| Report for Buttocks Sweeting | |
|---|---|
| Approved stories | 3 |
| Rejected stories | 3 |
| Deleted stories (hidden) | 2 |
| Summary | Could Try Harder |
A primitive accountancy/risk assessment program on the very old and very rubbishy computer in our classroom, or an early introduction to the essentials of Russian roulette. You were the owner of a teashop, and accordingly supplied tea, using a shop, at only the most select of virtual social engagements. You decided the number of cups to be sold, and the price. Things usually went smoothly, but every so often it would emerge that 'a swarm of wasps drove everybody away!' and you would howl and gnash your teeth as fully fifteen minutes of your childhood was evinced to have been frittered away in the darkest futility. We also learned numbers in Welsh up to 22, and our school was in Hertfordshire.
He had it all: glasses; freckles; the late entry into the infants that focused upon him all our childish bitternesses; the inhuman stature (around 6' by class 4), coupled with the kind of woeful physical co-ordination that could only alienate him further from us healthy football types; the poor soul even stuck his tongue out when solving arithmatic. The dolt, revealed actually to be quite clever, is now happy. I sit here, watching, waiting...hating.
Any two big-teethed individuals who are stupid enough to hang around together, or even be seen together at any point. Named after the mildly popular Disney cartoon series.
A useful message therefore for people who are different. Try not to find someone who is different in the same way as yourself. Try to get a gang with a fat one, a clever one, a spotty one. Then ride around on mini-scooters and solve mysteries.
A useful message therefore for people who are different. Try not to find someone who is different in the same way as yourself. Try to get a gang with a fat one, a clever one, a spotty one. Then ride around on mini-scooters and solve mysteries.
A slow developer, in body but not mind, Daniel was always ALWAYS stereotypically cruel Mr. McPherson's 'random' recipient of the rugby ball in PE lessons. More often than not he would catch it and stand stock still, cutting a singularly forlorn, almost Christ-like figure before both packs converged on his midriff. Given a violinist's scholarship, and probably a multi-millionaire by now. The pig.
At the beginning of every music lesson we were told to make a composition, and there invariably followed a madcap dash to the end of the corridor where the more expensive keyboards were kept under lock and key. Their appeal lay exclusively in their ability to play 'demo' tracks, utilising every instrument in rendering, for example, the theme from Star Trek or Air On A G-String. When I got my hands on one, I spent the lesson completely engrossed, and when we performed, Pearson played the Beverly Hills Cop, Josh had the chords, and I turned my keyboard off and pretended to play accompaniment on the click-clacks. I got an E, and our teacher died two years later in his classroom, although these two facts aren't connected.
We had something called 'Class JC' at my primary school where the severely disabled and ethnically suspect were brought in (in taxis, which seemed ominous), perhaps originally as a dim-minded social assimilation project. On realising their mistake, the authorities hastily herded them away from our curious eyes to their own classroom to make paper airplanes and use up the local education authority's budget on plasticine. JC probably denoted Juvenile Correction or something, because they were like a cartoon band of disparately criminally-minded lunatics: a black girl called (of course) Ayesha could scream with the exact pitch and volume of the whistle for the end of break, which often led to regular pupils frozen in position, diving for the ball, finger up nose etc. for some seconds (as the official whistle commanded) before seeing who was to blame and nodding sagely and resignedly to each other and returning to play; one boy with muscular dystrophy would often aim kicks towards the shins of his neighbours in assembly (quite a feat, able-bodied or otherwise, when sitting with crossed legs); and a Moroccan boy called Nissan brought numchuks in one day and struck me a fearsome blow to the head when I asked them what they were. These and others like them were the only ethnics I knew growing up, but there's no reason to think they have all since gone to prison. They may be boxing promoters or R&B artists.