Here is a story from my teenage years about PE, boys, rugby, rebellion, pride, and the surprising* amount of power one young man's writing had** to strike a blow against brutal oppression

* to me
** none whatsoever

Back in 1983 or so I was obliged to play rugby at school, a 'game' in which the object is to get an ovoid ball over a line; you are not only allowed but expected to drag other boys howling into the freezing mud in pursuit of this worthy end

Occasionally the game will involve making a sort of bouquet of sweaty interlocking boys. This is called a 'scrum' and involves heads shoved between heads, then heads between arses and so forth, and is done on purpose

In the middle of this testosterone shoggoth is one unfortunate lad who is called the 'hooker' and whose job it is to 'hook' the ball with his leg & propel it backwards before his teammates crush him to death.

Anyhow one bitter morning as we trooped out on to the field, squinting from lack of spectacles in my case, icy puddles splintering under our boots, I was assigned the role of hooker by a PE teacher I shall refer to here as Psycho Bastard

At the cry of 'scrum down' I was sandwiched between two gentlemen who were built like fridges, whereas I was built like the sort of thing that scuttles under a fridge, lays its eggs there, and dies

The ball appeared. My leg made a valiant attempt to 'hook' it and immediately failed, owing to a multitude of other legs kicking the shit out of my one leg. Luckily I began to suffocate at this point so I barely noticed.

(cue 45 minute slow motion montage of me being alternately crushed, trampled, tripped and sent flying while Enya sings a melancholy lay in the background)

As I stood bowed but unbloody amid the carnage I thought 'this is wrong, this is unjust, this is torture, I am damn well going to write about this' and come the next English lesson this is exactly what I did.

The essay was called 'The Games Lesson' and a miserable, melodramatic but heartfelt little screed it was. Though the original was burnt years ago I still remember writing how our teachers 'led us out like lambs to the slaughter' and thinking 'this will show them!'

The teacher read it aloud. The class laughed. Instead of my exercise book being given back, it was taken to the staffroom.

I was later told it had become 'obligatory reading for the PE staff'. Innocent that I was, I thought this meant that they had learned their lesson.

Next PE lesson I am greeted by Psycho Bastard wearing a huge hairy grin.

'Bott, you can be hooker again this week. Seeing as you like it so much.'

-fin-