My Six Best Six Of The Best: Part Five: The Stab In The Heart.

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caption></figure><p id="d66a">I appreciate that at this point you might be thinking, “Hang on Grimsby, this is supposed to be a “six of the best” episode, where’s the violence, where’s the pain?”. Forgive me, every time this event occurs to me I have a process to go through. Let’s get to it then.</p><p id="90a3">Miss Plymouth was going round the science lab, bench by bench, to check how each of our experiments were getting along. As she got closer to my bench, my breathing stalled and my mouth suddenly went dry. She opened her lips (her lips) to speak but was suddenly distracted by something on the floor. “Oooh, what’s this?” she breathed…….</p><p id="b786">In the Autumn of 1974, aged 12, I wanted to be cool. I wanted to be good looking. I wanted girls to like me. I wanted all my male peers to be jealous of me. I wanted to be Scott Gorham off of Thin Lizzy. Miss Plymouth would love Scott Gorham. Miss Plymouth would be turned on by Scott Gorham. Miss Plymouth would surrender herself to Scott Gorham. Miss Plymouth would, no doubt, love, be turned on by and surrender herself to me, if I was like Scott Gorham. I had grown my hair and became a rocker, like Scott Gorham. That’s where the similarity ended.</p><p id="5bf4">……..Miss Plymouth reached under my bench and picked up the distracting item. A hair bobble, like girls used to hold their pig tails and plaits in place with. It was a small elastic loop with two plastic balls at opposite ends, which could be entwined around the hair and look pretty, or something.</p><figure id="b991"><img src="https://cdn-images-1.readmedium.com/v2/resize:fit:800/1*s7fFXnNuM8YXb5iti4P8cQ.jpeg"><figcaption>You can work it out.</figcaption></figure><p id="e56e">Miss Plymouth held the hair accessory aloft and asked the class, “who does this belong to?”. After a few moments of silence Victoria Widnes piped up, “Maybe they’re Grimsby’s Miss. He has got the hair for it”. All the girls in the class started laughing, then started snorting, then started cackling and squealing with glee. Their faces became distorted with disdain, derision and hatred. Fire and boiling liquid, steaming around the faces of those wayward sisters. The room darkened and I could feel myself withdrawing, looking down, face reddening. I glanced up at Miss Plymouth and she was looking straight at me, laughing along with the girls.</p><p id="1d2e">Turning slightly toward me she said, “Shall we try it on him?” and the girls gleefully agreed to the idea. I felt the bottom fall out of me and my very insides drain out of existence. A single tear ran down my cheek. Miss Plymouth, everything I loved and dreamt about was mocking me and it hurt like nothing ever before. I looked up at Miss Plymouth again and in one, split second moment, it happened. A realisation and a barely perceptible flash of regret on her wonderful face. She turned away from me and called for the class to “Settle down now”.</p><p id="b4de">I have, during my school years and my youth, had to suffer all kinds of physical abuse and, even, torture. Most of the time the pain and/or trauma was transient and survival simple. What happened here was very different. The pain of being laughed at, for my attempts to project an admirable image of myself, by someone I had childishly elevated to sainthood, in my thoughts and heart. That momentary insult left a scar that no cane, slipper, punch or slap could ever leave.</p><p id="4e0e">Wor

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ry not Miss Plymouth. You didn’t do anything that bad really. How could you know what you meant to me? You had a bit of fun at my expense. Who hasn’t done that at some time in their life? You don’t need me to forgive you, even though I, wholeheartedly, give it freely. I saw that minutest flash of regret. I know you’re good. I still think fondly of you.</p><p id="c847">The scar that was left was of my own making. I exposed myself emotionally, completely, and I wasn’t prepared for such emotional violence. But tell me, who wouldn’t want to feel such a powerful love? It never stopped me from courting it. Leave in silence.</p><div id="2907" class="link-block"> <a href="https://readmedium.com/my-six-best-six-of-the-best-part-four-46-bcr-before-chris-rock-46296428e75c"> <div> <div> <h2>My Six Best Six Of The Best: Part Four: 46 BCR (Before Chris Rock)</h2> <div><h3>60 BCR. Born unto the earth was Hackney. And he was good. One day Hackney descended from the Hill of Beacon and walked…</h3></div> <div><p>medium.com</p></div> </div> <div> <div style="background-image: url(https://miro.readmedium.com/v2/resize:fit:320/1*YIb0D5nC2z00nz4xSgs_Rw.jpeg)"></div> </div> </div> </a> </div><div id="bb41" class="link-block"> <a href="https://readmedium.com/my-six-best-six-of-the-best-part-three-napoleon-d54d59a5c1b0"> <div> <div> <h2>My Six Best Six Of The Best: Part Three: Napoleon.</h2> <div><h3>In 1948, British Prime Minister Clement Attlee brought the National Assistance Act into law and, with it, abolished the…</h3></div> <div><p>medium.com</p></div> </div> <div> <div style="background-image: url(https://miro.readmedium.com/v2/resize:fit:320/1*xkVT50fKVsQ5pbkp2w46xg.jpeg)"></div> </div> </div> </a> </div><div id="6b83" class="link-block"> <a href="https://readmedium.com/my-six-best-six-of-the-best-part-two-the-hair-twist-25c997d9bca8"> <div> <div> <h2>My Six Best Six Of The Best: Part Two; The Hair Twist.</h2> <div><h3>The summer term at senior school; second year (USA Translator: Around 6th grade, junior high I think).</h3></div> <div><p>medium.com</p></div> </div> <div> <div style="background-image: url(https://miro.readmedium.com/v2/resize:fit:320/)"></div> </div> </div> </a> </div><div id="cf83" class="link-block"> <a href="https://readmedium.com/my-six-best-six-of-the-best-part-one-the-slipper-7b6e701c1c9d"> <div> <div> <h2>My Six Best Six Of The Best: Part One; “The Slipper”.</h2> <div><h3>Now then, now then riding crop pickers welcome to Top Of The Strops, a “hit” parade, episodic, showcase of the six…</h3></div> <div><p>medium.com</p></div> </div> <div> <div style="background-image: url(https://miro.readmedium.com/v2/resize:fit:320/1*Aval0QQ1KdoUdWGrxv0nqQ.jpeg)"></div> </div> </div> </a> </div></article></body>

My Six Best Six Of The Best: Part Five: The Stab In The Heart.

Light Your Bunsen Burners

In 1982, Avant-garde, electro-pop pioneers Depeche Mode reached number 18, in the UK pop charts, with the single “Leave In Silence”. There is a line in the song which goes “I can’t stand this emotional violence, leave in silence”. I was 20 years and one day old when that song was released. No matter how fucking clever you think you are, at that age, you’re still developing and I was quite struck by the term “Emotional violence” and what it meant.

In the Autumn of 1974, aged 12, I was, like my peers, coming under ever greater pressure from my own body and the chemical reactions taking place within it. It seemed that, with each passing day, I was becoming evermore distracted by everyone, and everything, female. It was like a, never ending, waking dream that was pleasurable and painful in equal measure. I saw it everywhere I looked. The sway of that girls hair as she reached into her satchel for a rubber (eraser, take it easy). The slender wrist and the gently curved upwards hand, reaching for a fork in the dinner hall. The twinkle toed stance of the be-skirted front row chorister in the hall. At any moment it felt like I could pass out.

Thank heavens for mates, football, Status Quo, Led Zeppelin and Queen, Top Of The Pops and experimentation with cigarettes and alcohol, to keep us temporarily distracted and grounded.

At school, however, we were lambs to the slaughter. OK, you think, I’ll just get into lesson and concentrate on listening to the teacher. Stay focused. Form: Mr Welholme: Sorted, looked like a God botherer and had no discernible sense of humour. Cookery (Domestic Science): Mrs Peakes: Looked like everyone’s mother, including mine. With only 14 boys in the class, she would, statistically, only be a problem for 1.35 of us. Morning Break: Played marbles, didn’t take eyes off concrete, got through it. Art: (Fuck!) Miss (Knocker) Norbury: Wank fantasy for 96.6% of the boys/male teaching staff, and 2.5% of girls/female teaching staff. Dinner (Lunch): Dinner Ladies: Nah too hungry. Mince slice, mash and gravy. Pudding; Bakewell tart and custard. No erections.

THIRD PERIOD: Combined Science: Miss Plymouth: NEMESIS

Miss Plymouth was a solid, that was, physically, most logically arranged to affect my whole understanding of my place in time and space. Miss Plymouth was a liquid that ingressed every pore of my psyche. Miss Plymouth was a compound, not just elementally but in essence. An accident of reactive processes to produce a physical incarnation of unassailable desire. Miss Plymouth was a marvel of evolution, surviving to be the fittest creature to destroy every drop of a young males resistance. Miss Plymouth was physically, chemically and biologically so perfect that she, in the most passionately protected vaults of my memory, could not be touched by time and entropy. She remains there, as she was that day, perfect. Like a Disney Princess.

Every Alpha Particle Hides A Neon Nucleus

I appreciate that at this point you might be thinking, “Hang on Grimsby, this is supposed to be a “six of the best” episode, where’s the violence, where’s the pain?”. Forgive me, every time this event occurs to me I have a process to go through. Let’s get to it then.

Miss Plymouth was going round the science lab, bench by bench, to check how each of our experiments were getting along. As she got closer to my bench, my breathing stalled and my mouth suddenly went dry. She opened her lips (her lips) to speak but was suddenly distracted by something on the floor. “Oooh, what’s this?” she breathed…….

In the Autumn of 1974, aged 12, I wanted to be cool. I wanted to be good looking. I wanted girls to like me. I wanted all my male peers to be jealous of me. I wanted to be Scott Gorham off of Thin Lizzy. Miss Plymouth would love Scott Gorham. Miss Plymouth would be turned on by Scott Gorham. Miss Plymouth would surrender herself to Scott Gorham. Miss Plymouth would, no doubt, love, be turned on by and surrender herself to me, if I was like Scott Gorham. I had grown my hair and became a rocker, like Scott Gorham. That’s where the similarity ended.

……..Miss Plymouth reached under my bench and picked up the distracting item. A hair bobble, like girls used to hold their pig tails and plaits in place with. It was a small elastic loop with two plastic balls at opposite ends, which could be entwined around the hair and look pretty, or something.

You can work it out.

Miss Plymouth held the hair accessory aloft and asked the class, “who does this belong to?”. After a few moments of silence Victoria Widnes piped up, “Maybe they’re Grimsby’s Miss. He has got the hair for it”. All the girls in the class started laughing, then started snorting, then started cackling and squealing with glee. Their faces became distorted with disdain, derision and hatred. Fire and boiling liquid, steaming around the faces of those wayward sisters. The room darkened and I could feel myself withdrawing, looking down, face reddening. I glanced up at Miss Plymouth and she was looking straight at me, laughing along with the girls.

Turning slightly toward me she said, “Shall we try it on him?” and the girls gleefully agreed to the idea. I felt the bottom fall out of me and my very insides drain out of existence. A single tear ran down my cheek. Miss Plymouth, everything I loved and dreamt about was mocking me and it hurt like nothing ever before. I looked up at Miss Plymouth again and in one, split second moment, it happened. A realisation and a barely perceptible flash of regret on her wonderful face. She turned away from me and called for the class to “Settle down now”.

I have, during my school years and my youth, had to suffer all kinds of physical abuse and, even, torture. Most of the time the pain and/or trauma was transient and survival simple. What happened here was very different. The pain of being laughed at, for my attempts to project an admirable image of myself, by someone I had childishly elevated to sainthood, in my thoughts and heart. That momentary insult left a scar that no cane, slipper, punch or slap could ever leave.

Worry not Miss Plymouth. You didn’t do anything that bad really. How could you know what you meant to me? You had a bit of fun at my expense. Who hasn’t done that at some time in their life? You don’t need me to forgive you, even though I, wholeheartedly, give it freely. I saw that minutest flash of regret. I know you’re good. I still think fondly of you.

The scar that was left was of my own making. I exposed myself emotionally, completely, and I wasn’t prepared for such emotional violence. But tell me, who wouldn’t want to feel such a powerful love? It never stopped me from courting it. Leave in silence.