Jungle Juice

Jungle Juice

It was one of those blustery April days when the weather couldn’t make its mind up. The playground was the usual hubbub noisy children engaged in a variety of games. At one end a rough game of football was going on while the wall at the opposite end saw a line of girls bouncing rubber balls with impressive skill as they chanted in unison, ‘She is handsome, she is pretty, she is the belle of Belfast city, tell, tell your boyfriend’s name!’ Despite the variety of things going on there was only one subject on the mind of the Celtic daft boys. This was the day Celtic was taking on Atletico Madrid in the European cup semi-final and there was an air of excitement about.

‘Ye going tae the match the night, Geezer?’ I asked my lanky pal who always wore his wooly Celtic hat to school. He grinned at me as if I’d suggested the world was flat, ‘dis a bear shite up a close?’ He had a habit of mangling well know phrases and once described his drunken dad smashing up the house by saying, ‘he was like a fool in a China shop!’ We chatted excitedly about the game and Celtic’s chances before the bell sounded and we ran to our line in the yard. It did not pay to keep Mr Stirling waiting, the rather stern depute Head Teacher kept his Lochgelly belt over his shoulder and its threatening outline was visible under his jacket. He appeared from the school building like a man on a mission and marched to the front of the lines which now quietened. ‘Primary 7, go in.’ he commanded and we obeyed hoping that the school day wouldn’t drag as we were simply bursting to get the day over and get to Celtic Park.

The school nurse was a strict and foreboding woman in her 50s who seemed as wide as she was tall. She also had a face that would not be unattractive to a lonely pit-bull terrier and breathed heavily through her nose as if opening her mouth was too much trouble. Her task was to ensure that minor childhood dangers, such as head lice or scabies, were dealt with in the school. Our class went downstairs to her odd smelling little room, in batches of six later that morning.  One by one she bade us enter and treated us to a rather rough examination. Following our examination, I was told to wait behind as my classmates were sent back to class. She looked at me and shook her head in a weary manner. ‘Crawling!’ she said in a stern tone as she scribbled notes onto a sheet of paper, ‘Come and see me again at 11am.’ I returned to class and My teacher looked at me with that understanding smile of hers and quietly said, ‘Sit down, Patrick.’  I returned to my seat thankful that she was not the kind to inflict further embarrassment on me.

However, my trip to the school nurse’s office later that day was more of an ordeal. She poured foul smelling clear liquid onto my hair and massaged it into every part of my scalp. The lotion was nicknamed ‘Jungle juice’ by the children at the school and it stung my eyes and made my nose run. When this was complete she used a large brush to bring some semblance of order to my tangled hair. Now in those times, boys' hair styles were much longer than is the norm today. However my thick hair was made sleek and oily by the nit lotion and she brushed it into a side parted style that made me look like a 1920s Mafia Boss.  ‘Come back this afternoon and we’ll shampoo the lotion off,’ she barked. I returned to class painfully aware of how different I looked. I could also smell the distinctive odour of the nit lotion as I quietly entered the class. Again, Miss Sullivan told me to sit with a minimum fuss, although some of my class mates were undoubtedly regarding me with quiet amusement.  I began my work and within a few moments the remarks began. ‘Pass me that rubber, Don Corleone,’ the boy on my left said. ’Can anybody smell petrol?’ he went on, making a theatrical sniffing motion with his large spot covered nose. The boy in question was called Franny by one and all and was a real pain at times. Like all youngsters however, he had his Achilles’ heel. He suffered from a veritable plague of spots on his face.  Attack being the best form of defence; I took the fight to him.  ‘Fancy playing join the dots on your face, ya plooky bastard’ I sneered. He flushed with anger and muttered under his breath ‘Your dead ya fuckin tramp.’ I wasn’t too concerned about his threats as I felt I could handle him if it came to a fight and recent class history seemed to suggest that he was all mouth. So, I simply looked at him and replied with as much sarcasm as I could manage, ‘I’m shakin’ in my shoes Pizza face.’ I didn’t like conflict but it was sink or swim and I had no intention of sinking.

Lunchtime came and we marched in silence to the dinning-hall.  Another of those ‘thoughtful’ adult decisions had been made and all children with nit lotion on their heads, and there were many, were made to sit in a corner of the hall set apart from the bulk of the school. This added to our discomfort and it was not long before other children were taunting us. ‘Hey Paddy,’ one boy shouted ‘I hear your moving to Nitshill.’  Others mimed scratching their heads and it was hard to ignore the jibes. Luckily another victim of the nit outbreak was another good pal, Shuggie.  He was always ready with an answer to their insults and called back to one particular boy, known as Goofy, due to his less than symmetrical face,  ‘Nits come and go Goofy, but you’ll be plug ugly all your days, ya prick !’  When Goofy kept the abuse up, a well-aimed rubber from Shuggie bounced of Goofy’s rather asymmetrical head and the deputy head stepped in to calm things. Shuggie was ordered from the hall and left with a quick wink at me. On his way out he passed Goofy’s table, and with the speed of a striking cobra, dipped a rather grubby finger into an astounded Goofy’s bowl of custard.  Game, set and match to Shuggie I thought.

I returned to the school nurse’s office in the afternoon and she used a strong smelling shampoo to wash the nit lotion from my head. She then combed it through with a metal dust comb that seemed to be dragging half of my hair out along with the dead lice. When this slow torture was over, she produced a large hair dryer and blew hot air over me until my hair was bone dry. Now, I had never had my hair blow dried until that fateful day and I must confess that it felt rather pleasant and warm. However, it added new body to my straggly hair and a glance in the mirror on my way out of the nurse’s room horrified me. My hair had gone from being sleek and wet looking to being bulky and bushy. I headed back to class in some trepidation.

I slipped quietly into class and there was a short gasp from one or two children. Even the unflappable Miss Sullivan’s eyebrows slightly raised, as she quietly told me to sit but even her gaze was firmly on my somewhat voluminous hair. I sat at my seat and waited for the verbal sparring to begin. Franny, as usual, was first to have a rather obvious dig. ‘Hey, Mungo Jerry, whit time do you make it?’ Now, Mungo Jerry was a singer of the time who sported a huge Afro perm so his insinuation was clear and enough to induce sniggers from a few others. I found it tiresome to go on about his spots again so I thought for a couple of seconds before replying, ‘Franny, I think the school have spelt your name wrong on the register, it doesn’t have an ‘r’ in it does it ?’ It took him a minute or so to work out what I was saying but he got it in the end.

They day dragged past to its conclusion and I ran all the way home. My older brothers were already home from high school and were talking about the match. ‘My da’s coming at half five tae get us. We better get in early, it’ll be mobbed.’ I ate my supper with growing excitement as my oldest brother nodded towards me, ‘whit’s going on wi your hair? Ye look like ye’ve had an electric shock.’ They laughed at my expense but I didn’t care. My team was playing in the European Cup Semi-Final that night and that filled my thoughts.

Atletico Madrid? They were good but I was sure Celtic were better. What could possibly go wrong?