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The School Concert (standard:humor, 1965 words)
Author: Ian HobsonAdded: May 28 2010Views/Reads: 1609/951Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Based on a true story I should know, I was there. Very strong language from the start.
 



©2010 Ian Hobson 

'Oh you dirty bugger!' said Atkins, holding his nose.   He wasn't from
Yorkshire, like the rest of us, and had what I thought was a rather 
hoity-toity accent. 

'He's a mucky... c cunt.' Nash had a stutter but made up for it by
having the foulest mouth in the school. 

The object of my classmates' scorn was Smith who was standing on his
chair, in the centre of the classroom, and two-handedly wafting a 
series of farts towards those of us seated behind him.  But none of 
this was unusual, I suppose, in fact it was fairly typical for a 
Tuesday morning in a Secondary School.  Yes, Assembly was over and we'd 
just arrived in Mr Green's classroom for our first lesson of the day. 

Amidst the general outcry, Johnson, sitting to my right, pulled some
folded paper pellets from his blazer pocket and began to fire them, 
with the aid of a thick rubber band, at the source of the foul stink 
and, fortunately, his third missile hit Smith's left ear, making him 
yelp before sitting down again, just as the last few stragglers 
wandered in, followed by Mr Green. 

'Good morning, boys!' 

We were the only all boy class in the school; all fourteen going on
fifteen - apart from Smith, who was fourteen going on three.  We were 
supposedly having classes biased towards technical and practical 
subjects; technical drawing and metalwork and such.  But most of us 
were just killing time; a few more months and we'd be free.  Free of 
school.  Free of teachers.  And free of idiots like Smith.  Freer than 
we could have imagined back then in the mid-sixties. 

'Mornin', sir.'  Some of us managed a half-hearted reply.  Greeny, our
maths teacher, wasn't so bad really; he knew how to control a class and 
keep the rowdier elements in line.  Plus, if you could get him talking 
about steam trains, that could easily kill a half-hour. 

He grimaced as he reached the front of the classroom and turned to face
us.  'What a miserable-looking lot,' he said.  'But not to worry; I'm 
going to cheer you all up with some algebra.'  There were groans and 
grumbles all round; not one of us liked algebra, or had the vaguest 
idea of what possible use it could have.  Worse still: it was a double 
maths lesson.  'Right, get your exercise books out, and Smith, stop 
picking you nose, boy!  Before any more of your brain falls out.' 

'Thus nowt left to fall out, sir,' said Barnes. 

'He's a mucky c c c cunt,' stuttered Nash though, sensibly, not loud
enough for Mr Green to hear above the laughter.  Swearing was a caning 
offence. 

Smith flashed two fingers at Barnes and then used one of them to have
one last poke, before depositing the result of his excavations onto the 
side of the ink-stained, and long-redundant, inkwell hole in his 
antiquated desk.  As I pulled my exercise book from my bag, I sneaked a 
quick look at my hand-written timetable.  Oh shit!  I'd forgotten the 
next lesson was Music. 

*** 

'But we won't be in it, will we, sir?' Johnson asked.  The very same
question had sprung to my mind, as our music teacher, Mr Scott, had 
just dropped the bombshell that every class in the school was to 
perform in the forthcoming school concert.  Surely he couldn't be dumb 
enough to put us lot, a class of nineteen, musically-inept, lads in the 
concert?  He'd look an even bigger pillock than he already was. 

'There are to be no exceptions,' said the pillock.  'Every class in the
school will be on stage to sing a least one song.'  He got up from his 
piano stool and gave us all a particularly evil grin.  'And don't 
worry,' he said, as if he had just read my mind. 'I'll be putting you 
lot on towards the end of the concert and, by then, it will be 
perfectly obvious that I can teach.'  This produced a chorus of loud 
groans and other verbal expressions of dismay which, ironically, was 


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