by Simon Temprell

Created on: May 05, 2008   Last Updated: March 03, 2012

"Sticks and stones may break my bones but calling will not hurt me" Such is the mantra of the taunted, the ridiculed, the derided the scoffed-at. It is a childhood rhyme that could not hide its transparency even when quoted with defiance and it usually evoked further contemptuous laughter from the jeering perpetrators. I can remember quite vividly, as a child, the burning shame of being identified, of being singled-out from the crowd as a target for mockery, despite my concerted efforts to disappear in to the washed-out greyness of conformity. But, let's face it, I was ripe for picking; I was the biggest 'poof' in school.

Thirty-odd years later and several dozen therapy sessions behind me I look back at that schoolyard persecution and I imagine that I would stand my ground instead of cowering behind the bike sheds in the hope of avoiding the worst of the bullies at hometime. I imagine that I would fly my colours proudly and tell the world to sod off, but last Friday I realized that those ancient emotional scars are as close to the surface as malignant melanomas.

Last Friday I decided to post some of my blog entries on the Telegraph (UK Newspaper) website. I had twelve previously written entries so I posted them in quick succession, not realizing that my posts were jamming up the Telegraph home page and annoying other writers. At first the complaints were fairly mild but then, as people banded together like vultures circling a freshly slaughtered carcass, the comments became increasingly insulting and inappropriate. I sat back at my desk, astounded by the response. I was called a spammer, a self-promoting author who loves the sound of his own voice, a 'gob-shite', a talentless nobody etc, etc. Someone even went as far as Googling me to post my home address and phone number in what seemed to me a very threatening manner. And then the allusions to my sexuality were made; jibes about window-dressers and interior designers and all the usual stereotypical slurs that skulk behind the net curtains of internet anonymity. I was the only person on that web page who had an actual photograph of myself in my profile; everyone else chose to hide behind their cute little avatars of cats, bears, camels and mice. These are the people who scream obscenities from behind closed car windows when they cut you off on the motorway; the people who send unsigned hate mail and spray the walls of railway tunnels with racist slurs. These are society's cowards.

But it wasn't the influx of derogatory comments that astounded me the most; it was my immediate reaction to it. I froze at my computer. The blood rushed to my face and I could feel my insides shriveling up as though sprinkled with salt. I was back in the playground surrounded by bullies and I couldn't defend myself. It was unjust and it was surprisingly hurtful and I couldn't find the strength to face adversity and simply ignore it. I was playing right in to the hands of these faceless persecutors and I was furious at myself. Surely I am better than that?

So here I am again; still posting my blogs on the Telegraph site and being very careful not to post more than one a day. My face is still on my profile and I have nothing to hide. Thank you anonymous bloggers for providing me with an excellent premise for a new novel and long may your scurrilous comments continue.

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