Growing up as a boy in the 70s and 80s, there was not the mental health awareness that we have today. There was also no understanding of the needs of the neurodivergent. Sure, we had a few odd kids, but they were labelled “slow” or “learning challenged” by the schools and authorities. The playground was somewhat harsher, “spazz”, “ ’tard”, and “mong” being choice variations on the same theme. If you were different, weird, odd, or strange, you needed to know it, and there was no shortage of inventive ways your bullies would find to let you know.
Violence was treated as part of growing up;
Violence was treated as part of growing up; a right of passage, you took your licks, everyone did. Except some of us took them with a little more frequency than others. It was how I got so good at masking (hahaha, yeah right Morrison).
When the punishment for showing up as yourself is physical violence, social exclusion, and mind games, you get good at blending in (hah!) or get used to being alone. Now, let me just square that; I like being alone, I LOVE being alone and doing my own thing and being left to do it. I am the opposite of a team player. I am better at being the conductor than in the orchestra, and, tbh, I am good with it and happy that my skillset fits that desire to work focused and by myself. However, I am human, I like to meet others from time to time. So you try to fit in, make accommodations that mean people accept you.
But even so, bullying was overt in my life, and daily from mid teens through to my mid twenties, and in that time it transitioned from physical to mental bullying, and was even present in the workplace. There was nowhere I could go without being somehow “wrong”. You don’t fit in wherever there are people. Think about that. People would rather you were not there, or if you are there you have some function to perform or other social benefit to them. Looking back, it plays on your mind; were they really your friends? Where are they now? Hmmmm…
One of the things you do keep tally of is the physical violence meted out, and due to the emotional impact (pun intended), it resonates. You ruminate on it, the details being thrown into sharper and sharper relief as you age. The pain fades; the emotional resonance does not. Imprinted with force in your psyche, and I am thankful that, relatively speaking, the experiences I can never forget are fleeting and sporadic. If you are facing any sort of emotional or physical violence, seek help and get out. Your physical safety is paramount.
As I recall I’ve been punched in the face five times in my life so far, fingers crossed that number remains at five but there’s still time. My Grandfather confronted bullies his whole life starting with the Nazis and even faced down a bully on a train aged 86, so we’re a sparky lot us Morrison’s
Punch in the face no. 1 — Little Stu was five years old. In fact, it is one of my earliest memories. A young boy lashed out at me, for reasons I am unable to recall, and caught me squarely on the mouth. More by luck than any actual skill, the blow landed fully and rocked my world. Blood then tears welling almost immediately, followed by the laughter of my peers who had gathered at the sight of two children squaring off.
I ran home, in floods, to my parents, and my mother soothed me, whilst my father suggested that the only way to deal with it was to go back and give the “bully” the same treatment in return, thus making future-you bully-proof. “They’ll think twice before doing it again” was, I believe, the parental advice.
Having heard what had to be done, bolstered by my borrowed bravado, I braced myself and cycled back to where the “bully” was, tears still wet on my cheeks, the tang of coppery blood still on my palate, but a burning desire to ensure justice was served.
STAND BACK CITIZEN…
A minute later, I was back home crying harder than I had cried when hit. Through my sobs I tried to explain that I’d taken on board my father’s advice and re-engaged with the bully whom I was going to firmly put in their place. My tears were not from any physical altercation but at my frustration that when told to stand still and let me hit them, they’d laughed and run away. They had ignored my instruction and defied my attempts at exacting revenge/justice.
My further encounters were similarly frustrating.
Punch in the face no. 2 — circa 1983/84, David E, in the school’s ‘A Block’. I walked into the class and BLAMMO. The explanation, I think I found out later, was someone had dared him to punch me, so he did. Again, I just froze, turned, and walked away. There was little damage, the punch being thrown without any commitment or intent — more a bop on the schnoz than a roundhouse. The social cost hurt more than the physical pain, as I refused to fight and was seen as “weak”. I’m now “friends “ with him on Facebook, wonder if he even remembers that incident?
Punch in the face no. 3 — Adam, RAE apprenticeship, Farnborough. He didn’t like me; I was ambivalent about him. End of year clean-up, I had somehow sprayed cleaning spray in his direction. He claimed it had gone in his eyes. OK, so I did not react maturely to him shouting at me and threatening to hit me. I threw my broom in his general direction and turned my back on him, which was a tactical mistake in hindsight.
Next thing I knew he was behind me, and as I turned he gave me his all. I basically walked into the punch, and it landed squarely on my jaw, rocking my head back. SNAP! He’d hit the bingo button and rang my bell, but to everyone’s surprise he didn’t win a prize. The look of rage-induced glee to panicked “oh no, he’s not gone down” is backed up on tape in my brain and I have replayed it a few times over the years. From triumph to “oh shit” in a second. Ooooh, that’s the really good stuff, sweet, sweet 40 year old vintage schadenfreude.
As I stood there, thinking about my options, I was thankful he’d not followed up as it gave me a moment. I scrolled through my choices: if I responded I might win the battle, but would be expelled from the course for fighting, thus losing the war and my job.
I was also not 100% innocent in the escalation of the event. The balance tipped in favour of remaining calm and doing nothing. Sure, I might lose some social cred, but no one on the course really liked me anyway. As in a lot of situations, I was “tolerated” or ignored. He couldn’t take me down a peg, let alone two, as I was on the lowest rung of the social ladder there was. Also, my lack of instant emotional response allows this calm reflection, it’s why I am good in a crisis. However the reaction later is brutal.
I took a deep breath and calmly stated, “Is that the best you can do?” and raised an eyebrow, if I recall, to throw in a little bit of my fave Star Trek character, Spock.
Quickly turning away, playing a game of social poker as I did the sums and bet that he’d lose way more ‘street cred’ attacking someone whose back was to him than winning approval of his peers for pursuing the fight and I was already below him socially. He stalked off, and if nothing else I had shown that a smack on the chin wouldn’t take me down and hoped others took note and would infer I was made of granite.
I cried a lot that night when I got in.
Punch in the face no. 4 — circa 1991, Yateley kebab van. The lovely Egyptian kebab van owner and I had exchanged pleasantries a few times when I was buying my weekly kebab. He’d come to the UK to seek a better future, starting his kebab van from scratch, and sharing a house with four relatives who were all similarly motivated to build better lives. He had a wife and two kids and was eager to send for them and set up home in the UK, which was safer and had more opportunities.
This particular Friday I was out with a friend, Janey celebrating her birthday. She was driving as she rarely drank and so offered me a lift, which I accepted. After the pub we were heading back to a mutual friend’s for further drinks, but I suggested we stop for a kebab, huzzah!
On arriving, the scene was a little chaotic, with several large men milling about in football shirts in front of the kebab van. It was unruly, and I had not judged the mood of those there. I was hungry and keen to get a kebab, and there seemed to be a lot of shouting at the kebab van man. I suddenly realised that the “mob” was shouting “Iraqis out”, and other such epithets. I also noticed that they were reaching over the counter and grabbing the lettuce and other salad items and throwing them about.
Not really thinking, hungry and wishing to quell any nascent violence, I simply said, quite loudly, “C’mon, we’re only here for a kebab,” and the mob turned their attention from the kebab van owner to me. Shouts of “Iraqi sympathiser” and other similar statements were made.
Now two things you need to know at this point:
It was at the time of Gulf War 1 — tensions were high and citizens with brown skin were rightly nervous. So I was trying to calm the situation, and also they were wrong, he was not Iraqi and even if he was, what did it matter?
I had a 1ft postbox red Mohican, wearing a tasseled black leather jacket covered in silver studs, and looked like a member of Sigue Sigue Sputnik (go Google, I’ll wait). Yeah. I “stood out”
So, if you know anything about UK society, our football hooligan species of bully doesn’t like people who are “a bit different”. It angers them if you don’t have visible neck tattoos, prison time, and intolerance of others who look different. Plus, I looked like I probably had paid attention at school and might know “words” and could therefore probably do “sums”, and thus the crowd ‘took agin me’ instantly.
I was quickly grabbed and surrounded. The jostling was bad. As I tried to wrestle myself away, someone tried to break a bottle on my head. Spoiler alert: they do not break like they do in the movies. Also, given the status of my hair — standing up and shaved from the circumference of my head down — the blood flowed quite spectacularly, which did give me a blood-soaked, Mad Max appearance. That helped, also the guttural animal barking I was doing as I tried to apply some of my brown belt martial arts to the situation, allowed me a little space to get my back to the kebab van. “Back to a wall, don’t go down”, was the mantra in my head. It was then a blur of fists and saliva.
The kebab van owner then arrived on the scene with his BIG carving knife, waved the yobs away, and managed to bundle me into my friend’s car. She had seen the situation, but what could she really do? Lone female, about 5’5″ and less than 100lbs, “dainty” was the word to describe her. She saw what was happening though and got the car positioned so I could make a relatively speedy exit.
All resulted in a night in hospital, bit of concussion, broken nose, and looked like a panda for a couple of weeks. Police interviewed me, apparently it was Reading Football supporters, and no one knew who they were. The scene was a ghost town by the time the cops arrived. Would I do it again? Absolutely, 100%. I will stare down bullies and fascists; not on my watch, not today, not ever.
Which brings us to punch no. 5, which, given the very dramatic nature of punches 1 to 4, is rather an anti-climax. A northern nightclub, circa 2005/06. I am onstage doing a bit as the Little Britain character Emily Howard. Having done gigs all over, in many different venues of different standards and clientele, this one was one of the higher-end nightclubs we worked. There was a bit where I ask for an audience member to join me on stage, and before I had a chance to hand-pick one of the more sober customers, onto the stage strode “Baz”. Full of spit and vinegar over something I had said. Some slight, imagined or direct, was not taken in the spirit of the character and he took this opportunity to get close.
Waved onto the stage by security, Baz shuffled over to me, and I could tell two things immediately from his demeanour and gait:
Thing 1) Baz was angry. The furrowed brow, hunched shoulders, and attempted swagger told me that as he approached me, he meant business. I’ve been punched by people before, so I knew what to expect…
Thing 2) Baz was loaded. The local team United/City/Town had won/drawn/lost and he had been day drinking since breakfast/last night/a week ago. He was steaming, ruddy, sweaty, weaving, and was unbuttoning his stained, rather damp and clingy shirt, ready to whip it off and go full Rambo… if only the pesky buttons would respond to his soused sausage fingers.
He finally got within swinging distance and threw a haymaker at me, which he may as well have sent a text about a week previously. He was also clearly aiming at the Emily Howard standing two feet to my left; his eyes were not focused on my face. The swing whistled past me and landed on the double-vision version of my presence, and before he could recover his balance the security guards grabbed him and hauled him out the club.
Whilst the physical contact was nothing more than air molecules, the intent shook me. I was in my safe space, on stage, where I was in control. This was MY room, MY audience, and he had tried to harm me there. All of the previous occasions flashed through my head; the guilt, the shame, all the other physical altercations and being roughed up “just for a laugh”. All the times you complained to an adult and were told “boys will be boys”. The hot, sickly feeling of being belittled and dragged down, the othering, the outcasting. That lands with the intent, whether the blow physically connects or not.
Now I do not know the neurotypes of the people mentioned above, but I do know that physical violence never solves anything. I didn’t need to be hit to know that; it just seems reasonable to never put your hands on another, whatever justification you may have in your mind. Unless they ask you too of course, in which case, have at it. What you do in the privacy of your own dungeon is your prerogative.
Masking is a survival skill and can be a way to try and hide and stay safe, but you cannot mask 100% of the time, every time. It’s a skill, and with low energy it can fail us, and that can be a problem if it happens in the wrong company. Thankfully I am now safe, have people who love me and can truly say that if you don’t like me then I do not care. Just don’t start, I will walk away, I have nothing I need to prove to anyone.
Whilst there’s no 100% magic spell that will make you accepted into wider society, education and open communication will change things. Society has massively changed in my lifetime. Let’s be more kind and accepting of “others” no matter how “other” they may be or where they are from. Let’s keep pushing and pushing for wider acceptance of divergent neurotypes, whatever the traits or behaviours. We owe it to the generations to come that we share our needs plainly, remain resilient in the face of ignorance, and change hearts and minds where we can.
Take it easy and be kind to yourself and others.
NEED HELP WITH BULLYING OR DOMESTIC VIOLENCE?
If you’re facing bullying in the UK, resources like Childline (0800 1111) and Shout (text SHOUT to 85258) offer 24/7 confidential support for young people, while the NSPCC (0808 800 5000) and Family Lives (0808 800 2222) provide help for parents and carers dealing with bullying issues at home or school, with options for phone, online chat, and forums for advice on all types of bullying, from playground to cyberbullying.
Information and advice for anyone dealing with bullying
https://www.nationalbullyinghelpline.co.uk/
https://www.youngminds.org.uk/young-person/coping-with-life/bullying/
Women Facing Domestic Abuse – National Domestic Abuse Helpline
https://womensaid.org.uk/information-support/
A fast, free emergency injunction service for domestic abuse
https://www.ncdv.org.uk/