Bully

There have been some bullying stories around recently and they set me thinking about school days.

I was bullied at grammar school. It was sporadic, it was bearable and I do not think it gave me any long term mental scars. I think the story is worth repeating because it raises some interesting points.

It started during the second year when a lad called Rowley arrived. The word on the streets was that Rowley’s parents had returned from Southern Rhodesia as it was then called. This may have been true – he certainly fit the stereotype of an arrogant son of empire. He quickly gathered a small gang of like minded scallywags. I was a fat nerd so immediately a target of choice. My role became to do his latin homework on demand. This was no real hardship as I always found Latin trivial.

Early in year three there was a serious incident. A lad was savagely beaten on the steps outside the library. He was harmless but eccentric and had somehow offended Rowley & Co. It was a nasty attack with serious injury, it was several weeks before he returned. The whole school were assembled in the Hall. The headteacher addressed us: “Each of you in turn will be brought to my office by the prefects. I will see every one of you before anyone goes home today. I know that many of you will tell me who committed the assault. You will not have to confront the attackers. They will not know who you are. There will be no trial, there will be no rules of evidence. There will be punishment”. The process started but I did not get called. Very quickly Rowley and Co. saw the writing on the wall and confessed. Not sure exactly what happened then but there were rumours of parents being called to school and very severe canings. It had little effect. Within days normal bullying service was resumed.

My worst experience came one day in third year. Rowley had a lieutenant, a large oaf of a lad from farming stock. They caught me in the locker room one day. They found a school scarf and twisted it around my neck then took one end each and had a tug of war. I was bounced against the walls and on to the floor. I remember my Mom giving me a hard time over my school uniform when I got home. I can remember little of the experience but it must have been unpleasant. Why did they do this? Because they could. We must remember that these lads had not had the benefit of an active tutorial programme, they had never had the chance to empathise with their victims through role play, they had never had an equal opportunities awareness raising course, they knew little of health & safety, I doubt they had even done a risk assessment. Anyway I survived and can see the funny side now. Bullies are essentially pompous, self important people and intrinsically ridiculous (remember Captain Square?).

There is a foot note. The oafish lieutenant lived in one of the farming villages North of Wellington and two days after the events above he was walking home from school when he got knocked down and killed by a hit and run driver. I remember being with a group of friends in the school library when we were told the news by Rowley. He asked us to contribute to a collection, sign a card etc. Two of my friends were affronted, they told him in no uncertain terms to clear off, they told him that they had no regrets about what had happened. The philosophical debate ran for some weeks – that is what we were like.

There is a second footnote. Wellington Grammar School appears on Friends Reunited and there are several posts about the ‘tragedy’. It seems the lieutenant was beloved of everyone at the grammar school, we were all inconsolable when he died, the prefects all volunteered to carry his coffin, there ought to be a memorial. I did consider sending a post to give an alternative perspective but have never done so.

I am not bitter about my experiences. I rarely think of those events. However if I ever get the chance to give Rowley a poke in the eye with a sharp stick I will be sorely tempted.