Birthday milestone at Chateau Lockley

Oct 27 2009 Mike Lockley

The head teacher at our primary school has placed a rather bizarre announcement in the church magazine.

Under the banner headline ‘Conkers - a clarification‘, he states: “Contrary to what you may have heard, the game of conkers has not been banned at St Rooney’s.”

As a part of the syllabus? As a school sport? As a school meal? This clarification muddies the water somewhat.

The head teacher stayed strangely tight-lipped when blue asbestos was discovered at the school. I can remember him standing at the gates, that irritating smile on his face, as screaming children fled the building sporting facemasks.

And he still maintained that irksome smile when the psychotic school guinea pig went for two pupils’ throats. Not a word to the press.

The statement adds: “Conkers, however, will remain ‘out of bounds’ in the main hall during am exam situation’.”

Unless it’s a conkers exam, obviously. Personally, I believe any child who can break from a GCSE maths test for a quick game of conkers is Prime Minister material.

Nevertheless, we should be thankful that at least one country pursuit has been saved from the meddlesome EU. I recall the hue-and-cry when they confiscated our longbows, merely because two kids had been hit in the backside, and prevented us keeping chickens in our desks.

My knuckles still carry the scars caused by errant horse chestnuts, mostly belonging to a kid called Cox who pickled his in urine. His dad’s urine, because he drank marginally more alcohol than Cox. This puzzled me greatly: in what kind of environment can a son ask: “Dad, can I borrow some of your urine?”?

Those conker injuries were an interesting chat-up line. “And that long, white scar was caused by a horse chestnut.”

“Wooow,” gushed one gullible young thing. “And was that while you were still serving in the SAS?”

The head’s comments were in response to an article in the local rag, a paper that famously carried a front page on our MP’s plea for parishioners to welcome chickens ‘with open arms’. The following evening it was forced, by the same MP, to carry an apology. “We meant Czechians - sorry,” it said.

In the controversial conker article - ‘Bonkers Head Bans Conkers’ - he said ‘there is a place for horse chestnuts’. That place being a horse chestnut tree, presumably.

But he was concerned some pupils may be distracted, may feel their conker prowess is more important than the curriculum.

Should the education system care about children who want to be professional conker players, I say?

“It’s political correctness gone mad,” seethed Colin over a frothing pint at the Drum and Monkey. “Do you remember the games we played as kids? They’d never be allowed now. What was the one where they pinned you down screaming then pulled out your appendix?”

I gently pointed out that wasn’t a game. It was a hospital operation for appendicitis, conducted by trained medical staff. Unfortunately, Colin had an anaesthetist who hadn’t done it before.

Colin looked shell-shocked. “The tonsil game, also?” he asked.

'Fraid so.

“Those playground games built friendships,” said Colin. “Remember that one where people touched me, shouted ‘I’ve got Colin’s bugs‘, then had to touch someone else. What was that called?”

Colin’s Bugs.

“Wonder who invented that?”

The kid who stood behind him in the queue for the nit nurse, probably. “Children can be cruel,” I pointed out gently, “and it was a long time ago. Come on, you haven’t had to see the nit nurse for…

“…at least six months,“ he interrupted.

“A lot of children had problems,” I added. “It was just the blue gunk they put on your hair was more visible, that’s all.

“Nobody would do that to you today.”

“David Green would,” whispered Colin, his eyes narrowing. “He’s a bank manager now. Last time I went for a loan, he explained in detail the current financial climate, shook my hand, then, when he thought I’d left the building, ‘ticked’ one of the girls on the counter and squealed, ‘you’ve got the bugs!’.”

I may need support in getting through my wife’s 50th birthday. She’s already got the glazed expression of someone in deep trauma, and the milestone is still months away.

I’ve tried softening the blow with sweet words - “you look great for your age,” I told her this morning, “almost lifelike” - but to no avail.

I’ve trotted out the old chestnut about life beginning at 50. It’s a shallow lie: life only begins at 50 if you’re ambition since leaving school was growing nasal hair.

She’s getting so maudlin and keeps referring to ‘all the wasted years’, which I fear is a veiled reference to married life. Once, during a row, she bellowed: “I was a fool when I married you.”

I knew that, but I was too in love to take too much notice. There’s something fascinating about an attractive simpleton: bit like spotting a baby with ear-rings.

“I want to do something exciting,” she shrieked the other night.

“OK,” I tutted, throwing my hands up in a show of surrender, “you can wheel the black bin out tomorrow.”

“Push the boat out for her birthday,” advised Colin, “buy her something really nice. She’s always wanted one of those 4x4 vehicles.”

“Nah,” I told him. “I think I’ll stick to jewellery.”

“Why not a new motor?” pressed my colleague.

“Ever tried getting your hands on a fake Range Rover?”