In the summer of 1990 I was a tall thirteen year old, approaching 14, and almost at the end of my prep school days in Middle England. If I passed the common entrance exam I could go to a first class private school, as a day boy. If not, then I would have to go to the local comprehensive, as my parents could not afford boarding school. Consequently I had been kept in, revising, for four solid weeks.
Today the exams were over, and I was able to relax. Michael was my best friend. He lived nearby and was in the same form. In fact, it was his mum who had convinced my parents to send me to private school in the first place, when I was nine. It had been a big shock entering a prep school, after four years of state primary. Not only was I expected to do homework every night, but they were very strict about the uniform. We boys all wore bright red blazers with the school badge on the breast pocket, and grey shorts. Our long grey socks had red tops which turned over, and had to be held up by elastic garters or sections of lace. In the winter our legs would be blue with cold, and most mothers had a cruel habit of slapping our legs if we did not move quick enough. One slap on a frozen thigh would bring tears to any eye.
Today Michael's mum had offered to take me to McDonald's with two other pals, the twins Derek and John. Despite our privileged education this was a treat, and we determined to make the most of it. We left our blazers in the car, and as it was summer none of us was wearing a pullover. So four tall boys in white short-sleeve shirts and grey short pants jostled through he door. School rules demanded that we kept our red & black striped ties on and socks pulled up, even after school hours.
Near the door was a large cardboard figure of Ronald, and protruding from him were lots of balloons on plastic stalks. As we were older boys, we took no notice of balloons. We all had big Macs, Coke, and fries. The restaurant had tables on two floor, downstairs was full, we went upstairs where there were no other diners. At the top of the stairs there was a swing bin, and on top was a dispenser of straws and tissues.
Four lively teenagers soon massacred the rations, and then it was time for a bit of fun. Mrs Wilkins went downstairs to the toilet, leaving us with instructions to clear the trays away then join her. Derek had picked up two straws, and he now ripped the wrapper of the second one. The straws have a paper tube, Derek removed one end of the paper and pushed it down the straw slightly. Then he put the plastic tube into his mouth and blew. The paper shot across the table like a rocket, and hit Michael on the nose. Michael darted to the straw dispenser, and stocked up with ammunition. The battle of McDonalds had begun. John and I joined in, John teamed up with Derek, and I supported Michael. Dodging between tables, we shot each other in urban warfare. The twins ran out of straws so threw the packaging from the meal at us. We must have fired about 60 straw rockets in less than a minute, when a waitress appeared.
" STOP THIS" she yelled, and we all stood up. Mrs Wilkins was at the bottom of the stairs, and flew up the flight.
"Look at this mess" complained the waitress, "And the waste. These straws cost money you know." In the commotion we had forgotten to clear our trays, and now there were hamburger boxes and waxed paper cups all over the room.
"Don't worry, Love" said Mrs Wilkins, I'll pay for them "And these young men will pay for this, too" She gave the girl five pounds, and sent her downstairs.
"Now, boys" Mrs Wilkins glared at us "You get these straws and things picked up, whilst I call your mothers" She got out her mobile phone. As we toiled I heard my mum agree to Mrs Wilkins' suggestions. "Yes, it was important to deal with them promptly, no time like the present" The twins' mother also agreed.
The young waitress re-appeared with a receipt just as we put the last of the straws into the bin. She was accompanied by the manager.
"Right, lads. You are all in for a good hiding, right here, and right now" The manager nodded.
We all stood in line, facing Mrs Wilkins. This was not the first time I had been smacked by her, but never in public before. Usually It was one slap on a bare leg, the hand-print would last for several days. At school most boys had a "scar" from a slap to display from time to time.
Today however, she had something different in mind. On the next table there was a blue plastic stick, an old handle from a McDonalds balloon. It was about 12 inches long and had a sort of cup shape at one end. Mrs Wilkins held it by the cup end and swished it onto her left palm. She grimaced, then looked at us.
"Six of the best, each" She announced "Bend over" I thought it was going to be easy, that little plastic stick was so short, and over my thick school shorts it would hardly hurt at all. We all touched our toes, presenting our rumps to the angered parent. As we turned to bend, we grinned at each other. Schoolboys who are in trouble are the masters of non-verbal communication, and we all thought that this was going to be soft.
Michael got the first swish. "OW" he yelped, and leapt up into the air. John's turn. "OW" and another boy took off. Then Derek got one. "ARGH" and the third of my friends rose, clutching his bum. This must be play-acting I thought. They are putting on a show for the waitress & manager, who were at the top of the stairs. Then my first swish arrived. "OW" Oh my God, it hurts, it hurts, it really hurts. All four of us boys now stood, both hands holding their assaulted buttocks, faces white, mouths open.
"Get ready for round Two" ordered Mrs Wilkins. "And stay down" We all bent over again, but this time without the grins. How could such a small stick impart such wicked pain? At least there was nobody else to witness our shame. Swish "OW"........ Swish "OW"......... Swish "OW"...... Swish "OW" The second stroke hurt me just as much as the first, but at least I knew what to expect. We all stayed in position this time, but tears were forming in my eyes.
Round three arrived without any warning. Whap "OW" .... Whap "Ouch" ... Whap "Aaargh" My three pals squealed. I was dreading this, my next stroke is about to land, oh MUM I wish you would phone and say stop it. Whap "OWWWWW"
By the time I had calmed down enough to realise what was happening, Michael and John had received number four. They were both stomping around the room with their hands stuffed down the backs of their school shorts, bawling and weeping. The next stroke cracked like a starting pistol. Derek rose like a 100m sprinter, his hands grabbing his bum as he charged the far wall. Now for my fourth stroke. How on earth was I going to take this, and two more. My pals were broken, crying, repentant, a raging fire burning in their pants. I was about to join them. Thwack. "Eeeee" I gasped. Unable to draw breath. My bottom was stinging like it had never stung before. All four stripes now throbbed and burned, the pain shot through me, I had to straighten up, just had to. My hands raced to my buttocks, clutching at the cloth of my shorts. I pressed, tried to keep the pain in there, but it escaped. Tears flowed down my face, and ran into my wide-open mouth. Salty. When consciousness returned I realised that I too had my hands inside my shorts, and was somewhere on the far side of the room, dancing a comical dance as I tried to separate my bottom from the rest of my body.
My friends were calming down. Mrs Wilkins now waited patiently, although it had taken no more than two minutes to administer the entire punishment. We looked at her, begging with pathetic eyes for mercy. "Enough?" she looked at the manager. "Enough" he replied. "OK boys, that will do." "Oh thank you, Mrs Wilkins" we chorused. Smiles of relief replacing pitiful pleading. "Now, who wants an ice-cream sundae?" asked Mrs Wilkins "Yes please" we all politely responded. In our circle, when punishment is over, it is over - apart from the hot seat and reformed character. "Right then boys, go and wash your faces whilst I fetch the order" "No, No, On the house" offered the manager, Then turning to the waitress "Fetch five sundaes, please. We have to reward our entertainers" "What, we are all alone up here?" I questioned his remark. "The security camera is relayed to the monitors downstairs" he declared "And you boys have just amused all the downstairs diners."
As we went down to the washroom there was not a sound from the 50 or so people who were gaping at the closed circuit TV screens. They had seen it all, and must have heard our yells. How could we have forgotten about the cameras. No wonder the waitress had come up to stop our game so quickly. Now our faces glowed brighter than our backsides as we trudged, heads hung low, through the tables to the washroom at the rear of the restaurant. Somebody clapped, then the whole crowd burst out in applause. Half-way down the stairs, visible to the entire crowd, Mrs Wilkins made a small curtsey, and waved her balloon stick. Several mothers picked up a free balloon, and gave it to their child. "Now you take good care of this, because mummy wants to keep the handle"
In the washroom we took turns at splashing water onto our faces, rubbing away the salty stains. There was no way we could cool our roasting rumps in a McWash. "How come that stick hurt so much?" I asked. "It must be because it is so thin" Michael volunteered. "We had best get back, before we get another dose for being slow"
We filed out and returned to our seats. This time the audience ignored us, although a few eyes did watch our burning butts go up the stairs. By the time we had eaten the sundaes our spirits were restored, and I asked Mrs Wilkins if we could play in the park across the road. She agreed.
Later that month we all found out that we had all passed our exams, and went to McDonald's to celebrate. But there was not a hair out of place, and they never served four quieter kids. Even now I cannot walk into one of their branches without rubbing my backside, and I always clear my tray.
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Further reminisces in Pancake day, Ash-Wednesday.