THE ART OF GETTING OUT OF GAMES
By
Peter A. Douglas
Anyone who has read my memory essays on this website that deal
with sports and games at Trinity High School should not be surprised
to learn that around 1959 or 1960 I wrote a practical pamphlet
entitled “The Art of Getting Out of Games.” The idea was to create a
brief and basic “skivers’ handbook” containing tips on how to avoid
the hated games. Many were, in fact, already in use, but I felt the
need to formalize the concept and perhaps, with help, expand the
range of possible methods. To call it a pamphlet is to give it airs
really; it was just a single hand-written and increasingly worn copy
on pages torn from an exercise book that I passed around among my
sports-challenged classmates.
By “games” I meant almost exclusively rugger. These evasion tips
were good for getting out of PT (gym) too, but it was rugger that we
really detested, and we preferred not to overplay our hand by using
up our brilliant excuses for the other varieties of physical
exertion that were, while not agreeable, markedly less torturous
than rugger. PT was easier to put up with; at least it was inside
and dry, and basketball and volleyball were not as awful as rugger.
Even the cross country run was not too bad, especially when it was
unsupervised and became a cross country stroll as soon as we reached
Holton’s Lane. Even athletics was tolerable to the extent that it
was a springtime warmish weather event, and, more importantly, its
numerous and necessarily scattered activities allowed for sports
field anonymity, and thus less scrutiny from the overbearing
masters. However, as it was a cardinal rule not to overdo the
excuses, we tended not to risk them on anything but dodging the
supremely reviled rugger.
The urge to get out of games was pretty much a phenomenon of
winter, for many of us who loathed the barbarism of rugger were
actually quite keen on cricket, no doubt because it is a more
leisurely and gentle sport and associated with the languid heat of
summer afternoons, as opposed to November mud, red raw knees, and a
lot of roughhousing, kicking, shouting, and pain, which is basically
what rugger came down to. I think, too, that Grimshaw and his fellow
tormentors weren’t very keen on cricket so they more or less left us
to it.
You may get the idea that this pamphlet was a playful piece, and
yes it was in many ways. And yet it was also intended seriously, for
back then getting out of rugger was an earnest goal and a crucial
weekly challenge for we unsporty types. As I recall, I started out
writing it just for fun but I quickly came to see its potential.
There was some practical experience behind these ideas, for over the
years I tried some of these methods, though with limited success. I
think it was the frustration of continual failure that prompted me
to organize my thoughts on this important mission. One method I
developed worked far better than any of the others, as we shall see.
The guide offered no guarantees; how could it? There were always
many gambles, variables, and unknown factors, and to even try to get
out of games took some nerve. Skiving out of games was a very chancy
business, but it was worth giving it a shot because usually the
worst that would happen was that the plan failed and you just ended
up being made to play rugger—which is what you were supposed to be
doing anyway! I don’t remember anyone ever getting detention, or
undergoing any other official penalty for failure. Perhaps this was
because the games masters, being innate sadists, well understood
that the worst form of punishment they could possibly impose was to
make us actually play! And they were right! Plus you were now in
their sights as a would-be skiver.
The ways of getting out of games were of two kinds, those
requiring dealing with the master and those that meant just being
absent and hoping not to make a ripple in the pond. The first took
courage and were less successful overall. In fact, just not showing
up at the changing room actually worked the best of all, but there
was always the danger that Grimshaw would take note of our
non-attendance and follow up in spiteful ways. For these reasons, we
always strove to keep a low profile. If he noticed your presence, he
also noticed your absence; to be invisible we needed to be average.
Whichever evasion ruse we employed, success or the lack of it
depended a lot on Grimshaw (or Messrs Matthews or Gibson, or whoever
your particular nemesis was) and our relationship with him—and that
really meant having NO relationship with him! To have the freedom to
actually disappear for a whole games period we had to try to
“disappear” while present, in the sense of not being noticed for any
reason whatsoever, and especially for being useless. Such a
reputation made things much harder to get out of games and
invalidated any method requiring direct contact with the master.
This brings up the special difficulty that surrounds the matter
of games and getting out of them, which tended to make successful
evasion quite difficult. It was all a question of exposure, and it
was a fine balance. The goal was not to stand out, for any reason,
good or bad; we had to be ordinary, we had to blend in and
ultimately vanish. Skivers and rugger-haters craved this anonymity
in order to pass unnoticed on the rugby pitch, but the problem was
that this quality came dangerously close to making obvious one’s
lack of ability and devotion to the sport, and this is what drew
Grimshaw’s unwelcome attention. It was not wise to give off un-keen
vibes, for his dark preternatural senses easily picked up on this,
seeking out and harassing those who disdained his brutal passion,
all those right-minded pupils temperamentally lacking all interest
in games. I’m convinced that he and his loyal myrmidons actually
enjoyed giving us a hard time, as a kind of extra casual “sport” for
them, on and off the field. There were games, and there were his
Roman games!
The getting out of games hints started off with:
GENERAL ADVICE:
Despite evidence to the contrary, teachers were often bright
and observant, and many went to school themselves, so they were
alert to tricks. Especially games masters, who knew very well that
not everyone liked rugger and they were usually more physical and
confrontational than normal teachers.
A general principle was that methods of games avoidance that
meant facing the master were always more dangerous and so were not
recommended to any but the most skillful and the most desperate.
It was important to vary our methods of getting out of games.
It was obvious that repeated use of one or two methods would only
draw attention to what we were doing. We couldn’t lose our gym
shorts every week, nor have a sprained ankle more than once. And it
was wise to try to make the following week’s excuse to a different
games master.
It went against the grain, but it was necessary to recognize
the need to “play the game” a little, and, when we had had to do
games, we had to make a little effort. Paradoxically, this promoted
the desired invisibility. This pretence at being keen was tough, but
being too awkward and hopeless just made us a target, and Grimshaw
would then hound us.
We had to be realistic. We had to show up and suffer sometimes.
If we gave an excuse every week we just drew attention to ourselves
and this was the last thing we wanted.
The main part of the manual was divided into sections, each
addressing a certain kind of ploy. Some worked better than others,
and I encouraged the reporting back any successes and failures for
possible future editions, though there were none.
GAMES KIT. (1) LOSS:
Loss of games kit was one method, and, if handled judiciously,
could be successful on a limited basis. However, because this method
meant showing up and speaking with the master, it had its drawbacks.
How it worked was the master was informed that your rugger kit had
been lost or damaged, or that a certain article was missing. Perhaps
it was mistakenly still in the wash. Blame your mother! Or the dog
chewed it up. Choosing something reasonably important was essential
here, like shorts or boots, but nothing like a shirt as you could
easily be made to play without that (remember “shirts versus
skins?”)
It was not wise to use this excuse too often, and certainly not
two weeks in a row. It was likely that you would be remembered and
the teacher’s suspicions would be aroused if that the piece of kit
had not been found or replaced. The following week it was advisable
to use a different excuse. The obvious disadvantage to this method
was its limited use, and it was probably a one-time use excuse only
as sooner or later you had to have the necessary kit. I only tried
this once, claiming to have left my boots at home, but I was simply
told to play in my plimsolls. Obvious really.
GAMES KIT. (2) SIZE:
The same may be said about using the size of your kit as an
excuse to get out of games, but you this required more care. If the
master is told that a certain piece of kit is now too small, next
week the old garment had to look as new as possible, or, if
questioned, you could tell the master a story about why a new
garment has not been bought. This excuse meant that sooner or later
you would have to buy new kit and so there is a definite limit to
this method’s use. It was vital to remember that as with loss, we
could be made to play without the garment, e.g. a shirt. The fact
was that neither of these methods was really very practical. They
were seen as a one-off excuse, and to be attempted only in moments
of unique desperation.
INCAPACITATION:
There were two ways of being disabled on games day: (1) external
injuries such as cuts, dislocated joints, a sprained ankle or wrist,
etc., and (2) internal problems like a headache, stomach ache,
having a cold, cough, feeling sick, etc. It should be noted that
this method involved facing the master and called for superior
acting skills. Safer methods involving avoidance were preferred, but
incapacitation could be used to vary the excuses, or if extreme
circumstances prevailed.
(1) EXTERNAL INJURIES:
Of the two methods, this one was harder to carry out because we
had to fake an injury that had to be at least partially visible to
be convincing. It was not for the faint-hearted. A sprained ankle
was one of the all-time favourites for it inhibited walking and one
of the most easy to get away with. A good limp together with a few
feet of tightly-bound bandage was all that was required. A swelling
was not easy to fake, but you had to hope that the bandage would not
be removed. A bruise could be simulated using a little ink, along
with a crayon for extra colour, and could be used for knees and
ankles, but we had to be careful not to apply too much, and it had
to be dry. And it was good to have a story to explain it. Cuts were
the most unreliable as the master could demand that you remove the
bandage. None of us was desperate enough to go as far as actual
self-mutilation; you might as well get in the scrum and get banged
up that way. It was also possible to claim an injury while playing
the sport, in which case no “props” were needed, just the appearance
of agony. However, Grimshaw etc. were rarely sensitive to your pain!
For external injuries I humorously dreamed up a special kit of
items for sale:
For Sale for Use with the Above Method: THE COMPLETE “INFALLIBLE”
GET-OUT-OF-GAMES KIT. The kit supposedly contained:
Two moulded flesh-coloured plastic scars
Congealed blood
Liquid blood
Two yards of blood-stained bandage
Special bruise-coloured indelible dye
Five hand-written excuse notes
And, at no extra cost, complete in one volume, “Hints on Limping.”
Total cost: 10/6d
Optional Accessories:
Liquid Blood: half pint 4/6, quarter pint 2/6
Congealed Blood: half pint 5/-, quarter pint 3/-
Bandages: 5d per 2-yard roll, 9d per 4-yard roll
Plastic Scars: Under 1 inch 1/6, 1-3 inches 2/6, 3-5 inches 3/6
Excuse Notes: 2/6 each, or 1½d per word (minimum 20 words)
False Bruises: 4d per square inch
(2) INTERNAL PROBLEMS:
Obviously this method was more straightforward to arrange and was
not so easily detected by the ever-suspicious master. A vague
stomach ache was a favourite, but even this had some snags as you
had to express sufficient pain to avoid games, but not too much. You
could not appear to be “putting it on,” and it could not seem really
serious so that someone called for an ambulance for possible
appendicitis. Perhaps you had something for lunch that didn’t agree
with you. As with external injuries you could also make this excuse
after getting out on the playing field, perhaps the problem having
been brought on by running around.
This was a pretty easy excuse to fake but was actually of
questionable value because, for one thing, repetition was risky, but
mostly because vigorous and sceptical games masters were usually
unimpressed by wretched excuses like this. “Stop whining and lace up
your boots!” would be the all too common reaction.
EXCUSE NOTES:
Another method, which again involved facing the master, was the
excuse note (genuine or faked). These could be a real help in making
other false excuses look more convincing, especially when the excuse
was medical. A real note from a sympathetic parent was clearly the
best, so the recommendation was always to try that first. Some
health problem (a cough, a twisted ankle) could be used, but not too
often. Parents might not be willing to help, so we needed to develop
another method. For the obvious reason of easy detection it was a
bad idea to write your own note, so having a friend do it was the
usual way, and you could do the same for him. It was important to
keep the same person for, should you choose to repeat this excuse,
the writing should be the same every time—you never knew if the
crafty master kept the notes. If we ever got a real excuse note from
a parent we would try to see what it said so as to know their style
and copy their handwriting. If we made something up it was best to
make it polite and write just enough, and not offer too many
details. We also tried to memorize what we wrote in the note, or
keep a copy, to avoid saying exactly the same thing another time.
Yes, it was quite a business!
OFFICE EMPLOYMENT:
For pupils with no lessons, or even as punishment, sometimes one
was sent to the office for a variety of small tasks, so doing this
to avoid games, while risky, proved a satisfactory method. This was
partly because it avoided all contact with the games master, which
was always uncertain and perilous. If we didn’t see him we avoided
reminding him of our existence, and you just had to hope you’re your
absence would not be noted—and this was the danger.
Instead of explaining to the master why we were not able to do
games, we would go straight to the School Office and ask for a job,
and we could even go so far, if necessary, as to state that we were
not doing games, which was true! In fact, a reason was rarely asked
as Miss Wilkinson was used to this routine, but it was smart to have
one handy. When there was a job we would take our time over it and
make it last as long as the games period, or at least well into it.
If the task was simple, extending it could be a challenge, and if we
were done before games was over we might be compelled to retire to
the lavatories (see below).
FALSE OFFICE EMPLOYMENT:
If there was no job that Office staff needed us to do, we were
required to fall back on this or other methods. In fact, we didn’t
really have to even ask at the office! This method meant pretending
to be on a mission for someone in the Office or for a teacher. The
presence of “props” was very helpful here, such as handful of papers
or a package, in case you met someone who wanted an explanation. The
disadvantage was that it could be boring and tiring doing this for
long periods, but it was better than being out on the playing field
and it was usually possible to find somewhere inconspicuous to rest.
Also, the more we walked around the better the chance of meeting a
teacher and having to explain what we were doing, so we sometimes
combined this with other methods. Such as:
LAVATORIES:
If we had a short office job, or none at all, and we decided that
actually confronting the ever mistrustful games master was too
dangerous or unpleasant, a simple plan was to just hide in the
lavatories. We might be obliged to remain there for a considerable
period, so it was wise to take some homework or a book. It was best
to stay in the lavatory cubicle as snooping prefects might come in.
If we had the opportunity we would vary the lavatories we used, and
also change stalls occasionally as a precaution. For reasons that
will be obvious, this was not pleasant, but, again, it was better
than rugger!
EMPTY CLASSROOM “STUDY PERIOD:”
This method was tested many times and proved by far the most
successful way of dodging PT and games. Like the lavatory method,
this could be combined with actually doing homework, thus killing
two birds with one stone, and it was certainly more comfortable than
squatting on a toilet seat for an hour. If we had no homework we
tried to stay seated and subdued, reading or something, and not
running around and drawing attention. To be seen to be working made
our activities look a great deal more plausible. We could usually
find a classroom not in use, and would often scout this out in
advance, the higher up the Tower the better.
It was a good idea if two or three of us did this together as
this looked more believable than someone on their own. We would find
desks that could not be easily or casually seen through the door’s
window for we naturally didn’t want to attract the curiosity of a
passing teacher. A teacher on patrol would probably not know that we
were supposed to be at games, but we had an excuse ready just in
case. If someone did check, we would just explain that we were
having an “extra study period for Mr. Hartwell,” or something like
that, the library being crowded, perhaps. Spike came in once and
quizzed us indifferently; when we explained he commended us for doing
extra work, so that was a big laugh. Our greatest fear was, of
course, if Gunner found us! He would not have been so easily
convinced.
Another advantage of this method was that, with luck, we could
gradually thus create a new sort of games period “routine,” and if
we used this method a lot our absence from the changing room and not
our presence there would become what was “normal.” Our hope was that
the games masters would eventually just forget about us—and, once
again, this was why it was imperative to be “invisible” to Grimshaw.
We used this method a lot, especially once in the 6th form, and
we never got in trouble. I have to say that I was always
particularly proud of having come up with this last method. It was
the most reliable and it worked well, and in so many ways it proves
that the simplest way of doing anything is often the best. A few of
us, notably John Wright and Peter Drinkwater, made a habit of this.
In the autumn of 1960 my friends and I were in 6 Lower Arts, and
getting away with this sort of stunt was easier when we were in the
6th form. Our free time and so-called “study periods” were more
common and, more particularly, liberties were more easily taken. I
suppose we were considered more trustworthy by then, a complimentary
expectation that was clearly misplaced.
CONCLUSION:
There was quite a bit of frustration in the later years over the
necessity to do games, both philosophically and because of the more
obvious self-centred objections. At that point in our school
careers, for example, we had ditched so many subjects—music, art,
geography or history, maths, physics, and chemistry—so it was
natural that we should wonder why we were still forced into the gym
and on to the playing field. Some sort of demented “mens sana in
corpore sano” thing, I suppose. Team sports were, I expect, to
encourage things like discipline, self-sacrifice, and teamwork - all
manly attributes with excellent practical applications in later
life, no doubt, and bearing the unmistakable whiff of Victorian
public schools, but this was not what motivated us at the time. The
simple avoidance of pain and discomfort seemed a more worthy goal.
But as we advanced through the 6th form, I’m pleased to recall
that the need for making excuses to avoid games declined. I know
that we were still required to do PT, basketball, and athletics,
even right up to the spring of our final year, 1963, but I don’t
remember being made to play rugger right up to the end, and I’m sure
we would have rebelled anyway. In the case of some of us, it might
have been that new routine of shunning that misery had been so
well-established, who knows? Besides, during spring it was athletics
and in the summer it was cricket, and the latter was not something
we wanted to get out of. We even went to cricket club after school
and did extra practice at the nets during the day. So we were not so
much anti-sport, just anti-rugger. Also, at this late stage in our
school lives, exams and revision for them took precedence and ate up
a lot of our time, so games periods were easily forgotten,
especially as our time at the school dwindled down and everything
got very lax and casual.
And by then, too, it should have been plain enough that many of
us were just so irrecoverably inept and hopeless in the rugger
department and were simply lost to Grimshaw, condemned by then to
what he must have thought of as the outer darkness. Perhaps,
eventually, after all those years, he simply got bored with pursuing
and persecuting us. I like to think so. But during the time that it
was necessary, the methods referred to here for avoiding the
official torment and misery that he created were an essential part
of our survival techniques. We took this very seriously, and worked
very hard at not doing it. I hope it’s clear that this “art of
getting out of games” was more than just an art—it was a fine art!
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