I was mad about soccer from an early age. Every day I went past Old Trafford on the way to De La Salle College. Unfortunately, De La Salle was a rugby school.
The first time I played rugby I was given a right bollocking. I was always quick and was placed in the backs and, as the ball came out and was passed to me, I immediately ducked, weaved and ran sideways to avoid the huge sods on the other side who wanted to rip my head off.
“No,” screamed the teacher. “Run straight!”
This seemed to defy logic, common sense and self preservation but this was the rule: run straight and pass the ball before being hit. I learnt to pass the ball very quickly indeed.
For a time, I fancied myself as a scrum half until I encountered a lad from Rochdale playing the same position for the opposition who was a similar height to me but was as wide as a beer barrel and had honed his skills at rugby league. As he scooped the ball, I tried to grab him and got a forearm smash rather than a hand off. Amazing: I kept my teeth.
The De La Salle brothers took the game seriously even when one form played another. As I ran from the dressing room, I exchanged words with a lad on the other team (with whom I would later catch a train home) and was given a bollocking for talking to the opposition. This was not judged to be conducive to committing the necessary grievous bodily harm on the field of play.
When I first arrived at the school, I went straight into the second form and was three weeks late for the new term although my name had become known and I had acquired the nickname Killer. Then I turned up. Yorkshire accent, small and a body like a Twiglet.
In the third form I encountered bullying which is why I acquired two large mates who both played prop. I tried to stop the bullying by challenging the major culprit to a boxing match in the gym after school. I must have read too many Greyfriar School books. He was taken aback by my suggestion, as was as I, at having made it. But as it had been made before witnesses neither of us could back down. Flash Harry, the PE teacher, was all in favour of blood sports and agreed to stage it and before long, the whole school knew. It was a kind of fame, for a short while, although I was not looking forward to the actual contest. I'd never boxed in my life.
At the last minute, the head heard and cancelled it. I was extremely relieved but the bully boy made one last taunt in the cloakroom after school.
My two prop mates hung him on a hook by the back of his coat in such a way he couldn't free himself. It was, apparently, a long time before the janitor finally got him down. But the bullying stopped.
This aid came at a price. My two mates decided I was just the right size to play hooker. They showed me how and I got used to hanging from their shoulders and swinging like Cheetah. It was fun in practice; it was murder actually playing in a match. The opposition hookers were not only adept at swinging their feet, they could also swing their fists. I never know how they managed to get one free; I never could.
I made good friends at school. The best was Dave, who lived close by, and Tony Curtis (no relation to the film star). Dave was the rebel of any pack. He was a tall well built lad with the walk of Robert Mitchum and the voice of Elvis Presley. He often skipped school. I only did so occasionally and always under the influence of Dave. A particular occasion was when we were in the fourth form and went to a Manchester matinee screening of Brigitte Bardot in the X rated film And God Created Woman. I wore a plain navy blue blazer that he loaned me as a disguise. It was long enough to be an overcoat. He bought the tickets while I hid behind Tony and we went up to the deserted circle.
After the shorts, the lights came up and when we looked down into the stalls, half the fourth and fifth forms were there, still in school blazers.
A memorable afternoon during which I discovered that playing football and supporting Manchester United might not be as totally fulfilling for a growing youth as once had seemed. I discovered sex and fell in love for the first time … with Ms Bardot.
The first time I played rugby I was given a right bollocking. I was always quick and was placed in the backs and, as the ball came out and was passed to me, I immediately ducked, weaved and ran sideways to avoid the huge sods on the other side who wanted to rip my head off.
“No,” screamed the teacher. “Run straight!”
This seemed to defy logic, common sense and self preservation but this was the rule: run straight and pass the ball before being hit. I learnt to pass the ball very quickly indeed.
For a time, I fancied myself as a scrum half until I encountered a lad from Rochdale playing the same position for the opposition who was a similar height to me but was as wide as a beer barrel and had honed his skills at rugby league. As he scooped the ball, I tried to grab him and got a forearm smash rather than a hand off. Amazing: I kept my teeth.
The De La Salle brothers took the game seriously even when one form played another. As I ran from the dressing room, I exchanged words with a lad on the other team (with whom I would later catch a train home) and was given a bollocking for talking to the opposition. This was not judged to be conducive to committing the necessary grievous bodily harm on the field of play.
When I first arrived at the school, I went straight into the second form and was three weeks late for the new term although my name had become known and I had acquired the nickname Killer. Then I turned up. Yorkshire accent, small and a body like a Twiglet.
In the third form I encountered bullying which is why I acquired two large mates who both played prop. I tried to stop the bullying by challenging the major culprit to a boxing match in the gym after school. I must have read too many Greyfriar School books. He was taken aback by my suggestion, as was as I, at having made it. But as it had been made before witnesses neither of us could back down. Flash Harry, the PE teacher, was all in favour of blood sports and agreed to stage it and before long, the whole school knew. It was a kind of fame, for a short while, although I was not looking forward to the actual contest. I'd never boxed in my life.
At the last minute, the head heard and cancelled it. I was extremely relieved but the bully boy made one last taunt in the cloakroom after school.
My two prop mates hung him on a hook by the back of his coat in such a way he couldn't free himself. It was, apparently, a long time before the janitor finally got him down. But the bullying stopped.
This aid came at a price. My two mates decided I was just the right size to play hooker. They showed me how and I got used to hanging from their shoulders and swinging like Cheetah. It was fun in practice; it was murder actually playing in a match. The opposition hookers were not only adept at swinging their feet, they could also swing their fists. I never know how they managed to get one free; I never could.
I made good friends at school. The best was Dave, who lived close by, and Tony Curtis (no relation to the film star). Dave was the rebel of any pack. He was a tall well built lad with the walk of Robert Mitchum and the voice of Elvis Presley. He often skipped school. I only did so occasionally and always under the influence of Dave. A particular occasion was when we were in the fourth form and went to a Manchester matinee screening of Brigitte Bardot in the X rated film And God Created Woman. I wore a plain navy blue blazer that he loaned me as a disguise. It was long enough to be an overcoat. He bought the tickets while I hid behind Tony and we went up to the deserted circle.
After the shorts, the lights came up and when we looked down into the stalls, half the fourth and fifth forms were there, still in school blazers.
A memorable afternoon during which I discovered that playing football and supporting Manchester United might not be as totally fulfilling for a growing youth as once had seemed. I discovered sex and fell in love for the first time … with Ms Bardot.
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