» Political Correctness Gone Mad

My Son's Dog.
A couple of years ago I got my son, who was six at the time, a dog. I’d read something about children who get brought up with pets being less prone to allergies and so on as they get older, and also thought it might be good for him to learn about how to treat animals properly and so on. Anyway, I got the dog from a rescue home. They told me it would be perfect as a child’s first pet, as it was a truly gorgeous border collie that was only three years old with a wonderful temperament and had been well kept and looked after by it’s previous owner, an elderly lady who had sadly passed away.

Obviously, my child loved the dog, as did the dog him. He named it, and with me in tow he’d take it for endless walks, which the dog adored, would let it sleep on his bed and rushed to hug it when coming home from school BEFORE he paid any attention to his mother and me. I was a happy man, as I thought my various plans were all working well. Then it all started to go wrong.

This gorgeous, soft, friendly, playful animal I had brought into our home slowly started to turn. It wasn’t particularly noticeable for the first couple of weeks; the dog just wasn’t as friendly and playful as he had used to be. He spent more and more time in front of the fire, not wanting to go for walks and ignoring my child’s attempts to cajole him into rushing around the house, damaging furniture. Over time, his behaviour got steadily worse. He would growl at me and my wife, do his business all over the house, rush around like a lunatic and then collapse in front of the fire and not move for several hours. Interestingly, he was still very affectionate towards my son, didn’t growl or bite at him, which still makes me kind of happy.

Anyway, after a particularly unpleasant episode, in which he gave me several large puncture marks on my forearm, I decided he had to go to the vet. I took him along, waited patiently and was told to leave him in overnight to let the vet do some tests. When I returned the following day, the vet had some bad news: This beautiful animal, which my son adored, had contracted an aggressive form of cancer that had raged through his body, corrupting everything it touched. The cancer had spread to his brain which, the vet said, explained his erratic behaviour, and he would have to be put down. Nothing could be done. I told the vet to do what was necessary, and shed a few tears as his leg was shaved and the needle gently inserted. The gorgeous border collie died with me stroking his head and whispering into his ear.

The vet then asked me if I wished to take the body with me, or if I’d prefer for them to dispose of it at the practice. I obviously chose the former, telling the vet that my son adored the animal and that I felt it would be best to bury the dog in the back garden and explain what had happened. This was the first problem.

The vet explained that I couldn’t bury my dog in my garden, as my local council had passed a law requiring all animals being buried to be placed in a pet cemetery. The vet gave me some leaflets, and I went home.

I looked over the leaflets. The prices for the cemeteries were all rather expensive, and the vet’s treatment had already cost me most of my expendable income. Anyway, my son came home, and I explained to him about his dog, that he had been very sick and not himself any more. There were many tears, and I explained that I thought he would like to bury him in the garden as a last goodbye. Bollocks to the council I thought, no-one will mind.
‘No,’ my son said. ‘I want to give him a funeral like the Lord of the Rings.’ I thought for a minute, and then realised he meant the pyre scene where that bloke who’s alive nearly gets burnt. I was puzzled, by son was adamant. Only cremation was good enough for HIS dog.
So, I built a pyre, placed the cold, dead animal (carefully wrapped in an old sheet) on top, and took my son outside to say one final goodbye.

The pyre caught, and the wood began to burn. The flames licked ever higher, and I held my son tightly as he emitted small sobs. Then, there was a wailing of sirens and lots of shouting. Two men burst through my side door, carrying a large hose. They doused the flames, sending the slightly smoking corpse flying, whilst my son looked on in horror. I was then given an almighty dressing down by the chief fire officer, about the dangers of unsupervised fires in my back garden (apparently me watching it didn’t count) and also about the illegality of cremating animals without a permit. I was lucky, he concluded, that the police hadn’t been called and myself arrested.

Furious, I rang my council and explained the situation to them. I asked them what I could do with the body, as I wanted my son to be able to say goodbye, and explained the various problems I’d had so far. The person on the end of the line explained that the only option available to me that was permitted, seeing as I couldn’t afford the pet cemetery, was to leave the dog out for the binmen. I was staggered, but warned that attempting anything else would almost certainly land me in trouble.
So, it came to pass that myself and my son were stood outside the house and half-six one cold Tuesday morning in November, waiting for the binmen to arrive and give my son’s beloved pet a ‘funeral.’ They arrived, picked up the body, and began to walk with it towards the truck. My son was crying, almost uncontrollably. Sobs shook his small frame. It wasn’t the way he’d imagined his friend and companion going, at the bitter end.
The body was unceremoniously thrown into the crusher and my son began crying even more. It was the saddest sound I’ve ever heard, the pure, undiluted grief of a small boy, totally unused to death, seeing his beloved pet treated in such a callous manner. The crusher began to activate, and the sheet covered corpse began to slide out of view. My son, inbetween his pitiful sobs, managed some simple words:

‘Goodbye, Political Correctness. I wish you hadn’t gone mad and had to go to sleep.’

Why he called the dog that, I’ll never know.
(Sat 24th Nov 2007, 11:34, More)

» Heckles

Does this count...
My good old pa used to be a headteacher, used to be rather fat and is still from Wales. A few years ago, he had reason to call a kid into his office. The kid got abusive and decided to call him, at the top of his voice, a fat Welsh puff. According to witnesses, pa hesitated before responding with:

'66% correct, more than you managed in any of your exams Andrew. Well done. You're suspended for a week.'
(Fri 7th Apr 2006, 23:54, More)

» When I met the parents

Childish Death Threats
Popped down to the metropolis to meet 'the parents'. Was pretty nervous, but kidded self it couldn't go as bad as a previous incident (I'll recount that one at a later date). Said my hello's, smiled etc, her little brother comes walking down the stairs and says:

'Daddy's going to cut your head off and bury it in the back garden with all the other ones if he doesn't like you...'

Turns out it was all a joke they'd set up before I arrived. I cried with laughter. Or at least that's what I told them.
(Sun 22nd May 2005, 22:36, More)

» Airport Stories

Not me...
...thankfully, but a friend of mine. As with a fair few of these stories, it was pre 9/11, and we were all off on holiday. Going through the security, all had a bit to drink.
Guard: 'Has anyone else handled or packed your bag for you sir?'
Friend: 'Well, there was that Iranian bloke who offered to hold it for a while...'
Guard: 'Come with me please sir.'

He got on the plane, but still won't talk about what happened to him.
(Fri 3rd Mar 2006, 13:21, More)

» Your Weirdest Teacher

Christ, where to start....
... Alcoholic Business Studies teacher with a spectacular glowing nose who used to sit there and play solitaire on his laptop for an hour because he was too hungover to teach us. Got annoyed one day when kid he'd sent out the room opened the door and said 'if you're stuck sir you can move that red seven.'

Strangely odd and pervy P.E/Maths teacher who would often refuse to let us shower after sport and then refuse to open the windows in maths class after, saying 'What's wrong with the rugged smell of man boys? What's wrong with the rugged smell of man?'

Art teacher who was jailed for 'antics' with two students, aged 14 and 15 respectively.

Old headmaster sacked for embezzlement.

Different maths teacher who I'm convinced had a drugs problem as he often did nothing apart from lock himself in the store cupboard after coming in in the same clothes all week. You could sometimes hear him crying. For some reason I got 4% on my exam in maths that year.

Physics teacher who you could distract for weeks on end by asking him to tell you about trucks. It was his hobby.

But my favourite has to be a different physics teacher who started his own website that contained the local table tennis league tables, a guide to every pub in town rated purely on number of car parking spaces available, and his own personal theory of how the universe started. A year after I left he got a job at NASA. Or some other such improbable-sounding place.

I miss school sometimes.
(Sat 12th Nov 2005, 13:22, More)