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Lead us Not into Trent Station
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Lead Us Not into Trent Station by Richard Guise
Mad Ron and Even Madder Ronette Barnett strode into the Parquet Gulf. This rare sight of the two sports teachers together was a bad omen. They were clearly going to 'do something' together. And after some embarrassing banter, indeed they did. Mad Ron placed a large 78 on the Dansette that sat on the edge of the stage, and a ghastly crackling filled the silent hall. He took Mrs B by the waist and, as a sickening swirl of strings gave them their cue, the disgustingly dapper duo proceeded to move around the Parquet Gulf in what can only be described as a Waltz. It could only be thus described because, along with the 49 other boys, I knew the name of no other dance, except the Turkey and the Twist. The Turkey and the Twist had one unbeatable advantage over the Waltz: neither required any physical contact with other members of the human race... least of all female members. We'd been wondering if we might get away with something like this, or even with one of those prissy folk dances where you just held hands (bad enough) and didn't have to face each other. But no, our worst fears had come true. It was to be the grip-em-and-whirl-em-squeeze-em-and-twirl-em Waltz. Yuk and double yuk.

As Mantovani crackled to a halt, the Bs, who were both purpally attired as usual, turned to face each other and, like a pair of Sumo wrestlers, deeply bowed. Their audience remained deeply unimpressed. Undeterred, Mr B advanced to the blackboard and proceeded to chalk out the basic steps in the same way that he had chalked out the details of rugby union's offside rules the week before. How attractive suddenly appeared the prospect of an afternoon in the cold autumn mud of the rugby field! Who on earth had dreamt up this torture? I suspected OMG had put the Bs up to it. The filthy swine. Our dear headmaster had about as much idea of what eleven-year-olds enjoyed as a baked bean had of a Sputnik's propulsion system. I decided to devote a happy half-hour in bed that night to thinking up twenty ways of killing OMG. Torturing him and then killing him. I could stretch him over his big oak desk and then cane him to death. Maybe when he was half-dead, I'd place a blackboard by his ear and scrape my fingernails down it. I would then slice his ear.... As I gaily considered these pleasant possibilities, I heard from Mad Ron's lips the dreaded words: 'All right then, boys. Take your partners!'

Oh God, this was it. I T spells it. A few of the boys shuffled to their feet, and then, realizing their exposure, immediately re-stuck their bottoms to the bench.

'Come on, boys, don't be shy - the girls won't bite you!' Some girls in my class had the audacity to giggle at this. The swines! (The sows!, I mean.) At least they could sit there and be passive. We ere expected to actually do something. If anything was worse than having to touch a girl, it was having to choose which one to touch. The fifty boys dragged themselves from the safety of the benches and proceeded to cross the Parquet Gulf with all the speed and direction of a nervous platoon crossing an abandoned minefield.

Random as our progress was, the demon dice brought Hopkins and me to within a few yards of Kirkbride and Big Ranshaw. I thought of praying to God for a miracle - for a bomb to devastate the entire school perhaps - when a brainwave came to me from nowhere. Well, maybe it came from God. After all, God was a man and no doubt detested the prospect of having to partner the Virgin Mary at Heaven's Christmas Dance. That halo the Virgin wore looked pretty sharp and if He got too close it could easily damage His Holy Beard. From wheresoever it came, I hissed the gist of my brainwave to my fellow victim: "Oy, 'Oppy. Worrif we both ask 'em at the same time? Then thi 'wun't know 'oo wuz asking 'oo. Thi'd jus' gerrup and choose wun each."

"Yerron", accorded my comrade.

We shuffled up and, in unison, mumbled our tempting offer: 'Jowtow wanna dance laak?' How could they refuse? Before I knew what was happening, my sweaty hand was towing the massive and entirely silent form named Ranshaw to the middle of the Gulf, and The Mad One had once again set the crackling Dansette into motion. Mantovani lurched into his threatening intro and our deranged leader called on his troops fearlessly to place their right arm around the waist of the enemy. Carefully avoiding the enemy's eyes and keeping her at as great a distance as my short arms allowed, I did as was bid. Like every girl at LEGS from October to May, Big Ranshaw was wearing a nicely washed dark green woolly cardigan, and immediately my sweaty right palm began to create matted patches on it.
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