| Report for chin tee | |
|---|---|
| Approved stories | 6 |
| Rejected stories | 6 |
| Deleted stories (hidden) | 2 |
| Summary | Shows promise |
Mr Button was a science teacher in my prep school and charged with teaching us biology, physics and chemistry. He was such a strange little man, with his bow ties and his obsession with Dr Who, and he cut quite an eccentric figure in my school. Then four years later I found out that he had been arrested at customs after attempting to bring child pornography into the country. Apparently he had made it his hobby to photograph various boys in the school and then paste their faces onto his kiddy porn.
I still think about the time when he was showing us photos of the annual french trip and he showed us one where a boy was sitting on a tank with the barrel of the tank jutting out between his legs, and Mr Button remarked, "Yes, the poor lad didn't know what was on my mind when i took this photo." I remember laughing with the rest of the class when he said this. It seemed funnier at the time.
I still think about the time when he was showing us photos of the annual french trip and he showed us one where a boy was sitting on a tank with the barrel of the tank jutting out between his legs, and Mr Button remarked, "Yes, the poor lad didn't know what was on my mind when i took this photo." I remember laughing with the rest of the class when he said this. It seemed funnier at the time.
The one and only book taken out of the(admittedly shit) school library of Woodside Park school, by my mate Alexis in all of the three years he'd been there. The school library required pupils to write down and catalogue which books they had taken out on to pieces of car which were then filed away and never seen again. Until I was given the task of creating a database for the library (which was literally a single tiny room with two book shelves). The fact that Alexis hadn't been able to even spell the title of his book correctly speaks volumes about his own ability as a reader and the quality of the book itself.
Imagine: a young chinese boy walking into a strange new English school with the name Chin. I was asking for it really, wasn't I? My mum tells me that in my first year I pleaded with her to change my name. Apparently she found it highly amusing too.
The name of a child with learning disabilites in my year. Because of his presence I was denied much of the spastic in-jokery that was prevalent amongst most schools at the time, as anyone caught making fun of him would be dealt with severely.
I'm quite grateful to him, because it is through him that I learnt how to deal with mentally handicapped people; generally, stare at the floor not saying anything and hoping they will go away, so you can stop feeling guilty. Oh, and empty gestures of friendship, like being forced by your mother to invite him to your birthday party.
When he left school, spastic jokes promptly became all the rage, even amongst the teachers.
I'm quite grateful to him, because it is through him that I learnt how to deal with mentally handicapped people; generally, stare at the floor not saying anything and hoping they will go away, so you can stop feeling guilty. Oh, and empty gestures of friendship, like being forced by your mother to invite him to your birthday party.
When he left school, spastic jokes promptly became all the rage, even amongst the teachers.
Teacher who not only taught us RE but also Latin. At the age of twelve our year was split into an A stream and a B stream, and all the people in the A stream were required to learn Latin. Which sent a truly patronising message to all the kids in the B stream. O' Connor was a wily teacher who believed that Latin could only be learnt by smashing pupil's over the head with his copy of Ecce Romani, and tweezing pupil's sideburns whenver they were unable to decline "Bellum". Years later I watched Monty Python's The Life of Brian in which all these long supressed memories came to the surface watching John Cleese's Roman centurion threatening Graham Chapman's Brian with death. I didn't realise until that moment that ALL Latin teachers were cunts. Either that or Mr O'Connor was possibly the biggest Monty Python fan I have ever met and not adverse with sharing their unique brand of humour with the children.
Came about as a result of a game our teacher made us play in the classroom during a rainy day. In it one of us would go up to the front of the class and mime an occupation and we would have to guess what that person's job was. One boy, Jonathan Perera, enthusiastically marched up to the front, placed his index finger of his right hand below his nose, his left hand straight up in the air and began to goose-step around the room much to the bemusement of the teacher. A girl near the front put up her hand and suggested, "John Cleese?" Jonathan gleefully responded, "No, Hitler." Our teacher was obviously not impressed and said that she had been hoping that it would be John Cleese as well, and sent Jonathan outside, into the rain. I should have pointed out that neither "John Cleese" nor "Hitler" is an occupation.
This was the code-word employed by the kids that sat at the very back of the coach, usually heard once football was over and everyone changed. They would then, with military precision, take off their blazers, drape them across their laps and proceed to surreptitiously masturbate. to this day i'm not sure as to whether there was some sort of competition involved. and i'm not sure whether they realised that they weren't fooling anyone.
A code-word signifying that it is time for the boys in the back row to take off their blazers, drape them across their laps and masturbate.
There appeared to be no aspect of competition, and I'm not sure whether they realised that they weren't fooling anyone.
There appeared to be no aspect of competition, and I'm not sure whether they realised that they weren't fooling anyone.
Simon Anthony Dean was one of the blatant bullshitter kids that were always telling stories or anecdotes that were a) pointless and b) total fabrications, in order to get in with the "In Crowd". Obviously this didn't go over too well with the colossal shits hat elected themselves the "cool kids".
One day, Simon came into class with a briefcase (and it was an unwritten rule in the school that if you carried a briefcase instead of a ruck-sack, you officially became a twat, and people would cast aspersions upon your sexual orientation) with his initials carefuly stuck on the side on the side, which spelt out "S.A.D". The acronym was so beautifully apt that Simon was never able to shake it off, and it would continue to haunt his school days for at least a year.
In a last ditch attempt to salvage what little dignity he had left, he went around telling everyone in the year that his middle name was not "Anthony", but the more accessibly bloke-ish, "Tony".
Which of course gave him the intials, "S.T.D."
One day, Simon came into class with a briefcase (and it was an unwritten rule in the school that if you carried a briefcase instead of a ruck-sack, you officially became a twat, and people would cast aspersions upon your sexual orientation) with his initials carefuly stuck on the side on the side, which spelt out "S.A.D". The acronym was so beautifully apt that Simon was never able to shake it off, and it would continue to haunt his school days for at least a year.
In a last ditch attempt to salvage what little dignity he had left, he went around telling everyone in the year that his middle name was not "Anthony", but the more accessibly bloke-ish, "Tony".
Which of course gave him the intials, "S.T.D."
Mr Torpy, our physics teacher, would often chastise pupils in his class who were playing with the gas taps with the killer line "this isn't Auschwitz, boys."
A short lived attempt by the sixth-formers to weed out the gayers in the school by putting up posters declaring Friday Pufti Day, and encouraging the boys to put on their best frock, bras, and suspenders. They were frustrated to discover that, despite the slipping standards of the school, nobody was actually that stupid.
At the sixth formers leaving do, Mr Davey, the head of the sixth form (a physics teacher with the manner and form of a hirsute second-hand car salesman)approached me and asked me whether I really wanted the words "I AM GAY" emblazoned across the top of my school valediction. I told him that I had no problem with it, and proceeded to get drunk. At some point in the evening I do believe I snuck up behind him and pinched his buttocks. The look of shock, followed by his distinctly queasy laughter only slighly mitigated the fact that I had touched his arse.
I no longer recall who the joke was actually on.
I no longer recall who the joke was actually on.