Letting Your Children Go

Posted: June 1, 2015 in As If I Actually Ended Up Going To Uni, Chawn


It is a few months into uni, and the Polish gang that randomly hangs out drinking in my kitchen are randomly hanging out drinking in my kitchen. It’s grown since freshers’ and now more random randoms are desperately trying to worm their way in to this kitchen-based mirage of affirmation. Only some of the randoms aren’t nice. They’re blazing the heck out of Tweed, another random.

They’re bullies.

And he is the most bulliable person in the world.

I do not condone bullying, but if you tease a tiger, you’re gonna get mauled. Tweed is getting mauled, and I can’t defend him. You name a reason to be bullied. He’s got it.

He’s fat.

He has glasses.

He wears hilarious bright tweed suits with a genuinely ancient fob watch. And a cane.

He has a high-pitched voice.

And a girl’s complexion.

But most of all, he reacts.

Tweed has been reacting for a long time, and he is clearly upset. The Chawn youth worker in me arises, and I ask him to help me check my pizza in the other kitchen down the corridor. He doesn’t get my discretion, so I grab him and force him to the other kitchen, where he tells me about his life and why he’s getting bullied.

I sigh.

Bullies will find anything to rip out of you. Like me. Even I was bullied. Like there’s something funny about asking to be called ‘Mohron’ by your form teacher on day one of secondary school. Or wearing huge red glasses. People are always amazed that I was bullied. They say that I could have just battered them because of my height. But they don’t understand! I was only 6 foot 3 in school! Oh yep. I know all about bullies.

Those rats.

Tweed has clearly finished speaking for some time, and I have not noticed.

“Oh, yeah. Definitely.”

He looks at me strangely, and asks if he can go back to the other kitchen yet. I smile, and permit the child. Before bursting into the other kitchen to discover that The Bullies have gone down to their floor. The floor Tweed moved from to escape. I put my finger in the air, and announce that those guys are bullying Tweed, and are no longer allowed on our floor.


The Polish gang stare at me, utterly shell-shocked by my steely announcement. I am manly. The defender of the people. The personal champion of one annoying kid. I am Russell Crowe! I decide that now would be the perfect time to levitate, before realising I never could do that foot thing, and decide to instead spread my message throughout the corridor. Everybody must know! I set about knocking on all the doors telling people not to open the main corridor door (or ‘morridoor’). The foreign legion opens up, except McCarthy, who must not be in. I head through the bathroom to tell the hallmates on the other side, and they are all on message. Finally, I head back to the kitchen, where I see Tweed.

And the bullies.

And an open door.

Held open by McCarthy. Who has clearly just woken up and doesn’t really know what’s going on.

I immediately position myself between Tweed and the bullies and pull out my World Renowned (But Not For His Cooking Skills) Chef Dave Bowen-esque deep, you’re-in-a-whole-mess-of-trouble-boy voice. Ringleader looks at me from his tiny 5 foot 9 frame. He is clearly one of the guys that set fire to Tweed’s door and is clearly an ITV-quality man. At the age where he can no longer blame his ITV-quality upbringing. And I can’t let him terrorise this guy any more. I tell him with Maximum Maximusness that he’s not welcome on this floor.

“Oh yeah, says who?” he says, with almost pitifully pathetic petulance.

I stare down at him from the heavens.


Hallmate Ant-Woman is flapping her arms and making noises about phoning security. She is tiny, and that makes her hilarious. I wonder if she can even reach the buttons on her phone. The bulging lymphoma of idiots behind Ringleader soon gets bored as I physically stand between them and their prey. I am Mufasa, and they are Whoopi Goldberg. And there’s no way she’s fighting off a lion. Nun. The ADD association stands down, and Tweed goes back to his normal life. I have saved him.

I am the hero of the blog!


I see him a few days later, with the Polish gang. He has agreed to come dancing with us. He is in full dandy garb, and his voice is still as high. I smile. He’s now with a select group of decent Polish along with Drugs McGee and Can’t Price Sandwiches. And I have saved him. It only seems right that I should now encourage him. Take him under my wing. Teach him my ways.


It is the end of the night, and Tweed has managed to be offended by every comment of the night, and has stormed home on his lonesome. I sigh, and decide to not take responsibility for him any more. I go home and take down my ‘Do not open this door to bullies sign.’

He’s on his own now.

He’s making his own decisions.

And I have to let him go.

I sigh.

It is months later.

And they never came back.

I smile.

My work here is done.

I go and check on my pizza.


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