Revenge is a dish but forks are better!
When I was 7, my brother (14) had to look after me at his friend's birthday BBQ. He was so annoyed at having to spend the afternoon babysitting his little brother that he got his mates to trap me under an empty paddling pool whilst they took turns throwing cricket balls and rocks at me.

When they decided that torturing me was boring (I had decided to act possum) they lost interest and went to a nearby field for a kickabout.

Unable to let this injustice slide I dusted myself off, found a weapon (BBQ fork prong thing) and went in pursuit. I walked across the field - semi blinded with tears and my own blood (from a busted eyebrow) - fully intent on murdering the big turd.

I managed to get past 2 of his friends before one of them noticed the weapon, hidden behind my back, and yelled a warning to my brother. I recall him looking really angry and running towards me -clearly intent on pulping me.

Ordinarily I would have bottled it when confronted by this sight, but my resolve had been hardened by the sycophantic laughter of his mates and by the presence of the sharp pointy thing clutched behind my back.

In retelling the next part of the story, my brother insists on playing it down and still makes fun of what I was shouting at him (.. something like " I will slay you, you big bummer"). I'm guessing he does this in an attempt to repress the true horror. (He also makes sure he leaves out the torture and provocation bits too - turd).

Obviously trying to act big in front of his mates (and possibly not noticing the big fork) he grabbed both my ears and pushed my head back - maybe thinking I was going to swing at him. I grabbed the fork with both hands and drove the fugger into the top of his trainerde foot. In my memory I shouted something like 'Excelsior!" but I probably didn't.

I think I was as shocked as him when blood starting fountaining out of his shoe, (this didn't stop me from legging it straight afterwards mind) but part of me wishes I had stayed around to watch him try to move his foot only to realise it was pinned to the ground.

He still blames me for ending a promising football career.
I still blame him for having a patchy eyebrow.
( Woolworth Smells of festive spices, Sat 20 Aug 2005, 10:52, Reply)