A Swift Kick to the 'Nads

Chapter 1

Over my years of secondary school, I have developed two theories. First, homework is best done twenty minutes before its admission. Teachers complain about this practice, but I reckon that the sniff of fresh ink on paper is the only rush they get out of teaching. The second is that people are boring. I think everyone finds this out somehow. Your favourite writer turns out to be a Welshman, or your punk friend becomes a member of the christian union and dyes their hair brown. One day, one way or another, you realise that no one can be as interesting as the people you want to be. There are exceptions to the rule; I will allow Bruce Lee and Oprah Winfrey to slip through the net, but overall, people are a huge letdown. So far, these theories have served me well, and they pretty much explain why on the fateful day, before school began, I was frantically expanding quadratic equations for first period maths while every other person in the class thoroughly ignored me. If I hadn't formed the theories yet, the day could have turned out a whole lot differently. For one, I wouldn't have been kicked in the balls.

 

Algebra isn't exactly what I'd call captivating, but I'd settled into a kind of rhythm of flipping the textbook from questions to answers, so I didn't look up right away when I heard the thud. If a thud sounds in class 9JS it's a pretty safe bet that someone has knocked over Mr Spooner's suitcase full of expensive computer stuff, but a quick glance up from factorisation saw it still stowed away in the upright position. In fact, none of my classmates seemed to have caused, or even noticed the thump. I looked around at the most likely subjects for weird noises, but they were all wrapped up in the little rituals of the morning: chatting, frantic homework, bare knuckle fistfights and so on. I shrugged and prepared to return to the magical world of maths, when another noise broke my concentration again.

 

This time, a low and persistent whisper floated across the classroom. This was no environment for a mathematician, so putting away my book, I located the noise as coming from the door. As casually as I could manage with a leg that had somehow fallen asleep, I made my way to the door, the whisper resolving itself into an impressive series of curse words as I did. Intrigued, I stood by the side of the the door, feeling my vocabulary expand as I watched the numerical entry pad repeatedly flash red. It returned to green, and the monologue cut off, only to be replaced with another flashing red light and an extraordinary volley of swears. Someone, I realised, was trying to gain entry without the code, but through the frosted glass I saw they were wearing the hideous purple blazer of a student. They were either a frustrated classmate or a paedophile in especially deep cover, but the former seemed more likely, so preparing my 'you're welcome' face, I keyed in the code and swung the door open, expecting to see the sheepish face of the resident thicko, Barry. I was surprised then, when I was instead greeted by a face I had never seen before in my life.

 

His hair was a wild and shaggy blonde mane, sticking in all directions from the top of long, pale face from which shone two unsettlingly wide, green eyes. He wore the school uniform to a Victorian degree of neatness over a frame as thin as a whip. It shows how extraordinary this guy was, that I was able to take all this in before his kick, the one aimed for the stubborn door, completed its arc and hit me square in the gonads.

 

Like grief, there are many stages of ball pain, and also like grief, they can only truly be understood by a fellow sufferer. For the sake of the uninitiated, I will condense the experience. First comes the pre-impact. This is a moment of clarity, where one realises with dreadful certainty that the foot in your crotch is there with only the meanest of intentions. In this time, before the nerve signals reach the brain, one's surroundings come into great detail, as your mind desperately soaks up every experience it can before the event. In this interval, for example, I noticed that Gonad McBooterson had a rucksack the size of a coffee table slung across his back, and that protruding from the top of it was the hilt of a sword. I was so preoccupied with this fact that I spent precious picoseconds pondering it, and before I knew it, the pain was upon me.

 

The pain of a swift kick to the 'nads can never truly be conveyed. Parallels have been drawn to childbirth and electrocution, but I feel it defies such categorisation. Suffice it to say that when actual thoughts replaced the swift popping noises in my brain, the scathing reprimand on my lips dissolved into little more than a whimper and I found myself kneeling on the grimy carpet. My agony was great, but there was something else competing for my attention. The Ball-Bruiser, he of the Falcon Kick, was not performing any of the usual noises. The normal prologue to a ball kick is either abject apology or raucous laughter, but he was doing neither. Instead, his piercing eyes were locked with mine. He made no move to leave, enter or assist, just stood there, looking. Then, without ceremony, he swung his monolithic bag onto the floor with a thump and reached inside. My eyes watering liberally, I reasoned that he was most likely reaching for the sword with which to end my suffering, so I was again surprised when he held out a bright orange plastic packet, gently placed it into my side blazer pocket, and moved briskly past me into the classroom, as if he had only stopped for a pleasant chat with an old friend.

 

With my testicles still squealing their displeasure, I let my shaky legs carry me to the nearest table, slumped into a seat and with the least nonchalant look known to mankind, confirmed that none of my peers had paid much attention to the grievous bodily harm i had just endured. Reaching into my pocket, I withdrew the packet, and found it full of neon green pastilles, that only by the packaging (Yes Indeed sweets!) I deduced to be candy. I tried to discern some further meaning from the broken english that festooned the packet (Are for interest make eye wowee!), but I was no closer to cracking the code when the bell went, announcing to all who still cared that it was time all good boys and girls were being registered. Mr Spooner has a sweet tooth, and I didn't want my sweets confiscated before I could at least figure out what language the ingredients were written in, so I slipped them back into my pocket and staggered back to my desk. The new kid, whose shoelaces my bollocks still keenly felt, was standing at the front of the class, clearly unsure where to sit. He should have struck a pitiful figure, standing there so lost and unfamiliar, but his detached expression and half-smile left me with the impression of an observer, not a participator, like he was the zookeeper and we were the monkeys. Of course, in this analogy, he would be fired for animal cruelty, the testicle-crushing bastard. It would be some time before I was going to be ready to let this go.