At the back of the classroom the message was written and passed to the front in schools across Britain. In assemblies and dinner queues it was whispered and mumbled, there's going to be a rumble. On Friday afternoon at the start of the weekend, outside the school gates as the last pips are beeping. A ruckus, a ding-dong, a pile-on, a bundle, there's going to be a rumble. School wars
From the back of the classroom the message was spreading, across playgrounds in Glasgow and Sheffield and Reading From Swansea to Bradford, in Devon and Cornwall, we were ready to rumble. Endorphins and adrenalin turned cartwheels inside us, raiding the woodwork room for chisels, screwdrivers. Compasses and set squares from the last double lesson, anything at all that might be used as a weapon. School wars
And black and white and straight and gay would stand and fight on school wars day
At lunchtime a nun confiscated a hammer and a replica gun at the catholic grammar. Lessons were stopped and the whole school was grounded, the gates would be locked when the final pips sounded. A conscientious objector was threatened with a razor, there were four pigeon feathers in the pocket of his blazer. The school wars are no place for peaceniks or cowards, as the last minutes race towards our finest hour, there's going to be a rumble. And black and white and straight and gay, would stand and fight on school wars day