“A Classroom
Divided”
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Oxford. May 19, 2015. On arrival at a less than
enticing squidgy green sports field, new sports teacher Mr. David Shorten
cajoled his cricket team from the comforts of a warm and comfy school bus to
expose them to the vagaries of an inhospitable Tuesday afternoon in Blewbury.
It was a moot point whether this excursion should ever have happened, what
with squally showers and foreboding weather forecasts, but optimism won out.
Howarth – unimpressed. It pissed it down for much
of the journey south, and with his team now assembled; Mr. Shorten noted a
split within the class. To the left of the pavilion, were the brooding and
malcontent Smith and Howarth, cursing under their breath at a “waste of
fucking time (and petrol)”. Smith, hidden under his hoodie like a syth lord,
spitting out vitriol that had Carter spellbound. Geoff, ever the carefree
nonchalant chap, dragged into their malaise. Pearson stood but a foot away,
of similarly disdain, arms tucked under his sweater, mindful of great home
cooking in his absence. Then there was Lucan, more to the middle, wide eyed
after years of truancy, hesitant but eager to please; stood next to the
affable Bob – a human so kind and humble, as to be happy with any outcome from
this day, even if there wasn’t an outcome. And there, to the right,
star pupil Hoskins, cheerfully upbeat, drumming a cacophony of support for
the positive; appealing as it did to the whimsical and fantastical Timms, and
the mattress afflicted Jake. On joining this collective, David noted the
marginal vote of Reeves would be cast; happy to be swayed by the engaging,
enthusiastic and heart-warming spirit of those he had chosen. Play? Not play? Think about
playing? Sit on the fence? Make a decision? Leave it to somebody else? Canvas
opinion? Play now? Play later? Not play at all? Play a bit? Make a decision?
Erm…waste some more time…?
The Mad do dark. Black. Noir. Devil worshipping. Black. Heavy Goth
Metal. But black. The opposition were now
arrived, quizzical as to why, but of a resolution to give it a go. Not now,
but later, maybe after those horrible grey clouds have shifted, and the
horrible wet drizzle has shifted; and also the horrible cold wind as well.
The horrible soggy field wouldn’t shift, but maybe another 15 minutes after
18:00 and a life-defining miracle will happen and make it suitable for…
cricket? Syth had had enough, joining
Fuckit Howarth in detention as they led Whateva Pearson to the back of the
bus. “Surely not you too,
Geoffrey?” Teacher Shorten was to be duly disappointed, Carter already
brainwashed by the downbeat and cynically, pessimistic doctrine he had
surrounded himself with. “Weak, weak, weak” thought
Shorten – once predecessor, Mr. Westmoreland, would have stamped all over
this mutiny. There would have been no dilly-dallying around, not a chance of
it. But so young into the job…. He fixed an icy stare at Howarth
through a rain splattered window, Ian avoiding his gaze. “Bastard” he
thought.
“What fucking phone call? Eh? Lying….” Apologies were made to
Blewbury, their number reluctantly accepting the outcome, however desperate
and foolhardy they were; and thus to the repercussions, retributions and soul
searching thereafter for Team MAD…. A classroom divided. A
classroom in need of discipline. Teacher Shorten – step out of the shadows,
step forth! ‘The Team
Inspector’
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