<jh007c3183NOSPAM@blueyonder.co.uk> violently exclaimed:

>
>"Tony McChrystal" <tony_mcSPAMMAGEhrystal@hotmail.com> wrote in message
>news:n7s0ov4065n45qmd65tcerups3b8gnb5pb@4ax.com...
>> On Sun, 5 Oct 2003 20:17:19 +0100, "Tim Richards"
>> <tim.richards@freeuk.com> violently exclaimed:
>> >Hmm, I think it's called acting like grown ups Joe.
>> >
>> >Hopefully, a long long time into the future when you've failed your GCSE's
>> >and shave every day, you'll understand.
>>
>> For fuck's sake!!!111 The gaffer hasn't even passed his GCSEs. I'm
>> saddened Joe, truly saddened. Even that moustache adorning your face
>> has turned out to be a fake.
>
>You know, if you hadn't been sat behind me flicking rolled-up bits of paper at the
>back of my head the whole time, I might have stood a chance.  Okay, so you finished
>early, and you're a clever bastard.  We get the point.  Doesn't mean you had to fuck
>up my future just to pass the time.
>
>Oh, and you misspelled "flake".

Joe Horowitz - the early days.

The bell rang to signal the beginning of registration. It was
Wednesday morning, the worst day of all in Joe's mind. It wasn't so
much the lessons as the teachers, especially Mr Richards, the CDT
teacher. "At least it's not till the afternoon," thought Joe gazing
out of the window and watching the clouds amble lazily past.

Suddenly, a stinging sensation erupted behind his left ear. "OW!!!11"
cried Joe. He looked behind him to see Parkes, Cunningham and
McChrystal all nonchalantly looking up to the ceiling with barely
suppressed grins on their faces. Looking round, Joe spotted the cause
of his intense pain. 

"Who fired this at me ear?" said Joe, picking up the elastic band. 
"It was me," answered Parkes calmly. Joe sized up Parkes and thought
better of pressing the point. Not because the pain had subsided but
because of Parkes' reputation as the hardest kid in all of St
Youksefs. Having a stinging ear was bad enough but Joe liked his limbs
too much to run the risk of seeing them mashed to a bloody pulp. 
"Er, fair enough. As you were." he said with a defeated tone.

The classroom door opened and in stepped Nunn, late as usual,
red-faced and breathless. 
"What's your excuse today Nunn?" asked Miss ScreamingWitch, their form
teacher. 
"Define excuse and today," was the swift reply. 
"Don't be a smart-alec Nunn. Take your seat." Miss ScreamingWitch was
their latest form teacher. Their last form teacher, Mr Redevil had had
to resign after he had thrown the metal waste paper bin at Cunningham.
They had been having an argument about the school football team and
the choice of fullback and Mr Redevil had grown so exasperated with
Cunningham's flawless responses to his points that he had thrown the
bin directly at Cunningham's forehead. 

As easy a target as Mr Redevil had been, he was nothing compared to
Miss ScreamingWitch. It was a combination of things really. The thick
dark fuzz of hair on her upper lip, the scabbed mole which she
secretly liked to scratch in her dark, lonely nights but most of all
it was because she wasn't the brightest star in the heavens. The
school team's goalkeeper, Moog, was probably the worst offender when
it came to getting a rise out of Miss ScreamingWitch. Whole lessons
could go past as the class interestedly folllowed Moog's relentless
attempts to chip away at the thin veneer of calm that overlaid Miss
ScreamingWitch's fragile mind.

Joe, still rubbing the tender spot behind his ear, glanced at the
clock on the wall behind the fetid form teacher. 8.55. Five more
minutes to go until English. This was going to be a long day. Out of
the corner of his eye, Joe saw Gary Brew desperately trying to get his
attention. Inwardly, he groaned. Gary was the equivalent of the person
you met on the first day of school and spend the next five years
desperately trying to avoid. The poor boy just didn't get it. 

There was a certain attitude in this particular class of St Youksefs.
Other classes, the real classes as it were, dismissed form 1.2 as a
cliquish bunch of piss-takers who whiled away the days with tepid
in-jokes and inappropriate behaviour. Joe liked to think of it more as
the perfect example of liberalised schooling. Poor Gary had tried
desperately hard to win favour with 1.2 but it was impossible. The
latest annoyance for him was that most of 1.2 had believed he was
dead. They had even held a minute's silence for him on the Monday
which had completely bamboozled Gary (not to mention Miss Conlan, the
strictest teacher ever to grace the peeling green corridors of St
Youksefs). 

"Hey Guys!!!11" he would say, in that nasal, top-posting voice of his.
"Can I play conkers too?"

"Gary, Gary, Gary," came the patronising reply from Joe. "Only the
living can play conkers. For fuck's sake, show some respect." Then the
group would turn away from Gary and carry on the conker's
championship, a competition invariably won by Cunningham. 

The bell rang again, registration had ended and the day proper was
just beginning.

-- 
boh!

now put one finger in your ass and sing like Freddy Mercury: