last minute. Contrary to what my teachers thought, it wasnât because of laziness, but rather disorganization. Not only that, I knew I tended to get my best work done when I was forced to do it in one go. This was how I always managed to get high grades in examinations. As a result, I tended to treat term-time work like exams and do it as the deadline loomed.
I often did my work on the bus to and from school. The bus would pass over many potholes and bumps, making my penjump up and down, and as a result my writing was often pretty illegible. Many teachers talked about my pen not being able to keep up with my brain. Throughout school, I continued to frustrate my teachers by doing little in the way of homework, yet breezing through the exams.
The bullying became worse in my third year. One particular PE day, someone in the changing room pushed me onto the wet shower floor. Then he put his foot on my naked back and shouted, âPaul Potts is dead!â Everyone cheered. It was so loud that it was heard by the teachers in the gym, who shouted for me to hurry up and get ready.
I wished I were dead. At least that would make the other students happy. I would stand in the playground watching everyone else getting on with their lives and with those round them, and ask myself, Why me? What did I ever say or do to the others that made them hate me? During another PE lesson, while I was taking another beating, I asked them this very question.
âWhy do you hate me so much? What is it Iâve done to you?â
They laughed even harder.
âWe hate you because youâre Paul Potts and youâre alive!â
Things didnât get better when I tried to be helpful by returning a textbook that my older brother, John, hadnât returned. It was a physics textbook my class was using, and I thought I was doing a good turn. The physics teacher, Mr. Samphire, had other ideas and accused me of having stolen the book the previous week. I explained the situation, but unfortunately Mr. Samphire did not believe me and repeated the accusation in front of the whole class.Because I continued to assert that I hadnât stolen it, I was told to stand outside the class for the remainder of the lesson.
It was a games afternoon, and I was one of the last to approach the buses to take us to Brislington. What greeted me was horrific. There were two fifty-five-seat buses full of other boys. Every boy on each coach stood up and shouted, âThief! Thief! Thief!â pointing their fingers at me. I got on my bus and received the same treatment. What made matters worse was that Mr. Samphire was on my bus. While fifty boys were shouting at me, both he and the teacher next to him just chatted away as though nothing was happening. All I could do was sit and listen to the shouts, waiting for the boys to get bored with it. It took some time and left me feeling very low, especially as the teachers on both coaches did nothing to stop it.
It wasnât just verbal abuse that I had to take on an almost daily basis. The threat of violence always loomed over me every day of the weekâbefore, during, and after school. Like at Chester Park, I tried to find different routes home, but this was difficult as quite a few of the bullies travelled on the same bus route as me.
I tried hanging around after the last class, but often a large group would wait for me to leave. The only exception was on Friday afternoons, as that was when the second school choir practise of the week was held, and it was over an hour long.
On a day that was designated as a wet day, we were allowed to stay in our house tutor rooms, which enabled me to avoid the bullying. Otherwise I was an easy target. Quite often some of the girls in my year would stand up for me, telling the boys to leaveme alone. However, the boys dealt with this by saying, âOh, you fancy him then, do you?â Theyâd turn on the girls and make fun of them, as if finding me attractive was
I often did my work on the bus to and from school. The bus would pass over many potholes and bumps, making my penjump up and down, and as a result my writing was often pretty illegible. Many teachers talked about my pen not being able to keep up with my brain. Throughout school, I continued to frustrate my teachers by doing little in the way of homework, yet breezing through the exams.
The bullying became worse in my third year. One particular PE day, someone in the changing room pushed me onto the wet shower floor. Then he put his foot on my naked back and shouted, âPaul Potts is dead!â Everyone cheered. It was so loud that it was heard by the teachers in the gym, who shouted for me to hurry up and get ready.
I wished I were dead. At least that would make the other students happy. I would stand in the playground watching everyone else getting on with their lives and with those round them, and ask myself, Why me? What did I ever say or do to the others that made them hate me? During another PE lesson, while I was taking another beating, I asked them this very question.
âWhy do you hate me so much? What is it Iâve done to you?â
They laughed even harder.
âWe hate you because youâre Paul Potts and youâre alive!â
Things didnât get better when I tried to be helpful by returning a textbook that my older brother, John, hadnât returned. It was a physics textbook my class was using, and I thought I was doing a good turn. The physics teacher, Mr. Samphire, had other ideas and accused me of having stolen the book the previous week. I explained the situation, but unfortunately Mr. Samphire did not believe me and repeated the accusation in front of the whole class.Because I continued to assert that I hadnât stolen it, I was told to stand outside the class for the remainder of the lesson.
It was a games afternoon, and I was one of the last to approach the buses to take us to Brislington. What greeted me was horrific. There were two fifty-five-seat buses full of other boys. Every boy on each coach stood up and shouted, âThief! Thief! Thief!â pointing their fingers at me. I got on my bus and received the same treatment. What made matters worse was that Mr. Samphire was on my bus. While fifty boys were shouting at me, both he and the teacher next to him just chatted away as though nothing was happening. All I could do was sit and listen to the shouts, waiting for the boys to get bored with it. It took some time and left me feeling very low, especially as the teachers on both coaches did nothing to stop it.
It wasnât just verbal abuse that I had to take on an almost daily basis. The threat of violence always loomed over me every day of the weekâbefore, during, and after school. Like at Chester Park, I tried to find different routes home, but this was difficult as quite a few of the bullies travelled on the same bus route as me.
I tried hanging around after the last class, but often a large group would wait for me to leave. The only exception was on Friday afternoons, as that was when the second school choir practise of the week was held, and it was over an hour long.
On a day that was designated as a wet day, we were allowed to stay in our house tutor rooms, which enabled me to avoid the bullying. Otherwise I was an easy target. Quite often some of the girls in my year would stand up for me, telling the boys to leaveme alone. However, the boys dealt with this by saying, âOh, you fancy him then, do you?â Theyâd turn on the girls and make fun of them, as if finding me attractive was
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