Education, education, education

'Ask and ye shall receive' Matthew 7:7

First up I'd like to say a Big Newsdesk 'THANK YOU' to Mr C.

He's what I like to call a Newsdesk Long termer. I'm not quite sure exactly when he became a captive of my posts, and I don't have time to check back to see when he first joined since I'm a bit pushed for time - I need to steal moments on Roger's laptop while he's out. Honestly, Mum (whom my love for has been rekindled and remains undiminished, despite her attachment to one of Lincoln's leading fascists) has got me locked up like Paul Sheldon in Misery.

I love Stephen King readers. I'd love to write a horror story. But I think that there's probably too much horror in the world - I suppose that's why I try to keep my posting upbeat.

I was going to write a post about serial killers today. Only I was going to call it Cereal Killers. I was inspired to write the post when I poured out my Snap, Crackle and Pop and, having reached the end of the pack prematurely thanks to Roger helping himself to my breakfast, the Rice Krispies became drenched in dust readers. I fucking hate cereal dust. It ruins things. I felt like murdering the old goat.

Then I started wondering what Josef Fritzl used to have for breakfast. I know that when we get Cheerios there's a lot less dust at the end of the pack and consequently I'm always calmer when I run out of Cheerios than when I run out of SC&P.

Then I thought maybe if Fritzl had the option of Cheerios maybe he wouldn't have been so damn moody.

Dave the roofer once told me that Cheerios were classified as a drug in America due to the various health claims made my the manufacturer's marketing department. It wouldn't surprise me one bit, Americans can't half be a bit dim.

Anyway, I logged on and Mr C had asked me what my "slant" on education might be, and to be fair and totally honest, I thought that would make a far more compelling post subject that my musing on breakfast and homicide.

They say that everyone remembers their first teacher.

Of course, they also say that those that can't do, teach.

Mind, loads of people have said stuff about teachers. They used to say that Mr Salt was a kiddy fiddler. I don't think he was, still that's the price you pay for being unnecessarily tactile. Paedophillia wasn't as popular when I was growing up as it is today. These days, if you believe everything you read in the Daily Mail, no one is beyond suspicion.

Well, not no one in my view, because there is no fucking way Mr C is a paedo and if anyone out there says he is, I'll come down on their ass with some judo shit. Man, that sort of thing drives me nutso.

If there was one teacher I wouldn't have minded being a paedo it was my maths teacher Miss Cuff. We called her Kiss Muff.

Thinking back now, it's hardly a surprise that I failed my O'level, I was a young man, full of raging hormones and sexual awakening. She was a woman of the world with an excellent head for figures. Turns out she was knocking off the the art teacher, which was amazing to me back then, since everyone assumed he was a gay thanks to his purple and pink shoes. Just goes to show, you can't just a book by its cover.

Which is exactly what my old English teacher used to say, and she had MASSIVE tits. Really, really big they were - well, they probably still are, I doubt she's dead she was pretty young. Unless she was murdered or killed in an accident. Or maybe contracted a terminal illness. Still, humongous bazookas. Good God, how I would have loved a piece of that action.

You can't judge a book by its cover, unless its got a pair of massive tits on it, then it's probably going to be a bit saucy. Or indeed, unless the cover has the words 'the bible' on, then it's probably going to be quite religious.

American Psycho is also a book that you can judge by its cover. Not the artwork, natch, just the words, they kinda give it away a bit. lol

I failed English O'level too. Amazing really, when you consider the quality of my writing nowadays. Still, if I knew then what I know now, things would have turned out a bit bloody different.

Perhaps if I'd worked a bit harder at school I wouldn't have ended up at Trent Poly. I might have made it to a proper university, I might have made it as a proper journalist!

Still I can't do, so maybe I should go into teaching. It can't be bad being a teacher. Knocking off at 3:30 and having all those holidays to boot. Lovely jubbly.

o-oh, I think I can hear some keys rattling in the door, I'd best be off before Mum comes in and hobbles me.

byee

Baz
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