I was born into the Dark Ages. Some twenty-five years after Adolf Hitler had given up bombing the seven shades of shit out of most of London, I was sent to a school that still resembled one of the capital's many remaining bomb sites. I was never one hundred per cent certain, then, whether the school's toilet block had no roof by design, or if it had actually fallen off many years ago and nobody had quite got round to building a new one. So, the years I spent at Melcombe Primary School in Hammersmith were years spent at an inner city educational establishment with no roof on the bogs, with all the meteorological woe that came with it. When it froze, you would stick to the toilet seat and never get up again until the first thaw of spring. When it rained, you had to walk out of the main building, across the playground and into the crapper, where the water ran down the back of your neck while you went about your business.
At least, I thought it was water. You could never tell in that place.
You see, some of my classmates were what you might call 'uniquely talented'. Hardly what you might call stars in the classroom, they were world famous in Hammersmith for their ability to urinate extreme distances. This talent manifested itself - on a regular basis - in a superbly juvenile 'Highest Mark on the Wall' contest. It was always a rather academic exercise, because Dave always won.
Dave's dad, like many of the fathers in our school at the time (Fulham Yuppiedom being a good fifteen years away) worked at the Tate and Lyle sugar plant just round the corner. In retrospect, he must have smuggled loads of the stuff out through the main gates, as the boy appeared to be on a permanent sugar rush.
He would storm into the boys' toilets, whip his tackle out and amaze the assembled throng with his performance, say "I win", and leg it back to whichever playground football game would have him. Dave could, much to the astonishment of those of us who possessed less powerful hoses, piss right over the wall and into the girls' facilities next door.
There would invariably be a series of high-pitched screams (for Dave knew the value of spraying it about), then a short delay before the dinner ladies came bursting in mob-handed to mete out back-handed summary punishment on bare thighs, invariably belonging to all the wrong people, the main culprit having fled long, long ago.
It had to end one day, and come a December morning in 1972, I found myself in a strange, new playground in a small village in Berkshire. We had moved house.
Polehampton Junior School was proud of the fact that its toilets came with the added advantage of a roof, which probably sold the whole move-to-the-country idea to my parents, fans of top quality plumbing in educational establishments that they were.
Unfortunately, while this may have been true, this was but a temporary state of affairs, what with the facilities being housed in what can only be described as a Portakabin.
It did not take long for the school jokers and misfits to discover the advantages that this situation provided. For example, one wag found - whilst crawling underneath the temporary building to retrieve a lost football - that the whole bag of bolts had been put together rather inexpertly, and that by lying in exactly the right position, he could see up the skirt of any female that set foot inside the facilities.
It was a position greatly coveted and jealously guarded by the cognoscenti, and would be rented out to anybody who could stump up the cash. It was said that the lovely Mrs Jones wore pink knickers, a rumour borne out by subsequent observations by a crack team of primary school perverts.
Of course, it couldn't last. Somebody was going to kick the shit out of it, and that would mean but one thing: woe.
It was poor, dead Bendle. Poor, dead Bendle, his mind working in ways that normal people's didn't, found a hole in the boys' room. A hole, he found, that he could stick his cock through in a "glory hole" stylee from the end cubicle of the boys into the equivalent cubicle in the girls'. Once in position, he would wee all over whoever had the misfortune to be there at the time.
It was, he thought, a top wheeze; one that never failed to produce the most awful, heart-rending screams, and a female classmate forced to spend the afternoon's lessons in either her PE kit, or worse, something from the pikey's treasure trove - the lost property basket.
Oh yes, it was a right old laugh. A right old laugh until a soaking wet Mrs Jones - her blouse rendered partially see-through from her unimaginable ordeal - told us to stop.
Ogling Mrs Jones's partially see-through blouse (And I know what you're thinking - pink, matching set), we stopped.
But not poor, dead Bendle.
"Hey lads!" shouted poor, dead Bendle on our first swimming lesson of the new term, "There's a hole in the wall! I bet the girls can see my cock RIGHT NOW!"
"Screeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeam!"
Yes. Yes they could.
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