The Battle of Northwood Fields
History remembers many great and terrible days. These specks of sand in the hourglass of time and space are highlighted by bloodshed and pain; jubilation and victory. They are the great battles of our time.

The January of 2005 had wrapped its frosty claws around Northwood High School. The breath of students hung in the air before dissipating into the icy winds. A sheen of cold covered every exposed surface, and heavy snow had fallen upon the school fields.

One fateful day in January, the bell sounded its ringing cry across the grounds, signalling the start of lunch. Little did anyone know that today the bell was not a timekeeper; it was a signal of war.

You may have seen snowball fights, oh yes. But this… this was a snowball battle of epic proportions. Veterans of the day, now at University or in full-time jobs, will wake up screaming with cold sweat soaking their shaking bones. You don’t know, man. You don’t know because you weren’t there!

It began innocently enough. Myself and my fellows, now in our tenth year of education, were confident of waging a campaign to be reckoned with. There were plenty of chavs in the years below that we’d relish striking down with a compacted ball of arctic fury – and so it began.

Iain led the first charge, directly at a particularly loathsome specimen of happy-slapping, train-tagging, Lambrini-drinking inbred little pissweasel. At the head of a mighty arrow, he struck. Direct hit! Next came myself, Petley and Martin. Three further strikes on the thuggish cretin. Bringing up the rear were Egghead and James, and two more blows rained hell upon him.

Suffice to say, it escalated. No sooner was our merry band of six happily running amok through playing schoolchildren than we found ourselves the head of a vast army. We were joined by dozens of others throughout Year 10 as we literally took on the school.

A stroll through the battlefield on our side would tell you the extent of the war effort. At the front lines, Iain and others would lead sorties into the chav army (who numbered now in their hundreds). In the middle the long range throwers and the pinpoint snipers would be providing covering fire, and at the rear the girls were gathering snow and constructing some truly monstrous snowballs.

As for the individual conflicts within the battle, there are too many tales to tell. Perhaps the epic defence of Tom Gibb’s mother, who was brazenly insulted by a chav before the aforementioned boy was pelted with snowballs behind enemy lines. We surged forth to free our beleaguered comrade and defend the honour of Mrs Gibb.

Or there was the point where James saved my life. Fresh from a sortie, I retreated from no mans’ land to our lines. As I turned to observe the left flank all I saw was a snowball explode less than an inch from my nose as James leapt forward to punch it from the air. We looked at each other, nodded, then returned to battle.

At one point, Iain was struck from behind by the very same chav we first bombarded. As his rage built he let out a great bellow and a rather racist expletive. Fighting ceased. The armies came forth and opened a circle from whence the chav leader, a hulking great brute of a boy with the combined IQ of a sprout and a cabbage, stepped forward. Iain met him as the once-warring armies watched. A truce was called, an apology was made, and the men backed off. Then, to war once more.

I remember the end most of all. Striding through the battlefield, once white with a sheet of snow, it had been raped for ammunition until barely the sludge remained. All sides were exhausted as we stood on the field, a full ten minutes after the end of lunch. I turned to Martin, observing that no-one had eaten.
“Matt,” he said to me sagely. “In war, there is no lunch. Only the bitter taste of defeat.”
I observed the field. Our army was back to the core group plus some loyal soldiers – less than a dozen. Meanwhile, over thirty chavs stood off, throwing missiles of mud and sludge and ice. I went to Iain: “We have to end this,” I said. And that was when we took our glory.

“CHARGE!” Iain cried, and our motley band of followers ran toward the chav army, bending down and scooping up anything you could throw. I remember clearly the nervous ripple in their ranks as they realised “fucking hell, these crazy cunts are going to run us down!”

They broke and scattered. One of my fondest memories is of us charging them down, pure ecstasy on our faces as they ran for dear life. Scrambling over their stumbled comrades to escape, they fled up the stairs and into the building like rats from a sinking ship.

It was fucking beautiful.
(MJPerry was crude but clickable at, Fri 30 Jan 2009, 2:17, 3 replies)

As I remember...
We didn't get any work done in the lessons after. We drew plans of the battlefield and recommended soldiers for commendations.
(Martin1337 was trying and failing to be funny at, Fri 30 Jan 2009, 2:21, closed)

very well told sir
have a click
( parttimedogfish is a Born-Again Reincarnationist, Sun 1 Feb 2009, 21:54, closed)

Oh, I say!
Jolly well done you chaps.

Jolly well Done...

Fx of dambusters theme and the faint scent of pipe smoke
( DukeEuphoria Comes highly reccomended, Thu 5 Feb 2009, 11:07, closed)