You take your victories where you find them. This is a celebrated victory for the little guy and the genesis of my tried and tested fighting style.
I'm eleven years old, and it's my first week at 'big school'. I've not made many friends as yet, and my genius move to attract more is to walk around the school grounds alone every lunch.
This lunch I'm walking along the fence that divides the tennis courts from the hockey pitch and I pass three older boys on the other side.
They call me names. I ignore them.
This is unacceptable to them, so they squeeze through a gap in the fence and chase me.
When they catch me, which wasn't hard - I was a fat nerd - they surround me and make some threats. I threaten back, although mine are a lot less convincing.
Their appointed leader decides that things are taking too long, and swings at me.
He his me soundly on the head, above my eye, on the brow.
I rock backwards for a moment.
He cries out in pain and clutches his wrist.
You see, 12 year olds are not that skilled at throwing punches. He literally swung at me and whacked his wrist right onto my forehead and, it turns out, fractured his wrist.
I only learnt this because about two weeks later I saw one of the gang in the corridor at school and called him and his boss out.
Because I'm a fucking genius. I was born that way.
So, when the gang of older bullies turn up in my class room, the leader shows me the cast on his wrist and threatens to beat me to death with the pot.
I think my school bred geniuses.
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