THE CHIP

YOU KNOW THE WAY Michael Caine sounds when someone’s doing an impression of him: “My name is Michael bloody Caine, and you're only supposed to blow the bloody doors off!” That was Amstell’s everyday voice; and he used it, every time he saw me in the corridor, even when I was minding my own business, to give me shit.

“MOLE!” He always called me by my last name. “Mole, come here!”

That ridiculous Michael Caine voice.

“Mole, I said come here!”

I’d walk over to him, slowly, dragging my knuckles and looking at the floor, until I was slouched in front of him.

“Mole, is that gum in your mouth?” He never waited for an answer. “Spit it out, into your hand, take it over to the bin and drop it in the bin!”

He couldn’t just say ‘Spit that gum out!’ like a normal person, he had to list every step, in his stupid Michael Caine voice. If it wasn’t chewing gum, it was something else. An untucked shirt. A drawing on my hand. A crude comment.

“MOLE, COME HERE! How many times do I have to tell you—tracksuit bottoms are not an accepted item of school uniform.”

“I know. But I’ve only got one pair of school trousers and they’re in the wash.”

“Ohhh…” he’d stretch the word, “they’re in the wash. That’s alright then. Carry on.”

I’d turn and start walking away. Make it about five paces and be just about to dart round a corner, when I’d hear, “DETENTION! ONE HOUR! MY OFFICE! FINAL BELL!”

“For fuck’s sake.”

“I HEARD THAT, MOLE! Well done, you just doubled it! Two hours! Anything else to say? I’m all ears!”

I was always tempted to swear again. Just to show him that he couldn’t break me. But I had learnt, during an encounter with him in Year 9, that I was only cutting off my nose to spite my face. That infamous Monday when I’d earnt myself five hours of detention. One hour after school, every day of that week, and all because he’d seen me kick a chip that some kid had dropped on the canteen floor.

He called me over to where he was standing, on the opposite side of the canteen. He was wearing a white shirt, untucked, like he did every day, with a blue tie tied loosely around his collar, and his fluffy brown hair was starting to curl above the ears.

I navigated my way through the maze of tables and stopped just in front of him.

“Mole, don’t be a prat all your life! Walk back to your mates, bend down, pick that chip up, take it over there to the bin in the corner and drop it in the bin! And the next time you see a chip lying on the floor, leave it alone!” he said, loudly so that everyone would hear.

I felt the eyes of every kid in the canteen on me, all watching to see if I accepted the humiliation.

“This is fucking bullshit,” I muttered, as I turned to make my way to the squashed chip.

It was just the reaction Amstell had been hoping for. His mouth curled into a smile and his eyes beamed like car headlights being turned on first thing on a dark morning.

“Well done, Mole! Detention! One hour! My office! Final bell!”

“Bollocks,” I said, taking my next step towards the chip.

“What was that, Mole? You’d prefer two hours? Well, if you insist! Two hours it is!”

“I don’t give a shit, mate,” I said with my next step.

“That’s three hours, Mole! Keep going!”

The whole canteen had fallen silent; everybody watching to see how the duel would play out. Meanwhile, I was running out of swear words. If I said prick, dickhead, knobhead, wanker, mong, spastic, or any other insult we tossed around in the 90s, Amstell would have me. Mum would be called to collect me before my lips had closed and I’d be suspended. Again. Maybe even expelled this time. You can’t be calling a teacher a prick, not to his face.

“YOU’RE ONLY SUPPOSED TO BLOW THE BLOODY DOORS OFF!”

It just slipped out. In my most exaggerated Michael Caine voice.

There was silence… then a loud eruption of laughter shook the canteen’s foundations.

Amstell looked shellshocked. He grabbed me by the arm and dragged me across the canteen, through the swing-door, up the corridor, all the way past reception to his office just inside the main entrance. He understood that we had passed the point of no return.

Amstell unlocked his office door, pulled me inside, sat me down in front of his desk and told me this was where I’d be eating my lunch for the rest of the week. On top of that, I would have the added pleasure of afterschool detention, with him, every afternoon that week starting today. Then he left me alone in his office to think about what I had done.

I spent the next five afternoons picking chewing gum from under every table of every classroom on the maths corridor, with my bare hands, while Amstell sat behind the desk at the front of the room watching me from over the top of his red-topped tabloid paper, unable to wipe the smirk from his face.

My TEDx talk is tomorrow morning. I don’t want to think about that today though, hence this completely unrelated piece of nostalgia :D