two pasties for lunch that Mum had cooked from frozen in the morning and then opened up so she could fill them with ketchup before resealing them again. Absolutely mouthwatering.

*My flask was always under great threat as we used our bags for goalposts when playing footy at break or lunchtime—during which, if the ball happened to hit the post (i.e. pile of bags) hard enough, this would be heralded with the sound of several flasks simultaneously smashing from within. The only thing left to do with a flask after such a catastrophe was use it as a maraca for the rest of the day before getting shouted at when you arrived home.