|To be perfectly honest, I’ll
admit that I actually spent my early formative years at a pretty soft school,
We were pretty soft kids. Good heavens, at St Pansy’s Primary, you could
have a reign of terror with a balloon on a stick. I was actually the captain
of the school embroidery team.
Looking back, I’d say that St. Pansy’s was never really sports oriented. When we played out football, out school strip was gray overcoats and black galoshes, and out trainer was the district nurse.
I often think we must have been an inspiring sight, as we swept down the field in our four, two, one formation. It’s a pity we never had the ball.
On a good day, we used to get beaten about a hundred, nil, partly because our goalkeeper could only ever get one hand to the ball, ‘cause his mother would be holding the other one.
At halftime, we used to have a bowl of bread and milk and a good cry. We were so nervous that if we were given a penalty, we would let one of them take it for us. Sometimes, we used to stay out there during halftime and put a few through our own goal, so the other team would like us when they came back on again.
And the teachers were just as soft. I remember the master who took us for sex education. He was so shy, he used to shut himself in a cupboard and shout, “Some do and some don’t!” And for the more advanced students, he used to put on a black stocking, and stick his leg out of the door and shout “Hello, sailor!”
Anyway, the joke.
The scene is an international skating competition. The music starts, and the first competitor glides onto the ice, races around the rink gathering speed, jumps ten feet into the air and lands flat on his back.
Well, the crowd of international spectators gasps!
“Donder and blitzen!”
And the competitor gets to his feet and goes straight into a double axle at racing speed with a floi-floi and crash! Down he goes again.
Again, the international crowd gasp:
“Cherchez la femme!”
“Deutchland uber alles!”
Up he gets, and down he goes again. Up, down. He just can’t do a thing right.
The music stops eventually, and the international judges hold up their marks.
Albania: naught. Germany: naught. France: naught. Brixton: naught. Ireland: ten,
Well, the crowd go mad, and eventually have to be put in a home.
And the chief adjudicator, whose nationality is a mystery, ‘cause I’ve almost run out of accents, turns to the Irish judge and he says, “What are you doing, you Irish nit? What are you doing? Fourteen times he’s fallen over. He’s cracked the ice in three places. Why have you given him ten marks?”
And the Irish judge said, “Oh, I thought he did very well. It’s very slippery out there, you know!”