The Sound of Laughter

by Peter Kay

  But unbeknownst, to us, our carefree, fun-loving days were numbered, as over on the opposite side of town a rival Catholic secondary school called St Bernadette's was sinking slowly into the ground and in their infinite wisdom the local education authority had decided to merge that school with ours.

  The reason for doing this was not because they'd found subsidence in the girls' toilets, it was because there was a more elaborate plan about to be unveiled that would hopefully put an end to this persistent disruptive behaviour once and for all, the plan mysteriously called Mode II.

  We were all summoned into the assembly hall at the end of third year for an important discussion. There were a couple of blokes in suits from the education authority already in there and our headmistress, Sister Sledge, stood at her podium and told us that because we were a 'special' year (I took special to mean full of nutters) we were going to be presented with the unique opportunity of choosing one of two academic options.

  Choice number one was simple: 'Just do your course-work and study hard for your all-important final exams.' OR (and this is when I half expected the stage to light up and turn into the set of a game show): 'You can choose Mode II, a revolutionary new option where there'll be no coursework and no exam. Instead you'll be given the opportunity to gain experience in some of the important things in life like Painting & Decorating, Car Maintenance and Gardening, to name but a few.'

  But it didn't end there. In the pamphlet they provided it said that 'you will be continually assessed by staff throughout the duration of Mode II and if your grades are sufficient you'll be awarded with a qualification equivalent to a GCSE'. 'So, why not do what's right for YOU and choose Mode II?' I think they fell down a bit on the tag line but other than that it sounded perfect for me and I couldn't wait to sign up.

  But my parents had a different opinion.

  'Gardening instead of exams? That can't be right,' my dad said as he studied the pamphlet during The Disabled Krypton Factor.

  Mum agreed with him. 'They just want to get rid of all the troublemakers,' and she was right. I knew that but I still fancied doing it.

  'Not a chance,' my dad said. 'Fixing cars and decorating – what a load of crap. They're luring a bunch of idiots over to a school that's sinking and then letting them all sink . . . Now bugger off, will you, I'm trying to watch this bloke land the space shuttle with his feet!'

  So I didn't do Mode II and my mum and dad were right. All the nutters signed up and like lambs to the slaughter they joined a sinking St Bernadette's. School wasn't the same any more. We still had a laugh but all the controversy had been sucked out of our lives.

  I'd still see my old friends each night as they dismounted their Mode II bus proudly wearing overalls stained with oil and silk emulsion. They seemed so grown up all of a sudden while we were doing boring coursework. Our jealousy didn't last long and I have to admit I was relieved a few months later when Danny Thorncliffe flipped his lid and took four nuns hostage with some turps and a Bunsen burner.

  Mentally, the cheese had slid off Danny's cracker a long time ago. I remember saying that when I saw him trying to headbutt wasps in the convent gardens. But taking hostages was the final straw. When he blew up the science lab he made it on to the local TV news.

  Danny was suspended but had the last laugh when he sued the education authority for damages and won. He reckoned the cuts he received to his face as a result of the blast ruined any chance he might have had of becoming a male model.

  The last time we were all together was when the school was entered for a local design project. Every Thursday for a few weeks, Mode II students were invited back to our school (much to the nuns' disgust) and Mr India, the head of the Craft and Design department, put us into groups.

  I was crap at Craft and Design. I'd only taken it as an option because I'd been a dab hand with Lego and because Mr India promised I could build my own hovercraft and travel to school in it. I never got any further than dismantling my nana's Ewbank for parts. I ended up getting a U in my final exam and I think I only got that because I spelt my name right at the top of the paper.

  Our task for this project was to design and build 'something' that could travel thirty feet – that was the brief. It could be any shape or size. It could be powered by any means. It just had to travel thirty feet across the assembly-hall floor, four weeks from that day, in front of our parents, some governors and possibly the Bishop, depending on whether or not he was back from the World Cup.

  I was put into a group with some of my old friends from Mode II and it was great being in a lesson with them again. In fact, we were only together for five minutes before we set the fire alarm off. Danny Thorncliffe had just got out of the burns unit and we were teasing him by throwing lit matches at his bandages. Happy days.

  The first thing we had to do was pick a name for our group. Mr India said that ideally it should have something to do with speed and dexterity. Everybody else chose names like 'Supersonic' and 'The Hurricanes'. After a deliberation of ten seconds we came up with 'The Very Fast'.

  I have to confess we did nothing but piss about for three weeks. Every time we saw Mr India coming we'd each grab a pair of masonry goggles and stand round the lathe looking busy. But when I realised we only had three days until the competition and my mum had booked the day off work I began to panic. We had designed nothing.

  Mr India gave everybody an appraisal and we hung our heads in shame when we saw what the other groups had come up with. 'The Speed Demons' had risen mightily to the challenge with their remote-controlled, jet-powered land cruiser. By incorporating the guts of a Dyson and over three hundred ball bearings that they'd 'found' in a skip behind MFI, they'd managed put the cast of Robot Wars to shame. Quite an achievement when you consider that Robot Wars would not be invented for another fifteen years.

  I was personally very jealous when I saw what 'Red Rum and Co.' had come up with. It was just a bloody wooden ball, the clever sods. They'd sculpted it out of pine in the woodwork room and were planning to roll it down the hall. Everybody hates a smart-arse.

  Eventually Mr India got round to our group and when he saw what we'd done (or rather what we hadn't done) he totally lost the plot. I felt bad because he was a gentle soul. He let the kids call him Pablo and played the guitar whenever we had a power cut but now we'd let him down.

  'I can't believe you've done nothing. You've had four weeks.'

  We just shrugged pathetically. He kept repeating himself over and over. We even tried farting on him in an effort to make him stop but the poor bugger had inhaled so many toxic chemicals over the years that his sinuses were dead. Danny Thorncliffe, on the other hand, pushed a little too hard and followed through. What a stink. So there we were, stood in front of Mr India, with tears in our eyes. Luckily he mistook them for tears of regret and granted us a twenty-four-hour reprise.

  That night after watching Wacky Races I had a dream. If we took a piece of wood about a foot long, drilled two holes in it and then threaded a couple of axles through the holes, then placed four wheels at the end of them, then (and here's the genius bit) we attached a powerful spring to the back, maybe, just maybe, if the laws of physics allowed, we could push the coiled spring up against a wall, hold it tightly and when we let it go, it would hopefully shoot forward . . . thirty feet? In theory anyway.

  Well, it was just a dream but goddammit, that's all we had.

  The contraption took about an hour to make, which was handy as it was now the presentation day. We needed a decent spring, though, for the back. Simon Birch (or Fingers as we called him) managed to come up with the goods. He never revealed where he got it from but I noticed the town hall clock had stopped working a few days later. Maybe it was just a coincidence that his dad worked as a security guard there.

  Quickly we screwed the spring to the back of the wood and cleared a path in the metalwork room. Time for the acid test. I pressed the vehicle against the wall, coiling the spring as tight as I could. I held my breath, counted to th
ree and let rip. It shot forward all right, about four feet. We stared at it in silence until Danny Thorncliffe pulled out a cigarette, lit it calmly and said, 'We're fucked lads.'

  'No we're not,' I said, but I could feel the group glaring at me.

  'It's supposed to travel thirty feet,' said Fingers.

  But before I could answer him, I was distracted by the sight of the Lord Mayor's car pulling into the staff car park.

  The assembly hall was packed with proud parents and dignitaries as they strolled round the room with plastic cups filled with fair trade coffee. Each group had been designated a table allowing them to display their designs and plans with pride. I noticed some of the groups had coloured charts and elaborate files filled with notes on technical data. We were huddled around a single piece of A4 with a sketch of the contraption in blue biro. I was so embarrassed, I wouldn't even let my mum come over for a chat.

  We drew the short straw and were last to go, which only added to the pressure. Each of us made several uneasy trips to the toilet. Fingers was in such a state of despair that he climbed out of the bog window and never came back.

  Red Rum and Co. rolled their wooden ball across the floor to rapturous applause. I thought that they should have been disqualified just for being smug.

  Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, it was our turn. Mr India made his announcement:

  'Last but by no means least, would you please show your appreciation for "The Very Fast".'

  There was some sarcastic laughter at the mention of our name, but I was confident that would cease once they'd witnessed our endeavours.

  The room watched on in silence as we pushed each other forward as group leader. I swear if Mr India hadn't deliberately cleared his throat a fight would have broken out between us.

  Reluctantly I was pushed to the front and all I could hear was the sound of my Adidas Kick trainers squeaking as I walked to the centre of the hall. I took up my position, grabbed the pitiful contraption with my hands, and then with all of my might I threw it across the hall floor towards the finish line.

  Now, you're not going to believe this but we came second. I swear to God. We were totally shell-shocked when the judges announced their decision. I still can't believe it twenty years later. I just flung the contraption across the floor and we came second. I don't think the wheels even touched the ground and the spring flew off halfway down the hall and caught a nun on the shin.

  Red Rum and Co. beat us with their smarmy wooden ball but we couldn't have cared less, The Very Fast had come second. And as if things couldn't get any better we were given a Double Decker each and a five-pound voucher for WH Smith's. Brilliant!

  Chapter Five

  Catholic Intercourse

  Some of my favourite memories of school are the occasional trips that we went on. Every year on the last Friday in May eight coaches would leave the convent packed with hyperactive children and head for Alton Towers. (In case you're unaware, Alton Towers is a successful theme park in the heart of the Staffordshire countryside that will hopefully now furnish myself and my family with a few free passes for giving them a mention.)

  The nuns sent us away on that particular day because traditionally it was the same day that the fifth-years left school and they liked to celebrate by throwing eggs and flour over each other in the front street. That's why the nuns thought it best to keep the rest of the school out of the way. Damage limitation I think they call it now.

  I was always very excited and found it hard to sleep the night before the annual trip to Alton Towers. My head would be crammed with plans, such as which ride we should go on first and the curious expectation of what the new ride would be like. Because a new ride was unveiled every year, which usually meant some obligatory horror-story gossip regarding a friend of a friend's cousin's nephew's brother who'd had his head cut off while riding this new ride, but whatever the rumour it wasn't going to deter us from queuing for three hours and going on it eight times in a row.

  That was the only thing that bugged me about theme parks, the bloody queuing. On a bad day you'd spend most of your day queuing and would end up going on only a few of the rides. These days you can pay more and get one of those special 'fast track' passes that allow you to go straight to the front of the queue. It'd be great if the management at Alton threw in a few of those free day passes as well.

  We'd be put into groups and designated a teacher as an escort. I used to enjoy the teachers' attire on school trips because they would always turn up in their play clothes. We'd be in hysterics at some of the fashions they'd arrive in. The bluest blue jeans in the world, I'm talking sky blue now with gigantic turn-ups, so big, kids could have hidden in them and been smuggled into the park for free.

  Another memorable school trip was to the Isle of Rhum in third year. I wasn't actually supposed to be going on that particular trip but I got a phone call from Mr Fitzpatrick, my History teacher, telling me that Paul Jarvis had just been suspended for headbutting a nun, so a vacant place had come up.

  I was keen to go but the problem was I'd never been on a hiking type of trip before and I didn't have any of the right equipment. Well, I had a woolly hat and some fingerless gloves, but that was about it. Mr Fitzpatrick said he could lend me some hiking boots out of the school store but what I really needed was a good, strong, waterproof coat ideal for walking up mountains in the November rain. I rang round a few friends but most of them wouldn't be seen dead in a waterproof coat. It was late Friday evening, all the shops were shut and we were going early Saturday morning.

  Luckily my dad overheard my plight as I chatted on the phone in the hall. He said he'd have a word with my Uncle Tony. They were going out for their usual Friday-night game of snooker and if anybody could lay their hands on anything at short notice my Uncle Tony was the man.

  Time was getting tight, I wasn't holding out much hope and then I got a call from my dad. He was phoning from the payphone down at the Labour Club.

  'Peter, it's your dad.' (He always said that in case I didn't recognise his voice.) 'I've got you a coat. It'll be there for you in the morning.' Then the phone went dead.

  I got up early, it was about half three, went downstairs and got the shock of my life. True to his word my dad had got me a good waterproof coat – it was hanging off the kitchen door in all its glory. The only problem was it was a luminous Day-Glo orange and had 'Motorway Maintenance' written on the back in big yellow letters.

  I charged upstairs, two steps at a time and burst into my mum and dad's room.

  'BLOODY HELL!' my dad shouted. 'Turn the light off.'

  But the light wasn't on, it was the glow of the coat lighting up the bedroom.

  'I can't wear this,' I said.

  'Why not? It's a bloody good coat, that,' said my dad. 'What else do you want on a Friday night? Millets was shut! Now bugger off, I'm trying to sleep here.'

  He was right. I had no choice. I had to like it or lump it.

  Everybody had a good laugh at my coat. I wasn't surprised. I stood out a mile wherever I went. When we pulled over for a brew at Carlisle Services a foreman in charge of a motorway road gang tried to give me a written warning for playing Pole Position in the mini arcade.

  By the time we reached Scotland and the Highlands, where most of the land is National Trust, it had gone beyond a joke. There was I strolling around a conservation area wearing a luminous orange coat with Motorway Maintenance written on the back of it. It certainly got a few of the locals' tongues wagging, especially when I pretended to gesture the layout of a new four-lane bypass.

  On the way to Rhum we stopped off to get some food rations and unbeknownst to Mr Fitzpatrick we hid three boxes of ribbed Durex in the bottom of his shopping trolley. I'll never forget the look of embarrassment on his face when he got to the checkout and the cashier tried to swipe them. He was mortified, particularly as he had three schoolgirls bagging up for him. We made the rest of the journey in complete silence.

  I also went to France with the scho
ol. Now that was a hellish journey – it took us two days and four nights (you do the maths). I was just grateful that the coach had a video player on board to help pass the time. It was wall-to-wall films the whole journey. We watched the lot: two Karate Kids, Teen Wolf, Back to the Future, Grease (four times – which is probably the reason why I dislike the film so much today). Well, I think you'd have felt the same as me if you'd have had Catherine Profitt and Fiona Sedgeley singing 'Summer Lovin'' in your ear at half five in the morning. I even tried to bribe the driver into leaving them at Watford Gap to no avail.