My Six Best Six Of The Best: Part Two; The Hair Twist.

The summer term at senior school; second year (USA Translator: Around 6th grade, junior high I think).

I hated the summer term. Summer term meant cricket and I hated cricket. I hated cricket for two reasons; 1, Cricket is a shit game. 2, Arseholes like playing cricket. 3, Mr Fuller took us for cricket, instead of our usual PE teacher Mr Adnam. OK, that’s three reasons. See? That’s how much I hate cricket. It affects my ability to carry out basic maths (USA Translator: No just stop it, for fuck(s?) sake!).

Mr Fuller was a cricket-loving arsehole. He wore all the correct gear and even had a large, wide-brimmed hat, to keep the sun off of the delicate, hyper-freckled almost translucent skin of his face (I think he was a squid in a previous life). His voice was shrill and whiney, like a mix between a scouse Tory voter, a snail being smeared over glass and a gay comedy TV presenter.

The PE session would begin with Mr Fuller splitting us up into two teams. Calling each of our surnames we would line up with our new unwitting “teammates”. As he called out my name he, as always, mispronounced it. Every time he did that I just wanted to slap him. I didn’t do that though for two reasons; 1, He was a teacher and I was trained not to do such things. 2, I would probably get expelled from the school, which would be a massive ball-ache because I lived across the road from school and the alternative would mean I have to get a bus. 3, Violence is never the answer kids, just say no. What I did do, however, turned out to be a mistake too. I corrected him.

Mr Fuller was our PE teacher and, therefore, ruled over us for 2 hours a week. Douglas Adams, the greatest comedy sci-fi writer in history, had something to say about rulers; “it is a well-known fact that those people who must want to rule people are, ipso facto, those least suited to do it.” Mr Fuller definitely relished his reign whilst being, simultaneously, thoroughly unsuited for looking after children.

“Mr Fuller,” I said “That isn’t how you say my name, it’s (correct pronunciation). There followed some nervous tittering from my fellow XI cricketers and a fleeting silent pause. “Walk this way (incorrectly pronounced surname)” Mr Fuller calmly replied “and leave that bat there”. I followed him to the cricket pitch, in the middle of the field, and we faced each other at the “crease” (look it up). Mr Fuller reached over and took hold of a fairly large lock of hair just above my left ear, slightly behind the temple. Using a circular hand movement he wrapped the hair around his index finger until his knuckle was touching the side of my head (I had quite long hair then).

“What is your name?”

“(correct pronunciation)”

“NO! It is (incorrect pronunciation), say it.

“(correct pronunciation)”

Then came the twist. It felt like my scalp was about to peel off and my skull would plop out of my right ear. I squealed in pain. there was a distinct crackle of popping follicles.

“Your name is (incorrect pronunciation), Say it!”

“(incorrect pronunciation)”.

“Now walk. What’s your name?”

(incorrect pronunciation)

On repeat for the full length of the cricket pitch.

The first documented mention of the game of cricket (the term creckett actually) was written by an arsehole in the late 16th century. In the mid-17th century Oliver Cromwell put a stop to the practice of the game for two reasons; 1, To put an end to unlawful assemblies. 2, To ensure the working class strictly observed the sabbath. 3, It turns out that, weirdly, Cromwell was an arsehole and hated anyone, especially other arseholes, enjoying themselves. In 1744 the game was finally codified and an arsehole decided that Mr Fuller had to march me 20.12 metres (or 22 yards (or 1 chain) if you are Myanmarese, Liberian, American or a fucking Luddite), whilst maintaining his vice-like horror grip on my trichological head feature, in the manner of someone with a deep desire to subject me to premature glabrousness.

Mr Fuller was an arsehole. I wonder if he still is an arsehole? He’s young enough to, potentially, still be alive (at the time of writing). I wonder what he makes of the fact that corporal punishment has been abolished in schools. Perhaps he has seen the logic for its abolition. Perhaps he watches the Ken Loach film “Kes”, on a continuous loop, to remind him of better days, the good old days, when children could be thrashed and abused and still come out the other side believing “It never did me any harm”.

You definitely did me harm Mr Fuller you arsehole.