every housing estate across the land since housing estates began.
They have been answering the real scientific questions that will in time actually benefit our country, important questions such as: ‘’Ere, Clive, if I put this gerbil in your mum’s microwave, do you reckon it’ll burst?’
RRRRRRRRRRRGH … DING.
‘Darren, look, it sort of melted!’
For some curious reason, every kid had some sort of speciality, a party piece. The list was an endless litany of sadism, physical abnormality and abuse.
‘I bet I could eat that dog poo.’ Even dogs would stare in disbelief at that one.
‘Let’s see what happens when you put this firework up that cat’s arse.’ (On firework night, the cats on our estate were petrified, choosing to walk around with their backs to the wall.)
There was always that tiny spud of a kid who could fit his whole hand in his mouth. One lad round our way could reach up and actually put his foot in his gob. Another boy could turn his eyelids inside out, so he looked like Fu Manchu.
‘You could kick me in the balls right now, and I wouldn’t feel anything.’ That was it, a line of foot-limbering lumps was formed, and the spot-kicking aimed towards the seed pouch began.
One day, while I was hanging around the swings with a bunch of kids at the back of the flats, picking our noses,smoking Consulate cigarettes and spitting, one of the lads suddenly announced, ‘’Ere we go. I got a beauty brewing up ’ere.’
Everyone was immediately excited, enthusiastically cheering and rushing to huddle around the boy as he quickly bent over. Then a cigarette lighter was produced and lit like a pilot light in readiness next to his backside. After a short pause during which the lad wiggled around, manoeuvring the air pocket trapped within, he gave a little heave and a push and – Flbbbbrrrrrrrrrrroooww! A gigantic fart was forced out through the narrow cheeks of his bum and a burst of fire shot out from the back of his trousers like a flame thrower illuminating our little faces – to massive cheers all round.
‘I dare you to lick the end of this twelve-volt battery.’ I saw a kid do this once, and as his tongue touched both pins of the battery, one side of his body jumped and his face contorted as if he’d had a stroke. Still, he earned a huge roar of approval and laughter from the gathered crowd. In fact, he couldn’t wait to do it again.
Another time, when I was about ten, I was hanging around with some lads at one kid’s flat. His mum and dad had gone out, and he produced a can of lighter fuel. His trick was to stand in the middle of the lounge, fill his mouth with gas from the can and blow it out of his mouth into the path of a lighted flame. This would then explode inches from his face, making it look like he was fire-eating.
Someone pointed at me and dared me to do it, a challenge that I, of course, accepted without hesitation. This was typical; as a child, I had no idea about an obviouslydangerous situation. I was an idiot, a chicken brain, a banana head, a void, a dribbling dullard. That seemed to be my role in this world, that was my job. That’s why he asked me. He knew I was odds on to mess it up. There was the fun right there, watching Lee the retard set fire to his monkey face.
I happily let the boy holding the can of highly inflammable gas jam it into my mouth. It worried me slightly as I had no control over how much gas was being forced into my face. My cheeks filled out quickly and felt as if they were about to burst.
But that didn’t matter to me. I was more concerned at getting the laughs. The giggly mood in the room started to build as more and more gas went in and everyone gleefully anticipated what might happen to Propane Boy. I even began pulling funny faces, which was a defence mechanism, of course. I was, in fact, petrified, but luckily no one noticed. They seemed to find it increasingly hilarious as I sucked in more and more of the high explosives. Then a
They have been answering the real scientific questions that will in time actually benefit our country, important questions such as: ‘’Ere, Clive, if I put this gerbil in your mum’s microwave, do you reckon it’ll burst?’
RRRRRRRRRRRGH … DING.
‘Darren, look, it sort of melted!’
For some curious reason, every kid had some sort of speciality, a party piece. The list was an endless litany of sadism, physical abnormality and abuse.
‘I bet I could eat that dog poo.’ Even dogs would stare in disbelief at that one.
‘Let’s see what happens when you put this firework up that cat’s arse.’ (On firework night, the cats on our estate were petrified, choosing to walk around with their backs to the wall.)
There was always that tiny spud of a kid who could fit his whole hand in his mouth. One lad round our way could reach up and actually put his foot in his gob. Another boy could turn his eyelids inside out, so he looked like Fu Manchu.
‘You could kick me in the balls right now, and I wouldn’t feel anything.’ That was it, a line of foot-limbering lumps was formed, and the spot-kicking aimed towards the seed pouch began.
One day, while I was hanging around the swings with a bunch of kids at the back of the flats, picking our noses,smoking Consulate cigarettes and spitting, one of the lads suddenly announced, ‘’Ere we go. I got a beauty brewing up ’ere.’
Everyone was immediately excited, enthusiastically cheering and rushing to huddle around the boy as he quickly bent over. Then a cigarette lighter was produced and lit like a pilot light in readiness next to his backside. After a short pause during which the lad wiggled around, manoeuvring the air pocket trapped within, he gave a little heave and a push and – Flbbbbrrrrrrrrrrroooww! A gigantic fart was forced out through the narrow cheeks of his bum and a burst of fire shot out from the back of his trousers like a flame thrower illuminating our little faces – to massive cheers all round.
‘I dare you to lick the end of this twelve-volt battery.’ I saw a kid do this once, and as his tongue touched both pins of the battery, one side of his body jumped and his face contorted as if he’d had a stroke. Still, he earned a huge roar of approval and laughter from the gathered crowd. In fact, he couldn’t wait to do it again.
Another time, when I was about ten, I was hanging around with some lads at one kid’s flat. His mum and dad had gone out, and he produced a can of lighter fuel. His trick was to stand in the middle of the lounge, fill his mouth with gas from the can and blow it out of his mouth into the path of a lighted flame. This would then explode inches from his face, making it look like he was fire-eating.
Someone pointed at me and dared me to do it, a challenge that I, of course, accepted without hesitation. This was typical; as a child, I had no idea about an obviouslydangerous situation. I was an idiot, a chicken brain, a banana head, a void, a dribbling dullard. That seemed to be my role in this world, that was my job. That’s why he asked me. He knew I was odds on to mess it up. There was the fun right there, watching Lee the retard set fire to his monkey face.
I happily let the boy holding the can of highly inflammable gas jam it into my mouth. It worried me slightly as I had no control over how much gas was being forced into my face. My cheeks filled out quickly and felt as if they were about to burst.
But that didn’t matter to me. I was more concerned at getting the laughs. The giggly mood in the room started to build as more and more gas went in and everyone gleefully anticipated what might happen to Propane Boy. I even began pulling funny faces, which was a defence mechanism, of course. I was, in fact, petrified, but luckily no one noticed. They seemed to find it increasingly hilarious as I sucked in more and more of the high explosives. Then a
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