It Started With A Diss

Danny King

For some people, school days were the best days of their lives. For others they were a continuous series of humiliating slaps around the chops. I know it’s not possible, but when I think back to my final years at school, I can remember doing nothing else other than crawling around on all fours after my glasses while everyone kicked me up the arse, much to the amusement of every girl I ever cared for.

That said no two words make me groan louder than the name Julie Mason. She was my obsession, my distraction and the reason I left school at the earliest opportunity with no qualifications.

          I will explain.

          From the very first time I laid eyes on Julie, I knew she was ‘the one’. Unfortunately, when she first saw me, I think she just thought I was ‘the two’.

          She was thirteen and so was I.

          She was in Mr Tanner’s Art class and so was I.

          She was beautiful, smart and popular. Did I already mention I was in Mr Tanner’s Art class as well?

          God I fancied her like mad. No actually, that’s not right. Fancied her? That makes it sound so grubby. So base. My affections for Julie were more than that. They were higher. Purer. I loved Julie Mason. That’s it; I loved her. And I celebrated this love by smashing myself to sleep every night thinking about her.

          The trouble was I was painfully shy. She only needed to look at me and I would burn up, at which point someone would always helpfully point out: “Hey look everyone, Joe 90’s gone red!”

          On the odd occasion I actually spoke to her, I would lose it completely. Example: She would say something to me like: “You’re in 2NN aren’t you? Give Emma Philips a message from me. Tell her to meet me at the gates at one o’clock.”

          To which I would reply: “I’m not Emma, I’m Danny,” followed by a bright red glow-on.

          I was thirteen. I fancied a girl. The rules were simple. I had to avoid her at all costs. I had to sit as far away from her in class as I could. And I had diss her whenever her name was mentioned. In short, I had to do everything I could to convince her and the rest of the civilised world that I hated Julie Mason and everything she stood for. The consequences of anyone finding out any different were far too dire to consider. Life, as I knew it, would be over.

          Very, very occasionally, someone would take a guess and say: “You fancy Julie, don’t you?”

          And without thinking, I’d have to quickly reply: “No I don’t, I think she stinks like a bucket of piss.”

          One time, this didn’t do enough to dissuade my accuser and he squealed with delight: “Yes you do, you fancy Julie Mason. Hoohooo hohohohoooh!”

          Of course, with hindsight, the answer I should’ve given was this: “Yeah? So what?”

          To which his only possible response would’ve been: “Hoohooo hohohohoooh!” But I was thirteen and full of self-doubt. Only Morrissey understood.

          There were just two ways I was permitted to express my feelings for a girl in those days; I could either repeatedly bomb past her house on my bike. Or, come the start of the third year, I could find out what options she was taking and sign up for all the same classes in order to get to know (or as it’s come to be known, stalk) her.

          So this is what I did.

          It’s also the reason I came to leave school without a single qualification. See while I was good at Woodwork, Metalwork, Geography and Art, Julie wasn’t, so I ended up taking History, Drama, Home Economics and RE.

          Saying that though, Drama did provide numerous opportunities to make contact with her, most notably during the school play when I was playing second ‘man’ and she was one of the make-up girls. How I adored having her apply the greasepaint. How I would smudge her work the first chance I got in order to go back for a retouch. And how I nearly died when during one such application Julie noticed I was floating a pocket battleship in my leotard and refused to go near me again.

          Over the next year or so though, I got to know her on a name-calling basis; I’d refer to her as fatty, spotty, goofy or anything else I could think of in order to provoke a reaction out of her and she would call me maggot, wanker and so on. It was hardly Romeo and Juliet but at least we were talking.

          We ticked along like this for a while and the antagonism was just starting to turn into affection when things took a turn for the nasty. Graham Benton had thrown a party at his house one Saturday night (obviously I found out about this the following Monday morning) and, according to the rumours, had fingered Julie in his back garden after she’d got drunk. We found out some months later that this wasn’t true, that actually Graham had spread this lie in order to get back at her after she’d got off with him but had refused to let things get beyond a tit-up. Julie had been sweet on Graham for ages and was therefore distraught by this betrayal. But like I said, none of us knew any of this at the time. We all believed the lie.

          I was devastated.

          I didn’t talk to anyone for several days and avoided Julie like the plague. Though when I finally did bump into her and her mates near the History block, I doubt I could’ve made things worse had I picked up a handful of dog shit, yanked open her collar and shoved it down her back.

          “Hello Joe 90,” she smiled, “had any boners lately?”

          “Fuck off slag and go and get fingered again!” I snarled.

          Julie and her little entourage just stared at me without saying a word before finally turning and walking away like ghosts, making me wonder if I might’ve gone a tad too far with that one.

          I gave it a couple of days in the hope that everyone would forget about my little witticism before approaching Julie again, though I didn’t get more than half a word out before her friend Emma turned and screamed at me: “JUST PISS OFF AND LEAVE HER ALONE!!!!” with a level of hatred that only teenage girls can muster.

          That hatred lingered for three more years, right up to, and through, our O-levels.

          I lasted only two and a half.

© Danny King 2024