| Report for Drew Styles | |
|---|---|
| Approved stories | 9 |
| Pending stories | 2 |
| Rejected stories | 8 |
| Deleted stories (hidden) | 13 |
| Summary | Could Try Harder |
Accepting as wisdom that the main thing school assembly achieved through punishing boredom was engendering unwanted and embarressing hard ons in 35% of the turbulent young bucks present at any one time; when we finally shuffled out, having failed to will the damn things away EVEN by thinking of our aged school secretary naked, observers were greeted with the sight of thirty lads, hands wedged in pockets and elbows akimbo, bent forward, slouching in time around each other like a funereal pace version of Muds Tiger Feet dance. Happy days.
Swearing, it must be acknowledged, is a fine art learned predominantly in the playground.
And there is no greater mistake a novice vulgarian can make then combining the two most hermetically perfect pejoratives in immeadiate succession within a sentence. Viz;
"You're a bloody fucking idiot, you are, Batesy!"
Interestingly, whilst both combinations of these words are unweildy and thus anathema, "Fucking bloody" used in a sentence can at least convey a degree of savage bemusement, whereas deploying "Bloody Fucking" reduces the user to the appearance of a complete bedwetter about to cry and do the famous mid afternoon angry bunk from school before being brought back by a cross looking mum to be sequestered in the year heads office for a torturous afternoon of fish tanking (q.v.)
And there is no greater mistake a novice vulgarian can make then combining the two most hermetically perfect pejoratives in immeadiate succession within a sentence. Viz;
"You're a bloody fucking idiot, you are, Batesy!"
Interestingly, whilst both combinations of these words are unweildy and thus anathema, "Fucking bloody" used in a sentence can at least convey a degree of savage bemusement, whereas deploying "Bloody Fucking" reduces the user to the appearance of a complete bedwetter about to cry and do the famous mid afternoon angry bunk from school before being brought back by a cross looking mum to be sequestered in the year heads office for a torturous afternoon of fish tanking (q.v.)
The act of voyeuristically viewing - or being viewed - via a small window within a door when confined to a teachers office for some reason.
The specific emotion felt by the exhibit behind the glass often correlated with the events preceeding their quarantine. Acts of malfeasance made one feel pleasingly notorious when regarded. By contrast, emotional outbursts or displays (particularly in response to taunting) engendered in the tank occupant a unique nakedness and vulnerability.
But most pleasingly, from the perspective of the viewer performing the tanking, was the fact that a swift gurn over the teacher's shoulder through the mesh-reinforced glass would light the blue touch-paper on a further outpouring of hysterical belligerence from the 'fishie'.
The specific emotion felt by the exhibit behind the glass often correlated with the events preceeding their quarantine. Acts of malfeasance made one feel pleasingly notorious when regarded. By contrast, emotional outbursts or displays (particularly in response to taunting) engendered in the tank occupant a unique nakedness and vulnerability.
But most pleasingly, from the perspective of the viewer performing the tanking, was the fact that a swift gurn over the teacher's shoulder through the mesh-reinforced glass would light the blue touch-paper on a further outpouring of hysterical belligerence from the 'fishie'.
Is that not in some way derived from a song that Bruno, the fabulously permed keyboard spanker from Fame, played about Mr. Shorofsky, his music teacher?
The song in question is featured in the episode "A Musical Bridge" from Season One. Another episode where Bruno agonises over writing music when Montgomery tries to persuade him to cash in on his ability to produce "a mindless cacophony" (Sho-Sho-Sho-Shorofsky, Do The Gimme That).
I didn't just know that, by the way. I looked it up. - Ponky
The song in question is featured in the episode "A Musical Bridge" from Season One. Another episode where Bruno agonises over writing music when Montgomery tries to persuade him to cash in on his ability to produce "a mindless cacophony" (Sho-Sho-Sho-Shorofsky, Do The Gimme That).
I didn't just know that, by the way. I looked it up. - Ponky
As anyone from basingstoke and they will confirm that Phillip Flood was gifted from early puberty with a voice that was a ringer for Henry's feline nasal tones. He once asked me where Shane Punter was, and the sentence took nearly ten seconds, so elongated by sinussy rrr'ing was it.
The lyrical mainstay of Paul Yates second (and sadly last) school assembly pop extravaganza.
To set the delicious scene; Paul was NOT your normal school league pop kid. He looked like H from Steps had been interrupted whilst morphing into a football. His fringe and forehead seemed thrust together as a result of seperate, geographically divorced planning committees. His shirt cuffs were always a good seven inches prouder then his jumper sleeves.
He was good at all subjects and correspondingly bad at all other aspects of life - including not being considered a bed wetting chess club stalwart.
He happily admitted doing an hour of voluntary "study" (not homework, study) each night at home, as if this deserved anything other than scowls and occasional violence. His sister showed solidarity with her brother's cause by sprouting a moustache at the age of 14.
Despite all this, Paul scored minor pop kudos for a keyboard backed lament about nuclear war one assembly day. We begrudgingly gave him credit for his efforts.
Flushed with success, a later assembly found him sitting behind a "drum kit" assembled from the kettle drum, a snare drum, and all the other crap the dumb kids got to vent on during group pieces. To our delight, he proceeded to thrash (alone, without any other accompaniment) arhythmically like a waterheaded Keith Moon, whilst trilling in an odd adolescent contralto;
Dance to the music,
rock rock rock.
Everybody is doing it,
rock rock rock.
Please note his failure to conjugate "everybody" and "is" into a less rockless "everybody's". Oh yes, he even incited group bachannalian abandon politely. Of course, we laughed. A sound which his brain appeared to translate into applause.
He never performed another self-penned opus, so this remains the highlight of my school life. Paul, if you're out there; home studios are very cheap now. Please, Paul. You owe it to rock.
To set the delicious scene; Paul was NOT your normal school league pop kid. He looked like H from Steps had been interrupted whilst morphing into a football. His fringe and forehead seemed thrust together as a result of seperate, geographically divorced planning committees. His shirt cuffs were always a good seven inches prouder then his jumper sleeves.
He was good at all subjects and correspondingly bad at all other aspects of life - including not being considered a bed wetting chess club stalwart.
He happily admitted doing an hour of voluntary "study" (not homework, study) each night at home, as if this deserved anything other than scowls and occasional violence. His sister showed solidarity with her brother's cause by sprouting a moustache at the age of 14.
Despite all this, Paul scored minor pop kudos for a keyboard backed lament about nuclear war one assembly day. We begrudgingly gave him credit for his efforts.
Flushed with success, a later assembly found him sitting behind a "drum kit" assembled from the kettle drum, a snare drum, and all the other crap the dumb kids got to vent on during group pieces. To our delight, he proceeded to thrash (alone, without any other accompaniment) arhythmically like a waterheaded Keith Moon, whilst trilling in an odd adolescent contralto;
Dance to the music,
rock rock rock.
Everybody is doing it,
rock rock rock.
Please note his failure to conjugate "everybody" and "is" into a less rockless "everybody's". Oh yes, he even incited group bachannalian abandon politely. Of course, we laughed. A sound which his brain appeared to translate into applause.
He never performed another self-penned opus, so this remains the highlight of my school life. Paul, if you're out there; home studios are very cheap now. Please, Paul. You owe it to rock.
That pales into insignifigance next to the mini-ELO stage show that is opening all the gas taps around a square workstation and lighting them. With just a snaffled pack of Swan Vestas the entire classroom can look like a Bonnie Tyler video.
No no no, you Kindergartne Crowleyites! You had to recite the Lords Prayer backwards in front of a mirror at midnight whilst holding a candle! Then the horned one would appear behind you. I always suspected he would have had better things to do.
Pizza girls was one of a multitude of grainy warped VHS porn tapes doing the rounds of sweaty palpitating 14 year olds in my home town.
Its scenario of a pizza restaurent staffed by (I later realised) a libidinous John Holmes and sundry pornettes only served at the time to ingender in me a deep concern for the hygiene standards being shown in the preperation of their pizzas, scarring me for life as far as take out food went.
Its scenario of a pizza restaurent staffed by (I later realised) a libidinous John Holmes and sundry pornettes only served at the time to ingender in me a deep concern for the hygiene standards being shown in the preperation of their pizzas, scarring me for life as far as take out food went.
As a ten year old, mid Falklands crisis, I piped up that I thought they jolly well belonged to the Argentines anyway.
Beware passing off the opinions of hip left wing parents in the midst of Tory deathgrip.
Beware passing off the opinions of hip left wing parents in the midst of Tory deathgrip.
Jimmy M allegedly took a crap in the empty case of "Adventures in Babysitting" in our local non-chain video rental store. I'm not sure if this was anarchy or criticism.
Despite not being there at the time I'm confident of the veracity of the story because I can't believe a 14 year old would be witty enough to arbitrarily insert a film like "Adventures in Babysitting" into the anecdote's retelling.
Despite not being there at the time I'm confident of the veracity of the story because I can't believe a 14 year old would be witty enough to arbitrarily insert a film like "Adventures in Babysitting" into the anecdote's retelling.
My non woman-murdering (it's worth making the distinction) lorry driver uncle told me a story as a wee lad about his once cruising up the M3 only to look to port and see a bus full of kids making faces at him. The lead face wrangler was gloriously bedecked in a huge, and he emphasised HUGE with widespread hands, cowboy hat.
After a few minutes of his gleefully returning said belming to what he assumed was a coach of mischievous tykes, the coach pulled ahead and he realised it was a Sunshine Coach.
I still remember his pantomiming sliding down in his driving seat in horror.
After a few minutes of his gleefully returning said belming to what he assumed was a coach of mischievous tykes, the coach pulled ahead and he realised it was a Sunshine Coach.
I still remember his pantomiming sliding down in his driving seat in horror.
This seems as good a forum as any to state; David Craig, once and for all, I don't care what your mum says my mum said in 1982, I did NOT have stitches on my cock when I was cicumcised.
This seems as good a forum as any to add; David Craig, once and for all, I don't care what your mum says my mum told her in 1982, I did NOT have stitches in the old fella when I was cicumcised. That would just be adding insult to considerable injury.
I've taken to carrying a small water pistol filled with Brake Fluid. Brings their paintwork up a treat, it does.
But Ponky, you risk the very real possibility of his returning to label you a wanker. in fact, with very little provocation, I predict a tour de force wherein we all get called wankers. Perhaps, fucking wankers.
The greatest open goal nervy French teacher Mrs Redwood ever gifted me was sending me out of the class with the parting shot "...and don't come back until you're ready to work." So naturally, I went home.
With hindsight, I wish I'd had the vision to realise the gag's full potential and never come back.
With hindsight, I wish I'd had the vision to realise the gag's full potential and never come back.
Our bitchwhore of a first year junior teacher, Miss Shaw, made a young lad of pikey extraction do PE in a lovely pleated green PE skirt from the lost kit mong begbox when he forgot his shorts once. If I saw her today, I'd kick her in the cunt for that.
I wonder if I'm the only one thinking that you all sound like a far greater bunch of cunts then him?