Original ID : 3617 Created On : 2004-03-11 Last Modified : 2005-05-01
June 1987. Sports day. The fifth form 100m final contestants line up on the start line. Among them, Peter Bliss - wearing size 12 rugby boots, tatty grey baggy cloth shorts, a too-small t-shirt died pink in the wash and his trademark NHS glasses.
And they’re off.
Ten kids hurtle down the track encouraged by the shouts of 500 kids and adults. But - within a few seconds, the noise falters, withers, then dies completely. Apart from a faint " phut phut phut phut phut “.
Peter Bliss, with a furious look of red-faced determination etched on his spotty mug, is running faster than all the other competitors. He just isn’t running in the right direction. Nobody’s watching the race any more; all eyes are on Peter as he runs straight through the crowd of kids and shellshocked parents, and straight across the empty playground behind.
He runs straight into the toilets. With a big pile of shit tumbling out the back of his shorts.
It doesn’t stay quiet for very long.