A Day at the Games

We're off to see some athletics at the paralympics tomorrow, so I thought I'd post this short piece which I wrote last month about our last Olympic trip back in August - better late than never!

 It was day eight of the 2012 Olympics, a sunny Saturday, and I was lucky to be in London to watch some world class sport – well, table tennis to be exact.

  Sue and I, had spent the day sightseeing in the capital, and after a picnic lunch in Hyde Park we made our way by bus, train and trainers to the ExCel Arena in London Docklands.

 As we arrived, we were greeted by some cheery Olympic volunteers who directed us to security entrances, where smiling staff gave us an airport style check, before letting us in to catch some sporting action.

 Our event was the quarter finals of the women’s team table tennis; we were a couple of hours early so we took the time to wander around ExCel and sample the Olympic ‘cuisine’ on offer. This was a choice of feeble fish and chips, slimy noodles or a soggy pie  - all for the princely sum of about £8.50 each (!).

  Soon it was time to watch the table tennis, but just before, we watched the end of the women’s 3km team cycling pursuit on the big screen, where a roof-raising cheer was made as Team GB’s ‘Three Sisters’ stormed home to gold.

  Table tennis may not be the most nail-biting of Olympic sports, but the ladies from Hong Kong, Singapore, North and South Korea battled it out and treated the crowd to some first class play.

 

 

There were some lively supporters from Singapore, who gave their team some noisy but much needed support, while the North Korean fans (all three of them) made up in enthusiasm for what they lacked in numbers.

 The girls from Hong Kong and North Korea fought a hard battle, but the other teams had the edge. Singapore and South Korea went through to the semi-finals, where they would meet the table tennis aces of China and Japan.

  It was late as we left the stadium, and caught the train back from Docklands to the city centre. Next to us, a group of cheery young students, dressed in Team GB kit and wearing brightly coloured wigs, were happily chatting about which bars and restaurants they would visit to celebrate the nations’ sporting success. I wished I had their young energy; after an Olympic day out, I was simply looking forward to getting home to indulge in some championship sleeping.

The First Day

It's September and the start of new term for all those schools and colleges, so here's a piece of appropriately themed writing. It's twenty eight years since I started High School - and that does make me feel my years a tad!
 

September,1984

  It was the start of our first year at Netherworth High School and the new timetable had begun. I was in Class S, which was one from bottom, or the scuzzers class, as my big sister affectionately described it. The School appeared to be in the throes of a Mod revival – either that or we were twenty years behind. Parkas adorned with badges were popular and formed a khaki contrast to the uniformed new bloods. One lad - possibly the parka boy pin up, proudly rode through the gates astride his trusty Vespa scooter. Faces both curious and hostile watched as we entered.

   ‘Ahh, look at all these cute 1st years.’ A girl simpered.

    Others weren’t so friendly and bashing a ‘cute’ 1st year seemed to be a popular sport. Although I was small, I managed to avoid this treatment – probably not worth their effort. However, as we made our way over to the L Block, a blond 4^th former in a short skirt and bomber jacket clutched hold of my arm. 

   ‘Excuse me mate, I need to ask you something.’ The blond paused, her pretty face creased with concern, ‘But have you got a big willy?’

     My face flushed scalding hot, and the girl, joined by her cronies, laughed at my discomfort.

    ‘Wahay! You’re in there Rob.’ Teased Jamie

    ‘Think I’ve got more chance of copping with Cyndi Lauper.’

    Bet Indiana Jones wouldn’t have blushed, I thought despondently.

     Outside the L Block the 1st years had started to gather. On one side, were us kids previously from Netherworth Francis School whilst on the other, were the crowd from Netherworth County School. Two tribes – just like in the Frankie Goes to Hollywood song.  These tribes never went to war though; they just eyed each other in mutual suspicion.

    Our first lesson was maths with Mr Biddle.  The classroom was next to the Craft and Home Economics areas, where the smell of baking pastry competed with sawdust and wood glue. My friend Jamie Green gazed around at the unfamiliar surroundings. ‘I saw that new Indiana Jones film last night and the Temple of Doom just reminds me of this place. What do you reckon this Biddle bloke’s like?’

   ‘Don’t really know,’ I replied. ‘My brother says he spits like an angry camel.’

    The sound of deliberate foot-steps echoed down the corridor towards us, as they grew louder, Jamie nudged me in the ribs. ‘Shit, it’s Judge Dredd.’  

    Mr Biddle, Head of Byron House, strode into view. He wore his glasses around his neck, like the comedian Larry Grayson – but there all similarities ended. This solid six footer; with his craggy face and twisted nose, looked more like Henry Cooper. Gold fillings glinted as he surveyed the new bloods. ‘Class S? Well, you lot are with me; aren’t you the lucky ones,’ he growled as we were ushered us into the classroom.

    ‘Where did they find this warhorse? I whispered

     Jamie shook his head, ‘He was probably here with Shakespeare.’

    We around looked for places to sit, I found a battered chair and began to move it next to Jamie.

  ‘Are you a member of the National Union of Furniture Removers?’

    I looked up – straight into the wolfish eyes of Mr Biddle.

   ‘Don’t think so sir.’

   ‘Then kindly leave that chair where it is!’

    Fortunately I was out of his spitting range, and I found a solitary desk and sat down. It was scored with graffiti from decades past, and the lid seemed to be welded shut with chewing gum. It also had an ink well – complete with an empty packet of Frazzles stuffed into it.

  Furniture? I thought derisively. Most of it would be better on a bonfire!

   Mr Biddle then put on his glasses and examined the specimens he’d been landed with. ‘Now if any of you want to start a row, just let me remind you of all the big guns lined up behind me. I’ve got Mr Morton the Head, there’s also you’re Head of House and your form tutor. That’s enough to blow you out of the water before you even start,’ he looked ominously in my direction. ‘So if you’re thinking about a row forget it,’ his voice then softened a little. ‘Now you’re the kids that find learning that little bit difficult - you’re not thick,’ he added hurriedly, ‘It’s just that much harder for you.’

   With these choice words the opening lesson of High School began....