As the resident fat kid, I was a) subjected to bullying, and b) a good bully. Unfortunately, my good nature (you there, stop laughing) meant that I was better at being bullied than being the bully. I don't really remember being bullied much in my very young years. I remember being terrified of twin girls in my sister's year, but this was mainly because I fancied one of them something rotten as well as they played with me when I was very very young. I guess the worst bullying I had in my very young years would have to be from BLS. She'll sit and look hurt at this point, and maybe even get upset with me, then the realisation that her loveable and friendly kid bruvver was actually picked on on a regular basis. How else can she explain the "finger in the fire" and "finger in the sunbed hinge" moments. But as I got older, I got bullied and more importantly, I picked on younger kids. By 9 or 10, I had been subjected to picking on even by my teacher, and this just opened up the floodgates. If I'm honest, it was so common place, it was really water off a duck's back. I had a lot of friends, and they would stick up for me if someone else had said something unfair and hurtful. This was a good lesson in life, and so much better then today's system of post traumatic counselling and disciplining of the bully by exclusion. By my final year of primary school, I would spend a lot of my time with children from the year below. I wasn't over powering, and I wasn't unfair, but I was however hauled over the coals by my Glaswegian teacher Mrs Crease (who I'm sure hated me) for being a bully. I remember crying uncontrollably, and being told to stop with the crocodile tears. I really felt a misjustice had been done.
I started secondary school, and almost immediately one of the biggest bullying incidents of my life started. Near my road lived an older boy called Chris and his sister of my age Lisa. Chris had this shock of blonde hair, and loved to pick on anyone prepared to take it. He got me to put my hand on the pavement whilst he pushed his skateboard over it. He set fire to my jacket. He 'accidentally' dropped my
Game and Watch, rendering it unworking. He didn't just do this to me though, everyone in my neighbourhood was subjected to his tyranny. I remember him once retaliating against my father, something about him not being house-trained and him retorting that my father wasn't house-trained. Anyway, my father warned him that one day I'd return the favour and he'd regret it. Sure enough, after many years of picking on everyone, he kicked over my socket set whilst I was working on my bike. I screamed at him, shouting at the top of my voice "you complete and utter wanker!" Unfortunately for him, I also had in my hand a large old brown monkey wrench, which immediately swapped place with the front of his head. He ran off down the down, screaming at the top of his voice. His father had to take him to hospital for a skull x-ray, and he left me alone again. His mother tried to say I was the bully, but the consensus of other kids persuaded her that maybe he'd been asking for it.
Curiously enough, I saw him some 10 years later in a pub. He made some snide remark without even looking up from his pint, then realised it was me, now slightly taller and slightly better built. He then apologised, and looked dejectedly back into his pint.
Bullys, I piss 'em...
