In the days before Madonna got her whamblers out willy nilly, a picture of her chebs carried top-rank cachet. When presented with a grubby page ripped out of the Sunday Sport of Madonna, chebs akimbo, it became my avowed mission to show everyone in the class.
As the Queen of Pop's paps were returned to me, our teacher, who shall be known as Mrs X, demanded to know what was going on, and that I bring the paper to her. This is a classic scene, we all know it.
Whilst huffing and looking hard-done-by, I managed to secrete another shred of newspaper from my bag and take that to her instead.
Unfortunately, my plan was rumbled and I was moved to the front of the class.
The walk of shame was crappy enough, but when that fat bitch Mrs X went to my bag to try and see what I was really passing around, I was outraged; that was my bag. It was bag rape. Plus it had my Maddybaps in.
I sprinted to the back of the class to intercept her, and we locked horns in an ugly tug-o-war. Panicked, I gave one almighty heave and Mrs X went sprawling backwards, legs everywhere. Her mood wasn't improved when Isaac Martin yelled "fucking hell, you can see her snatch".
Although threatened with expulsion, I was eventually just made to copy out chapters of a science book, in the technician's room with the stuffed albatross and the terrapins. I can't see a terrapin to this day without thinking of Madonna's tits and my teacher's fanny.