Clapping is competitive
Rewind, relive being sat with contemporaries
In assembly when I was six
We would sit in
rows
and
rows
of
single-file
rows,
Cramped and crammed in cross-legged
Elbows sunk like achilles heel stilettos into laps
As one hand hides slacken jaws
And one hand holds heavy heads.
Heads heavy with lofty ambitions
Of playing up-front for Arsenal
And of one day getting a good look up Sarah Marshall's skirt.
Early doors dreamy detour and general torpor
SONIC-BOOMED into oblivion
I'm back in the room.
Mrs Thornton annouces the introduction to the stage of the Year 5 Wind Band!
What came next? Recorders!
My bleeding ears go through the mill to
Play host to music that soundtracks
A Chaucer-age cuckold getting hen-pecked by his aggressively amorous wife.
If this is what passed for pop music in Tudor times then
No wonder Henry VIII killed all his wives.
Being a hipster even aged 6
And able to grasp the concept
I clapped ironically, enthusastically
avowedly, unashamedly, ironically.
The clapping receded
But still smatterings
Around the gym hall.
I clock Tommy McCall and he's clocked me.
He's doing the same thing!
No-one could be as sardonic as me!
I hate Year 5 Wind Band more than anyone else in the world and I'm determined to show my unappreciation by getting the last clap.
Mrs Thornton carries on her daily sermon
Of shepherds and flocks
Of outbreaks of pox
And of how we're not allowed to play bulldog at lunchtime anymore because Danny Wilson's mum rang up the school because all Danny's shirt buttons got ripped off.
I clap sporadically
Tommy McCall claps sporadically
I clap steathily
Tommy McCall claps stealthily.
Problem: Mrs Thornton has clocked the game and says
'don't think I haven't noticed and the next person to clap is getting detention'.
Assembly is competely still.
I haven't the gumption
Tommy McCall has the gumption
The detention and most importantly,
The glory.
Hands sore, I walked out of assembly with my freedom
But left behind my dignity.
I lost the Last Clap.
