Pigtails and punched noses
Poll - Total Votes: 1
It was perfectly reasonable to be given a double belting while sporting black eyes
Miss Mullen should have exercised leniency
If Miss Crawley felt strapping was appropriate she should bloody well do it herself
You may vote on multiple answers, up to 2.
I am finding it rewarding to share with like minded people my experiences of strict comprehensive education from 1969 to 1982. I do hope it is passing diverting to others. All are true CP experiences but smoothed a little in the retelling. Maybe it will help preserve a record of those almost incomprehensible days to the modern sensibility.
The Recollection
I tied the pigtails of the girl in front of me to the bar that ran along the top of the seats on double-decker bus. I fancied her. And at 14 tying her hair seemed an obvious declaration of affection.
As we all stood to get off at her stop, she was yanked back down hard. Stuck on the top deck, she fumbled desperately to unknot her hair while the bus pulled away. Claire missed her stop entirely and arrived at school over half an hour late.
That morning she missed the twenty minutes Miss Mullen spent in the yard, belting each latecomer two cracks to start the day. She had dodged that public strapping in full view of passers-by and parents on late drop-offs. Only a note could save you — and only then if it was school-acceptable: amputation, awakening from coma, that sort of thing.
Claire walked straight into the first period after form time — French with Miss Crawley. Crawley was one of the few non-belters, but she maintained discipline with an acid tongue and quick wit that could humiliate you while the class laughed.
“Claire, is this you just arriving? Your tardiness is a disgrace. You are putting me in a very difficult situation. Such extreme disrespect carries only one punishment. Four of the belt.”
“But Miss, that boy tied my hair to the bus and I couldn’t get off!”
“Quiet. Do you have a note? No? Then you will be belted — it’s as simple as that.”
We sat confused. Were we about to witness the first Crawley belting? She left the room, returned with Mr Alexander, her co-French teacher. In his hands was a folded three-tail black classroom strap. We looked down on those straps as not as severe as a Lochgelly, but they could still pack a punch.
“Stand up, Claire. Come to the front and present your hands for Mr Alexander.”
“Miss…”
“Now!”
She shuffled forward and slowly held out her hands.
“Four please, Mr Alexander.”
He unleashed the first two. The cracks of that black strap were like starting pistols. She dissolved into tears instantly, hands under her armpits. For the first time he spoke: “Shall that suffice? The strokes seem effective?”
“The other two if you don’t mind, Mr Alexander. The same strength would be ideal.”
Claire sobbed harder. Miss Crawley, towering over her in four-inch heels — a very attractive, fashionable lady in a black ra-ra dress and (shockingly) fishnet tights, an offence that would have earned any girl a uniform infraction belting — took Claire’s hands from under her armpits.
“Get those hands up, tardy miss, or I assure you there will be more strokes.”
It’s awful to say, but her sobs and fear made for pure, captivating cinema. Another two pistol shots and she was gone, crying, shoulders shaking. Another two would have been impossible.
“Thank you, Mr Alexander. A fine effort.”
“Anytime.”
He left. Crawley guided Claire back to her seat, handed her a tissue off-handedly. “Dry your eyes and sort yourself out, girl. If you don’t engage in this lesson or cause more disruption, I’ll have you belted again. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Miss.”
I enjoyed that disgracefully.
Class quieted at the dispersal bell, but Crawley kept us back.
“Is this true, Hugh? Did you tie her hair?”
“He did, Miss,” Claire added, as though it could undo her fate. Girls never seemed as tied to the Omertà as boys.
Strangely, it was nigh on impossible to lie under those piercing brown eyes of Crawley.
“Tell me now, boy. I will find out the answer, and if you lie to me here I will make sure you regret it and the punishment unforgettable. If you tell the truth, things will go easier.”
I gave in to the classic pedagogue’s gambit — game theory in practice.
“I did it, Miss. I own up.” And here was my moment of genius: “But I did it on public transport, outside of school time. With no supervision or responsibility accepted by the school. Outside of in loco parentis.” I always was a little barrack-room lawyer. I saw uncertainty flicker.
“You are both dismissed till 4pm when I want you both back here. Sharp. I have a home to go to.”
The day did not end there. At lunchtime Claire’s brother was all over me. Bigger and stronger, he soon had me on the ground punching. The strong arms of Mr Taylor — Italian, one of them — pulled us apart. He took us to the foyer.
“Right, you two. Get them up.”
Claire’s brother tried to explain, but as the aggressor older kid he was the bully. Tried and weighed instantly. Taylor reached under his suit jacket and produced his tawse. He administered a full six. Even as a fifth-year, the brother was left shaking his hands and trembling.
“Now you, son.”
I didn’t even try to argue. Swollen jaw and bloodied nose, I put my hands out and took four crackers. I was panting, doubled over.
“Get out of my sight, both of you. But you — get to the nurse and have that nose and jaw looked at.”
All I got was a cotton wool ball and a wet piece of paper towel. No ice. Punishment came first; first aid last. That was the cultural regime.
That evening at 4pm we arrived. Miss Mullen of guidance was there, foreshadowing something unpleasant. She, not Crawley, led.
“We have a very serious issue on our hands. Either Claire or you has lied in class. One of you will be punished for this this very evening.”
Outmanoeuvred. They didn’t even discuss the bus incident. Mullen said Miss Crawley had had to ask me a direct question. I hadn’t volunteered the answer before the strapping. Either I had lied through omissions that point or Claire had lied through commission. Miss Mullen produced a thick, darker brown guidance belt.
“One or the other of you is having a dose of my strap for this debacle.”
I was frightened, but I wasn’t totally immoral.
“I did it, Miss. I don’t want Claire belted again. It was me.”
“Well, at least there is some honesty in you. Six reduced to four for an immediate admission.”
“Please Miss, I’ve already had her brother punch my face several times for this.” My swollen jaw, zygomatic lump, and early black eyes showed.
She smiled. “Ah, so you’ve been fighting as well, have you?”
The noose tightened. “Please Miss, Mr Taylor has already belted us pretty hard. Her brother got six. I’ve already had four on the hands.”
She was clearly disappointed. “Hmm. I’m not interested in summary playground justice. We are here for the real thing. Show me those hands.”
She examined them. “A little red, no blisters, no weeping. It’s hardly even a belting, boy. Let’s get this over and done with.”
Claire watched as Mullen — stick-thin, balancing on four-inch court shoes — hammered that tawse down. She smiled throughout. I didn’t. I went from shaking my hands, to dancing on the spot, to pleading. “Please Miss, I’ve had enough, it’s so sore.” Ignored. She just stared at me with the tawse held over her shoulder. One last time I proffered my left palm. Kerrrrackkkkk. Full swing. Wrist flick. All three tails bit in like rattlesnakes. I was gone. Vision blurred. Tears welled. Please God no. But there it was — the tear running down my face.
I swear the atmosphere changed. Satisfaction from the teachers. Vindication from Claire. I’d been stripped of my dignity and they were pleased at that. I looked at my hands. Mullen was right — a real hard belting looked different.
“Miss Crawley perhaps it would be ideal if you dealt with this kind of behaviour yourself. You will find all of us would appreciate that little help” No one was getting away unscathed.
As we left I tried to apologise to Claire. “Piss off.” I deserved that.
What had begun as a joke — because I actually fancied her — had descended into her being belted, her brother being belted, my face being pounded, and me getting a double belting. The only question was whether it stopped with sore hands and a sore face. There was no way I was hiding those hands and that face from my mother. I went home on the bus reflecting that I might soon also be sporting a sore backside.
That was my lifetime last practical joke.
The Recollection
I tied the pigtails of the girl in front of me to the bar that ran along the top of the seats on double-decker bus. I fancied her. And at 14 tying her hair seemed an obvious declaration of affection.
As we all stood to get off at her stop, she was yanked back down hard. Stuck on the top deck, she fumbled desperately to unknot her hair while the bus pulled away. Claire missed her stop entirely and arrived at school over half an hour late.
That morning she missed the twenty minutes Miss Mullen spent in the yard, belting each latecomer two cracks to start the day. She had dodged that public strapping in full view of passers-by and parents on late drop-offs. Only a note could save you — and only then if it was school-acceptable: amputation, awakening from coma, that sort of thing.
Claire walked straight into the first period after form time — French with Miss Crawley. Crawley was one of the few non-belters, but she maintained discipline with an acid tongue and quick wit that could humiliate you while the class laughed.
“Claire, is this you just arriving? Your tardiness is a disgrace. You are putting me in a very difficult situation. Such extreme disrespect carries only one punishment. Four of the belt.”
“But Miss, that boy tied my hair to the bus and I couldn’t get off!”
“Quiet. Do you have a note? No? Then you will be belted — it’s as simple as that.”
We sat confused. Were we about to witness the first Crawley belting? She left the room, returned with Mr Alexander, her co-French teacher. In his hands was a folded three-tail black classroom strap. We looked down on those straps as not as severe as a Lochgelly, but they could still pack a punch.
“Stand up, Claire. Come to the front and present your hands for Mr Alexander.”
“Miss…”
“Now!”
She shuffled forward and slowly held out her hands.
“Four please, Mr Alexander.”
He unleashed the first two. The cracks of that black strap were like starting pistols. She dissolved into tears instantly, hands under her armpits. For the first time he spoke: “Shall that suffice? The strokes seem effective?”
“The other two if you don’t mind, Mr Alexander. The same strength would be ideal.”
Claire sobbed harder. Miss Crawley, towering over her in four-inch heels — a very attractive, fashionable lady in a black ra-ra dress and (shockingly) fishnet tights, an offence that would have earned any girl a uniform infraction belting — took Claire’s hands from under her armpits.
“Get those hands up, tardy miss, or I assure you there will be more strokes.”
It’s awful to say, but her sobs and fear made for pure, captivating cinema. Another two pistol shots and she was gone, crying, shoulders shaking. Another two would have been impossible.
“Thank you, Mr Alexander. A fine effort.”
“Anytime.”
He left. Crawley guided Claire back to her seat, handed her a tissue off-handedly. “Dry your eyes and sort yourself out, girl. If you don’t engage in this lesson or cause more disruption, I’ll have you belted again. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Miss.”
I enjoyed that disgracefully.
Class quieted at the dispersal bell, but Crawley kept us back.
“Is this true, Hugh? Did you tie her hair?”
“He did, Miss,” Claire added, as though it could undo her fate. Girls never seemed as tied to the Omertà as boys.
Strangely, it was nigh on impossible to lie under those piercing brown eyes of Crawley.
“Tell me now, boy. I will find out the answer, and if you lie to me here I will make sure you regret it and the punishment unforgettable. If you tell the truth, things will go easier.”
I gave in to the classic pedagogue’s gambit — game theory in practice.
“I did it, Miss. I own up.” And here was my moment of genius: “But I did it on public transport, outside of school time. With no supervision or responsibility accepted by the school. Outside of in loco parentis.” I always was a little barrack-room lawyer. I saw uncertainty flicker.
“You are both dismissed till 4pm when I want you both back here. Sharp. I have a home to go to.”
The day did not end there. At lunchtime Claire’s brother was all over me. Bigger and stronger, he soon had me on the ground punching. The strong arms of Mr Taylor — Italian, one of them — pulled us apart. He took us to the foyer.
“Right, you two. Get them up.”
Claire’s brother tried to explain, but as the aggressor older kid he was the bully. Tried and weighed instantly. Taylor reached under his suit jacket and produced his tawse. He administered a full six. Even as a fifth-year, the brother was left shaking his hands and trembling.
“Now you, son.”
I didn’t even try to argue. Swollen jaw and bloodied nose, I put my hands out and took four crackers. I was panting, doubled over.
“Get out of my sight, both of you. But you — get to the nurse and have that nose and jaw looked at.”
All I got was a cotton wool ball and a wet piece of paper towel. No ice. Punishment came first; first aid last. That was the cultural regime.
That evening at 4pm we arrived. Miss Mullen of guidance was there, foreshadowing something unpleasant. She, not Crawley, led.
“We have a very serious issue on our hands. Either Claire or you has lied in class. One of you will be punished for this this very evening.”
Outmanoeuvred. They didn’t even discuss the bus incident. Mullen said Miss Crawley had had to ask me a direct question. I hadn’t volunteered the answer before the strapping. Either I had lied through omissions that point or Claire had lied through commission. Miss Mullen produced a thick, darker brown guidance belt.
“One or the other of you is having a dose of my strap for this debacle.”
I was frightened, but I wasn’t totally immoral.
“I did it, Miss. I don’t want Claire belted again. It was me.”
“Well, at least there is some honesty in you. Six reduced to four for an immediate admission.”
“Please Miss, I’ve already had her brother punch my face several times for this.” My swollen jaw, zygomatic lump, and early black eyes showed.
She smiled. “Ah, so you’ve been fighting as well, have you?”
The noose tightened. “Please Miss, Mr Taylor has already belted us pretty hard. Her brother got six. I’ve already had four on the hands.”
She was clearly disappointed. “Hmm. I’m not interested in summary playground justice. We are here for the real thing. Show me those hands.”
She examined them. “A little red, no blisters, no weeping. It’s hardly even a belting, boy. Let’s get this over and done with.”
Claire watched as Mullen — stick-thin, balancing on four-inch court shoes — hammered that tawse down. She smiled throughout. I didn’t. I went from shaking my hands, to dancing on the spot, to pleading. “Please Miss, I’ve had enough, it’s so sore.” Ignored. She just stared at me with the tawse held over her shoulder. One last time I proffered my left palm. Kerrrrackkkkk. Full swing. Wrist flick. All three tails bit in like rattlesnakes. I was gone. Vision blurred. Tears welled. Please God no. But there it was — the tear running down my face.
I swear the atmosphere changed. Satisfaction from the teachers. Vindication from Claire. I’d been stripped of my dignity and they were pleased at that. I looked at my hands. Mullen was right — a real hard belting looked different.
“Miss Crawley perhaps it would be ideal if you dealt with this kind of behaviour yourself. You will find all of us would appreciate that little help” No one was getting away unscathed.
As we left I tried to apologise to Claire. “Piss off.” I deserved that.
What had begun as a joke — because I actually fancied her — had descended into her being belted, her brother being belted, my face being pounded, and me getting a double belting. The only question was whether it stopped with sore hands and a sore face. There was no way I was hiding those hands and that face from my mother. I went home on the bus reflecting that I might soon also be sporting a sore backside.
That was my lifetime last practical joke.
56-60, M
