Sticks and stones

A long time ago in a suburb far far away I, along with my brother and his mate, would have to run the gauntlet home from primary school petrified we would meet Dickwalk.Dickwalk was a local kid who was a first or second year in the local rough secondary school. Rough is of course relative, I’m talking rough in the affluent outer London suburb sense, not in the Baltimore
“Murderland” sense.

As he was such a double-hard bastard he got his kicks from terrorising 9, 10 and 11 year olds.

We imaginatively called him Dickwalk because he held onto his dick when he walked. Genius.

I shouted it at him one day as we ran away from that day’s terrorist outrage. Not genius.

The next day hostilities significantly escalated. Previously he just used to scream abuse in our faces (usually something to do with our mums) and veiled threats of violence such as “I’m gonna fuck you up!”. “Up the what? That sounds painful” I used to think.

But this day was different. Dickwalk was fronting up to us and it felt like one or all of us were actually going to get “fucked up”. He started pushing my brother’s mate who, with a look of madness in his eyes, started making an unpleasant growling in his throat and then spat a massive greeny at Dickwalk.

Unexpectedly but delightfully, this pulsating ball of consumption spittle landed in Dickwalk’s mouth.

He puked. We ran away and our paths never crossed again.

So remember kids. Don’t ignore bullys if you want them to go away, spit a grolly into their mouth.

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