Boys will be boys

In the past few weeks I have had the opportunity of partaking in the company of little boys. In case that sounds a bit Madonna-ish, let me hasten to clarify that these are twelve-year olds, whose abiding interests are football, football and football, and whose world-view can be stated as `have ball will play!''
Anyone who has had the singular honour of winning the trust of twelve-year olds (I refuse to call them one-teener, it sounds too ‘marketing-jargon’) will recognise these sentiments: joie-de-vivre is their state of mind; laughter their calling card; and May, their mission.Twelve-year olds are that blessed species who possess all the endearing qualities of teenagers without having the teenager''s bug-bears: acne and angst. They are still spared the hormonal storms that will come in their later years -- and fortunately the opposite sex is only an issue when it comes to choosing the strongest team in any sport.
To be sure, a twelve-year old is perhaps at the best vantage age that nature can bestow, other than a forty-year old. In my view, both a twelve-year old and a forty-year old have the best that their ages can bestow on them: good health and good cheer without the downside of the ensuing years. So as I said, in the past few weeks I have sought and been rewarded with the company of twelve-year old males. And as anthropological experiences go, this is what I have learnt.
1) The term `limp biscuit'' does not connote a piece of baked dough that has somewhat lost its shape.
2) Boys are as much into wax, as girls -- except in their case it’s a noun, not a verb -- and they use it to give their hair the anti-gravitational edge.
3) Ditto mascara: Hitherto I imagined it was only a weapon used by the female species as part of their seductive arsenal; but no -- mascara in red, blue and green (and purple) is applied by little boys on areas of their head to resemble the hair-styles & football heroes. So much for a lesson in toiletries, now to disseminate some more pertinent biological data.
Little boys have an enigmatic approach to sleep -- they hate it and love it. Trouble is, you can never predict what it''s going to be, and what''s more relevant -- it''s exactly opposite to the general norm.
For instance, tired as dogs, from a day in the sun, that included a three-hour football marathon session, five hours at the pool, and the rest playing table-tennis, with bouts of eating in a manner that would do a Roman emperor proud -- a little boy will do anything to fight off sleep. He will plead, cajole, beg, put cello-tape on his eye-lids to keep them open, sneak extra helpings of sugar, anything to keep going till the cows come home.
Conversely, once that little boy was wrestled with and defeated by the sleep demons, nothing, not wild horses, not Britney Spears, not the promise of a sixteen-inch Domino''s, will get them to open their lids to the sun-light. So the big lesson to know about little boys is that sleep is a major issue here. Food is another issue. In fact, some believe it is, after football, an all-consuming passion, the more of it -- the better.
Little boys have an eclectic approach to eating: they put chocolate sauce on rice, they put nuttela on chicken roast, they pick the gherkins off their hot-dogs, they quiver in fear at the right of a `doodhi'', in fact to them should be awarded the prize for inventing fusion-cuisine: pizzas with noodles, mangoes with hamburgers, cornflakes on bread.
And their approach to food is all-inclusive and all-embracing; Caviar and candy, lobster and lollipops, sushi and sausage.
The last anthropological foot-note in this treatise on little boys is that they have an all new approach to clothes: it''s unique as well as generic, each little boy spends hours trying to look individualistic and distinct -- only to end up looking exactly like other little boys his age: the baggy, falling-off the waist trousers, the CK boxers, the cotton underskirt, the florid over shirt, the Nikes, the cap, the disc-man, the hair- gel....
You can spot a little boy by his gear from a mile away. You can tell him apart by his order at a restaurant (the Sashimi and the salami sandwich) you can feel his heart -- when he holds forth on Beckham''s magic. But most of all you can tell little boys by their joi-de-vivre.
Thank God for little boys. Thank God that before their teens and their twenties, life has bestowed on them one of its sweetest moments. As I said, in these past few weeks I have been enjoying the company of twelve-year olds and before I get back to business -- anyone for a jelly-bean pepperoni -- fruit cake sandwich?