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|The School Concert (standard:humor, 1965 words)|
|Author: Ian Hobson||Added: May 28 2010||Views/Reads: 1486/866||Story 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 Click here to read the rest of this story (154 more lines)
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