Big Kids 2: Swimming Tuesday, footie Friday.

"The happiest days of your life.." What congenital moron penned that
opinion of his or her schooldays? Someone with a faulty memory, I
suspect; though the phrase might possibly be modified to "Tuesday - the
happiest day of your school week" and look vaguely accurate. So, why
Tuesday?

Easy: Tuesday was Baths Day. Eagerly awaited, fondly remembered. Trunks
and towels rolled up and tucked securely under arms, we were marched
smartly down to the public baths under the expert and eagle-eyed
supervision of the most muscular and humourless girls in the fourth
form, each of which had been given carte blanche to apply vicious
Chinese burns to any troublemaker - real or suspected. No teacher could
normally be spared for this mundane task, though it's dubious whether
any of them could swim anyway.

There we'd be, flailing our puny arms round like demented windmills to
stave off the near-arctic cold, teeth chattering in unison, lined up
along the side. Though we were somehow expected to perform our "dives"
(headlong leaps) and doggy-paddles with all the communal precision of a
Busby Berkeley musical, the results were generally chaotic - more like
drowning by numbers. But, after floundering across the icy pool a few
times with one of those scabby plastic float things, being bawled at by
a ferocious and tattooed ex-Royal Marines baths attendant, I actually
got to enjoy thrashing about in the water and wanted more.

There was one slight snag.. for a would-be swimmer, the only
freely-available sources of water were the canals. Long-disused (except
as impromptu toilets), these overgrown waterways varied in colour from
liquid rust to a vibrant shade of mustard yellow that glowed - faintly
but surely - in the dark. Heaven alone knows what sort of industrial
sludge was secretly poured into them, (though the evil-smelling
volcanic fumes that bubbled up through the crust gave some clue), but
even the old bikes and prams that regularly got chucked in seldom
lasted more than a fortnight before disintegrating.

Occasionally, you'd find some hopeful halfwit crouched on the bank with
a makeshift fishing rod, staring in, though exactly what sort of mutant
lifeform they hoped to haul out of that gloopy toxic soup is anyone's
guess. Even these sad retards weren't, generally speaking, stupid
enough to risk dipping any vital part of their anatomy into the
"water".

So, there was no realistic choice: die horribly or use the
aforementioned municipal baths, which cost valuable pocket-money that
might have been better spent on the "Beano" or that impenetrable
nut-brittle toffee (since banned under the Geneva Convention) that
splintered like shrapnel when bitten and kept all those ex-Gestapo
school dentists drilling away gleefully.

The Humpshire Municipal Baths, nestling in the beautiful rustic scenery
of the Black Country, were.. well, okay, if you weren't too fussy about
privacy. The stable-type doors on the changing cubicles opened directly
onto the poolside, and anyone over five foot six or under three foot
was likely to stare straight in, laugh, and comment on
how cold the water must have been. Generally speaking, this constant
disparagement of one's developing naughty bits wasn't what a young lad
wanted to hear.

The water was indeed suitably chilly, of course (excessive heating was
for cissies), so the whole archaic structure of the baths vibrated with
the squeals of several hundred rampaging kids attempting to get warm.
It smelled like a proper baths should, though - you know, enough
chlorine to gas an entire German attack (should one unexpectedly
develop) and it possessed those odd, echoey acoustics that could
amplify an innocent whisper to eardrum-perforating strength.

It had good, old-fashioned no-nonsense lifeguards with legs like
treetrunks and Desperate Dan-type chins (nice girls, though), and it
was liberally plastered with those delightful bossy posters: no diving,
no running, no piddling in the water (not from the diving boards,
anyway), no laughing, no enjoying yourself, no getting wet if there's
an R in the month; any suspicious bubbles and you're OUT. You know the
sort of thing.

The baths harboured less obvious dangers, too, like the show-offs who
came off the top board like avenging stukas, missing you by inches, and
the sadistic twerps whose idea of a good laugh was to hold anyone
smaller than themselves under the water until a) the victim went limp
and floated away, or b) the lifeguard noticed, and fetched the
miscreant a good sharp clout with that pole with a hook on the
end.

For safety's sake, I went with the gang from school. It was an odd
bunch, to be honest: Johnnie Paine, who bore a striking resemblance to
Plug out of the "Bash Street Kids" and who regularly got his outsize
head banged in classroom doors for a laugh (sometimes by teachers) -
though I can't ever recall him finding it amusing; little Terry Wilkes
who seemed to have no visible muscles whatsoever, but who could
nevertheless zip round that pool like a human torpedo. Whether this
wondrous talent helped in his later career as a hod carrier, I'm not
sure.

Oddest of all was Eric. He generally perched on the side looking
petrified, as his mother would only allow him to come out with us on
the strict condition that he didn't get his nice new trunks wet. He was
even more terrified of his mother than he was of the rest of us, so we
seldom managed to pull him in. Then, come to think of it, everyone was
terrified of Eric's mother - when we called for him, we drew lots and
the unlucky loser knocked the door while the rest of us cowered behind
the hedge, ready to flee. Even Eric's father, who was a seventeen-stone
copper and well-known for handing out his own special form of
punishment to the local drunks, didn't dare go home without his
alsatian to protect him.

But Friday.. what should have been the joyful conclusion to the week's
mental efforts was totally ruined for me (though not for certain thugs
and apprentice muggers) by being my class's football day. All the boys,
from the most enthusiastic to the leg-in-plaster and stretcher cases -
for no-one escaped this torture without full documentation,
countersigned by at least three doctors - trooped off to the distant,
bleak playing fields while the girls commandeered the playground and
cheerfully set about each other with hockey sticks.

These shared fields were mown about once a month and boasted a ricketty
wooden changing room. This had no running water, so there was nothing
as essential as toilets or as luxurious as showers. This detail never
bothered Mr Ryan, the paunchy bored-looking teacher who usually marched
us up there. Like most of his generation, he'd had Japanese bullets and
malaria rather than moaning soft kids to contend with during his
formative years: he believed that boys' games naturally involved
getting dirty and sweaty, therefore any desire to clean oneself up
afterwards was a trifle suspect and not to be encouraged.

One particularly battered kid once had the temerity to complain, but
Ryan quelled the potential rebellion by bawling: "Shower? Four years, I
was in Burma and never even SAW a shower!" That shut everyone up
double-quick, as well as explaining the peculiar dank smell that had
always hung around Mr Ryan: no-one, however, dared mention that for
fear of an enthusiastic caning.

The hut were also regularly broken into and used by local courting
couples for various nefarious purposes, so everyone got used to playing
"hunt the johnnie" before sitting down to do battle with our boots. Why
they had to be so heavy, heaven knows; I got tired just carrying them
to the field. Once strapped into these stiff monsters it felt as if you
were trying to run through treacle, though in all fairness you could
lean over to about forty-five degrees without toppling to your
doom.

Once changed, we tramped carefully across to the pitch: this was
thoughtfully positioned between the less-than-fragrant canal (murky
brown and bubbly, this one) and the nettles. These six-foot monsters,
luxuriant and menacing, stood behind the goals - and, as there was no
net, the unfortunate goalie had to wade in every time the ball went
past him. It wasn't a popular job, especially in that loose baggy kit:
one of those stingers up your shorts and you wouldn't sit still for a
fortnight. Guaranteed.

I could never summon up any great enthusiasm for these team games, so I
got picked last every week, though I was far too unco-ordinated and
apathetic to be entrusted with the goalie's job. I suppose this lack of
interest was because the rules of football remained a total mystery. It
appeared to go like this: someone in authority tossed a coin, and the
losing "captain" whispered "Oh, bugger," before getting clipped round
the ear.

Then, a whistle blew and everyone ran around looking as if they knew
what they were doing until the whistle went again or a loud splash
announced that some short-sighted unfortunate had stumbled into the
canal. It all seemed a bit through-the-looking-glass to me. The only
other things that stopped play seemed to be broken limbs, punches to
the head within sight of the referee causing bleeding and/or
concussion, and goals - though these were few and far between.

Unlike today, when it's perfectly permissible to subject the scorer to
ten minutes of vigorous simulated sex, nobody made much fuss of the
scorer then. Shouts of "Well done!" or "You lucky ****!" (depending on
which side had scored) were about all you got, and there was certainly
no personal familiarity - not on the pitch, and most definitely not in
the changing rooms afterwards either. Personally, I was delighted when
anyone scored, as we could all sit down in the mud and dogpoo while the
poor goalie fished the ball either out of the canal or from deep in the
dreaded nettles.

I can remember it now.. the only time I almost scored. It was when the
ball arrived, unexpected, at my feet as a result of some dreadfully
misjudged pass. I froze, unsure as to what to do with this unforeseen
gift.

"Whack it one, you little twerp!" Ryan shouted angrily (it always
pained him to take his fag out), so I did - booting it wildly it away
towards the goal, I keeled over into the mud in the process. The wind
must have caught it, because it curved beautifully towards the post. As
luck would have it, Johnnie Paine was there, unmarked and gormless,
perfectly positioned to head it in: the simplest of sporting tasks -
even I could have done it. It was not to be. The ball connected with
his massive head, plopping off it into the astonished goalie's arms,
and propelling Johnnie bodily over the line.

As he lay there in the mire, wondering who or what had hit him, I
naturally appealed to the ref. Not a chance! I thought it was a fair
goal, as I'd knocked the whole player across the line, but Ryan didn't
see it that way and I was destined to trudge home grumbling at the loss
of my one potential moment of sporting glory. Just think, though.. with
free-kicking talent like that, I could have been playing for Wolves
now. Hm.. maybe that canal looks inviting after all.