The Law of the Playground
the pupil report of
Roy Watson
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Any time a teacher picked on him, Kieran effortlessly outdid them.
Annoying face-fungus'd history teacher: "Kier Hardie was a bastard. What's a bastard, Lavery?"
Kieran: "Man with a beard, sir."

Poker-backed Principal trying to be witty, pointing to dog-end in the playground: "Is that cigarette butt yours, Lavery?"
Kieran, feigning politeness: "Oh, no, sir, you saw it first."

When we recorded a punk version of the school song (originally to a Bavarian drinking tune), Kieran did the vocals, and it degenerated into a chant about the same Principal: "Tommy Garrett, Tommy Garrett, Tommy Garrett, Tommy Garrett, anal stricture, anal stricture, anal stricture, anal stricture..."
He took a commission in the Army.
approved May 2 2003, submitted Jan 30 2003 by Roy Watson
The nearest we had to a black face at school was Stuart McCabe, who was a bit swarthy and might have had a single exotic forebear at some point. But it was enough for the stereotype to take hold. Hence the graffito STUARTY AND HIS 12" - BUT HE DOESN'T USE IT MUCH AS A RULE.
approved May 12 2003, submitted Jan 30 2003 by Roy Watson
An Irish Republican. To a certain kind of Belfast Protestant there was no worse insult.
Once, a guy who'd just fucked up on a Space Invaders machine was seen thumping it petulantly and shouting "Fenian!" at it.
approved Jan 31 2003, submitted Jan 30 2003 by Roy Watson
"You're not allowed to be nasty to me," said nine-year-old Sylvia Page, "I'm related to the Queen."
"What?"
"Everybody in the country's related to the Queen."
That was how she thought it worked: the first family of the country was, like, the FIRST family.
Mind you, if she'd tried that "Everybody's related to the Queen" in some other parts of Belfast at that point in the '70s, she'd have got what she richly deserved.
approved Feb 12 2003, submitted Jan 30 2003 by Roy Watson
In the days before multimedia, there was BBC schools radio. "Music And Movement" was their public service to avoid P.E. teachers going into meltdown under the strain of ever having to have a single fucking idea, ever. Jonathan Cohen-type piano music and, for P.E., strangely soothingly-voiced routines of the "I'm a tree, I'm a tree, be a tree with me" kidney. The sort of things you could do without needing special P.E. kit, which is why to this day Debussy-type plinky-plonking takes me to the scary visual place of Paula Marshall in her tights the colour of diarrhoea. Manufactured in that colour, I mean. But even so.
approved Feb 6 2003, submitted Jan 30 2003 by Roy Watson