» The Weird Kid In Class

Vocational qualification perhaps
On reflection, I am wholly perturbed by the sheer number of unwashed, malnourished 'tards at our school.

It's a real challenge to pick just one wierdo for this comp when there were such luminaries as the apparently homeless Dean, who used to sleep in a skip and fondle the earlobe of the boy sitting next to him during lessons. Or Roy, a pansy giant of a boy who could never be wrong. Roy had to take a week off once after he publicly burst into tears when some girls proved he was wrong about something, his excuse afterwards being that he ate an 'off yoghurt'. Aren't all yoghurts technically off? The psychoanalysts must be laughing all the way to the bank.

And yet, amongst this crowd of halfwit inbreeds, there is someone who stands out as exceptional: Wesley Webb. What a name! At the time I thought his heart was in the right place, despite the blubber, that terrible greasy side parting, the awful stink of unwashed, unhousetrained boy, those dubiously stained trousers and that off-white, half-tucked in shirt. Despite even the all too plausible stories from the boy's changing rooms at PE time: Sir had to force a vehemently unwilling Wesley to shower after Games only to discover he had shat himself on the quiet and was caked in the stuff. At the time, I hadn't seen it with my own eyes and was loathe to take the word of one halfwit over another.

No, it's in retrospect that I saw him for the vile boy he really was. At age eleven, a square in the making, I sat at the front of the class. A few times a day during lessons, say three or four, there would be this rhythmic grunting sound from behind me, accompanied by pungent odours. I shudder to think that I didn't actually know what he was doing. An innocent such as myself could turn round in fact to see a sweaty, red-faced Wesley with his hand under the desk, furiously masturbating. I mean you could look him in the eye, it made no difference to his wanking regime whether it was an empty room, a room full of us, a room full of nuns even. And this several times a day to its obvious conclusion without leaving the classroom at all.

I literally had a moment one day when I looked back on my school days and thought: Wait! That boy was WANKING!



You loved the length, stop complaining.
(Fri 19th Jan 2007, 14:29, More)

» Housemates from hell

Pasta, peas, eggs and BDSM
As an undergrad I shared a massive Victorian house in Turnpike Lane. The house itself was a bit, er, Young Ones. I mean, it hadn't ever been the Ritz, but generations of cleaning-phobic students had left a certain level of indelible grimness. Foxes frolicked amongst a bramble jungle in the garden, frogs occupied the downstairs toilet, slugs found their way into the kitchen, spiders infiltrated from the cellar, and the mouse population was so well established that we often found ourselves throwing bits of Ginster's pasty on to the carpet to watch the little critters come and get it.

The occupants of said house were far from normal but harmless enough: I think the worst offender was vegetarian Tim, who ate nothing but pasta, peas and eggs, all boiled together in a large pan. He habitually chewed with his mouth open and wiped his snot all over his armchair. It was hard to eat anything in the same room as Tim and no one sat in that chair but him, but this said, we all rubbed along ok.

But I guess you can never be sure about their friends, can you? Once, in the middle of the night the doorbell rang and a complete stranger with drunk blonde in tow introduced himself. "Hi, I'm Norris!" he exclaimed like a celebrity, like that should mean something to us. Apparently he was a friend of one of our housemates, and told us that "Tom said he could use his room". A bit suspiciously, we let this guy in, and him and this bint climbed the stairs to Tom's room, volubly complaining about how horrible the house was.

About 4am, we were awoken by loud and disturbing sex. I mean, impossible to ignore. During one of the many climaxes of the night, the woman shouted: 'Hurt me! Hurt me! Come on my face!"

Bitter after a night of no sleep, the next morning I crept downstairs and meticulously wrote: "Hi, I'm Norris! I fuck loudly and ruin everyone's sleep!" in fridge magnets.

The worst part was, I don't think Tom really knew why Norris wanted his room, but evidence remained: upon returning to his room, he discovered that his computer keyboard was sticky and no longer worked.
(Fri 6th Apr 2007, 12:37, More)

» Have you ever seen a dead body?

Comfort fabric conditioner...
...was the reagent of choice for softening hacked off limbs in my old human dissection room. Needless to say, laundry has never been the same since in my house.

Seen lots of whole deaddies during my time as an undergrad Anatomy student and postgrad anatomy tutor supplementing my frankly pitiful PhD stipend. Makes for a popular topic at parties, after-dinner speaking, that sort of thing. *cough*

My lasting impression is that, overridingly, whole ones are better than the bits. Setting up spot exams for the undergrads meant carrying torsos and arms around all day. On a fundamental level that kind of thing messes with your brain, however "scientific" you are...
(Fri 29th Feb 2008, 19:24, More)

» Personal Hygiene

Wake up, it's a beautiful morning...
I used to sit, eyes mostly watering, next to a guy called Paul in English Lit. Festooned with chains, a Maiden teeshirt wearing type, by God he reeked to high heaven. Coming from Chav Central as I do, the teachers probably sat me (Little Miss Square) next to reeky Paul because I was most capable of compassion/least likely to stab him in the eye whilst yelling 'WASH! WASH! JUST HAVE A WASH!'. My Mother once told me never to wish my intelligence away no matter what it bought me, but Jesus, sometimes it really has a lot to answer for.

The worst aspect was the stinky breath: I endured two long years of Paul breathing heavily over me and singing Wake Up by the Boo Radleys (we were studying To Kill A Mockingbird at the time). When anyone else complained about the grimness that dwelt in his mouth, he told us he didn't need toothpaste, 'cos he used mouthwash. Ugh.

Bless him, he's dead now, and it's probably bad to speak ill of the dead and all that, especially when I sort of know he was alright underneath. What I'm about to say is WRONG and I know it, but he probably doesn't smell much worse now. I will say this for him though: I'll hear Wake Up Boo and smile every time I read that book.
(Thu 22nd Mar 2007, 13:45, More)