| Report for Lee Fisher | |
|---|---|
| Approved stories | 2 |
| Summary | Perfectly Exquisite |
This refers to the practice of playing at being a rock band in a rainy lunch hour in the art room. Using window poles as mike stands, scrubbing brushes as drumsticks, and so forth, we took the whole 'tennis racket/bedroom mirror' phenomenon to its logical conclusion when we actually invited some boys to watch our show. Drunk on celebrity, giddy with hormones, during the last song we decided to smash our 'gear' up a la The Who, causing untold damage to said window pole, some jamjars full of poster paint and Jason Miller's head. It was at this moment that the trendy art teacher showed up and - to our mind - reverted to facist type by sending us to the deputy head. Our potential punishment was as nothing to our sheer bloody embarassment when asked what we were doing. One of our band - I'd like to think it was me - muttered meekly 'we were just being The Who, sir'. The utter surrealism and fuckwittedness of this was such that the deputy head crumpled inwardly at the strain of not bursting out laughing and sent us away with some vague demands about clearing up the mess.
James Fidget (real name) had a false roof to his mouth that clipped on in some arcane way. It didn't clean itself very well, so in between his roast dinner and his custard-drenched pudding he would remove the plastic thingummy and clean it manually. The trick here was to distract him in increasingly surreal ways so he forgot to replace it, and then - when he had eaten a fair whack of the custard - make him laugh hysterically. You haven't lived until you've seen custard flood out of a schoolboy's nose.