Carrying on this thrilling faux-trilogy…
Year 10 was the start of our final two, GCSE years which went tits up for me. After a complete cock-up of the marking of our year 9 SATs English exams, I was put in the top set. It was surprising to say the least as all but two pieces of my English work were shitly marked; one was a true story about my street getting flooded and the other was some fiction my dad wrote — both coming in year 7. I’ve always been terrible at creative writing unless there’s a massive element of truth to it, well as Bruce Hornsby put it; that’s just the way it is. My mates laugh at my stories because of how shit they are, like a robot in a shoebox that was buried in a forest. All I did in lesson was doodle all over my Anthology book, most notably writing ‘Pizza Hut’ and ‘Mr Whippy’ on the cone-shaped hats of those Chinese people farming. My last day of year 10 was mostly spent being detained, having to write some shit on Shakespeare. I liked the sciences, biology in particular was great fun with Dr Scott. I sat next to a test tube steriliser and filled it with rubbish throughout the year, like crisp packets and milkshake and Lucozade bottles. No one even bothered to empty it during the Summer holidays, despite being left out all year. So around the start of year 11, I wanted to put in another empty bottle but it was getting full, so full in fact that the lid of a six month old bottle of banana milkshake dislodged and leaked. Strange, since I only drank chocolate and don’t really like banana. As soon as the lid came off, the entire lab reeked with half a year’s worth of sour milk, it was baffling how powerful about 20ml of old liquid is. I got some on my tie so I had to rinse it under the sink in class. It didn’t top the time I let off an air horn, later on in the year in that same lesson. Adam left it in my garden when he was trying to wake me up during the Easter holidays, the thing was he was at the front of the house and I was sleeping around the back. All-in-all, Scotty was our bitch.
I was kicked out of German just after one lesson, due to my history of dicking about in class for the past three years. Nothing Nazi-related though, I’m better than that. So they made me do French instead and that was no better, I had to sit next to an utter bitch called Naomi who was your typical speccy, spotty, dry-haired teacher suck-up. She kept on prodding me to do my work and once had the cheek to go “hurhurhur I’m like your mother, aren’t I?” Well no, my mum isn’t a brown-nosing cunt and never forced me to do my work. I was more behaved in French though, they kicked me out of that at the turn of 2006 for under-performing so I spent that time doing art.
Good old high school banter.
Interform that year, we played the glorious sport of cricket. To be frank, my job was to be the mascot but I ended up playing so I could skip English. My only good game, against U, I broke my finger during it and still ended up being the best player on our team, like a modern day Bert Trautmann. Difference being we were the worst team because half of our form are lazy indoorsy fuckers, I’m not sporty because I was never given the opportunity when I was a kid but at least I did try. It was an excuse to have some time off, not like I had plenty off in year 10 already. All because of this attention seeking prick in my form, who went by the name of Hannah. She knew I didn’t like her but still she persisted in lingering around me, like an eggy fart. Callum, who was a bit immature, wrote up a mock report for me which was mostly dissing me so I took it off him and threw it away. Hannah wanted to read it so bad, being her ratty little self, so I pushed her over a table she was originally standing in front of and started crying like the bitch she is. She always cried and even tried slitting her wrists… with a spoon, to get an idea in your head of what she’s like — I swear she went through a bi/lez phase too. S’s big moment in year 10 was our final form assembly where we played Deal or No Deal, revolving around the theme of revolution. It was my idea so I was the MC, our take on Noel Edmonds, and it was banging. Didn’t have a goatee though nor was I 4’2″, I did wear an Italy shirt though ’cause it was own clothes day. The jackpot box was the McDonald’s Revolution, which I had no say in and would have been banned if the group weren’t so rebellious towards my authoritarianism.
Our year 11 assembly was so much better, it had everything; xenophobia, racist jokes, me dressed as the Pope and then some… Another one of my ideas, a talent show-type assembly on democracy. I was Pope Benedict complete with hat and white dressing gown, we had Tony Blair, Jacques Chirac, George Bush and Adolf Hitler — Dale was supposed to be Kim Jong-il singing ‘I’m So Ronery’ if he wasn’t such a dick and pussied out. The idea was that we tried to woo the judges with a policy; the Pontiff’s was to spread enlightenment across the land and free Bible vouchers, Chirac’s was to make the French less pathetic people which riled the French teacher from France, don’t remember Bush’s and Blair’s but Hitler’s — who I introduced as my dad — was to lower gas prices. It was funny because no one minded at first; the head of upper school praised us straight after but had a go at us at dinner time. Some pupils called us racists and we told them to fuck off, and Mr Thomson gave us a lecture on the Pope in RE, that’s about it. Pretty sure there were no Jews in years 10 or 11 then, or even in the entire school, so no one was offended. Our punishment was to abide by the tutor’s script for our next assembly or don’t partake in it so he just stood there, talking about the Simpsons for 15 minutes. His assembly ideas were pretty shit and in retrospect, we should have done it in a very lacklustre and half-arsed manner. Oh well, everyone has regrets in life.
I can draw, even in biro, but it’s too fucking enduring.
The longer the year went on, the less effort I put in. Our PMS-laden English teacher — Ms Shipley or Mrs Rapolles because she got married — had it in for me especially. She locked me in the stock cupboard to write some essay on some book I don’t give a shit about, hence not being able to remember it. Not properly locked if anyone from the NSPCC is reading, the room was double-ended and the other door leading from another classroom was open. Also picking on me for not reading Lord of the Flies despite doing so, if it was an interesting read then I would fucking remember what happened, you cow. That was part of the reason why I couldn’t be bothered going in some days, because of that bitch. Mr Weems, the head of upper school, had it in for me in a way too. I never liked his mannerisms towards me, he was so patronising and condescending — the reason why I chose not to go to the end-of-school prom, he didn’t think I had the bottle to stay at home that night but I did. Had my mates over for the night straight after it, to revel in my company. Sam was throwing up chips in my house and I had to walk him to the tree outside for a piss, he went home in my 2005-06 Man United away shirt — he supports them too, unfortunately. I was made to drop out of another subject, business studies, because I didn’t do the coursework because I didn’t have a computer at home. My test results and homework for that subject were shite as well, although I wouldn’t be surprised if my logic does save the economy from self-imploding. That was right at the end of the school year so dunno why they kicked me off that ship so late, more art time for me though. At the start of the calendaric year, we were doing our mock exams preparing for our GCSEs in the Spring. It was a bad time to develop a haemorrhoid with all that sitting still in a hall for hours, I couldn’t sit still at all.
The last day is an excuse to feel as many pubescent boobs as you can, drawing your handprint on them and being all-out wild. We had lessons but everyone pisses about since there is no work to do, apart from exam preparation. Weemsy, in our last ever assembly, was balling it but not as much as the one where he gave a speech on Yugoslavia at the end, so much that he walked out whilst giving it. I think his dad died in Bosnia or Kosovo or something, Google’s not helping me with which one. We had a break, I think for Easter and then we were back for our GCSEs. The day before my first maths one, I woke up at 9pm so I had to do an all-nighter as there was no way I could go back to sleep in time. I tried to buy some Red Bull at Farmfoods but they denied me for not supplying ID, it’s a non-alcoholic drink you berk, I bought it many times from there prior without problems — usually to help supply our black-market tuck shop, which was much cheaper than the school canteen. Oh, and my mum decided to get a job in the canteen so to avoid any encounters, I only ate Mars bars at dinner time but then Jamie Oliver sucked Gordon Brown’s dick and banned them, so we had to get face-to-face eventually. She did give me free food without ever seeing me, using my bezzies as suppliers, not sure if they got anything from her for their logistical service.
Side tracking aside… I was absolutely shattered but still managed to finish the exam in time, without dozing off. The other maths exam was my finest hour, not because of how well I did in it but how I trumped Pythagoras and his theorem without his ‘a²+b²=c²’ bullshit. There was a rectangle which I believe was supposed to be 50x60cm and the accompanying diagram was something like 6x8cm to prevent “cheating”. Instead of working it out, I drew a 5x6cm rectangle, drew a line through it and measured it at 5.6cm so multiplied it by 10 et voila. I know I got that sum totally wrong but the gist of it actually works, you just need to be precise with the angles and measurements when drawing it out. I did get back into hypoteni recently, trying to become a mathsmagician (those ITK will get that) by coming up with the formula to work out the radius of squares. Perimeter ÷ approx. 5.65685424933 is how you work that out but then again, that’s half of the hypotenuse of two adjoining sides of a quadrilateral. That idea came to me in a dream because that’s when I’m at my best; asleep.
My ICT exam was a fucking insult, I was made to do a foundation paper because Mr “Borris” Morris admittedly lost half my coursework and made me do it all again. And to rub it in a bit more, in that mock exam, I failed by 0.3%. Yes, less than half of 1%, dickhead should have rounded it to the nearest whole digit. My art “exam” was the easiest, albeit enduring; split into three 3 hour sessions and one hour of a 1:10 lesson. One positive about that is that it wasn’t during the exam term and instead, during lesson time. There was only one question and it was to draw something we already prepared for; for me, it was tiger eyes. No surprise that art was the subject I did best in, with a B. The worst being English, with two Ds. I did have the worst GCSE results at my school, thanks to getting forced out of a few of those subjects and Borris fucking up my ICT stuff. The headmaster — who has an uncanny resemblance to Brian Potter from Phoenix Nights, minus the wheelchair — and Weemsy were patronising me regarding my results, it would have been better if they bollocked me in truth.