War is hell by Trevor Plumbly
Subtle changes have occurred since I last wrote: I think teenage angst is about to launch a serious attack on Number 1 grandson. He has more of a quiet, serious nature and thus faces a tougher fight than his younger brother. Fortunately, he has parents sensible enough to accompany him on the trip rather than push off when things get tough.
Puberty is far too cruel to be imposed on the young; it seems to me that God got it sort of upside down and this measure of confusion and self-doubt should have been allocated to the over sixties. Puberty is God’s thug; it chucks everything at the relatively defenceless: introverted sexual awakening, imagined inadequacies, the constant pressure to excel along with the threat of rejection from either sex.
Engaging the enemy
Very few die from the battle with puberty, but there’s a hell of a lot of emotional walking wounded in mid-phase. Puberty’s main weapon is sexuality; the only defence is to do ‘it’ early on and as frequently as possible. Despite being a private battle between two strugglers, for some strange reason it’s a matter for peer review; doing ‘it’ with any regularity elevates you to ‘stud’ or ‘goer’ status, not doing ‘it’ relegates you to ‘fag’ or ‘frigid’. Doing ‘it’ is a turning point: suddenly the uninvited erections, pimples and stammering approach to courtship have left the male, while the female is now regarded by her peers as worldly wise. Sadly, the rest get haunted by second-hand titillation and an acute sense of failure, but, like I said, puberty fights dirty.
Memoirs from an old soldier
Looking back, puberty had a hell of an advantage then, we simply didn’t have the attack mechanisms that today’s kids enjoy. ‘The 39 Steps’ was hardly under the mattress reading, and visually, faded portrait prints of Winston Churchill offered little in the way of masturbatory material: it was a lonely journey for me. After that cold hearted little tart Carol rejected my poetic advances, I went into a sort of sexual hibernation, but puberty hates being ignored and spotty Simpson’s sister struck the next blow. Most girls then had what I believe the poets call ‘budding breasts’ but Spot’s sister had real knockers and, according to rumour, was ‘a real goer’. However, after a confused fumble, the intricacy of her bra strap defeated me and I was cast back to ‘fagdom’. The breakthrough occurred whilst I was relieving myself behind the bike sheds: I had just about finished buttoning up when I was set upon by Christine. Christine was taller and heavier, she came at me with a flurry of arms, legs and tongue; it was all over in a matter of seconds and to this day I’m not certain if we actually did ‘it’, but for me ‘the war was over’. The battle awaits Number 1 grandson, but he should heed this advice from an old soldier, ‘Don’t write romantic poetry, remember that the contents of the bra are best accessed via the back, and never, ever pee behind the bike shed.