The bell went to signal third lesson – History. Me, Fazzy, Vazzy, Zazzy and Gareth (the one
who plays the human banjo) took a shortcut through the main school building
where they have English and other ‘humanities’ (whatever they are). We passed the library. There were some first years sitting on the
floor in a circle – we could tell they were first years because some of them still
had the little coloured badges on that signify which house they’re in. The colours are yellow, green, brown and
white. We went along the upstairs
corridor, vandalising poems that hung on the display boards as we passed before
slamming squarely into the creepily over-sized satchel of Mr Gout the
headmaster. I now have a scar with which
to impress women/girls.
 |
| Life-sized scar causing satchel |
Mrs Wicklow the history teacher, tries so very hard to look
younger than she is by having neatly cropped hair, half of Boots make-up counter on her eyelids and a t-shirt with “I’m 29” written
on it. Me and Kevin sit at the back and
don’t listen most of the time. I can see
a Maths classroom out of the window where Mrs Bumsmell teaches – she’s got bad
breath and there’s always a slightly green tinge to the air in there. I can also see the sports field from my desk
and whilst Mrs Wicklow was waffling on about something to do with Castles, I
was watching some 3rd year lads trying to do Javelin. The ambulance didn’t take long to get there
after the accident. They turned their
hand to the discus after that until one came crashing through the classroom
window, knocking Mrs Wicklow unconscious for the rest of the lesson. Someone should have reported it really.
 |
| We never discus evolution in History |
After staring meaninglessly out of the window for the last
20 minutes of the lesson while the class erupted in anarchy (something the
teacher could have used as a teaching aid when describing how the death of Said
Mohammed Kerim and the approach of Bonaparte caused much the same effect in
Cairo, had she not been cataleptic) the bell went and signalled lunch time.
I wandered lonely as a smelly first year that falls from high
into the Biology pond, to the dinner hall.
I was first there, apart from the nannies who cook the dinner and the
two silver-haired invigilators whose purpose seems redundant – they just stand
around and shout “stop that – if you shove it up there, you won’t get seconds”,
without doing anything else to calm the disorder that erupts when they run out
of beef burgers. The dinner hall is
split into three thirds, or three halves if you’re Quazzy (he’s not very good
at fractions). One third contains those
who bring a packed lunch – mainly sandwiches made from stale stuff in the
fridge their parents won’t eat mixed with mayonnaise, a yoghurt which has
invariably burst in their bag all over their school books, an apple with more
bruises than Kazzy (the school slap-bag) and a chocolate biscuit which is a bit
like a ‘penguin’ but was bought at a discount supermarket for 87p less than the
real brand ones and contains 87% real fish.
 |
| Aldi, where dreams come true |
The second ‘third’ of the room is made up of those who buy dinner
tickets (which we scanned in Mr Campbell’s IT room and printed out on the
colour printer, selling them for 10p a shot) and get told what to eat for their
dinner. On days where there is actually
a choice of what to have, it’s normally just Hot Dog, Hot Dog without the bun
or bun without the Hot Dog and chips.
The puddings are a bit strange too – you can either have unidentified
object[1]
and custard or an apple. I once asked
for apple with custard over it and got shoved into a table off the invigilators[2].
 |
| The face of modern fascism |
They have this big metal bin near the place where you
put your dirty plates – you’re supposed to scrape whatever you waste into this
bin. Chazzy, the school scruff can’t
afford dinner tickets (either real or fake) and so sits next to the bin with a
long fork and waits for the food to pile in. Orange juice is 3p a cup. We also scanned a cup of orange juice into
the computer and we’re now undercutting the school at 2p a cup.
The third ‘third’ of the room contains those people who
don’t fit into the first two categories and is mainly composed of people who
just like the ambiance of the dinner hall or have nowhere else to go lest they
have their heads flushed down the toilet or locked in the Geography store room
(their entire body, not just their head).
I use dinner tickets and bring
a packed lunch, eating each with a different hand. After the Hot Dog I ate
my crisps and vice versa. After I filled
my stomach with various edible and non-edible items (which the dinner nannies
slip into the custard) I had a slow mosey over to the Music block where I
usually find myself amidst like-minded individuals – this time though, I found
myself among people who thought my jacket was unfashionable. It’s polyester with all zips on.
 |
| LOL |
Iazzy was playing his tuba really loud in the
big classroom they use for ensemble rehearsals.
He was playing the Tuba part of the Brass Band arrangement of ‘Let’s get ready to rhumble’. Orgazzy, the hardest member of the orchestra
took the phrase ‘Watch us wreck the Mike’, literally and we’ve been finding
bits of Mike[3] all over the Music block since.
We’re still looking for another marimba player. Might put a poster in the window – or I might
put a poster on the window, haven’t
decided yet. I did decide however, to
get my instrument out – but I don’t want to talk about that right now.
 |
| A Marimba, not a Xylophone, actually, I can't tell - it might be a Xylophone after all |
[1] Because
the custard was too thick to break through in order to make a satisfactory
ident
[2] Just as Glass Collectors are now called 'Bar Support Staff' and Bin men are called 'Waste disposal engineers', Dinner Nannies are now called 'Lunchtime Supervisors'. The jumped up excuses for fascists.
[3] Not Mike out of Neighbours, or Mike and the Mechanics or Mike Smith. Mike Neville.
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