Three String Blues

I’d better introduce myself. My name is Cousins, Harry Cousins and I like the simple things in life like watching James Bond films, chewing everlasting gobstoppers and farting in class. I go to Rookery Lane Primary School, just down the road from the open-air swimming pool and abattoir. Usually, school days passed by without much to say about them, but today was special because me and three other boys had reached the finals of the annual ‘Pee up the wall’ competition. None of the girls were allowed to join in because, as rumour had it, Josie Royston had recently perfected the handstand technique, and it was thought she would have an unfair height advantage. The girls were still allowed to watch, but whether it was to witness sporting technique or just out of biological curiosity, we never knew. The final began with Steve Jones getting disqualified for pressing Dave Spencer’s stomach, and Dave retiring to find a dry pair of shorts, leaving Terry Williams and me to face the wall. The urinary wall of fame or shame, with initials etched into the stonework marking the peak performance of previous generations, waited in anticipation of another fine aquatic display. The waiting was agony. With a nifty look around to make sure that we had no unwanted attention from adults, a quick fumble in our shorts and the event of the year began. Terry’s performance was awesome, a liquid arc yellowing against the sky. Brick by brick, the stream of urine crept higher and higher, while faint wisps of steam outlined his progress. The assembled crowd gasped in admiration at his display. Terry smiled and waved to the crowd with his free hand. He made it all look so easy. I stood facing the wall with what I hoped was victory in my grasp. The audience waited. I waited ... nothing. Closing my eyes I saw my immature life flash before me. I wondered how that moment would affect the rest of my life? Would I always be reminded that I could have done better, I’d always fail to perform to expectations, or that I’d never realise my true potential? I screwed my eyes shut, hoping that the audience would think I was concentrating; I didn’t want to waste any liquid by crying. A sudden, horrible thought struck me. Quickly looking down, I was relieved to see that the sticking plaster had detached itself and was now lurking somewhere in my underpants. Making a mental note to carry out a thorough search later, I tried to concentrate on the wall. So many thoughts crashed through my mind. Why had I entered the competition? What was I going to do if I failed to make even a slight damp patch on the notorious wall? Could I just tell everyone I had a kidney infection or something equally nasty and that’s why I couldn’t perform? I wasn’t sure. If everyone thought I had the lurgy or something catching, I’d be a social outcast for weeks. With a shake of my head, I tried to focus my mind on the competition. My lethargic appendage, limp in my hand, resembled a hairless sloth basking in the daylight. Normally, with so many casual observers around, my appendage would cause me acute embarrassment, rearing its head inquisitively while I desperately tried to hide its presence by adopting a shuffling gait and rolling my shoulders. But today of all days, it prefers to remain docile, unresponsive to the needs of its owner. Already, several pairs of feet had begun to fidget. Terry Williams sniggered and turned to face the assembled crowd with his moist champion still unwrapped for all to see. He waved his arms in the air, conducting a chorus of countdown chants, his relaxing penis nodding in rhythm to the raised voices. Ten, nine, eight, seven chimed the crowd. Every muscle in my body was rigid with expectation, as panic ploughed a furrow across my forehead. Six, five, four echoed the playground. Waterfalls, flushing toilets and thunderstorms appeared in full cerebral Technicolor while reality shone in stark black and white. Terry had already wiped the last drops from his obliging appendage, while mine struggled to release an ocean. Three, two pummelled my eardrums. My thoughts turned to what might happen if the cacophony of ridicule disturbed the Head dragon or my parents found out. Worst still, what if all the girls began pointing at my groin, laughing and wiggling their little fingers in mockery? Suddenly, fear gripped my whole excretory system. The floodgates burst open with awesome force. Relief smiled as I started humming the Dam Busters theme tune, the yellow fountain creeping slowly towards the point where Terry’s peak had been marked with chalk. The crowd cheered and roared me on, louder, higher, louder and higher. A squadron of infant Spitfire fighter planes flew by as their arms dipped from side-to-side in anticipation of an imminent victory. The noise of their engines joined the cheers reverberating around the playground. The joyous noise permeated the sacred walls of infant instruction, causing the dragon to stir in her lair. Alerted to the fact that something was going on in the playground that shouldn’t have been, she stuck her head out of the study window and surveyed the scene. With a bellow that would have frozen the blood in the veins of Saint George, she addressed the crowd. ‘Get to your classrooms at once and Harry Cousins, put that away!’ The Fighter squadron ceased to drone as what might have been my winning squirt managed a feeble arc that fell with a desultory ‘plip, plop’ onto my brown leather sandals. Josie Royston shrugged her shoulders and grinned at me with a ‘hard luck’ twitch of her eyebrows.