Timothy Goodchild was one of life's unfortunates... at a school where looks, class and money were prized above all else, Goodchild was doomed to failure. Possessed of a ridiculously bulbous pair of cheeks (complete with broken capillaries), NHS glasses, basin hair, constant snot trail and Clarkes Big Gripper shoes this was a man with nothing going for him.

To say he got abuse is to put it mildly... the highlight of any schoolday was baiting Goodchild in the build-up to break time. By turns abusing him for being a gay spaz and then cajoling him with friendly pleas for a game of Goodie's Revenge.

By the time we got outside he would be insensible with rage and bewilderment; wondering why people acting as his friends could be so cruel within the space of a heartbeat.

The game consisted of Goodchild standing in the middle of a circle of his classmates chanting "Goo-die, Goo-die" while he held one fist up to his left eye. With his other hand he made a winding motion by his right ear as though he was looking through some giant wind-up telescope.

As he wound he made a screaming, claxon-like noise, rising in pitch steadily. At a certain moment when he his inner-anger had become too much and his voice could go no higher he would burst, red-faced into the throng flailing his arms in a mad (and quite genuine) benny.

At this point the crowd would scatter and Goodchild would chase about the woods after us for the whole break, often heavily wounded from the sticks, half house-bricks and other rubble that we would throw at him in a bid to escape.

After Goodchild admitted that he had Frenchied his sister in a suicidal bid to garner favour amongst the cool guys who could "get-off" with girls, these games only became more vicious. Afterall, being a total spacker was one thing but tapping off with your sibling was one step away from saying that you had sucked your own dad's dick.