The Wrong Trousers

There are three things you need to know about my car. Four, if you count that it only cost 150 sheets – a principle contributing factor in the existence of the other three. Number one is that the passenger seat rail that the chair slides up and down with is broken. This means that as you drive around, the seat lurches backwards and forwards next to you at every light, roundabout and crossing accompanied by unnerving clunking and snapping noises. The speed of this movement is directly proportional to the velocity of the stop and so for prolonged traffic jams a gentle swaying motion can actually be quite soothing, whereas a sudden (but unavoidable) collision with old people or children can force the chair to quickly phantom forward beside you like some kind of Saw-esque torture device.

Number two is a sudden and inexplicable (easily explicable if you know about cars I’m sure, but I don’t) increase in revs. This is both very embarrassing and quite dangerous and can also be relied upon to occur at least once every journey. The embarrassment stems from sitting next to another driver at the lights in my dirty, pint-sized, red shit-mobile as it suddenly screams into life like a wayward toddler, making me appear as though I’m up for it. Let me assure you, I’m not. Some people have even burned me off at the lights, mistaking the revving for a twatish invitation to a race, but I always thought revving was meant to be an up-and-down thing in those circumstances? Instead, put your car in neutral and your foot right down on the accelerator to experience the kind of noise I’m talking about. That’s not playful fun, it’s car autism.

What’s dangerous about this is when it happens just as you put the clutch down so that when you go back into gear the car is at full speed. Hairpin bends are the worst as you can find yourself trying to manage a treacherously out of control vehicle, which was fine only moments before, and taking corners with a Mario Kart-style power slide. I loathe people who give their cars names (you know who you are) but there are unavoidable parallels to be drawn between these attributes and famous car-with-a-mind-of-its-own, Herbie. It can only be assumed that a life of wild abandon at the helm of a career spanning five decades has had its affect on ol’ Herb though, and this is the result. The automobile equivalent of Charlie Sheen.

Finally, number three, which I’m told is connected to number two, is its flat-out refusal to start. The thing is it will start eventually, but only after turning it over and over and over and building frustration to life-shortening levels. It’s always fine if it’s been left for a little while, but if you do a quick stop, that’s when she doesn’t like it one little bit. This capitalises on its ability to habitually humiliate me and quick stops at petrol stations, newsagents or anywhere where lots of people can see you shouting and flailing about in anger at a car can be counted upon every day.

That’s my car. That’s my life.

Last Thursday, while I was trying to open a window in the computer room at school, I ripped my trousers. I quickly sat back down in the chair, as this was a nice, easy cover lesson, and felt about under the table (if only Ofsted could see me now) to assess the damage. As I fished around in instant dismissal land, it turned out that although the boys could taste freedom in their new convertible, they were still very much in the barracks and I could finish the day without too much droopy shame. Later on, however, after the pupils had left, I light-heartedly flashed my little rip for some choice members of staff by jutting my arse out and ended up ripping the whole lot right up to the belt line. These were my only trousers and it was 6pm. There was nothing else for it, I would have to wear jeans the next day.

As I prepared for work the following morning, I couldn’t help but feel a little maverick. OK, I was leaving, but wearing jeans to school was definitely atypical for Mr Mills and as I strode into the headmistresses office I imagined this is what it must have been like for The Sex Pistols on that show they swore on. Yeah – witness my anarchic jeans, bitches! However, even though I may have been all devil may care as I approached the office, inside a familiar sense of dread and insignificance was mounting and as I entered I was more Sid Little than Sid Vicious. After more sorrys than a TV intervention the judgment was over; I was being sent home! Those are the actual words my headmistress used, ‘I’m sending you home, Andrew. This is a professional institution and all our teachers dress professionally.’ I wonder what would have happened if I walked into a classroom with my unprofessional jeans on? A bloody revolution, that’s what! 40 days of night, boiling blood-red seas and cats moving in with dogs. Unrestrained pandemonium, instigated by a blatant disregard for professionalism. So that’s how the world ends. I didn’t see that one coming.

To save civilisation my only option was to see if I could find a professional shop that sold professional trousers – and all of this had to be done within 20 minutes because of an assessment taking place in period one. I jumped in the shit-mobile and zipped through the narrow Greenwich streets, wild-eyed and furious about my predicament and my stupid bitch-cow-twat-cock-knob-knocker of a headmistress whose short-sightedness and desire to be seen as completely unreasonable had led to this. 8:50am is not the best time to go clothes shopping in Greater London, but needs must when you’ve no other choice and in what I think was Deptford, about 5 minutes away from the school, a dirty and nasty-looking parade of shops honed into view. They were all shut, obviously as it wasn’t even 9am yet, but outside one of them an equally dirty and nasty-looking man was shuffling about looking like he might own it. Good enough for me – I screeched to a halt and leapt out making a beeline for what I now saw to be a smelly old charity shop.

The man looked surprised as I bounded towards him, but I quickly realised that the cigarette was meant to be fastened to his bottom lip when he started talking. ‘We’re not open, mate. I’m just cleaning up some graffiti from last night – little bastards.’ I ignored him and speedily began flicking through the racks of unwanted bacteria for something professional. ‘I need a pair of trousers!’ I spat, reeling a bit from the skin flakes flying out of the clothing and nestling in my mouth. Everything was about 10 sizes too big for me – why are only fat people charitable?! ‘Here’, I found a lovely shiny pair of Aladdin-style culottes which would just have to do, paid Smelly an extra pound for his help – bringing the grand total to two – and bounced back into the car; all done within 3-4 minutes.

Once inside I tore off my rebellious jeans and turned the engine over so that I was ready to go once the trousers were on. It chugged, it groaned, it spluttered, but it definitely didn’t start. Over and over I tried, pleading with it, promising impossible debts of gratitude, but to no avail. The frustration had become intolerable and, I’m sorry to say, I lost it. I used to laugh at those poor unfortunates who spend their days shouting at inanimate objects, but let me tell you, it’s a fine line between laughing at them and sitting in a car with no trousers on, swearing like a sailor and waking up the estate you’re parked next to. Finally, when it seemed the car couldn’t take any more of the filthy, sexually explicit abuse, it coughed into life and that’s when I caught myself and was ashamed.

How had it come to this? I imagined myself as a younger man looking into his future and seeing just that: a man in no trousers, shouting sickeningly foul language to a car which revved louder and more obnoxiously than ever at the traffic lights as the seat jerked and smashed back and forth next to him. Mummy, I want to go home.

Thanks again to Al – it appears you alone are able to confound the devious machinations of the wicked Blogger and its attempt to steal your soul when adding comments. Thanks for that and for reminding me of Skipsey. I remember he once punched Fawkesee in the stomach for throwing up on him as well. Classic bastard. Bwye!

Insignificant Others

Anyone reading this would think I have an inherent hatred for all beings under five and half feet. Except midgets. I like the way they run. Like penguins. But this is simply not true. I also have significant misanthropic tendancies towards taller (supposedly) more enlightened individuals and I think it’s time we had a look at rubbish teachers. There are plenty of ‘types’ under this umbrella and here are my top five, with examples, to let you all in on it.

1. The Drill Sergeant: A teacher who relies entirely on fear to educate the poisonous shrimps. This individual makes behaviour management a nightmare for all the other quivering and fearful members of staff, among whom I timidly count myself, and can occasionally lead to woefully misjudged attempts to replicate the style to try and maintain order. They achieve the double whammy of pissing off teachers and pupils alike, while living a ‘perfect storm’-type existence, oblivious to the negative impact they have on the school. Don’t try to speak to them about it though as they’re likely to stick a Smart Board up your arse – creating a Smart Arse Board.

2. The Mummy: This teacher constructs a wholly inappropriate relationship with pupils and is likely to give out their Facebook details quicker than you can say sex offenders register. One such example concocted such a powerfully strong relationship with their class that when I was to take the group and, during a fact and opinion lesson where they had to state whether certain statements were ‘fact’ or ‘opinion’, I stopped the lesson because of disruption to announce I was to be her replacement, one member growled, ‘opinion’. Hugging and fawning are also conventions of this form as well as perpetual use of the phrase, ‘bless’.

3. The Smug Fuck: Just when the day couldn’t get any worse, this supercilious cum bag is happy to let you know you’re entirely to blame. ‘7.2? But they’re perfect for me? Only last week they all bought me flowers and asked me to adopt them. Silly little things! You just haven’t created a relationship with them – they’re really lovely kids.’ Yeah, thanks. That you’ve spent the best part of a year bobbing and weaving from their tongues and fists makes it even better when someone lets you know how angelic they are for them. Smug fuck.

4. PE and Art ‘Teachers’: It’s not fair! It’s not fair! It’s not fair! Long, mark-free holidays, 1 minute lesson planning, kayaking and street dance on the syllabus – this isn’t a job, it’s Butlins! How I seethe with rage as you leave at 4pm every day, content in the knowledge that tomorrow’s trampolining and potato printing lessons are in the bag and I settle in for another evening of trying to decipher whatever banal ramblings 8.3 have punched into their books.

5. The Mentalist: There’s one in every school. An individual so far removed from reality you get the feeling they only became a teacher because they failed the harmony singing stages of oompa-lompa training. Everything about this person is inappropriate and, as such, like catnip to the monsters. Styled by Playschool with X Men hair, they cry their way around school perplexed by the constant harassment they suffer as day-by-day the taunting just gets worse and worse. I’ve sat with The Mentalist at lunch once, about 5 feet from the kids, as they relived the horror of a particularly bad episode. ‘Then he called me a FUCKING CUNT!’, they nashed, frothing at the mouth while a forkful of jellof rice froze at my open mouth and then splattered incredulously back onto the plate.

So there it is; a summary of how the adults can be just as bad as the kids in education. But which category would I put myself in and where do I fit into this whole sorry mess? Well, I suppose I don’t fit in at all really and that’s why I’m giving it up. The teaching aspect, standing at the front of the class and showing off for a little while, is fine, but it’s the red tape that kills me. That the profession has become a series of box ticking exercises is infuriating – not just for me, but for thousands of teachers out there – and I just can’t see myself coming to terms with that. Plus the kids are dicks.

A very quick turnover from the last post this week because I obviously have to maintain my ‘four a month’ target I plucked out of inconsequentiality. One comment from Olly from a previous post should be noted though, as it was very complimentary and does result in him having a free pass to my bottom at his will. The joke’s on him though, it’s rarely a clean bottom. Peace. Unless there’s any work in it for me. In which case war’s fine too.

I'm An Atheist Get Me Out Of Here

I’m a charlatan. A liar, an imposter, a fake and a fraud. Surprisingly, even though I haven’t let Jesus in (I can only imagine he’s still outside then; all sad and disappointed) I do have some kind of moral compass and it’s this which makes me feel uneasy about what my schools expect on a daily basis. My entire teaching career has involved working in Catholic schools and, as such, I am required and expected to perpetuate the Catholic ethos every day. So, even though I’m a godless heathen, with no more right to stomp about on God’s DIY ball than an infanticidal banker Satanist with shares in Nestle’s poverty death milk powder, every morning I lead the shit out of morning prayers.

I suppose I’ve become so used to it now I don’t even think about the ideological hypocrisy it involves, but when it started I was definitely more uncomfortable about the situation. For a start I didn’t know any of the prayers and could only mouth syllable shapes during Mass, that just made me look like I was chewing devil gum in the face of Our (their) Lord Jesus Christ or worse still, attempting to speak in tongues. I was completely clueless about the rituals, the rules and the reverence and squirmed more than Donald Trump at a rights for people other than rich white people conference.

Here’s an example: in my last school there would be a religiousy service for the monsters and once they had been whipped and chaired out of the building at the end of the day, one for staff. The first time this happened I went along with it; sang the songs, bowed in time and joined in with the group amens, but as it finished there was something I hadn’t ever come across. After we’d been grateful/fearful servants for 10 minutes or so, everyone turned to one another and started hugging and shaking hands while all repeating the same thing, ‘Pleased to meet you.’ Odd, I thought, but no more odd than drinking a dead man’s blood, so I went along with it. As I went in for hug number six it finally dawned on me – they weren’t pleased to meet me at all. ‘Peace be with you’, I adjusted, hopelessly out of my depth.

Thing is, as will be the case for those damned souls who tag along without any real knowledge of what the tabernacle is going on, I just don’t do it properly. In the morning, when I remember to, we stand behind our chairs and I ask them to be silent for a moment while we think of... I dunno, grandmas and their tireless efforts to give us a quid when we see them? Recently we had a half day and I asked them to thank Jesus for that, but God Junior had nothing to do with it and really we should have been thanking the builders for knocking into a mains water pipe and flooding the science labs. Were the builders carrying out God’s divine will? If so, he can’t have had much on that week.

So you see, I’m a bloody phony. It’s only when I catch myself reverently bowing my head and leading them in praise that I see the ludicrous nature of what I’ve become. My question is this – if He is up there, will this increase my chances of spending eternity amongst the velvety yum-yums? Or has my soon-to-be-over foray into falsity and professional perjury got my name struck off His son’s birthday card list? Oh, that’ll be rich – on top of everything else, the job’s ensured my own everlasting damnation. Oh yeah, that’s just bloody typical.

Hooray for comments! Al, I knew I could depend on you, you wonderful bastard. You make it all worthwhile, with your scene-stealing anecdotes. Please, feel free to steal away again this week. And, of course, Rob. My next hair straightening appointment is on Saturday at 1:30pm. XOXO Gossip Girl.

PG Tips

True story – a year seven pupil finished school for the day and trotted off back home. Only upon arriving at her front door did she realise she didn’t have her keys and began to panic. When Mum returned from work to find her child snivelling and pouting outside she was furious and contacted the school demanding that something be done as clearly there was a thief at large. The school assured her that this probably wasn’t the case, as thieves gravitated more towards pinching things of monetary value (phones/money/gold teeth) and that the keys would probably turn up.

The next day Mum phoned up the school again – this time even more enraged. The keys had been found, but this wasn’t the issue anymore. Mum wanted to know how we were going to deal with the bully who, apparently, must have followed her child home from school, snuck into the house, taken the keys which they had previously stolen and placed them under a seat cushion before making good her escape. For what reason? Just to wind her child up. Hmm…

Delusional parents are under the spotlight this week – and believe me, there’s a lot of them. These imbeciles don’t seem to understand that children are liars. Not all of them, I’ll admit, but a surprising number don’t seem at all fazed by the act of lying straight to your face. Maybe I’m just jealous because whenever I try to tell a little untruth I start tripping over words, glancing around, getting a bead on, blushing crimson and occasionally spasming with apologetic gestures. The children‘s version, however, is far more impressive. Stare straight into the eyes and declare, with devastatingly audacious commitment, that you don’t know what they’re talking about. Devious little shits.

It’s very easy to see where some of these children get their appalling manners from when you meet the gorillas they were farted out of. Sometimes you don’t have to even meet them – just a quick conversation on the phone is enough to assure you of their cretinous credentials. Calling a mother up a couple of years ago, I was greeted by the unmistakable sound of a belch on the other end of the phone. An actual burp, mind you, complete with a contented gasp of relief immediately afterwards. How is it possible for me to talk to this woman now when we both know she’s a filthy disgrace? Easy – she doesn’t think she’s a filthy disgrace. See? It’s simple; if you’re a filthy disgrace.

After nearly deafening me with her smelly mouth wind, she had another outburst prepared once she realised who it was. ‘Oh, you’re the one who’s always picking on him. That’s what he tells me when he gets in.’ Just so you know, this child had been excluded over 30 times in the two years he’d been at the school (ah, inclusion – watch it working live in the school of your choice) never did any work in class (unless you call writing Mr Mills-based obscenities on the table work – I, frankly, do not) and had about as much right to be in the classroom as bin Laden at a how to avoid capture for over ten years and not get conveniently shot in the face at the arse end of that time seminar. It’s very simple really – just take the phrase ‘you’re always picking on meeeeeee’ from the classroom, change it very slightly to, ‘you’re always picking on hiiiiiiiiimmmm’ and move it to the home (or lair) and you’ve got it.

The delusional parent does not know common sense. He/she stares the obvious truth in the face and concocts an alternate reality where the little angels are not culpable for their behaviour. Just like when I was 14 and wanted to get drunk on anything I could find in the house while my parents were out, chugged down red wine and cooking ale like the plane was going down, coloured the bathroom a stainy shade of chunky pink, fell asleep in all my clothes and was approached in bed the next day by a sympathetic mother who assured me, as I squinted her into a puzzled focus, that I must have just eaten a lot of red grapes the night before.

This seems harmless enough, but be warned, sometimes the fabricated realities can be extremely bizarre. Take the case of the South London Two. This concerns the mother of a child who has since withdrawn them from school because of the dark sciences taking place there. Yes, come closer, if you dare, and heed my warning because schools are not the places you think they are. This mother became suspicious when her child, upon reaching puberty, became far more listless and disaffected. No longer would the boy hold her hand in public or ask for a story at night, preferring instead to listen to loud ungodly music and spend time alone in their room with the door locked. The truth was obvious (and actually cited as the sole reason for the pupil’s removal from school in all reality). The child had been cloned at school and they were sending the evil boy home at night while keeping her good son for themselves for… oh, I don’t fucking know. Make it up for yourselves – she did.

All true, all terrifying. If this is what we can rely on from parents these days, all hope is lost. Although I should state for the record that some parents are great – really supportive and completely sane – but that doesn’t make for good reading, does it? I know what you want and it’s baffling and unpleasant – you ask, you get.

Thanks very much for… oh, that’s right, no-one’s left a comment for over a month now. If anyone fancies joining in, just click on comments and inevitably write something about my hair. Frankly, I’ll take anything these days. Ciao, bella.