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.
(Dr Wee is rummaging through the spare kidneys on, Fri 19 Jan 2007, 14:29, Reply)