OW’s Paige Turner

I was only at WC 18 months until as a forces baby I was away. I became a pen friend to William Littlewood, when I left, he let me name him his Doppelgänger Shirley Manson, and he would sing Androgyny into a cassette and post it me. Always wondered why that song, but apparently he would tell those transitioning from childhood the size of his pipe organ, hands spread on the keys like his favourite sea animal, the starfish, unique knowledge, starfish and rusty old sheriff badges where his interests lay, he didn’t like the limp bizkit album, he’s not a sicko, “what’s that 12 year old child away from your parents on a taster day before the new academic term, who will spend the 9 week holidays in abject fear of your new home. oh ok he was a sicko?” Well at least make him Patrick Bateman in looks, we’ve got Mr Tumnus after Sun In disaster. Shirley, sorry William would sing solos in the chapel, that’s when I fell for him, i was in Midwest US for 10 years prior and the Dickcissel sang just like Will, before he passed cough and drop in his lower 6th year he would sing like Cliff Richard at Wimbledon, “more T Big Willy G Style” he would finish. When he did drop, he thought we all wanted to see; nice but unnecessary, as I write the sun is dappled though my Yew Tree. He sang like Olivia Newtons John, she had a Wilko Deep Drop, the same colour as his white frock with the same pebble dash stitching. BWGT cuffs.

He wrote to me using a quill, this a man who I believed was machismo dressed as a scullery maid who had penetrated a disciples inner circle, of friends. But my Rosen Silas was virtuous practising self-flagellation and carried a cilice, but his church was different, his mortification of the flesh he inflicted on children not himself. Fair play it did him no harm, unlike, pick a name, you’ve a good chance they enjoyed William’s descriptors of female body parts he had seen from within the school. Get past the bewilderment that the male stereo type is a strong, dark skinned, rugged sport loving jock and we had a shock jock in a frock who showed 4th formers his mocks (to aid them revise), he actually attracted suitors, he then forgot, gallantry, as my friend David once sent, “how can I hate women my mum’s one.” Suppose you can thumb it in and pretend, he was pretending, something, was he Aled Jones or Avid Merrion’s even less funny cousin. “I’m walking in the air, FFS cut the bloody tight rope” Willy Wilko White Bog had a softer side, at WC he was a man’s man, in his own lunch time, which was after everyone else’s so as to avoid him. If you want to eat whilst staring at a translucent flesh, get the bacon at breakfast. Willy did, he pretended it was a boy in his last year of a minor prep school set for WC

Will didn’t go with tide; unless that was, not a washed up sanitary towel on the beach and actually him, no rugby for Will, his avocation, a game he invented, which combined a removable sack like cloth from a pillow; pool balls; all yellows white red and black; army boots, HIM? ARMY BOOTS? Saving William’s Privates, Browneye Squadron, bring us Pike they begged. When up against children, his psychopathy also went in the casing. Participants must not be willing. Must be prepubescent. Must be away from their parents and when they run you must wrap the linen round their skulls. A fracture close to the brain, good, 10 points and no bread and milk duty tomorrow Will lived to break social constructs. “William on Thursday as The Head walks past, you smirk like the charlatan you are, but please then sing “how great thou art” like a Eunoch, how are we all still falling for this sham big man, then nod as he passes. He did it his way, a sadist, who sings bread of heaven every Thursday, how very Hunter S. Thompson of you William, don’t spill your acid on the hymn sheet, oh it’s Tab Clear. William pop that little wafer in there’s a good boy; sip of Jesus’s blood and then pop on my knee and I’ll wind you; you seem colicky, we need you for the big one, I mean hymn Will! I must go, he wants to msn messenger me soon from whatever cave he is in, unless he was bin Ladin, no that’s stupid, harsh on Osama. I would like to touch base as his letters return to sender, let me know where he is? I will be at the top of steep hill holding a peperami that reminds me of him, forget that, York Dungeon, bring the cassock, you looked proper Bo.