The day I was expelled again, my English teacher was trying to make a class full of kids with heads like dirty tennis balls, including me, believe that “Nothing good ever came out of war.”

“Yes it did.” I shouted, after fighting with the urge to keep my gob shut, fearing another two weeks at home, I shouted it as loud as I could so as to be audible above the shoe shuffling, the yawning, the pen tapping and the tick tock from the enormous for no reason other than to enable the word 'Smiths' to be stamped on the memory of every kid forever, school clock in the gym. We were in this inappropriate part of the school for double English because of mindless ‘vandals’. The mindless vandals who according to Father Lavery ‘Should have their tight young bad bottoms whipped with a leather strap’ had broken into the main tutorial block one nothing to do as usual, Thursday night. They'd smeared dog shit (some of it the now endangered white variety) onto the door handles, spray-painted a huge bus stop knob, with cactus balls on all the blackboards, (or boards of colour) before poking holes in the ceiling with the window opener, this had unfortunately disturbed the dormant sixties, 'it's safe, cheap and fireproof honest guvnner,' asbestos.

                           So, as a result, our usual classroom was now off limits, thanks to those 'tight bottomed young hooligans,' who if Father Lavery caught, he would have to save the explanations as to why he was whipping them naked and fully erect for the local Magistrates before having his name added to the naughty man your mum and dad warned you about register with Chris Langham.

“Nothing good ever came out of war.” He repeated ignoring my shout, but throwing me a look he gave his wife, over the habitat plate cradling the under-cooked boiled potatoes every wednesday night. His nostrils flared, it wasn’t pretty as his nose was so large I had always been convinced that he could have a cigarette in the shower, no problemo. He was talking through his arse, being lazy and I had to challenge it.It's just what I had to do.

                          “Bouncy Castles, I offered, what about Bouncy castles? They came out of war and they’re heaps of fun. Kids love ‘em, adults get pissed and love ‘em. They’re always crowded with wobbly legs and smiles, jam packed with bouncing girls showing their knickers and Dads with sweaty feet, all good fun, Sir.”

“ And how, exactly did they come out of war Backland?” He questioned above the giggles and over the stares of the whole class, including Simon Hughes who was mouthing ‘you’re so dead’ whilst actioning a dagger slitting his own chubby ginger throat but nodding to me it was mine.

“Paratroopers Sir, in the forties, trained on them, big ones, big bouncy castles like they have today, although not in a mucky yellow and red and with no comedy turrets.”

It should have stopped there with the Eastenders percussionist signaling the end of the episode but no, I had to carry on.

“Very good Ged Backland,” the teacher acknowledged but repeated, 

“Nothing good ever came out of war.” I knew I should’ve shut up but there’s something inside me when a teacher talks in sweeping generalisations, something that makes me want to shout out and challenge their lazyness. The words find a way out, I can’t help it.

“Combat Trousers,” I shouted and immediately covered my mouth with my hand. The class went into an uproar of cheers. Simon Hughes went crazy with his exaggerating throat slitting and being hanged with a floppy tongue out impressions, all the other kids had turned and were looking at me and either laughing or shaking their heads in disbelief. “What?” the teacher demanded, I repeated my shout.

“Combat Trousers, Sir, they’re great, they came out of War, even you’ve got a pair, you wore them on the field trip to Rhyll, Sir, the day Miss Wilson slapped your face Sir, on the coach, Sir, for trying to kiss her, “Combat Trousers Sir, even Marks and Spencers are doing them now. Straight off the battle field them Sir, straight from the mud, the blood and the glory, Sir”

“Get to Mr. Smith.” he barked. 

Mr. Smith was the headmaster, old school (no pun intended) and so near a pension you could smell it on his breath, all tweeded up and with a pipe always in his mouth which gave him teeth like sugar puffs and breath that could knock a fly off a bucket of shite.

                                         A joyous roar went up in the class as all the kids waved me out of my seat. Simon Hughes the theatrical little bugger nearly wet himself with the excitement of it all.They all loved me for this though, they couldn't understand why I did it, but it added a bit of spice to every day.

“What for Sir?” I protested, but he just held the door open and tried to calm the ocean of delight that had filled the gym.

“Clever little bugger.” He hissed, speckling me with dots of his spit as I passed him.

                 Mr. Smith’s office was wierd, on his desk he always had two Fray-Bentos tinned steak and kidney pies with puff pastry and a small bag of sherbert lemons that were never open.

“Well Ged Backland, sit yourself down, you know the routine by now, what is it this time?”

“Nothing Sir.”

“He ground the pipe all bovine and thoughtful, he remained silent and gestured for a better answer with a raised, Noel Gallagher eyebrow.

“It’s Mr. Kinnerton Sir, he said nothing good came out of war.”

“And?”

“I said bouncy castles Sir, they came out of the second world war and they’re good ask any kid, even adults love them.”

Smith looked at me with immense interest, he knew I was right.

“That may be so Son," he said, opening his drawer to get his favourite whacking strap. "But generally speaking in a wider overall sense, nothing good has come out of war, do you agree?”

“Yes Sir, I submitted, then it jumped out, I had no control, “apart from Combat Trousers.”

Smith put down the strap, heart as heavy as his wife.

“Combat Trousers?”

“Yes sir everyone wears them, from pop stars to Mr. Kinnerton himself Sir, army pants you must have seen them Sir, they’re camoflauging arses everywhere from Bootle to Bangkok?”

“Quite, Quite, he said picking up the strap again."But on the whole Son, nothing good has ever come out of war, do agree?”

“Yes Sir.” But the voice rose again. “ Except... The Beetle Sir?”

Smith sucked in a huge breath and put the strap back down.

“The Beetle?”

“The Volkswagen Beetle Sir, ‘the peoples car’ developed by Hitler in the forties then going on to be the biggest selling mass production car in the world Sir, ever Sir, the air cooled engine lasts forever Sir, still make them in Brazil you know Sir?”

Smith’s eyes sunk behind a furrowed brow,

“The Beetle eh, well you’re right on that one lad, had one myself bright orange, denim seats, never let me down, but all things considered Mr. Kinnerton is correct wouldn’t you agree, that nothing good has ever come out of war?”

“Yes Sir”

“Right,” he picked the strap up again.

“Apart.”

“Apart!”  Mr. Smith was going red as his VW golf and the strap went down again.

“Apart from MASH, Sir.”

“Mash?”

“Yes Sir Mash Sir, greatest sit-com in American television history, remember it Sir ?” ‘suicide is painless it brings on many changes and I can take or leave it if I please."

Headmaster Smith looked unwell, he sat back in his leather chair and his leg went up and kicked his desk scattering Sherbert Lemons and sliding the pie tins across his desk.

“Korean War Sir I think it was, a lot of people thought it was Vietnam, but it was Korea.”

“Boy, he gasped, listen to me generally nothing good has come of war. Got that?” The strap went up again as he got to his feet wheezing.

“Yes Sir….”

“Right six whacks for your cheek and back to class. Hand out and repeat after me ‘nothing good ever came out of war.”

“Nothing good ever came out of war.... except.”

“EXCEPT!”

“Tins Sir, tins came out of war, without war we’d have no tinned goods, Americans invented them Sir, for the boys on the battlefield, so they could have fresh rations. They’re good aren’t they Sir tins, my dad loves tinned peaches, do you Sir do you like a tinned peach, suede apples my Mum calls peaches Sir isn’t that funny, ‘what’s for pud mum, I’ll shout? ‘A tin of suede apples you little monkey she’ll shout back Sir.’ Look Sir like these Fray Bentos pies of yours, tinned Sir, thank war for them Sir, war and good old Uncle Sam.”

Headmaster Smith just slumped back in his chair and held his head in his hands.

The end of school bell blasted out.

“Just get out boy.”

“Yes Sir” I said, grateful not to be leaving with stinging hands.

“And Boy.”

“Yes Sir?”

“No one likes a smart Alec.”

“Yes Sir… But the voice welled up, Mrs. Hawkins does Sir, Mrs. Steven Hawkins he’s married you know Sir, married his nurse, he’s a smart Alec Sir. She likes him, must do she married him didn’t she?”

The End