The shit blog of Paul Chris Jones

I went to Bishop Vesey's Grammar School for seven long, tortorous years. Here are some memories of that time.

Hurting my arm

One day, my friend Michael Whitehouse and I were in the sports hall and we decided to race each other. The first to touch the wall wins. One two three GO. I ran faster thanks to my long legs. The wall was quickly approaching. On the wall hung a big bag full of soft padding and so I joyfully crashed into that — only there was no padding, the bag was empty, the bag had only looked full, and so I ran straight into a brick wall.

The pain in my arm was intense. I gripped my arm in shock. I looked to Whitehouse for help. He shrugged.

But the pain quickly subsided. I smiled. It had just been a scare, that's all.

But as the day went on, my elbow became rigid. Soon my arm wouldn't bend at all. It was locked in a half-bent position as if I was wearing an invisible cast.

I hid my fucked-up arm from everyone. On the way home I wore my coat over my shoulders because I couldn't get my arm through the hole of the coat.

I got home. My mom, brother and sister were there. My mom looked up. "Did you have a good day at school?"

"Yeah," I said. I decided not to tell her about my arm. She would have just freaked out.

We ate dinner. The TV babbled away in the corner. Everyone's eyes were glued to the TV. No one questioned why I was eating dinner with my left arm.

Somehow I managed to hide the fact my arm was fucked for the entire evening. I even went to bed like that. I had to climb up to the top of the bunk bed using my one good arm.

I woke up the next day and my arm was better. Hallelujah.

My mom liked to say "If Paul had a broken arm, he wouldn't say anything. He wouldn't tell anyone." She didn't know how accurate that was. My arm was only sprained, not broken, but it's true that I told no one.

Too weird for the weird kids

One day, Michael Whitehouse invited me to meet his friends. They were a group of goth kids from other schools.

"I'm so depressed," said a short girl with dyed-black hair.

"Aw man, one of these days I'm gonna kill myself," said another girl.

I didn't know what to say to this. So I said nothing.

Whitehouse showed everyone the slits on his arms where he'd cut himself with a knife. Everyone was impressed. Everyone except me: I found it stupid.

The kids chatted on about how much they hated their lives and their rich parents. I couldn't think of a damn thing to say. Not a single thing. So I just stood there, silent and awkward. I wanted them to accept me, I wanted friends, but no words would come out. I could feel the awkwardness building up inside me. Gradually the group began to ignore me.

Afterwards, Whitehouse turned to me and asked, "What happened? You were silent back there."

I shrugged.

I couldn't even make friends with a group of goth kids. So what did that make me? An outcast of outcasts? I was too weird even for the weird people.

By the way, I tried to self-harm once. I used a drawing pin. I pressed the sharp point of the drawing pin into the flesh of my arm, without puncturing the skin. I left the drawing pin there. It hurt. I wanted to push the drawing pin into my arm but I was too much of a coward so I gave up. I never tried self-harming again.

Pietrzak's gay

One GCSE German class, I tried to make a joke to Umar Hussein.

My joke was this:

"I had a dream about you last night. I must have been eating cheese."

That was my joke. I don't know why I thought it was funny. The idea is that cheese gives you nightmares, and by eating cheese, I'd had a nightmare about Umar Hussein.

Anyway, I only got as far as "I had a dream about you last night" when Umar cut me off with "You had a DREAM ABOUT ME? That's GAY! EEWWWWWWWWWWWW."

He didn't listen as I tried to explain that it was supposed to be a joke about cheese and nightmares. Instead, he shouted, "PIETRZAK HAD A DREAM ABOUT ME! PIETRZAK'S GAY!"

They never even heard the rest of the joke.

The team-building exercise

There comes a time when every man has to draw a line in the sand.

That day came for me at Bishop Vesey's Grammar School. The school had hired a company to come in for the day and give us team-building exercises. It was a break from normal lessons so everyone was excited. One activity was called "Helium Stick" and involved us holding a stick together and trying to lower the stick to the ground. In another activity, we had to come up with an idea for a new product to sell in supermarkets.

But the activity I remember most was The 9 Dots Problem. The problem is this: there were nine big red circles on the floor, in a three-by-three grid. We had a rope, and we had to connect the dots using the rope. But the rope could only be placed in four straight lines.

My peers all stood there, talking about the puzzle. No one could think of a solution. The organiser looked almost pleased with himself. Here was a puzzle that had stumped everyone.

Everyone except me, that is. Because I knew the answer. (Not because I was clever, but simply because I'd seen this puzzle before.)

My friend Raza was standing next to me. He was one of my few friends at school. "I know the answer," I hissed to him.

"Just leave it," he said. "Let the others figure it out." Raza knew how unpopular I was. He knew that if I tried to tell people the answer, they probably wouldn't even listen to me and I'd only embarrass myself.

But I couldn't leave it. I knew the answer, goddamit. I knew the answer and that was supposed to mean something.

"I'm going to do it," I said to Raza. And I really did mean to do it. I meant to go out in front of everyone, pick up the rope and solve the puzzle.

"Don't do it, Petey" Raza begged, but it was too late. I was already walking over to the rope.

As I walked out of the group, the other students watched me with surprise and animosity. This was unheard of. I wasn't supposed to try to solve the puzzle. I was supposed to stay in my place, at the back of the group, submissive and silent. That was the role of the most unpopular kid at school.

"Looks like someone knows the answer," said the organiser, smiling. But the students weren't smiling.

I locked eyes with Michael Cotton, a kid who had bullied me for years. His eyes were burning hatred at me.

I picked up the rope. I put one end of the rope down in the correct place. But when I tried to put the rope down in the other right places, I saw I'd need help from at least five people to hold the rope in place. Fuck. I guess this is why it was a team-building exercise and not an individual exercise.

"I need someone to hold the rope here," I said, pointing to a dot on the floor.

But no one moved. Someone sniggered. They saw me as a joke.

"I'll help you, Petey," said one of the boys. It was a kid called Adonis Trattos. He came over and held the rope in place. Bless you, Adonis Trattos.

But I still needed four more people to hold the rope.

"I need someone else," I said.

But no one came over. Not even my friend Raza. He was trying to hide behind the others. He looked embarrassed for me.

Then the face of one of the girls lit up. She said, "I think I know what he's trying to do!" She came over and took the rope from my hands. Then she coordinated the rest of the people into place. Strangely enough, while only Adonis had been willing to help me, all the boys were more than happy to help this girl out. Maybe what I needed was a pair of breasts.

Finally, the puzzle was solved.

"Well, you've managed it," said the organiser to our group. "I saw that one of you had the solution early on - your name's Paul, right? - but for some reason or another, you were all unwilling to help him out. But then someone else - Annie? - saw the solution, and you all helped her. Anyway, you solved the problem. Well done, everyone."

I'm not sure what that team-building exercise was supposed to teach us. But it reinforced my belief that everything at Bishop Vesey's Grammar School was bullshit.

Monkey

I was the most unpopular kid at school by this point. I was the human equivalent of mouldy cheese.

I didn't think it was possible to be any more unpopular. But I was wrong.

There was a kid in my class called Michael Wedderburn. Everyone knew him as the loud and disruptive one. He really was disruptive in class. He was constantly shouting things and challenging the teachers. One of the teachers, a French teacher called Mrs Maddy, even had to have counselling because of the stress of having Michael Wedderburn as a student.

Wedderburn didn't like me. One day, a group of us were heading to the field to play football when Wedderburn turned to me and said, "Why don't you go away, Pietrzak? We don't want you here."

So I shouted back the first insult that came to mind: "Monkey!"

Everyone stopped. Wedderburn turned to face me. He looked shocked.

Now, I should tell you something important about Michael Wedderburn: he was black. From what I remember, he was the only black kid in the entire school. There were white kids and Asian kids but he was the only black kid.

"What did you say?" said Wedderburn.

"I called you a monkey," I said.

Now, here's the thing — I didn't know at that time that the word "monkey" is a racist insult. I didn't know. I was only fifteen and didn't know all the words that were racist insults yet. If I had known, then I wouldn't have shouted it at Michael Wedderburn. I'm not racist. My insult had no racial motivation in any way. I called Wedderburn a monkey because he behaved like a monkey in class — unruly and disruptive.

But in Wedderburn's mind, my insult of "monkey" was a racist one. He stormed over to me. His fists were clenched. When he got close enough, I expected him to punch me in the face, but instead, he pulled back his leg and gave me a good wallop up the bum. I didn't really hurt. I didn't want to fight Wedderburn so I started walking away. But as I was walking away, he kept following me and he kept kicking me. His kicks landed on my bum. It didn't hurt but it was humiliating.

I escaped with just a sore bum, but that wasn't the end, because Wedderburn went on to tell everyone that I was racist. And people believed him. My popularity at Vesey dipped even lower, something I didn't think was possible.

Irfan's Computing coursework

One time the bullying backfired on the bullies. It didn't happen often, but it felt sweet when it did.

I studied Computing at A Level. The teacher was an old guy called Mr Hornett. He had very blonde hair like Boris Johnson, except his hair was lactlustre and thinning.

One day Mr Hornett said to me, "Where's Irfan?"

"I don't know," I said.

"Well he'd better come now because he needs to hand in his coursework. If he's not here soon, I'll have to give him a fail."

This was serious. Your coursework grade affects your A Level grade which affects the university you go to, which can affect your whole life!

By the way, just to tell you about who Irfan was. So Irfan was eighteen but he still hadn't hit puberty. People compared him to Gollum from Lord of the Rings because of his small frame and the dark circles around his eyes. But he was a good kid. I thought of him as a friend. I didn't want him to fail his coursework.

"I think I might know where he is," I said.

"Well, you'd better go and get him," said Mr Hornett.

Irfan liked to play Xbox at the house of a guy called Hamish. Hamish's house was directly outside the school. This meant when the final bell rang, Hamish just had to pop across the road and he was home, while the rest of us had to make an hour journey home on the bus.

I walked out the school gate, crossed the road, and walked down the paved driveway of Hamish's house. I reached the porch. I knocked on the door.

No answer.

The house had big bay windows. I went up to these windows, cupped my hands against the glass, and peered inside. Irfan was on the sofa playing Xbox, along with Hamish and some other guys from school.

I tapped on the window. They ignored me.

I knocked on the window a few more times. I went to the door and pressed the buzzer. Still no answer.

I wasn't there to play Xbox. I was there to help Irfan, who, ironically, was one of the people ignoring me. He didn't know it but he was shooting himself in the foot by ignoring me. If he didn't hand in his Computing coursework, he'd get a fail.

The universe sometimes plays these jokes. It's like sunshine.

I thought about walking away. I decided to keep knocking.

Finally, the door opened. It was Hamish.

"What do you want," said Hamish.

"I've just come to tell Irfan that he needs to hand in his Computing coursework today or Mr Hornett says he'll get a fail."

Hamish went back niside. Irfan came out.

"What's going on?" asked Irfan.

I told Irfan what I told Hamish. Irfan's eyes went wide with shock and he ran inside to grab his bag. Then we went together to the Computing room. Irfan handed in his coursework. He passed.

I'm proud of what I did that day. Even if kids at Vesey treated me like shit, I never let it turn me into a bad person. I helped Irfan even though I was humiliated doing it. It's okay because I was humiliated often at Vesey. I was used to it.

Jan Heywood

In sixth form, a bunch of new kids joined the school. One of these new kids was Jan Heywood.

Jan took an instant disliking to me. Not to anyone else, mind you. Just me.

Maybe I was just the most unlikeable kid there. And maybe Jan was highly sensitive to people's personalities which is why he had an extreme negative reaction against me.

"What's wrong with him?" were Jan's first words upon meeting me. He glared at me, his upper lip curled in disgust.

What was wrong with me? I don't know, Jan. I really don't know. I'd like to know.

"That's just Petey," laughed Philip Cresswell. (Cresswell was a boy with weirdly long fingernails. He rarely cut them. And even this kid was more popular than me.)

Jan stared at me in contempt. He didn't like me that day and he never liked me in the days to come.

The feeling was mutual. I have never met anyone like Jan. He disturbed me. He scared me. I'll start by describing his physical characteristics because these are the easiest to describe, and then I'll move on to his personality.

Jan was fat. Undeniably fat. He was the kind of person who has to shop for fat people clothes at special fat people shops. I'd say he was one of the fattest people in the school. He didn't seem ashamed by his weight, or even seem to notice it. This is forgivable, of course. Some people are fat. They can't help it.

But then there was his hair. He had an untidy mess of blonde hair, just like Boris Johnson's hair. Why didn't he just comb it? Why didn't you just comb your stupid hair, Jan? Or get it cut?

And then there were his eyes. His EYES. There was something weird about his eyes. The way they were always open too wide.

Now, I should also mention that Jan was also gay. Flamboyantly gay. He was as camp as Andi Peters or Dale Winton. The thing is, I'm not sure if Jan knew he was gay yet. Maybe he didn't know. But it was obvious to everyone else. You just had to be around him for five seconds to tell he was as gay. As gay as a Broadway musical. Of course, there's nothing wrong with being gay. It's a good thing.

His personality though. Everything he said had an air of drama. He acted like a spoiled child.

But what was really wrong with Jan, really wrong with him, is that he was rich. (I know he was rich because everything he wore was Prada. His school bag was a black leather Prada backpack. He refused to wear anything that wasn't Prada, with the exception of his school uniform. And I don't think it's a coincidence that the Devil also wears Prada.) Being rich, he had never needed to develop skills like kindness or empathy, because he could just pay people to feel these for him.

The weirdest kid in school

One of the last times I went to the school was for an A-Level General Studies exam. Before the exam, we all had to wait outside Big School while the examiners prepared the tables and exam books. Everyone in my year was there: about 150 kids. We were all packed into this corridor.

I was surrounded by people but I might as well have been alone.

I overheard someone near me say, "Who would you say is the weirdest kid in the school?"

Someone else said, "Pietrzak, I reckon. Without a doubt."

There you go. I was the weirdest kid in the school. That's what everyone must have thought about me. Apparently, I was even stranger than Adam Issa, the kid who spoke to no one and drew swastikas in his school planner, and Jan Heywood, a flamboyantly gay kid who only wore Prada.

Graduation ceremony

The last time I saw everyone from my school was at the school's graduation ceremony. It was held in the big school hall, and everyone was there, even the parents. My dad was there too. The students were dressed in school uniform, even though we were all eighteen years old by this point. I found it bizarre. Here we all were, grown men, sitting in our school uniforms of tie, shirt and blazer, as if we were still boys. It was grotesque. And what made it even stranger was that no one else seemed bothered by the situation. In fact, they all seemed happy to be there, dressed in our school uniforms again, even though we'd already started universtiy and some of us had beards.

I was disgusted. We were eighteen: we should have been out changing the world, not sitting meekly in school chairs and applauding the headteacher.

Maybe my reaction was because I come from a working class family. In The Road to Wigan Pier, George Orwell discusses the difference between working class and middle class boys whet it comes to school:

There is not one working-class boy in a thousand who does not pine for the day when he will leave school. He wants to be doing real work, not wasting his time on ridiculous rubbish like history and geography. To the working class, the notion of staying at school till you are nearly grown-up seems merely contemptible and unmanly. The idea of a great big boy of eighteen, who ought to be bringing a pound a week home to his parents, going to school in a ridiculous uniform and even being caned for not doing his lessons! Just fancy a working-class boy of eighteen allowing himself to be caned! He is a man when the other is still a baby. Ernest Pontifex, in Samuel Butler's Way of All Flesh, after he had had a few glimpses of real life, looked back on his public school and university education and found it a 'sickly, debilitating debauch'. There is much in middle-class life that looks sickly and debilitating when you see it from a working-class angle.

Anyway, as part of the ceremony, every student had to get up on stage and shake the headteacher's hand. The other kids and the parents applauded us. It soon came to my turn to get up on stage. The headteacher read out my name: "Paul Pietrzak". I walked across the stage and shook the headteacher's hand. But the applause from the audience was notably quiet. There was only a light scattering of claps. It was obvious why: the other kids didn't like me. I could feel their hate burning at me. I left the stage.

That was the last time I saw everyone from school.