Aziz versus The Cock of the Fourth Year

After Hitler had been defeated in the Second World War, Britain's new rulers decided that the working classes should have some sort of structured education. It seemed the fair and right thing to do and, in a frenzy of building, massive comprehensive schools sprang up in English cities. The intention may have been honourable, but these schools were unimaginative, depressing concrete and glass blocks; very different from the solid brick, private English schools with their charming, healthy-skinned Anglo-Saxon boys and girls that film-makers so love.

Woden Bridge High School in Tipbury, the heart of England's Black Country, was meant to be a model new school. An old all boys grammar school had been appropriated and new buildings put up around it. In 1962 it was opened by the local Member of Parliament and black robed, chain wearing councillors from another age. It was a glorious day for progress. The only decent architecture of course was the old red-brick and sandstone grammar school building; still full of ancient wooden desks covered with the scrawls of generations of ambitious boys. Just as the grammar school had been looked down upon by expensive private schools, in turn the grammar school had been a different world to the working class children who had now taken over.

Class issues aside, Woden Bridge was functional enough. There were metal and woodwork rooms, science labs, a running track and even a music room. In fact there was everything to turn out the new workers Britain's factories and hospitals would need.

As for Woden Bridge's fame, in the early 1970s the school had produced a minor author of historical novels and a footballer who played for Wolverhampton's reserves, certainly no leaders or captains of capitalism. Let’s just say the school shield of fame was woefully bare. That is the official story. Unofficially everyone knew Woden Bridge was famous for being home to some of the roughest kids in the Black Country, with a fearsome reputation for fighting other schools or amongst themselves. Having attended a junior school in its catchment area, Woden Bridge laid claim to me at the tender age of 11. I really deserved a safer place.

School fights at Woden Bridge High were rarely equal affairs. In keeping with the Norse school name, fights were usually severe, Viking style beatings. The momentum was always with the larger, more thuggish kid, the kind who thought nothing of banging someone's head on concrete slabs. The same ferocious kids a hundred years earlier would have been put to work in the empire tearing unruly Africans and Asians apart.

Worse still were the fights between teenage girls, vicious and cruel, with no quarter given. Girls who had used compasses to scratch their boyfriends' names into their forearms rarely backed down from a fight. It seemed boys fought to beat their opponent but Woden Bridge girls fought to utterly humiliate each other. The sobbing loser, bedraggled and bleeding, would be led away by the girls' PE teacher. I am sure many girls were scared for life by this mad cruelty.

The memory of famous fights at Woden Bridge could make or break reputations for years. The honours did not always go to the winner, especially if the outcome was inevitable. Respect could be gained by the loser; it just depended on the size and hardness of the opponent. The English school thug somehow admires the valiant loser who had taken his beating and earned the right to be left alone.

Ironically the hardest kid in each year rarely fought. They didn't need to since they were the cocks, a strange name but a respected title. Each class and each year had a cock who was the undisputed ruler over his domain. This elite group were above the herd since they were never challenged and had nothing to prove and so were generally safe. The cocks often carried their dangerous reputations into their late teens, long after leaving school.

I had my very own classic school fight one Friday afternoon, in my fourth year after physics, when I learnt that all my shadow boxing in front of the mirror had been useless. My rumble in the park must wait; perhaps when the painful memory has eased I shall brave the story and salvage some glory from it.

We must now turn to Aziz Baksh, a cultural anomaly who could only have existed in mid-1970s Britain, and his great fight that made history at Woden Bridge. Aziz had arrived one wet November morning in 1975, without anything close to the maroon and grey uniform. Instead he wore tight black trousers and a sweater with a line of elephants of increasing size on the front. Despite his ridiculous clothes, he was cocky and smirked continuously as he was led around by the kindly Ms Hislop, the aged school administrator. Like a prisoner being shown to his cell, Aziz was led to the well heated, almost living room-like, special classroom reserved for the second year ‘C’ stream. Without a word Aziz had taken his seat and quietly taken out his magazine with an angry, bare-chested Chinese man on the cover. That was one of the privileges of the ‘C’ stream. The pupils could read what they liked as long as they did not run riot.

The school had not tested Aziz to see what class he should have been in, nor checked his age. Aziz like many other Bangladeshi immigrant children was simply accommodated. Aziz was fourteen and he should have been a third or fourth year at high school, but who cared? Aziz certainly didn't.

The ‘C’ stream that Aziz was thrown into was the dumping ground at Woden Bridge High, where the wilder, often troubled, working class kids were placed. They were the no-hopers with nothing expected from them. The teachers treated these ‘C’ streamers with caution but often kindness too. The PE teachers would laugh and joke with them and not expect too much discipline on the field. The more popular teachers would even pay for trips to useful places like the local iron-smelting museum or the canal locks. The ‘C’ band kids would inevitably leave school at age sixteen but only after they had broken the school windows on their last day. A few months later, they were working in the local factories or brickyards, if at all.

Word quickly got around the second year that a new Asian kid had been placed in the ‘C’ stream. This was strange to us Punjabis since most of us were studious, thoroughly obedient and always wore the uniform. Above all we were terrified of failure and of course of being beaten up. In those days we ‘Asians’, as we were labelled, were an easy target and so we stuck together at school. Even the Cypriot brothers, whose father ran the local deli, hung with us for safety. Race or religion never really mattered since the common danger was just too great. In a sea of fifteen hundred white faces, it made instinctual sense for brown people, Sikh, Hindu or Muslim, to clump together, along with our loyal, safe English friends.

A week after Aziz arrived; I deliberately hung around the woodwork rooms until he emerged. Aziz seemed surprised anybody was interested in him but he had already made friends with another ‘C’ streamer, a fellow Bangladeshi called Abdul. Aziz and I exchanged our important personal information, names, year and which team I supported. Aziz told me he had no team and didn’t care and nor should I since football was of no relevance. I thought him quite mad but he was blunt and sounded clever, rather like an older cousin of mine who had recently revealed his allegiance to socialism. In fact, I asked Aziz whether he was a socialist. I don't believe be understood the word. The silent Abdul then stepped in and explained to Aziz that capitalism was ‘every man for himself’ while socialism was ‘poor people taking over’. Aziz nodded but seemed unmoved by the poor.

Aziz went further and told me that he didn't even care for Brazil. As I said, he was quite mad since everyone knew Brazil represented dark people. The previous year I had seen my beloved Brazil humiliated by the arrogant Dutch in the 1974 World Cup, but I had never lost faith. Brazil had to be supported on principle alone. The other Indians may one day become doctors and dentists, but I was still in with a chance to put on Brazil’s gold and blue. True I was skinny and actually not highly ranked as a footballer, but I knew...I believed I had the football brains to be a midfield general. One day I would move to Brazil, become a citizen and lead them to their fourth World Cup. I had decided to forego the 1978 World Cup due to my age and make my appearance in 1982 when I had matured. It was all worked out.

I reported back to my little group and we decided to meet Aziz the next day. At lunch-break, outside the metalworking rooms, we cornered Aziz and the sullen Abdul, who now appeared glued to Aziz. Aziz appeared even more dangerous than the day before. Although he joked around like an older brother, there was a touch of menace. There was a reason. He had in his pocket a jagged metal star that he had hammered out in metalwork. Aziz explained that it was a special weapon to be used sparingly in Kung Fu emergencies. Abdul was busy looking at Aziz's latest magazine featuring a Chinese Kung Fu expert, Bruce Lee, who lived in California. What kind of Bangladeshi was this Aziz?

We passed the metal star around. It looked evil, something demented football hooligans would hurl into a crowd. Perhaps I should be careful I recall thinking. Not only was Aziz a potential troublemaker, he wasn't even Punjabi. All the same, next to his knowledge of martial arts, girls, cars and cameras, my knowledge of Brazilian football and English history seemed useless. Even the book token I had won for being able to spell the name of Alexander the Great's horse seemed so little. Incidentally, my mother had framed the token and hung it in our front room, not realizing it was supposed to be cashed in for a book. It was a difficult start to my friendship with Aziz.

Over the next few weeks, despite the cold and drizzle, Aziz and the faithful Abdul, started coming to watch the fifteen minute morning football game. I say game but it was really about 80 kids, resembling two medieval villages playing on hard concrete and trying to kill each other over an orange plastic ball. No one ever really knew who was on which side and kids would even switch sides with no warning or reason. A ton of school bags made up each post and to be sure of a goal, it had to be walked in. Any shot over five feet was always challenged as being ‘over’ the imaginary crossbar. Other than school fights, this was the only mass entertainment.

Each morning the two Bangladeshis would stand huddled together behind one set of goals, talking quietly. If the ball came near them the compatriots would shout something, grin and go back to their private discussion. After a few minutes they would inevitably get bored and trundle off, with their hands in their pockets and jacket collars turned up, to the railway arches for their morning smoke. A few times Aziz and Abdul even joined in the game but were less than useless. Aziz tried flying kicks and Abdul refused to run for the ball.

Slowly as 1975 turned into 1976, Aziz, and of course Abdul, became associate members of my little Anglo-Punjabi group. During the lunch hour Aziz would teach us about girls' bodies and give us the latest news from the martial arts world. When Aziz spoke, we listened, none more so than Abdul, for he had found his saviour. Academically, neither Abdul nor Aziz had made any progress. The only difference was that both were a year closer to leaving age.

Abdul had no accurate age. He was a teenager but had the dumpy shape of a lazy 30 year old. He spoke very little, smoked a lot and even chewed betel; a plant that turned his lips and tongues a crimson red colour, as if he had just eaten a small animal raw. Abdul refused to see the great in Great Britain and insisted the English were all one oppressive group, who had done nothing good since beating Hitler. Abdul relished any English defeat. England's failure to make the 1974 World Cup had been a glorious day for this Bangladeshi. Abdul needn't have worried. England did not even make it in 1978.

When Aziz was not enthralling us at lunch, he would make his way out of the main school gates to be picked up by very fashionably dressed young Bengalis in a sporty Ford Escort. He was like a glamorous criminal boss and by knowing him I and my little gang felt protected. I congratulated myself in having the wisdom to befriend him. A man like that could be very useful, exactly how I didn't quite know.

Slowly Aziz became a sort of local star. Perhaps one day he would rise to the level of his idol Bruce Lee, the Chinese warrior in California. Part of Aziz's charm came from being a supplier of Woodbine cigarettes to girls from the ‘C’ stream. In the same way, he even became friends with some of the rougher boys from the neighbouring council estate. On Saturday afternoons, Aziz could be found hanging out with loud, prematurely developed teenage girls in our wind-blown, empty excuse of a town centre.

As fascinating as Aziz was, it was gradually becoming clear to me that he was at heart a well intentioned but pathological liar and a petty criminal in the making. But he was also insanely loyal and kind. There was never a time when he had no time for his friends, partly because he rarely went to class. Aziz could always be found in the boys’ toilets, smoking, making cigarette deals and demonstrating martial arts moves. In all the years I knew him, he never carried more than a mangled BIC pen and a rolled up standard issue Bromwell Borough exercise book. Surely heroes and famous criminals start out like this.

No-one really knew what caused the great fight. On a wet, miserable February morning in 1977, just as morning break began, Aziz accidentally shoved someone outside the woodwork rooms that he ought to have deferred to. Aziz the fool had tangled with the cock of the fourth year, Robbo. As cocks went, Robbo was untouchable. He wore the tan Doctor Martens of his caste and a sheepskin half-length coat to show he came from the working class elite. Even though Robbo was never without his entourage of deputies, he didn’t need them since no one would dream of upsetting him. Except for a few fights with other schools, Robbo had never had to prove anything at Woden Bridge. In fact he was so friendly he even winked at me once at the Super Savers Mart where he worked on Saturdays.

Aziz had wisely continued walking away from the woodwork rooms and down the concrete path towards the library, but it was too late and now something horrible and violent would happen. Robbo had been shoved in front of his girlfriend and his men, by a Bangladeshi. For a moment Robbo appeared uncertain. Was Aziz even worth it?

As Robbo's friends, and their stringy girlfriends complete with football scarves tied around their wrists, hung back and amused themselves, Robbo ran after Aziz and kicked him viciously from behind. It was a kick meant to injure and humiliate. Aziz crumpled over in front of half the school. He rose slowly and grimaced like an innocent man who has been wronged but is not expected to defend himself.

Robbo came over to Aziz and without any visible malice slapped him. A slap was reserved for those unworthy of a punch. It was meant to make a fool of Aziz and cause a lasting laugh. Robbo now turned away but as he did, he spat the smokers’ greenish blob into Aziz's dark hair. All the time Robbo's gang egged him on. Secure in Robbo's friendship, they mockingly bellowed with their hands over their mouths. These were not the type of people who kept up with current history. Aziz was a Bangladeshi, a people who had shed a lot of blood breaking away from Pakistan, but who cared?

Only Robbo's girlfriend seemed nervous and afraid he would go too far. “Don't do any more Robbo, c’mon, he’s had enough now, he’s had enough” she warned. Robbo agreed and walked away. He had made his point.

Everyone now expected Aziz to be thankful for the limited beating as he stood in the cold drizzle. The crowd were cruel and uncaring, almost gleeful. Only a couple of girls from the ‘C’ band came forward and tried to help Aziz. One took out a tissue from her sleeve to get the spit out of Aziz's hair. Aziz stood still and silent as if no one existed. He was a warrior with nowhere to hide his hurt honour. He picked up his sports bag and walked a few feet towards a patch of muddy grass by the side of the library. It was there that something happened to Aziz. He put his bag down, turned and stared at Robbo who had rejoined his gang. As if guiding a plane on a runway, a war plane, Aziz beckoned with both hands towards Robbo who stood bemused and shaking his head. Robbo began to walk towards Aziz. The girlfriend again intervened “he's a nutter Rob, just leave him”. Nutter or not, Robbo had been openly challenged.

It was then that I learnt what was happening. Some little first year kid screamed that Robbo was going to kill someone, but who? I ran towards the gathering crowd. Someone grabbed my arm from behind. It was Abdul, ashen faced and helpless. “Stop them, Aziz cannot fight with English boy, get the teachers, you can talk good English”.

Robbo and his thugs were approaching with at least a hundred excited kids gathering like hyenas to watch the kill. Robbo entered the circle and stood there still bemused. Did this skinny Asian want to die? Nothing happened for a few seconds. Then Aziz backed off and began a strange ritual of hovering and pacing, all the time glaring at Robbo. I had seen the angry looking Bruce Lee do the same thing on television. Poor Robbo had no idea what to do. This was not fighting fair. Aziz even found time to grin at me and Abdul. The exhibitionist seemed to be enjoying his moment of fame or what I was convinced were his last few minutes of life.

The other Anglo-Punjabis had arrived and we formed our own little corner, convinced our man was doomed. Get the teachers my friends and Abdul pleaded. Between running for the teachers and watching Aziz what could I do? I had to stay. Before I could answer Aziz screamed something inhuman and stopped pacing. He now stood bouncing on his feet like a boxer before the first round with his arms loose by his side. Then utter madness, utter lunacy broke out. Aziz ran at Robbo and leapt with legs aimed at Robbo's chest.

Robbo stepped back and to the side and with his fist caught the right side of Aziz’s head. Aziz’s head bobbled and he landed like a giant bird that forgot it couldn’t fly. The cock of the fourth year wasn’t the cock for nothing. Aziz had fallen head first in the mud for the second time that morning. He scrambled to get up but he shook and was disorientated. Blood had appeared around Aziz's right ear. Robbo could have crippled Aziz then and there but Robbo looked unsure and held back. This was not the kind of fight to help his reputation.

The jeering mob egged on Robbo to finish the job, whether they knew who he was or not. Some taunted Aziz calling him “kung-fu”. Where was Aziz’s popularity now? Where were all the kids he had supplied cigarettes to? Only we Asians and some of Aziz's fellow ‘C’ streamers stood in silence, powerless to help.

Aziz had his chance to walk away but he just closed his eyes for a second, clenched his fists and his courage returned. He started to bounce on his feet again and then paced in front of Robbo who in turn turned to his friends, and shrugged his shoulders in confusion. Aziz came in close, dancing on his feet, arms dangling loose and head bobbing. Robbo got ready for another flying kick but suddenly Aziz backed off. Robbo put his hands down in frustration. It was Aziz’s best moment and he grinned as though he had levelled the fight.

Aziz tried the same thing a few second later but got too close. Robbo grabbed Aziz by the head and then the hair, pushed him downwards and kneed him violently in the head and chest and then pushed him down in the mud again. Aziz’s nose was bleeding and his lip was split. “Aziz stay down, stay down” screamed one of the Cypriot brothers. Abdul had seen enough and ran into the circle and tried to lift Aziz by the arm. Aziz pushed him away. “Aziz he’ll kill you, just give over” I joined in. Abdul ran for the administrative building to get a teacher. Some of the teachers had seen the fight from their common room but continued drinking their morning tea. Perhaps it was too cold and wet to come out.

Aziz must have known that help was on its way but there was still time for one last shot at glory. Aziz backed off from Robbo about fifteen feet and turned to face his enemy. It was now or never. Aziz’s face began to contort and he began to shriek in a language unknown to the Black Country. Like a bloody avenging angel, Aziz launched himself at Robbo. It was the same result. The reluctant Robbo dodged the flying Aziz and landed a punch on Aziz’s bleeding ear. Aziz fell horribly in a patch of muddy gravel. His face and hands were badly scraped and this time he just lay there drenched and covered in mud. There would be no Ali style rope-a-dope miracle. Poor Aziz had entered the dragon but did not know how to come out. He had forgotten that the strong and bad do usually win.

When Aziz didn't get up, Robbo looked uneasy and tried to leave the scene quickly, almost as if he was ashamed by what he had caused. All this violence because of an accidental shove.

By now the boys’ PE teachers were running towards the crowd which began to break up as quickly as it had formed. One teacher grabbed Robbo’s arm and the other ran over to Aziz and put his hand on Aziz’s forehead. “Its all-right son” he reassured Aziz. The teacher lifted Aziz’s head and helped the trembling Aziz to his feet. It was then that it struck me how small and frail my friend Aziz really was. Reassured by the teacher we moved towards Aziz and began patting him on the back. Aziz was handed back to us and we led him to the nearest toilets. We removed his muddied, sodden blazer and led him to a sink. As he ran warm water over his cold, scraped hands, Abdul and I dabbed him with paper towels. Quietly Aziz began to vomit and when it was over he washed his mouth out, lifted his head and, facing all of us, he grinned his grin. “Thank you God for saving our friend from brain damage” I recall thinking. Now everyone began to talk excitedly as if Aziz had actually won the fight. Of course we knew better but that day Aziz had upheld the honour of us all. An Asian had stood up to almost the toughest kid in the school. That day it didn't matter whether Aziz was a Bangladeshi or not. He was simply one of us, a skinny, brown immigrant who refused to stay down. For a few brief minutes we were all contenders.

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