Playground justice existed at Shrapnel in the most base and corrupt form imaginable and meted out by murder incorporated: King, Kane and Heifer. This sham democracy obliged all concerned to participate in the infliction of violence and humiliation on those who'd transgressed playground sporting ethics - accidentally kicking a ball onto the roof of the canteen at lunchtime, for instance, or being the last to touch it on its journey, meant having to pass along a tunnel made up of the outside wall of the boys' lavatory and a line of press-ganged pupils, kicking and punching with varying levels of enthusiasm until the condemned man had completed his passage. The victim was allowed to counter attack, but this would simply work to the advantage of the three tyrants who would then have a real excuse to lay into them, though come their turn, few would risk such ferocity, confining themselves to a few feeble pushing and slapping movements, variously risking a smack in the mouth....'Bulldog' was another occasion for random unjustified violence. We had to admit, we quite liked this one. One boy would stand in the middle of the yard, charged with grabbing and keeping hold of whoever was trying to reach the other side of the playground. The individual caught would be obliged to team up with his captor and the next cross-playground charge would be that little bit more challenging. The last to be taken eventually won. Oh, and you had to shout "Bulldog!", like you were selling newspapers for the Young National Front. If you were seized, a short struggle was permitted which might lead to a few punches being thrown, usually by King, Kane or Heifer, who considered it a dishonour to be taken. Most memorable of all was the gobbing pit, a railed off area with a concrete staircase leading to the boiler room, into which the football would inevitably get booted during some mammoth breaktime session. The offender would then be obliged to retrieve the ball from the bottom of the steps, dodging a hail or trickle of mucus, depending on who it was, from those hanging over the railings. These vultures would then have to face the consequences of their actions as the victim re-emerged. Or not.
All in all, such injustices as happened at Shrapnel never occurred quite often enough to provoke the counter-reaction we all felt obscurely had to come. I remember being off sick once and learning on my return that the trio had challenged the class to a mass bundle. Only Seamus had showed up. And got a smack in the mouth for his troubles. I was almost crying with frustration. Here at last was our chance to put these bastards in their places. And it could have happened. If only I'd had a lunchtime to work on their psychology a bit. It could have been our Treblinka or Sobibor. But getting the 12 cowardly men to act on their own initiative was another matter. We were receiving all, a lesson in the psychology of dictatorship.
Generally speaking, the violence at Shrapnel was more organised than infant or junior school rumbles, which might involve half the school marching towards each other chanting 'Leeds' or 'Liverpool' and indulging in a bit of harmless push and shove. Except for the odd grudge encounter, most would emerge pretty much unscathed. I didn't take part very often. It seemed a bit wimpish to me. I was more likely to be found trying to form another club, something about which I had an obsession for many years. It's easier to face and maybe change people's thinking in a small group rather than with the weight of playground tradition on your shoulders, though I don't claim that as my main motivation. Alternatively, if your passion was for less planned activities, you'd simply walk around chanting the name of the game until attracting a sufficient number of individuals with whom you'd dutifully link arms and march towards the most promising-looking recruitment grounds in a kind of mobile rugby scrum. It was common to hear one word choruses of "War!", "It", and other attestations to man's inherently social nature.
