My Six Best Six Of The Best: Part Three: Napoleon.

In 1948, British Prime Minister Clement Attlee brought the National Assistance Act into law and, with it, abolished the last traces of the Poor Laws, which dated back to the 16th century. The workhouses were shut down or repurposed as hospitals or old people’s homes. Hooray! You couldn’t be punished for being poor anymore. Any more than being poor, in of itself, was punishing.

When I was three years old my dad died. That put me, my mother and my older sister, in the unfortunate situation of being a single-parent family. Being a single-parent family in 1965 was not a good place to be, except for one thing. Social housing. Thanks to the brilliance and bravery of the post-war Labour government’s regeneration scheme, we were given the opportunity to move out of our, privately rented, hovel and moved into a fantastic, council-owned, three-bedroomed semi. My mother was able to pay the rent, pay the utility bills, feed us and clothe us thanks to the brilliant Labour government’s post-war, cradle to grave, welfare scheme. Both schemes were vehemently opposed by the Tories, who still hate them to this day and we should never forget that.

My mother married again, had two more children, and then divorced as the increasing brutality of my stepfather became too much to bear. We were a single family again, but with twice as many kids. This meant relative poverty for us again.

In 1975 a thirteen-year-old me was trying to work out what life was all about and what it would take for me to fit in with the cool kids. The most obvious identifier was fashion. I couldn’t follow fashion for three reasons 1: I had no fashion sense whatsoever. 2: We were poor and my mother had to get social security handouts to buy my school uniform, so there was no room for trends. 3: I had no fashion sense whatsoever.

Around that time the Wigan Casino was the hot ticket and Northern Soul was the latest pop music movement of choice for my peers. I hated Northern Soul. The boys, who were into Northern Soul, were cunts. The boys, who were into Northern Soul, always got girlfriends when I couldn’t, the cunts. The boys, who were into Northern Soul, always ridiculed my clothes, my hair, my choice of music, the stupid cunts. The boys, who were into Northern Soul, wore these strange baggy corduroy trousers, with ridiculously high waistbands and side pockets, which made them look like idiotic, stupid cunts. The boys, who were into Northern Soul had this weird hairdo, which was like brushed back from the front, exposing their foreheads, but kept collar length at the back and sides, sort of a pre-cursor to the mullet, which made them look like deranged, idiotic, stupid cunts. The boys, who were into Northern Soul used to go to the “All Dayers” at Cleethorpes Winter Gardens, got to snog girls and danced like the fucking ugly, deranged, idiotic, stupid cunts they were.

One day I went to Cripsey’s, a barber shop, on Grimsby Road, Cleethorpes and had my hair cut and styled, with the hair brushed back from the front, exposing my forehead, but kept collar length at the back and sides. Soon after, I went to Freeman Street in Grimsby, to a shop called Boyes. It was a bizarre shop, which seemed to purvey almost anything a human being could ever dream of buying. They had a sort of countertop display of piles and piles of jeans and trousers. Among said trousers, I located a pair of strange, green, baggy, corduroy trousers with a ridiculously high waistband and side pockets. The trousers (baggies) slipped easily into my large parka-type coat and I left the shop as an unnoticed cunt.

One morning, a couple of weeks after the above events, I was getting dressed for school. My school trousers, which I had pretty much grown out of, gave up the ghost. The top fastener sprang off, hit the cupboard door, pinged on a glass next to my record player and landed on a copy of the pulp fiction novel “Chopper” by Peter Cave, whilst, simultaneously, the zipper ripped itself open pulling half its teeth off in the process. I was now faced with a predicament. Do not go to school, or go to school wearing unsanctioned attire. I looked over to the end of my bed, where my unemotionally purloined green corduroy baggies lay. My heart started to race.

I could feel the eyes on me as I strode purposely across the playground. “Nice baggies mate” one appreciative viewer commented. “Cheers,” I replied. “Oi! Where’s your school duds?” enquired another envious cohort member. “Sod that, I’m wearing these from now on,” I said rebelliously as my brushed back semi-proto-mullet fluttered in the breeze. “Ha Ha, you’re crazy!”. “Yeah, I know”.

At last, I had arrived. It was only a matter of time before my full-time girl snogging career took off. I wasn’t about to tell anyone that never ever, not even your Aunt Nellies wildest Equus ferus caballus, could ever, ever, drag me to the Cleethorpes Winter Gardens, to dance like a fucking ugly, deranged, idiotic, stupid cunt.

Lower school headmaster Mr Man (I swear that’s not even a fucking joke), colloquially known as Napoleon, regarded me across the top of his desk (I’ve introduced this person in a previous article which you can find here). “So (my surname), what’s going on here?” Napoleon asked. “My school trousers broke sir so I had no choi………….”. Napoleon raised his hand to indicate that his desire was that I stopped talking. Thirty-seven seconds later the fourth blow, from his very long bamboo cane, damaged more of the tiny, subcutaneous blood vessels in my fucking arse cheeks and, the resultant, redness began to spread, only to turn a deep purple as the day wore on. “Get out, but I want you back here just before end of day registration. Understood?”. “Yes sir”.

When I returned to Napoleon’s office he presented me with a pair of charcoal grey, crimplene, pleated front, pegs. If the proprietary naffness of a pair of trousers, at that moment in time, was measured by stars then Napoleon had just handed me UY Scuti (of course I looked it up, I’m not fucking Brian Cox you know). “You will wear these from now on (my surname),” he instructed me, “until your mother gets you a new pair”.

The whole school knew. The next day, contrary to the previous day’s heroes’ welcome, I was met with a barrage of ridicule. My house was seventeen seconds walk away from the school gate, I had time. I turned and ran.

Back in my bedroom I quickly changed back into my baggies and ripped the arse seam, on Napoleon’s loaned trousers, open and returned to school just in time for registration. Slightly before the start of the first lesson (history) I was summoned to Napoleon’s office. No questions. Another four. My only comfort was knowing that corduroy offered slightly greater, albeit barely perceptible, protection against the “feel” of Napoleon’s cane than crimplene affords. Having said that, if I had continued to sport those ridicule-inducing hand-me-downs, I would be standing upright, or rather sitting down, learning more lies about the British Empire. Isn’t it amazing that, in times of crisis, we will tell ourselves anything, including defying logic, even if it provides nothing more than a gossamer thin vestige of comfort?

When I got home that afternoon, my mother took me to the school uniform outfitters on Cleethorpe Road, Grimsby, who accepted the emergency vouchers provided by the Department of Health and Social Services. They even had some pairs of flares.

I was safe, ……….. for now.