No Drama

Previously on English Bitcherature: Mr Mills was experiencing a moral dilemma - tell the university and risk the future education of the children, or suck it up for the kiddiestinkles...

Obviously I told them. I have never considered myself to be anything less than a very selfish person, so to do otherwise would be a contradiction of my very soul. I can't do that. I won't. The can of worms though - Jesus Christ. The university told me that they know now and not to worry about anything; they were going to take care of it. So, like a sex tourist in the Lucky Fucky Thai massage parlour, I lay back and waited for relief. Needless to say, nothing happened, except the school did relent on my drama lesson. Thanks a fucking lot.

Just before beginning, I had gone to a short meeting with the head of drama and another staff member about what to expect - which had resulted in me still not really knowing what was going on, but at least I knew where the drama rooms were now. It had never been my favourite lesson at school because, as a terribly self-aware middle-class cliche, I didn't like taking centre stage and prickled with embarrassment at the mere thought of 'performing' (this may come as a surprise to those who have ‘enjoyed’ my recent obsession with karaoke – but what can I tell you? I flowered into an egotistical show-off. This is my 2^nd blog. About me. Do I need to spell it out?) but teaching it couldn't be all that bad, surely. Just give them a scenario, sit back and enjoy their pathetic but amusing efforts like a begrudgingly aroused Roman emperor.

The boys were already waiting by the time I got to the drama room. They had been at the school for a year in comparison to my four days and for this glaring oversight, they were to make me pay. 'Line up quietly!' I shouted as I arrived, 'or no-one's going in!’ I mistook their dumbstruck silence for regimented compliance and, inwardly smiling to myself about my new behavioural management skills, I led them into the green room. The school was falling to pieces when I arrived and the drama department’s green room was a prime example of this. Truth be told, most of the green paint which had given the room its eponymous title was now peeling off the walls and the monsters had done a real number on the rest of it. The blinds were a disheveled shadow of their former selves, having been clawed at and swung on for years, and what remained of them lapped weakly at the windows in an unsuccessful effort to keep the glare of the sun out. The chairs were bent and broken and Wilde-esque social commentary adorned the walls in the shape of graffiti with such considered witticisms as ‘Fuck drama’ and ‘Ms ________ loves black cock’ now playing their part to inspire the next potential Colin Firth or Sidney Poitier – my favourite actor, obviously. (I left the name out of the drama teacher as she may not like her sexual preferences mooted all over the web. There are literally… a few people reading this)

The lesson started and I got the monsters to sit in a circle, as per my 15 second introduction to teaching drama the previous day. To be honest, I was a bit lost after this, but it didn’t matter because the class took the rest of the lesson into their own rat claws anyway and whatever I had prepared (acorn into oak tree, anyone?) hit the skids immediately. One boy, who had a surname for a Christian name proving his devilish intentions, kicked the proceedings off having clearly had enough of my, admittedly appalling, attempts to engage the class (this was week one with no guidance, don’t forget – he said insisting it got much better. It didn’t). As I gave out my instructions, not really even convincing myself, the boy, let’s call him Knob Rash 1, began beat-boxing at the top of his… tongue? I was just a bit shocked to start off with, but this was clearly a massive distraction and I had to try and deal with it. ‘That’s very impressive, Knob Rash 1’, I said, trying to appeal to his better nature (unaware at this point that children don’t have one) ‘but can I get on with the lesson, please?’ His response came as a beautifully crafted fuck you, literally spat out as the beat-boxing continued, punctuated with a few obligatory, ‘You can’t tell me what to do’s in between.

By this time the circle had become fragmented and, while I concentrated on Knob Rash 1, all the other Knob Rashes had decided to act out a very convincing gang warfare scenario. The two rival gangs now sat on either side of the room (a classroom suddenly seemed very appealing) and hurled insults and pennies at each other in equal measure. I abandoned Knob Rash 1 as a lost cause (although real potential for next season’s Britain’s Got Knob Rashes) and embroiled myself in South-East-Side Story through a shower of coins and ill intention. It was a futile endeavour, however, as these kids had been doing this kind of thing for a long time now and were as devastatingly prepared for me, as I was unequipped for them.

The moment I approached one side of the room to ‘sort it out’ (pathetic, just pathetic) they stopped completely and looked around with upturned palms and puzzled expressions as to why I was reprimanding them. While they did this, the Crips’ coins hailed down on us all from the other side and outrage overtook confusion (although the whole thing was clearly a pleasure for some who were visibly shaking with devious delight) as the injustice of their reprimand was too much for them to bear while the others got away with it. This toing and froing went on for some time, with the same thing occurring on either side to a now furiously fast beat-boxing soundtrack until the bell finally rang to indicate playtime was over and I shakily lowered myself onto a chair. Which promptly broke.

Ironically the acting had been first class from many a Knob Rash throughout the whole sorry affair, but, as has been my experience, the kids don’t capitalize on their natural talents. They just use them to make me look like a prick. If only that was a GCSE.

Sorry for the delay since the last post. I’ve been on holiday – nervously pushing chocolate into me to melt the pain away – and have only just woken up, really. I handed my notice in last week though and so the quest for a new career, the point of this whole sorry affair if you remember, has now begun in earnest. Giz a job then. Shalom.