In the shite again.

Yesterday was the final day for the Key stage 4 group of young people enrolled in our education program. They have all made great progress and enjoyed being with us for several months, and to celebrate they had a last turn around the track in the Karts before the presentation.

I recorded it on video for them and of course they played up for the camera, skidding and screeching tyres as they passed me. It reminded me of a time long ago when as a child in Casson street nursery I did much the same thing for Mrs Sidebottom. She was the nursery head and all the kids loved her, she would often tell us stories before our afternoon nap and was the one all us kids would run to when we were upset or had hurt ourselves.

One week she had us all helping to make cowboy and Indian costumes as a learning project. We all brought in various bits of material and set about making waistcoats and chaps, neckerchiefs and squaw outfits. Of course all the boys were cowboys and all the girls were Indians. It made sense, us boys already had guns and holsters, cowboy hats and such, so it follows that as most boys are lazy little bleeders it was left to the girls to do the lions share of the work and make the outfits. Anyway they were better at sewing than us, even at that tender age.

Mrs Sidebottom was so impressed with our work that she decided to make a show of it by staging a genuine cowboys and Indian fight and inviting parents to watch us ham it up in our costumes. She choreographed the battle, which if I remember rightly had us cowboys grouped in the middle of the floor surrounded by circling Indians yelping and whooping (as Indians do) and brandishing bows and arrows intent on doing us no good.

I remember as we rehearsed one day for her, running round in circles and yelling loudly as we passed her chair, I would drop to the floor and slide by her feet as though mortally wounded clutching an imaginary arrow. Then get up and do it again next time round, I was a budding thespian even then. In any case my obvious talent must have impressed her because she picked me to be the “Lone rider”.

The lone rider’s job was to break out from the hapless band of cowboys and mount the huge Rocking horse near the door. (Well it seemed huge to me, it was probably no more than three feet high but I had to look up at him) Then gallop for help and return with the cavalry. I can’t remember how many times we practised this but we got it right every time.

The afternoon of the big show arrived and as we donned our costumes, our parents waited expectantly in the playground. They filed in to see us cowboys grouped in the middle of the floor all looking scared stiff. Mrs Sidebottom started to narrate a story about brave pioneers conquering the Wild West and as she did so in came the Indians whooping and yelling. They circled us pioneers and I have to say they looked really fierce for girls.

We fired our guns at them and of course they pretended to die. Some of them in a quite spectacular manner, it almost made me want to be an Indian, but it was too late for that and anyway I was the “Lone rider” and at the nod from Mrs Sidebottom I fought my way guns blazing toward the huge rocking horse.

Unfortunately this is where it all started to go wrong, for me anyway. I struggled to mount the rocking horse; it was almost as though some one had deliberately greased the thing in order to thwart me. I managed eventually but not before ripping the arse of my splendid purple silk cowboy pants. Once up though I began to rock backwards and forwards like a maniac. I rocked it harder than it had ever been rocked before, so hard was I rocking that its stand was lifting of the floor.

The inevitable happened of course, horse and rider lost sync, the horses arse was coming up as my arse was coming down resulting in my being somersaulted over its head. Luckily my waistcoat caught on one of its ears and I was left dangling with my feet just short of the floor.

Everyone’s eyes were on me, I did the only thing I could, I shit myself. My silk purple cowboy pants ripped open at the arse could do nothing to stem the steady stream of foul smelling semi liquid shite that dripped from my saddle tortured bottom and formed a neat little puddle on the nursery floor.

With kids there is only one word that comes to mind when this kind of thing happens, its pronounced “Eeewwwww” and it rang in my ears for what seemed like an eternity. Suddenly I was grabbed by one of the nurses, unhooked from the horse’s ear and carried at arms length to the toilets to be cleaned up. I didn’t struggle, what was the point, my life was over, and as young as I was I knew my street cred had disappeared forever.

My Mother followed the nurse into the toilets and took over, I think the nurse was extremely grateful for that and she made good her escape. My Mum told me not to worry and said all the right things, but it didn’t make me feel any better. I was just glad that everyone had gone by the time I emerged. Everyone but Mrs Sidebottom, this wonderful lady sat me on her knee and assured me that the rocking horse had been well and truly told off for causing my unfortunate accident. But best of all she told me that I was the best “Lone rider” she had ever seen and that I must do it again next time.

There never was a next time, which is probably just as well. Kids being kids it was soon forgotten about. Later in junior and high school, I performed in many of the yearly plays and loved every minute of it. I was quite good too, good enough to win a scholarship to the Stretford repertory company. I suppose you could say that playing the “Lone rider” was the only shite performance I ever gave.