Kill The Bill - Volume One

Last year we went to see The Lion King. I’ve had a slightly out of control love affair with the film since the early ‘90s and blub like a stroke victim every time Mufasa takes a tumble, so going to see the stage show was intense. As expected, I spent the majority of the time blinking heavily, swallowing and trembling through gritted teeth to fight back my pathetic impulses, but it was worth it as the production was spectacular. The night before had been spent eating, drinking and showing off, just to ensure I was unable to take the merest hint of sentimentality without crumbling, and then it was off to the West End for further treats the next day.

That was a good birthday. I became 33. Like Jesus.

This year held treats of an entirely different nature, however.

I know this is a teaching blog. That’s how I’ve sold it; that’s what it’s always been about, but I think there’s a place for this tale in the darker recesses of its smelly bottom. It is the textual equivalent of a smelly bottom, so I suppose this anecdote would be the residual culprit – hiding away from sight, but being what you should point the finger at ultimately for adding fuel to my rage fire. Not that I’m condoning pointing fingers in bottoms. Especially if they’re smelly.

Anyhoo, for the last two years I’ve enjoyed the freedom and liberation which comes with birthdays falling on the weekend. You have to love that. It’s all very well having a night out with friends on the closest weekend you can, but it’s just not the same and you know it. Relax, sleep, open pressies, point fingers, the world’s your birthday cake and you can blow out the candles in your own time. Needless to say, that ended this year and we were back to the inferior weekday birthday – and even worse than that – the Monday birthday.

It’s common knowledge that Mondays are the pustulating boil of the week that require urgent lancing to be able to get on with the rest of it. This is the same across the world, but the feeling I’ve had on a Sunday before returning to a week of work since becoming a teacher far outweighs that of any I’ve ever felt before. It starts at about immediately and continues to the cold sweat of around 10pm, when, having ignored or been horrible to everyone I’ve come into contact with, I drag myself heavily to bed with terrible black thoughts splashing round me like a drowning dog. This is one of the reasons I don’t think teaching is for me. Abject terror and sleepless torment. That’s two reasons – stick around and I’m convinced I’ll find more.

Having tried to assure myself it won’t be that bad the night before, I actually woke up feeling OK. Believe me, that’s a Disney fairytale compared with the Serbian snuff movie that generally greets the start of a new week. I grumbled a bit (obviously) but left feeling like I didn’t want to kill myself and all was tolerable. I decided not to tell anyone about the big day at work, as I couldn’t be arsed with the meaningless insincerity, and set about counting down the clock while trying as hard as I could to ignore the children in front of me.

Before I knew it the day was over and I could look forward to present opening, a lovely dinner with my beautiful girlfriend and a couple of glasses of forgetting juice. I was buoyant, flippant, upbeat and I may even have hummed some kind of personal theme tune on the way to the car – you know, something jaunty, but with a hint of danger. I’d made it through the Monday birthday chaff and all that was left was pure wheat.

Pulsating down the ridiculously bumpy driveway that joins school with world, I remarked to Cathryn, who I give a lift to because I’m that type of brother, that the roads seemed incredibly empty. The lights all turned green as we approached as well and I couldn’t help feeling suspicious. “Road’s are really clear tonight, eh?” I said, still feeling uneasy about my conspicuously trouble-free journey.

“Don’t jinx it”, she replied. And that’s when I saw the blue lights in the mirror.

And that's where I'll leave it for now. Tune in next week for the concluding part which, like the Kill Bill films, is sure not to live up to expectations. Thanks to Rob again for commenting last week and getting on board the anti-Jamie train. Together we can bring down his chunky-tongued guilt regime and get on with eating crap and not caring about children. Join us!