The hardest kid in the second year (October half term 1973)

The hardest kid in the second year (October half term 1973)

Back in the days of penny for the Guy;

An old tradition, from times obsolete;

Packets of Bensons and bangers we’d buy,

To smoke in the park and throw in the street;

And if a shopkeeper doubtful became,

We’d tell him a lie, give a false name;

Though scarce were the times, a sale was refused;

Corner shopkeepers rarely accused

Children of lying; the rule seemed to be,

As long as you told them, “They’re for my dad”,

You’d likely be served with no problems had,

And besides; there was no CCTV.

Basically, twelve year olds, told a white lie,

And corner shopkeepers turned a blind eye.

I had Leo Sayer type afro-hair;

I wore a tank top, a wide collared shirt,

Two-tone trousers, approaching threadbare,

Clumpy shoes that were starting to hurt,

A BHS Parka, I longed to outgrow,

And a knitted scarf that needed to go.

I wanted to be a fashionable peer,

But mum wouldn’t buy me outlandish gear;

Bowie haircuts were then all the rage;

He was at the peak of his Ziggy stage;

And glam-rock was the order of the day:

T Rex, Slade, David Bowie, The Sweet,

And my top-ten list would be incomplete

Minus Gary Glitter, I’m sorry to say;

None of us knew that he was a nonce,

Though, on reflection, he dressed like a ponce.

Such was the epoch in ‘seventy three,

As seen through the eyes of my pre-teen self;

Joining the EU meant nothing to me,

The IRA never damaged my health,

Power-cut threats bothered me not at all,

Miner's strikes are beyond my recall,

And anything else in that history,

Is as it was then; a mystery.

Thank God then for Wikipedia;

Indebted to it I am for this verse,

Which I’ve included for better or worse;

A miniature encyclopaedia,

Providing, I hope, a backdrop for you;

Albeit vague, in my twelve year old view.

But to return to the topic in hand:

It was a cold, autumnal break;

My friends and I had nothing planned,

Beyond mischief, performed for its own sake,

And on that fateful day on the estate,

There was Michael G, my very best mate,

Tony D, his older, brother, Gary,

Roy R, Larry D, yours truly; Barry;

And last but not least, there was Malcom T,

Whose presence that day, was no small thing,

For Malcom was nothing less than a king,

Gracing our humble assembly;

Him being known as someone to fear;

The hardest kid in the second year.

With no fireworks, and not much to do,

We loitered in the street for a while,

And Michael, combining bamboo with poo,

Surprised us with a random projectile,

Which he, via the end of the cane,

Sent flying toward a window pane

Where it landed with a comical thud,

Resulting in another piece of arse-mud

Landing on the window, already hit;

Hence, upon having found a new game;

We wandered, intent on more of the same;

The same, being christened “Flickashit”,

And many a flick that morning occurred;

The streets being paved with plenteous turd.

But, as all good things come to an end,

So it proved true on that fateful day;

In all the excitement, my dear friend,

Michael, boisterously carried away,

Gathered more excrement on a stick,

Anticipating another flick,

Too hastily turned, and as he rose,

The stick-end collided with Malcom’s nose,

And though Michael froze, still he let slip

A grin, and we were all grinning too,

But, evidently not sharing our view,

Malcom, with dog shit on his nose tip,

Looked at Michael, fair menacingly,

And coldly ordered him: “Get it off me”,

Upon which, Michael, in fear of the wroth,

Of Malcom fumbled around and found

A slightly damp looking, torn old cloth,

And, nobody uttered a word or sound,

As at arm’s length, he wiped Malcom clean,

Or at least till dog-shit couldn’t be seen,

And when he was done, silence still reigned;

The threat of retribution remained;

For after all, as already stated;

Malcom was the hardest kid in our year,

And he was made to look foolish here;

Hence, in anticipation, we waited,

For Malcom to make the crucial move

Of a twelve year old with something to prove.

Michael was never a pugilist,

(Until later, when he boxed in the ring),

But, luckily for him, there was a twist:

The hapless wasp was relieved of its sting,

By Tony D, with countenance grim,

Confronting Malcom and telling him;

“It was an accident, leave him alone”,

And as I watched, with an inward groan,

He offered Malcom out for a fight!

And what did Malcom say in reply?

Nothing at all, not even goodbye;

And he made a pretty pitiful sight,

Walking away like a beaten has-been,

Or a chastised dog, with his tail in-between.

Back in the days of penny for the Guy;

Long before being elderly blokes;

We were best friends, Michael G and I;

Partners in mischief and practical jokes;

Tony D too was a good friend of mine;

He’s since passed away, I heard on the vine;

And to him, and all the others above,

Whether dead or alive; I send my love;

Especially Malcolm; sound and okay;

At least he was when we were at school,

Approachable, cool, but never a fool,

Though events made him appear that way,

The day Tony D’s status was sown,

With not so much as a punch being thrown.