The toad that never quite grew up... E-Book

Mehran Salehpour

• Herausgeber: Books on Demand
• Kategorie: Für Kinder und Jugendliche
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 483

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

This is a book for mature men with high intrinsic immaturity who enjoy simple things in life; No effort has been made in being politically correct with regards to religion, gender, ethnicity or other sensitive matters of general concern. It is for those who still can laugh at a poo-story. The book, although harmless, could easily upset a lot of morality fixed individuals, especially the ethical ones. Consequently, they are advised to pick up another, more serious book, and leave this one where it is. The story is that of a teenage foreign student in England during the 1970's, spanning over a few years. It starts with the time in an English boarding school. After getting expelled at the age of sixteen he moves into a house with three other teenagers and starts high school studies. The university studies follow and life experiences flourish. It is more or less a collection of stories you might tell a friend in a pub. Stories with high a level of juvenescence with very little philosophical repercussions.

Leseprobe

This is a book for mature men with high intrinsic immaturity who enjoy simple things in life; for those still in need of fun and amusement even if might be at other people’s expense. No effort has been made in being politically correct with regards to religion, gender, ethnicity or other sensitive matters of general concern. It is for those who still can laugh at a poo-story. The book, although harmless, could easily upset a lot of morality fixed individuals, especially the ethical ones. Consequently, they are advised to pick up another, more serious book, and leave this one where it is.

The story is that of a teenage foreign student in England during the 1970’s, spanning over a few years. It starts with the time in an English boarding school. After getting expelled at the age of sixteen he moves into a house with three other teenagers and starts high school studies. The university studies follow and life experiences flourish.

It is more or less a collection of stories you might tell a friend in a pub. Stories with high a level of juvenescence with very little philosophical repercussions.

April 2020

Uppsala, Sweden

About the Author:

Mehran Salehpour was born in Teheran, Iran in 1960. A Persian father and a German mother facilitated an insight into the arbitrariness of cultures. The first 9 years in school were involuntarily spent in seven different schools. O-Levels and A-Levels in England were complemented with a B. Sc. in physics from the University of Sussex. To his surprise, he received a Ph. D. in Nuclear/Ion Physics from the University of Uppsala, Sweden at the age of 25. He worked as a researcher in USA and Sweden and became an Associate Professor in Engineering Sciences from Uppsala University. He has published nearly 70 peer-reviewed papers in international scientific journals, including the highest ranked ones such as Nature and Science. He has also been awarded a prize from the European Physical Society for outstanding research.

He took an eighteen-year sabbatical from the academic life and worked in the industry for over fifteen years as among others, Managing Director. He has also been known for very long lunches and taking a couple of years of vacations at a time. All his occupations so far seemed rather serious and he is currently trying to find something less sombre to do.

He is married, has four children and lives in Sweden. Still.

To Leo, Sasha, Neo & Noel

Chapters

Chapter 1: The Litter squad

Chapter 2: Academia

Chapter 3: The Club

Chapter 4: The Sports Club

Chapter 5: Courtship

Chapter 6: The Breakfast

Chapter 7: The Challenge

Chapter 8: The Che

Chapter 9: El final

Chapter 10: The German connection

Chapter 11: The results

Chapter 12: Good morning

Chapter 13: Bon appétit!

Chapter 14: Cheers!

Chapter 15: Fish & Chips

Chapter 16: The Scholar!

Chapter 17: La fiesta

Chapter 18: The career

Chapter 19: Happy New Year

Chapter 20: The breakdown

Chapter 21: A moment of contemplation

Chapter 22: Kent House

Chapter 23: The Grapevine

Chapter 24: Quantum mechanics

Chapter 25: The Thrush Crush

Chapter 26: Hail Mary

Chapter 27: The house of Anne of Cleves

Chapter 28: The partner

Chapter 29: Magic mushrooms and toadstools

Chapter 30: The Wall

Chapter 31: The moon boots

Chapter 32: The soft landing

Chapter 33: The hard landing

Chapter 34: Bachelor of Science

Chapter 35: Bon Voyage!

Chapter 36: Pita bread

Chapter 37: The Tandem Accelerator Laboratory

Chapter 38: The corridor

Chapter 39: The anthropologist

Chapter 40: Twisted Sister

Chapter 41: The jazz

Chapter 42: The birthday cake

Chapter 43: The mother in law

Chapter 44: Kitty cat

Chapter 45: The non-linearity

Chapter 46: The queening

Chapter 47: The family trip

Chapter 48: The countryside

Chapter 49: The mountainside

Chapter 50: The Italian summer school

Chapter 51: The Neutral zone

Chapter 52: The Bachelor

Chapter 53: The scientist

Chapter 54: El doctor

1975-1977

Copford, Essex, England

Chapter 1: The Litter Squad

- ‘Well, well. Who have we got here, now?’

- ‘Eh?’

- ‘You must be Salehpour.’

- ‘Eh, yes.’

- ‘I see that you have made yourself at home.’

- ‘And you, Sir?’

- ‘I am Mr. Wright.’

- ‘Eh…’

- ‘Your headmaster.’

- ‘Hello Mr. White, nice to meet you.’

- ‘No, Mr. Wright, with a W.’

In retrospect, if I had met Mr. Wright in almost any other place than in his own house with his daughter on the sofa, would have been better. We were not naked but the way we jumped up when he barged in with his wife made it clear that we were not just having a cup of tea together. He gave me a look and the message was clear. He was going to make sure that my stay at Copford College would be a memorable one, for him and for me. And an enjoyable one, for him.

That was on my first day in Copford, an insignificant village about 10 miles out of Colchester. There was nothing of interest in Copford with the exception of having the international boarding school, Copford College. The school had a couple of hundred students from about 30 different countries, at that point in time. A boarding school is a very convenient place to put your child; somewhat like a package that can be stored until you have time for it.

The place had a main building with about 15 dormitories housing 5-10 students in each, often with bunkbeds. The refectory was downstairs in the main building, as well as the head master’s and principal’s offices. There were a number of other smaller ad hoc buildings scattered over an area of tens of acres, including a stable with a few horses and also a pond. There were football fields, a rugby field, volleyball and tennis courts and a swimming pool. The classrooms were also scattered all over the college. There was a TV-room, a smoker’s room as well as a few other miscellaneous activities room. There were no fences around the college but the rules were very strict and the borders were clear.

I arrived in Copford college on a rainy Sunday afternoon. A very pleasant cleaning lady had welcomed me and told me that everyone was out on a sports day activity and would not be back for another couple of hours. She had worked out which would be my room and took me there.

I had left Teheran alone just a few days before that, not yet fifteen years old. I had had my visions of what Copford College would look like, mostly inspired by hard rock music artists and the hippie movement. I also had visualized a lot of sunshine which probably was from the pop artists in California. I had not seen the sun since my arrival. Copford College looked old, the rooms dark, damp and chilly. The moment I walked into my room I hesitated. It seemed that I was sharing the room with another six roommates, as I counted three bunk beds and a single one which apparently was mine. I dropped my suitcase, took out my portable but large cassette player and went for a walk. I walked in the country side wondering where I had ended up. This place was a dump. Was I going to spend the next four years of my life sleeping in a room with six other guys?

It was during this walk when I met Mr. Wright’s daughter on the field facing the nearest pub. My English was rather inadequate at the time, in particular concerning the vocabulary of romance. But the music I was playing and the names of a few pop artists smoothed out the difficulties. She liked my music style and the hippie style fur-leather coat I was wearing. She invited me to go to her place for some tea. We were getting along really nicely until Mr. Wright unexpectedly barged in.

Mr. Wright was in his forties with a constant smirk on his face insinuating profound knowledge about all mischiefs. His rusty brushlike moustache had its own autonomous idea of growth direction in total disharmony with other hair growth on his face. It almost seemed that it had been glued at the last moment. Just below his moustache you usually found a burning cigarette or one waiting to be lit. As a whole had he not been the headmaster, he might even have been likable.

His house was a stone-throw away from the collage so we started to walk back to Copford College. Meanwhile, he was telling me about the house rules. Misbehaviour was disciplined by four levels of punishment, excluding the ultimate one of being expelled. Litter Squad was the mildest form, where one would go around school picking up rubbish for half an hour during breaks. This was overseen by the prefects who were the students who had sold their souls to school and were acting as little disciplinary teachers. They had to work hard to earn their authority and that was done most efficiently by humiliating other students. More serious misconducts resulted in Detention which took place during the weekends at midday which made it difficult to go to town for a good days outing. One unit of Detention was sitting still in a classroom without making a noise for half an hour. Any noise or previous private issues with the prefects resulted in an extension. More serious wrongdoings led to the so called, Gating which meant you could not leave the school premises during the weekends, when all the guys were in town having fun. For the worst offenders The Cane was offered which was physical and involved pulling down your trousers and bending down. You were then hit with a wooden cane on you bare back side by no less than the principal himself, Mr. Green. This obviously was a painful ordeal, but the bigger problem-according to what I was told by other students later on- concerned the combination of being naked and bent down in the vicinity of Mr. Green. He seemed to have a genuine interest in little boys.

After the informative and cheerful introduction by Mr. Wright, he continued with our daily routines. We would be woken up at 7 by the loud speakers. We then had exactly 2 minutes to report for the morning jog. By 8 o’clock we should have done the 1.5-mile run, taken a cold shower, cleaned the room, polished the shoes to a shine, put on the suite and the tie and be ready for inspection. Inspections were apparently a source of entertainment for the prefects and the sports teacher Mr. Taylor who was very generous with his servings of Litter Squad and sometimes Detention, depending on what faults he discovered. A bad shoe shine would give you a Litter Squad, whereas looking scruffy would be an automatic Detention. After that, it was time for breakfast. A smoke in the smoker’s room was allowed for students with permissions from parents or legal guardians and then it was time for lessons.

The quick overview by Mr. Wright was quite clear. I received a good overall picture of the organizational setup. I had also managed to find myself a powerful enemy on my first day. Well, so much for hard rock, the hippie movement and all the girls- which were nonexistent as this was a boys’-only school.

Chapter 2: Academia

- ‘Are we going to have problems with you’?

- ‘No, why?’

- ‘Well, you arrived yesterday and you are already on Mr. Wright’s shit list.’

- ‘It was a bit unlucky.’

- ‘Yes, you could say that again.’

The prefects had already been told to keep an eye on me. Fortunately, the one responsible for our dormitory area had a sense of humour. His humour mostly circled around the subject of seeing students suffer or humiliated in one way or another but nevertheless there was an opening. His name was Sunny and he was from the Philippines. He was quite good looking but had bad acne which he obviously liked squeezing. Popping zits was his pass time hobby according to some secure sources. The face was decorated with numerous tiny little erupted volcanos at different levels of recovery.

My ordeal with Mr. Wright had spread all over the school since I told my roommates about it last night. I had become recognized as a new trouble maker who was not into petty little things but went for the big fish. But the fact of the matter was that I actually didn’t want trouble. I just wanted hard rock and some girls and I would be no trouble at all. Thank you very much. My roommates were quite harmless. The school was not for the stinking rich but sort of upper middle class, so most of the guys were sissies or nerds- which was great. Octavio was Spanish and a fun guy. We got on very well. His English was worse than mine but he compensated for it with his charm. He was very much into horse riding and could often be found at the school stables. He carried with him a pungent smell. He shared the bunk bed with Özgül who was a tall, lethargic and slow-moving Turk. Rüzgar, also a Turk was a copy of Özgül with an additional 30 kilos, acne and glasses: He was even more lethargic than Özgül. Rüzgar always had food stored in his locker which he would lock with an industrial grade padlock. Wang Wei was the unhappy inhabitant of the bed under Rüzgar who reportedly had a generous organic gas supply. He was timid, intelligent and mild and never made any fuss unless Rüzgar overdid the gas production. The rest of the roommates never did anything to leave an impression or a memory. They were probably your standard good, obedient students.

The places of interest outside the dormitories were the refectory where we ate breakfast, lunch and dinner under the supervision of the prefects and teachers who had their own separate tables. Then, there was the tuck shop which was run my Mr Green’s mother. There was always a bunch of guys around the tuck shop where you could buy a coke or some chocolate and even cigarettes. Cigarettes were allowed in the smoking room but required permission from your parents or the legal guardian. My legal guardian was very easy going. When I left Teheran for England, my mother, a German Lutheran with Ordnung on the top of her agenda warned me about two things in England. She told me to be very careful: Number one was drugs and number two was homosexuality. Their choice of Marcelle therefore was an astonishing achievement. He was openly homosexual and had marijuana plants all over his house. He had tried many times to get me into bed with him but had given up. He was very easy going with rules and signed the paper or the smoker’s room without a moment of hesitation. Apart from trying to have sex with me he was a nice guy. I met a number of his boyfriends and he openly discussed their sexual appeals.

The smokers’ room, was where you had the real characters- the bad boys. Most of them were not your everyday role model students. Octavio and Özgül were smokers. Being a smoker was cool, however. The room was about 5 by 2 yards with a low ceiling and a hanging space heater which was also our universal lighter. The room was completely packed at peak times, like just before lectures or after lunch/dinner. It was a stinking and disgusting place which we absolutely adored. Even the prefects approached the smoker’s room with caution aware of the potential trouble in there.

After a couple of months, I had settled in Copford College and things were going smoothly. Mr. Wright did not seem to be onto me, even though I did not like the way he looked at me- always with a smirk. If one had any paranoid tendencies, one might have thought that he was up to something. I was in the swimming team, the volleyball team, the football team and the chess team which seemed to have pleased him. But the smirk was permanently on his face, right under his rusty moustache.

The lectures were hideously boring. The teachers were mostly old pensioners who needed something to do. Mr. Castle, our English teacher was a very grumpy old man who snapped at you for merely having a question. He regarded us all as insignificant and illiterate bums. I once asked him why you would not pronounce knife with the k- which was quite clearly there at the beginning of the word. ‘Because we are British and not god-damn Germans’, he said very loudly with his eyes shining with venom.

Mrs. Castle and Mrs. Withlow were on the other hand really sweet old ladies. They would patiently go through all the question with various cultural backgrounds from all over the world, some from quite exotic places. Even they, at times, would lose their patience with all the varieties of queries. One particular discussion was about the word “couple”. Mrs. Withlow explained that it meant two things or people. Most of the class disagreed. The Thai guy elaborated that if he told us will be back in a couple of minutes, it actually meant 10, may be fifteen- and we would know. In agreement with the Thai, the Nigerian boy explained that when the military announce that a couple of people had been killed, everybody would know it was at least 20. The class thought this was a more open and flexible explanation for the word couple and all agreed and cheered. Mrs. Withlow frowned, and wondered if she should still be working at her age.

All was going quite well at Copford College; my English was getting better and I was becoming less humble. The tension with Mr. Wright and his mob of prefects was however, steadily increasing. I had decided that the best defensive was attack. This I had heard in a movie. The nastiest prefect who was feared by everybody because of his size and his vile temper was a German boy with the name of Dieter. His nick name was Volcano Dieter. Apart from radiating displeasure and contempt he had, like Sunny, an acne problem. However, unlike Sunny’s pimples which were plentiful in numbers, Volcano Dieter had concentrated all his efforts in one or two gigantic super-pimples on his nose. They were reddish brown at the bottom and towered proudly into whitish tops, that looked ready to pop with organic magma. He was very conscience of them. He also had been in an accident at the stable where a horse had kicked him quite hard, fracturing a few ribs.

The idea was quite simple. As soon as he approached, he would be neighed at. It was exceptionally funny when he passed the smoker’s room where ten or 15 guys would be neighing in unison. Some of us would get carried away and do a donkey bray, wrapped up with loud lunatic laughter and whistling. Volcano Dieter did not like this. Not even a little bit, so one morning when I neighed good morning to him, he said I would be on the Litter Squad after lunch for being disrespectful. I obliged.

The Litter Squad turned out to be a bad idea as all the smokers and a few other joined us. They kept their distance but the neighing and braying went on for the duration of the Litter Squad. Volcano Dieter had had enough. Later that afternoon took me to the side for a peace talk. We agreed not to bother each other and stay out of each other’s way. We shook hands and after that we got on very well.

Chapter 3: The Club

- ‘Have you slept with her too?’

- ‘Yeah, I was one of the first ones.’

- ‘And you?’

- ‘Yep.’

- ‘The potato head too?’

- ‘Yes.’

- ‘Is there anyone who hasn’t?’

- ‘Yes, you.’

- ‘Hm.’

In the village of Copford there were not many girls around. There was one by the name of Catherine who was around 16 years old and looked very nice, with long brown hair, hippie style jeans and a pretty face. Most of the guys in the smoker’s room had had sex with her and so had some of the prefects. Each had his own story to tell; behind the bushes, in the garage, in the church. So, I decided that I also had to join The Club.

There was a bench under a large oak tree near the local pub where she sometimes used to sit with her sister. It seemed that she liked to sit there in late afternoons when the weather was good. So, I went there one afternoon, and said hello and sat down. It turned out she was rather shy, or maybe she didn’t fancy me as the conversation was not going very smoothly. One question, one answer. Next question, one more answer. So, I said goodbye and left. After a few days, things started to get more relaxed and I asked if she wanted to go to the movies. She hesitated and said she will think about it. This was not what I expected. The guys at Copford hadn’t mentioned that you had to work at it or to take her out.

On Saturday, we went to the movies together and there was a bit of necking and kissing but she stopped any more advances. Frustrating as it was, I could not stop now. If the guys at Copford knew how much I had to work to just get her to the movies, they would be laughing at me for the rest of the term. We continued meeting a few times and there were always some cuddling and French kisses but never more. She was clear about that. This was not good for my self-confidence.

One day I asked her if she would come with me to London to my legal guardian’s house in Harrow-on-the-Hill. Marcelle’s place was nice with an extra room and there she would have to sleep with me in the same bed. Good plan. She somehow convinced or lied to her parents about the weekend and off we went. We had a great time in London and then we went home to Marcelle who made us dinner with some wine. After that we watched some TV with cuddles and then it was time to go to bed. Awkwardly we put the pyjamas on, brushed the teeth and at last we were in bed. Finally.

By now I seriously desired her. It was not just joining the Club any more. We started kissing under the quilt and the temperature went up. She then stopped me gently and whispered into my ear: ‘Remember, a version.‘ My English was certainly improving but I would find new unknown words on a daily basis. I was not in mood for an English lesson and wanted to get on with the under-the-quilt-activity. Unfortunately, the word was critically placed after a remember. If it had been after an it doesn’t really matter, I could have just pretended that I understood what she said. But remember? So, what is a version? With the greatest of effort, I lifted my head and asked her. ‘What is a version?’

‘Don’t be daft,’ she said, giggling. I guess my whole head must have looked like a big question mark so she continued. ‘Not a version. A Virgin, stupid’.

Well, well, well. This is a very interesting situation now. The Club, eh? With all the honourable members. The bastards in the smoking room and the dick-head prefects were very convincing and entertaining with their stories. Very. I was going to enjoy exposing the wankers, when I got back to Copford.

This was something to look forward to.

I got back to Copford on a Sunday evening. Sundays was the high season for the smokers’ room. Everyone had a story to tell after the weekend and there was plenty of time as we gathered before and after supper. I steered the conversation to Catherine. The guys were always happy to tell their stories with Catherine again. So, they went on. Potato-head John told us about the quickie behind the pub and how he had satisfied her fully. No-chin José shared with us the marathon session with Catherine in the church where they had the whole place to themselves. Volcano Dieter, the prefect, was a decorated four-star general as he frequently would get a BJ in the stables which she thoroughly enjoyed.

- ‘How about you? Still not scored?’

- ‘It is none of your business.’

- ‘You haven’t, have you. I knew it.’

- ‘May be so. But nor have you. Or you. Or you. Or you.’

The Casanovas were suddenly very unnerved. No one had ever, questioned the truth. This was common knowledge. A very uncomfortable silence was settling in. Potato-head John was the first to retaliate: ‘Of course I have fucked her. What are you talking about?’ Volcano Dieter was next, ‘I don’t know what he is talking about. I got a BJ this morning. It was great’. These two guys would lose most face if it turned out that they had been bull-shitting the whole time. They were the ones who took the initiatives and went on with the details of their sexual encounter with Catherine. Most other guys just mentioned they had done it so that they would be a member of the Club. I looked at them and then said. ‘You are a couple of wankers. None of you have done anything with Catherine, I told them. ‘This morning, Dieter?’, I enquired. His yes was a lot softer now. I then went out of the door.

I returned a few minutes later, having smuggled Catherine into Copford College. The moment she walked into the room everyone froze. She looked at the guys, one by one. Potato-head John was pale. Volcano Dieter rushed out of the room, not looking up. All the other guys just looked down. This was a tough moment of shame. There would certainly be some repercussions from some of the guys.

I had just disgraced two rather large and physically aggressive gorillas in public. They were probably the two most violent and bad-tempered boys in school. The list of my sworn enemies was becoming quite impressive.

Chapter 4: Courtship

- ‘It doesn’t work for me.’

- ‘Why not?’

- ‘They always say no!’

- ‘You have to ask nicely. You need to smile. Be seductive.’

- ‘How?’

- ‘To start with, you shouldn’t look angry. Who would want to go out with an angry guy? Eh?’

- ‘But they are going to say no, anyway, so who cares?’

- ‘You care.’

- ‘No more. I give up!’

- ‘Give up. Are you crazy? Look! Ask me out! Go on. Just pretend that I am a girl and ask me out. Let me see how you do it’.

- ‘All right. You ready?’

- ‘Yeah’.

- ‘Hello. You wanna a coffee?’

- ‘...‘

- ‘Well? What do you think?’

- ‘Well, maybe you should give up.’

The brain of say, a sixteen-year-old boy, is soaked in so much hormones that for all purposes he should be regarded as a different species compared to a say a mature man. The latter, before making a decision, would consider the situation at hand, would weigh the pros and cons, may investigate for more facts and then make a logical decision as whether to proceed or not. A teenager on the other hand would first proceed, and later would be faced with the situation at hand, find out the pros and cons, as well as more relevant facts. He would finally, realize if he had made the right decision to proceed.

When pharmacological companies are developing new medicines, they do differentiate between humans, macaques and say, laboratory mice. Even when safety clinical tests on animals have gone well at hundreds of times of the human doses, they are nevertheless still prepared for surprises when the medicine is given to humans. There are simply too many differences. However, the same companies put this sixteen-year-old testosterone soup in the same category as a seventy-year-old woman. As a result, it is not surprising that pharmaceuticals have such different effects on people.

Copford college housed a few hundred of the specimens with high chemical imbalance in the brain with an astonishingly high metabolism. Simply the amount of daily consumed food by a teenager boy would hospitalise a seventy-year-old. Likewise, the level of physical activity that starts abruptly in the morning to maximum level and stays there until bedtime would lead to myocardial infarction for an elderly. Boys at that age are on a relative scale simply indestructible. And very horny.

When the weekend, was upcoming, the level of activity at Copford college peaked. There were gatherings, tutorials by the experts, planning meetings, discussions, new strategies, fashion shows, clothing exchanges, arguments, shared experiences and anything else that was related to the weekend’s fishing for girls. The mood was at its absolute topmost level on Friday nights. Saturday lunch time, the boys would be heading to Colchester town to try their luck with the girls.

At the age of four, if you wanted to play with another kid, you simply go over and say ‘You want to play?’ and that is it. No more thought is given to it. The success rate is very high. For a cursed grown up, say a thirty-year-old, it is very different. You need to think very carefully. You can’t really use the same phrase for all girls as they all react differently. You also need to be innovative which is a little tricky as there are billions of guys doing the same thing on a daily basis. For a sixteen-year-old, the setup, is quite close to a four-year old. You basically go over and ask a question that would ultimately give you a positive answer. The subject is not critical and includes, coffee, tea, cigarette, a light, walking, the movies, candy, chewing gum, or anything else that could lead to the word, “yes” or a “maybe” after which biology would take over and play its own role.

Late Saturday mornings, the exodus would start before lunch and the bus to Colchester would be filled with hopeful youngsters going to try their luck. The method was more or less the same for all. We would walk all day in town, locating good looking girls. After a quick war plan, a charm offensive would be launched. The standard routine in increasing level of success was, coffee, necking in the cinema and in the case of a jackpot an improvised quite spot. Jackpot was rare on the first date but necking was expected at the movies. Some would head back as warriors with stories to tell, whilst others would head back, defeated in battle. Sunday evening was when all the stories were told, in our case in the smoker’s room. As in fishing there was an arbitrary level of truth in each story and for each narrative, the level was accordingly adjusted. However, to arrive at the smoker’s room with a hickey or a love-bite was like coming home with a trophy. You would be praised and admired.

Another activity that all the guys really looked forward to was the arranged discos. The setup was simple and straight forward. A bus full of Copford boys would be shipped over to a rented village hall somewhere, meeting another bus full of girls from a nearby girls’ school. A local DJ would fix the music and the rest was just to enjoy. We always arrived before the girls and would go in and occupy one side of the length of the rectangular room. Most of us would be sitting down on one row of chairs against the wall facing the other side. The girls would then arrive and would look awkwardly in our direction and then sit down facing us. There would be about ten minutes of sussing each other out. The guys would be choosing and so would the girls. After some hesitation one of the guys would awkwardly walk over to the other side and ask one of them for a dance. This would then cause an avalanche of guys rushing over to ask their pick for a dance. Within twenty minutes the whole place would be as smooth as silk; no sign of the separation of boys on one side and the girls on the other side. The two sides completely immerged. There would be necking everywhere and some disappearing outside for more. This disco held the best record for the guys- almost everyone had some level of success.

There was another type of activity, which although was not meant to be for the purpose of pairing us with girls, it nevertheless had the effect. Those were trips to seaside resorts like Great-Yarmouth or Felixstowe with fun-fares or carnivals. The place was always full of youngsters who were there for fun.

On one occasion, after a great day out we were ready to head out back to Copford. John, the Potato-head was however, missing. After waiting for about half an hour he finally stumbled over to us. He had been beaten and had a black eye to show for it. He had apparently been kissing a girl whose boyfriend had turned up and gotten quite pissed off. Unfortunately for Potato-Head the boyfriend was with a bunch of his friends. That night Potato-Head told a long story about his experience and impressed all of the occupants in smokers’ room. A black eye from a boyfriend! This was so much more impressive than a love-bite.

Chapter 5: The Sports Club

- ‘All right, you lazy excuses for students. Get going! It is time for your first rugby game. And you, Dick, give me the ball!’

- ‘You call this a ball?’

- ‘Yes. A rugby ball.’

- ‘It is more like a melon.’

- ‘Give me the ball, Dick!’

- ‘But Sir, it is not a ball. A ball is round.’

- ‘All right. Give me the god damn melon.’

- ‘But Sir. You know this is not a melon.’

- ‘Of course, I know it is not a melon; you called it a melon.’

- ‘No, I didn’t.’

- ‘Yes, you did. Just now.’

- ‘No, I said it is like a melon. Not that it is an actual melon.’

- ‘Dick! The ball or a Detention!’

- ‘All right Sir. Here you go. But I still think it is neither a ball nor a melon’

- ‘Dick?’

- ‘Yes Sir?’

- ‘Would you please shut up?’

- ‘Yes Sir.’

Dick’s actual name was Richard, but this was totally coincidental as the nick-name was given to him in Copford because he was a real dick. Dick and Mr. Taylor often had intellectual disagreements of this sort. Mr. Taylor saw himself as far too clever to be intimidated by Dick but most often got too frustrated with him and used brute force of a Detention to shut him up. And that, we all saw as a defeat. He would easily turn red and raise his voice. But as a whole he was a good PE teacher. He taught us all sorts of things. But to teach a bunch of foreign students from all over the globe, half of which did not speak English fluently, required considerable patience which he often did not have.

Last week’s Cricket exercise was a disaster. By the time he had explained the rules and the scoreboard he realized that he had overestimated our concentration capabilities and we ended up just throwing the cricket ball at each other and the bat as an armament. Today, however, he was determined to teach us the beauty of rugby. A simple game of strength and agility as he described it.

He started with the basics, the line up behind the line of scrimmage and snapping the ball backwards. He then pointed out that you could not pass the ball forward- only backwards or laterally. At this point, Dick put his hand up. Mr. Taylor sighed and asked what was up. Dick explained that he did not agree with the rules and that it is important to be able to pass the ball forward if you want to score. Mr. Taylor turned red and patiently told him that these were the rules and Dick did not need to agree- just obey. Then Brandon, a rather fat and noticeably unintelligent American, cut in and said that in American football you could pass the ball forward. This seemed to please Dick quite a lot who then suggested that we should play American football instead. Mr. Taylor fell into the trap and got into a debate which soon evolved into the origin of the game, the British colonisation of the poor countries and the need for a democratic vote as to what we should play. The discussion got quite heated up when Russel, The Australian, joined in as he had his own idea of how football should be played. He said that rugby was a game for sissies. Real men play Australian football, he concluded. This led to a widespread laughter. The rest of the crowd started to disperse and spread out waiting for the game to start but the argument had really picked up momentum as Dick and Russel were calling Mr. Taylor a British fascist who would not respect other cultures and ways of living.

Meanwhile, a bunch of us moved over to the end of the field and sat down and started smoking and chatting about life in general. Torsten and Sunny were practicing the rugby tackle and got into a fight. This ended up in Sunny’s head being locked in between Torstens knees in a wrestling manoeuvre. Sunny could be heard screaming for help. Others were chatting or sunbathing.

The discussion ended up with a Detention for Russel and Dick who clearly though that they had been unfairly treated. Mr. Taylor was as red as a tomato and stood there looking at us all wondering how to get us organised. After a loud threat of Detention, Torsten let go of Sunny and we all got together.

We eventually split up into two teams and the line of scrimmage was in order. As soon as the ball entered the scrimmage, Sunny and Torsten started fighting again. The fighting then spread. There was quite a commotion until we all separated. Mr. Taylor looked completely exhausted. He was now taking care of Indiral, an Indian student who was kicked accidentally in the shin in the turmoil and was crying.

That was our last rugby session.

Football on the other hand was a completely different story. Everyone understood it and liked football including the Australians and even the Americans. We practiced well and had matches almost every week with other schools. There was no such a thing as bad weather, Mr. Taylor used to tell us. So, we played all winter, be it freezing cold, rain or snow. We would go out on the field in our shorts and football shirts and would shiver until the game got going.

We could always tell if there was going to be a fight in a match with another school team. Before the match there would be a lot of sussing each other out. All was needed was a ‘What are you looking at?’, and that would be like making an appointment on the football field. Dick and Torsten were the ones getting into fights most often but we all had our moments.

We had a match against Gilberd School with whom there was a good fisting after the last match which ended 1-1. As we got there this time, getting off the bus, we noticed that the atmosphere was tense and the kids in the spectator’s stand were asking for trouble. Mr. Taylor had been very clear in the bus: Anyone getting into a fight would get a Detention, may be even a Gating. He did not want us to give Copford college a bad reputation. We all nodded noncommittally and headed for the changing rooms. Once again, he reminded us: ‘No trouble, all right?’ It was a cold autumn day and the grass was wet and soggy. The fields were open and the football field was apparently a meeting ground for the cows as well, as we saw a good few decorative cow dungs. The match started and it was quite clear from the start that neither team had the intention of playing nice. Gilberd scored an early goal which increased the temperature on the field. 10 minutes into the game Potato-Head was tackled and he slid right over a pile of cow dung covering the side of his short and most of his right leg and hand. This produced a loud cheer from the spectators who laughed and cheered and held their noses in amusement. The guy who tackled him was also laughing. Potato-Head just stood there taking it all in. He then went over to him and spread cow dung all over his face. This immediately turned in to a collective fight involving fist fighting and cow dung throwing. After a while and a few yellow cards things calmed down and the game continued. However, the situation was somewhat different now and a new strategic parameter had entered the game: the cow dung.

About half the players had cow dung available on their bodies or hand ready to share with the opposing team. Not only did you have to calculate the ball angle, speed and trajectory as well as the corresponding parameters for the incoming opponent and synchronize those with your foot-work, you also needed to determine if the opponent was armed with cow-dong.

Although there is no specific rule in the book of football against smearing cow dung on your opponent, the referee gave out quite a number of yellow cards. The game ended with 1-0 and we left the fields, disappointed and smelling awful. Mr. Taylor was very disappointed with us. He said that a good old fight om the soccer field is not a good thing but it is still within reason. But using cow dung, this was simply disgusting- literally. We all got a Detention for the next weekend. We sat on the bus home and sulked collectively.

Chapter 6: The Breakfast

- ‘Good morning, Mr. Wright.’

- ‘Good morning.’

- ‘Hungry, this morning?’

- ‘Starving.’

- ‘Sausage and tomatoes?’

- ‘That would be wonderful, thank you.’

- ‘There you go.’

- ‘…’

- ‘And the same for you ma’am?’

This conversation got me into a great deal of trouble. Quite a lot. The relationship with Mr. Wright moved to another level after this. I had humiliated him right in front of his wife. I had also managed to insult his wife, right in front of him. It was a classic two birds with one shot. Bull’s eye.

Mr. Wright’s wife also worked at Copford College, as a nurse. She was with Mr. Wright the first time we met in their house- sort of in the background. Our interactions had been limited but she was always giving me a disapproving look. She had the same aura as Mr. Wright with a similar smirk plastered on her chubby face.

I had gotten a job in the kitchen, serving breakfast. The pay was terrible, a mere 50 pence an hour but it had its perks. I could serve large portions for myself and anyone I liked; I could serve burnt food to the ones I did not like. It was a position of power. One of the bonuses was that I could also serve Mr. Wright. And his wife.

How could I have insulted the Wrights with sausages and tomatoes? Well, I put one of the larger sausages and placed it in the middle of the plate, and then carefully put two tomatoes at the base of the sausage, one on each side. During this time smiling pleasantly at Mr. Wright. I then took a few drops of oil over the top end of the sausage. The dish suddenly failed to be a breakfast, rather a message. Another smile was in place before I asked Mrs. Wright: ‘And the same for you ma’am?’

Mr. Wright, looked as if he was going to explode. He did not. He had been brought up to be calm and not make a scene. He must be calculating and cool. After all, it could in principle, be an innocent serving of sausages and tomatoes that just happened to have ended up looking like the male’s reproduction organ in climax. After all, an innocent 15-year-old could claim that it was all a result of him having a dirty mind. But Mr. Wright knew. And I knew that he knew. And Mrs. Wright was on it too. He then took his plate and gave me The Look. It was not a sophisticated and detailed female transmission. It was a male transmission. Telegraphic. And it said: ‘I will get you for this, you little shit’. Over and out.

I got my first Detention, not from Mr. Wright but from Mr. Taylor who was our PE-teacher. He was a tough guy but he was fair. He always had the look on his face that read: I know exactly what you are up to. I have done them all. He pushed us all to get fit, starting with the morning jog at 7. The morning run was awful. The expression “Sunny Colchester” is not widely used in the literature and the reason for it is that it is not. In fact, the weather is quite reliable and predictable fluctuating between miserable to depressing most of the year. At that time of the morning with the damp and the chill we did not find it convincing that it was good for us. The award at the end of the 1.5-mile run was a cold shower. But we had to give it to him- we were completely awake after that. The screaming of us upon entering the freezing cold shower made Mr. Taylor feel that may be this was all worth it and he seemed quite satisfied with his job.

We had thought long and hard to cheat through the morning run sessions but the setup was water-tight with prefects helping him along the way. We did however, find a loophole for the cross country run which was once a week, a 6-mile run through the countryside that almost always involved plenty of mud. There were five of us: Myself, Özgul, David Lee, Torsten and Babak.

Torsten was a major piece of German muscle and steady bone structure: one of the few in school who could challenge Volcano Dieter and Potato-head John. He was large and hard with bow legs. He would often invite us to hit him hard to show how tough he was. And he was very tough. He had modified his invitations to: hit-me-hard-but-not-in-the-balls after I once complied to his request. We affectionately called him Crazy Torsten. Babak on the other hand was very short and unimpressive, especially in the vicinity of Torsten. He however, saw himself as a Bruce Lee character and had seriously challenged Torsten for a fight a number of times to which Torsten laughed out wholeheartedly to Babak’s annoyance. Babak was always getting into fights inside the school and especially outside. He wanted people to call him Action Man but to no avail. To his irritation, for some unknown reason he had instead been christened to Babak, The Turd.

We would start the cross country run slowly as expected of us and would lag behind- also as expected of the smokers. After a few minutes into the run we would disappear into the woods. While everyone was running, we would take it easy, talk and have a picnic. Once, the run was being completed, on their return we would join in the path to come last- as usual. This had been working for weeks and no body suspected anything as we were prudent, rubbing mud on our sports clothes. Until Mpho told on us.

Mpho was a very conceited black man from South Africa. The use of the word man is more appropriate as he did not look like a boy. Another interesting thing with him was the other word that one would use to describe him. It was not “Super Star” as he often suggested everyone to call him. It was duck. His maker must have dropped a piece of duck in his cauldron: We all agreed there was a strong resemblance to a duck. It was mostly bot not solely his mouth. Just like a pig-face or horse-face, the similarities were unquestionable. It is just that a duck-face was a lot more exotic and unusual.

However, being downgraded from Super Star to Ducky was not appreciated and he held me responsible for it. One night at the smokers’ room, he came over to me asking for a cigarette- again. He was always scrounging. So, I told him to buzz-off. ‘You Cheap Charlie, Mickey Mouse’, he said. Mickey Mouse was admittedly my nick name but it was always used in a condescending context. Everyone had a nick name at Copford, except Mpho who had arrived just a few weeks ago. I brought up the subject to the attention of the board of directors of the smoker’s room and immediately a committee was setup to find a suitable nick-name for Mpho for the board’s approval. To Mpho’s disappointment, Super Star was not among the candidates. Ducky was voted by a close margin over Duck-head and Dick-Head.

In addition, to his poultry attributes, he was also known for his openness about homosexual activities. He was apparently doing Sven, a Swedish boy. They had been caught in the shower during the act and when Ducky was questioned about it, he simply said, why not? It is just a hole. Sven was openly very fond of his Super Star. Sven was very feminine. He was not a smoker but he often came in the smoker’s room as Ducky was there. He was harmless and exceptionally dull until he started to talk about his country. He told us fascinating stories about Sweden and the women who had taken over the power from men. The women were very large in size and were dominant. I thought about East Germany.

Babak was extremely fascinated by Sven’s words and listened with awe almost like a ghost story. Babak had once been confronted by a large Swedish woman. He still had bad dreams about that. He was in Colchester picking a fight with a couple of guys. Then this woman cut in standing between Babak and the two guys. She was a seriously large specimen standing over Babak with her palms on her large and wide hips. Babak still remembers looking at the size of her shoes in amazement. He felt that he could do nothing and his manhood was in danger of extinction.

In his defence, the issue of shoe sizes goes back to the days of the ancient Chinese who would force little girls to do crazy things to have a small shoe size. That was, of course, awful. The Chinese were into really tiny sizes- possibly paedophile tendencies. Still, once you pass a petite size of 36-38 into a large woman of 38-40 you are in a new territory as the size of shoes does have bearing on the size of other anatomically important organs. This has been sanctioned by the board of directors of the smokers’ room. By the time you are in the post size 40, you need to be questioning your abilities of satisfying the lady in question, where anything over 42 is at the frontier of the unknown and uncharted territory. A woman of say size 43 probably has higher testosterone levels than the average man. Babak had been confronted with such a woman which he referred to as “IT”. The fact that he had seen some of the hairy bush under her armpits sticking out from under her T-shirt had left a scar that only showed up in his nightmares and therapy sessions. We had asked Sven over and over again about the details of these large women. Wasn’t this more like East European women stereotypes? Nope, this is Sweden all right, he told us. He told us about feminists who were big, ugly and scary and drank beer like men and farted. This, collided with our picture of ABBA, even though one of the guys in ABBA did look a lot like Sven.

Ducky had told Mr. Taylor about our clever route during the 6-mile run and he was waiting for us. After a leisurely afternoon, we were walking towards the path where the boys were returning to school after the run. He stood there with open arms, welcoming us: “I am very happy to see you guys after such a tough afternoon”. “We can explain” I threw in to feel the atmosphere. “Good, because I was just about to give you all a Detention”.

My case was put forwarded to Mr. Taylor who found it utterly unconvincing. This was the maiden Detention to be followed by an impressive series of successors.

Chapter 7: The Challenge

- ‘Mr. Wright?’

- ‘Yes?’

- ‘I take the deal’

- ‘And you are sure about that?’

- ‘Not really, but I want to do it’

- ‘Remember, if you fail….’

- ‘I know.’

I had now been at Copford college for about 6 months. The English language was fine and so were other subjects. I was not the studying type at all, but I felt that my parents deserved some good news with nice grades.

The mathematics teacher, Mr. Thomson was quite young but looked very fragile and frail. He must have had Parkinson’s’ disease because he was always shaking and had problems with movements. This also affected his speech but his classes worked for me. My favourite teacher was Mr. Wilkinson who was also quite young a with a colonial moustache and round intellectual looking glasses. He wrote on the black board in small letters throughout the whole lecture, directly from the book. Even though this is not a great didactic method, it worked for me as well.

One late afternoon, I decided that I wanted to do two years of study in one, to impress my parents. This had a bonus of annoying Mr. Wright. So, I went to his office and told him that I wanted to skip a year. He put on his cunning look, squinted and then looked at me carefully, while working things out in his head. ‘It is not impossible that you could do it, but I doubt it’. I told him that I was willing to put an effort into it and that it meant a lot to me. He scratched his cheek theatrically, looked out the window in concentration and then said: ‘Here is the deal, take it or leave it.’ He then explained that we could go ahead with it more or less at once as it was the beginning of a new term. There would be a lot of work for me, though. If I manage it, well good for me. But If I do not pull through, the following year I would restart this term’s studies. That would mean losing a whole year instead.

‘Sure, go ahead’ was my immediate reply. This was not a smart move driven by testosterone. That is never a good idea. But how can you lose a year? Is this a bet? The bastard had gotten me by the balls now. And he seemed very pleased with himself.

I got my first Gating at the refectory. It was breakfast time and I was showing Francis Lee how to crack a hardboiled egg on his head. ‘You just need to hit it hard and without hesitation then it won’t hurt’, I told him. Russel, a very stupid Australian who also happened to be a prefect came over fascinated by the show. ‘Come on Francis Lee, you can do it’, he said. Francis Lee hesitated. Mainly because I always had a trick up my sleeves ending up with a practical joke of some sort. After a short while Russel, said. ‘All right, let me show you’. I picked up the egg, switched it with a soft-boiled egg and handed it to Russel. The plan was originally for Francis Lee, but the new scenario was too good to be true: a prefect and in the refectory. Then I said loud, ‘Now look at Russel. You have to hit it hard on your head, nice and firm. Russel was only happy to comply and cracked the soft egg on his head. The laughter that followed was a big one, everyone was laughing, even some of the teachers that were seated at the teachers’ table. Mr. Wright and his wife, however, were not amused.

‘You will have a Detention for this, Salehpour!’, he said, to which I replied ‘Are you giving me a Detention for your stupidity? Nobody asked you to join in’. I picked up another egg from the table and showed to everyone and said out loud:’ Russel, I bet you, that you can’t break this on your head’. The laughter in the refectory was bombastic. Everyone was laughing except Russel and the Wrights.