Thursday 31 August 2006

Sean has spoken

Had a really weird dream last night. Let’s see…

I’m walking down the A31 dual carriageway, the one that takes you from Ringwood to the A338 to Bournemouth if you turn left at the Ashley Heath roundabout. Odd that I should be walking down there, seeing as how I live in Hong Kong. But anyway, there are hardly any cars ont road, even though it’s a bright, hot, sunny day. I realise I’m ont wrong side o’ road and decide to cross over. I seem to have jumped, film-edit style, from the chunk of road running up to the roundabout ont flyover, to the strip of road just after the roundabout. Anyway, I digress.

I’m looking out fert traffic, but there dunt seem to be any. So I step out and walk across empty lanes o’ dual carriageway. As I get to’t central reservation, covered in grass and gravel, I can see the Little Chef / Travelodge building, so aye, I’ve jumped down the road a bit. Anyway, I look at the next two lanes, and after waiting about two minutes, all traffic again clears up.

As I get half-way across these two empty lanes, I spot two men walking. They see me and stop. They’re wearing black trousers and white short-sleeved shirts, wi round, flat white and black hats, and their shirts have wee black bars on their shoulders. Yeah, they’re coppers. Me shoulders sag. They’re waiting fer me to get to em, then they’ll start wi the “why didn’t you use the subway or flyover walkway thing” routine. Bugger.

So I near em and stop, knowing it’s less hassle than pretending they’re nowt to do wi me and just walking off. The shorter one looks at me and smiles, in a “thanks fer not drawing this out on such a hot day, love” kinda way. He looks familiar.

But it’s the other one that opens his mouth. An’ I’m still looking at the shorter one, trying to remember him, cos now I know I know him.

“’Ey,” says the taller one, “what you doing?” in that indignant are-you-stupid kinda way.

And I know that voice. Who doesn’t? I look at him. Yeah. It’s him alright. He’s stood there, sweating into his white police shirt that fer some strange reason says ‘Manchester Metropolitan Police’ in small letters on the black bar o’ the breast pocket (do they really have black bars on their breast pockets anyway?), even though we’re about 300 miles south. He’s looking at me like we’ve met many times before. It’s Sir Sean of Bean. And due to some dream-like parallel-universe-type sense, I don’t find owt wrong wi him stood there in a police uniform. And – believe me – there’s absolutely NOWT wrong wi him in a police uniform, if you see me point, girls.

Anyway, I look at him and say, “Alright, mate? Just trying to get across – do you know how far you have to walk to find a way to cross this bastard road?” in a friendly tone. He just nods, and the smaller one opens his mouth. Except he’s not so short now. And he’s Nick Moran. Yeah, I know, but he just is, alright?

“Well you could have been knocked down,” he points out, in a rather broad London darn-sarf accent. I nod.
“Yeah, I know, I’m sorry,” I say, but Sean interrupts.
“Yeah, she knows, but she dunt give a shit. She’d cross anyway. Where you off to, anyroad?” he then asks me. And bugger me, but his voice is like hot chocolate on a cold stormy night.
“To town,” I say. Even though I’m walking int wrong direction, and have no bag, no belongings, no money or in fact owt with me.
And he says, “Well then, we’d best get you there, eh. Dread to think what’d happen if we just left you to it.” He half-turns and chucks a thumb at the police car parked in the bus stop by the Shell petrol station. The one wi the post box at the side, you know the one.

“Yeah, alright,” I say, and we all walk back to the car and get in. Nick’s driving, so I sit behind the driver’s seat. Sean’s sat int front passenger seat, and as the car sets off he half-turns to look at me int back seat.
“So what’s gone on wi yer Mac, love?” he asks. “Is it knackered?”
“Eh?” says I. “Er, no. Why?”
“Well, you’ve not written fer a bit. Nick were getting a bit nervous. Thought you’d given up like.”
And I’m sitting there, wondering what in the present-continuous Hell they’re talking about.
“Er… I do write. Fer me blogs, you know.”
“Oh.” He turns back round to see where the car’s heading. I look out the front windscreen past him, expecting us to be on the A31 going toward Ringwood. Except we’re not. We’re on Chester Road, in Manchester, and we can see the Old Trafford ground rush past. And Sean looks through’t window and says, “That Glazer, eh? What a cunt,” as if to himself, and then turns in his seat and looks back at me. “Well, here we are.”

Nick stops the car and I think I should get out, not that I know what I’m doing here. I slide out of the huge great Vauxhall Omega, and Sean gets out of his side. Nick stays in the car, I think. Sean walks round the car to me and stops. He chucks a thumb over his shoulder and says, “Yer flat’s over there.” I look past him and see a road sign, stuck int middle o’ gravel car park. It shows Boundary Park to the left, and the University of Manchester to the right. And then he says, “Now think on: when you get in, turn on that Mac and give ‘em Hell. Can you do that?”
Well who could say no to him? So I just nod dumbly, not actually sure what he’s talking about. Nick powers down his window and pops his head out.
“I’ve got a great idea, love. How about broken ribs?”
I stare at him, half-expecting him to get out ‘t car and provide me wi some, but Sean looks at him.
“Yer daft a’peth – you can’t give writers inspiration like that. You have to wait and see. Besides, she’s been thinking about a story wi no fighting in it. Haven’t you, love?” he says, winking at me.
Suddenly everything feels really surreal, and I’m realising it’s all a dream. I’m raging – what’s this all about, and why is it when I finally get a dream about Sean, it has to feature clothes too? No Sean Porn? No green uniforms? Bloody hell.

So anyway, the car makes this odd beeping sound and I look at it. Only it’s not the car now, it’s me alarm clock telling me to get me arse out o bed to get to work. I forget everything and get up, showered, ready, and leave the flat.
I’m waiting fert bus to work, and I’m thinking “did I dream, or do I just think there’s something niggling at me attention?” I’m just starting to remember it, and bits come flooding back. Then I get ont bus and turn on me iPod, and am happily sucked into the brainless world o’ listening to music. The track ends. For some reason I have an mp3 of Sharpe shouting “well get a shift on, man!” (cue embarrassed ahem noises). It plays loudly in me ears. As soon as I hear it, I have to turn off iPod and think hard to remember the dream that’s just perched slightly out o reach.

And suddenly there it is. And with it comes a perfect plot for another Sharpe fan-fic. So I start laffing ont bus, and people are staring at me. I pretend it’s me iPod sending me into fits. But it’s not that at all.

I realise I’ve finally gone over the edge. I mean, dreams about actors telling me to write another fan-fic? And what to put in it an all? I’ve lost it. Big Time.

But then… I’m still thinking about smashed ribs and a short story wi no actual battle in it…

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Tuesday 29 August 2006

Sorry, Pluto mate, size counts…

“Holy crap!” to quote my friend, the religious American. Apparently Pluto is no longer a planet. So are we down to eight now? Or did they make that tenth one into the ninth? Crikey blimey Charlie, now I can tell me kids (the ones I’m going to buy, cos that way if I don’t like em I can take em back fert refund) I were here, online, when I stumbled over this news story about changing the planet line-up. Wow, eh. But what do I care, really? Apparently lots of people “like” Pluto. How can you “like” a planet? Do you call it ont weekend, chat fer a bit, catch up an that? Is it on yer Christmas card list? Do you get upset when it dunt send you a card back? As far as I’m concerned, Pluto was Hades, and that’s not a nice thing. Hades wont too good-looking. Now, if it’d been Ares… Ah, whole bag o right, judging by the godly late, great, Kevin Smith to my left. Ooh yes sir, that would have been a whole bag o right, right there…

It’s been an emotional week so far. Lots of kids are saying goodbye. They’re upset, saying goodbye to me fert last time, dragging themselves home, trying to forget they’re leaving behind one of the most amazing, understanding teachers they’ll ever be lucky enough to have (can you hold a full-length conversation about the advantages of Keroro and Hamtaro? Could you debate the “who’d win in a fight – Batman or Spider-Man” conundrum?). There’s me, sadly waving goodbye, then running into ‘t next classroom and opening the champagne etc. Ah, youth. Wasted on the young, and all that.

I will miss wee Jack, the one-time pants-wetter (cos he laffed too hard, I might add). He’s switching to a new class in September, so I’ll not teach him again. He’s given me a parting shot though – he copies everything you say, or rather, tried to. Last lesson he heard me say “oh my dog!” to stop me from blurtin “bloody hell!”. So he faithfully reproduced it. But cos he’s only three years old, he kinda got the pronunciation a bit wrong. It came out “oh my frog”. I sat, stunned, and then thought, bloody ‘ell, he’s got summat there, and no mistake!

And then it progressed. When you’re particularly stressed you can use his new variant – “oh my frog and dog”. Excellent. These F words do lend themselves to the expression of exasperation very well, I have to say. So when, two hours later, I came out wi “oh my frog an’ dog”, I were well pleased wi’ it. It’s fab. It’s my new word of the month!

And then I got this:


Which Trainspotting Character Are You?


That’s it. Thought I’d be original and NOT post a picture of Pluto the dog. Mostly cos that’s Disney, and Disney are evil and must be punished. Like Manchester United. And celery.

Peach and lube ~ I’m all back to normal now. Don’t ask.

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Sunday 27 August 2006

The Departed = Infernal Affairs

Right, now I’m absolutely FUCKING SEETHING ~

Had the misfortune to stumble onto THIS and actually, fer reasons that I may never fully understand, actually let meself – against ALL of my better judgement – fucking watch it. I am raging. I am unbelievably ready to kick someone to death.

Check the website. No mention of it being a straight re-write of Infernal Affairs. No mention of the fucking excellent ORIGINAL film, winning awards at the Berlin Film Festival, getting 16 nominations and 7 wins at the Hong Kong film awards 2003 (one was Best Film, and Tony Leung, the scruffy bugger int plaster cast, got Best Actor). No mention of the film causing the right kind of stir in Asian cinematic circles, waking industry people up and inspiring punters to actually PAY MONEY for cinema tickets and watch films at pictures again, instead o buying the pirate DVD outside.

What were even worse were the prep I just did fer this post. I made the mistake of looking fer English reviews fer the HK original. Bloody hell! Now I’m ready to set fire to Miramax’s entire goddamn office complex! What IS that completely unrelated DVD cover (on the US DVD)? Some bird standing int middle wi a gun? What the fuck! Next you'll be telling me it int even in Cantonese any more! And there’s no bird wi a gun in the entire fucking film! That’s not what it’s about! Why do you have to repackage summat in entirely fabricated pics and scenarios that DON’T ACTUALLY APPEAR INT FILM just to make people want to buy it? Surely if you put this shot ont cover, some bugger’s actually waiting to see it occur int film! I would! So why deliberately mislead people!

This is like the chopping of the 40 minutes from ‘The Storm Riders’. Don’t get me started. I’m already bashing this keyboard as I type, and really hoping I don’t kill it. I like my Apple keyboard. I shouldn’t take me anger out on it. Give me a minute to cool down.

No! Fuck it! I could not be more enraged or totally fucking out of me head with fury at this complete bollocksed situation of buying up foreign tales and then re-making em like you’re some kind of genius – and it’s ok, cos no-one actually realises you’re re-making it! I don’t know what fucks me off more, the re-make or the idea that this story could EVER be relocated OUTSIDE of Hong Kong! It’s like ‘Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels’, or ‘The Big Easy’ – you don’t take it out of its original environment, you bunch of fucking dozy-arsed, unoriginal, insipid excuses for sorry cunts! And yes, I deliberately chose a US movie there. I’m NOT saying “all Asian moves are good, all US movies are bad”. Not at all. I’m saying “stop re-making em and just write yer own, yer bloody useless hacks”. And I saw the wee straight nicked bits int trailer, too. The breaking of the cast on Yan’s wrist. The secret meetings at pictures. The man falling from ‘t great height (probably also onto ‘t taxi. Don’t know, don’t care).

And I’m sorry, but Leo DiCraprio? Are you taking ‘t piss? You actually want me to believe he could pull off the role of poor Chan Wing-Yan? They’ve got this all wrong – you’re supposed to LIKE Yan, not hope the actor dies a suffering, drawn-out and bloody death before filming starts. And Matt Damon as Inspector Ming? I’ve absolutely nothing against Matt Damon, but come on people, he’s just not an Insp. Ming character.

At times like this I wish I were religious, so I could shout “DEAR GOD!” and it would mean something. I wish I could just think of a word that could sum all this up. I wish I could just remember “they’re only films” and calm down. It’s just not happening, not after the week I’ve had.

Hope you enjoyed the copious amounts of shots from ’t original film, which I urge everyone to see BEFORE they flock to the Martin Scorsese version. I like Mr S. It’s a crying fucking shame, I tell you. I was hoping this’d be good, actually, and hoping it’s be a celebration of sharing and suchlike. Naw, fuck it. It’s just every man and his box office takings fer himself. Silly me, eh.

As Tony Leung himself put it (I forget which film it were in, but I’m sure he said it in English): “fuck you, fuck you very much”. And I’m off to find some small, fluffy street-living creature to hiss at and frighten. Cheers me up, you know.


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Saturday 26 August 2006

Enough

Shit – duck!

whooomf

Nope, there it goes again. Some kind of depression trying to smack me int head. No, no, yer alright, it missed me this time.

It’s been on the cards fer a week; the tell-tale signs weighed heavy as a battleship but I never saw this, this time. Strange. And I don’t even know what it’s all about, Alfie. It’s like I’ve lifted me head to look around me, to make sure Life hasn’t yet passed me by, and been hit by someone else tripping over their own troubles.

There’s also this feeling that I’m slowly realising what I did four years ago in coming to Hong Kong int first place. Fer the past four years I’ve never stopped to wonder over me reasons for the tacit motivation I had fer being here.

Here. This strange, odd little territory ceded to a monolithic anciency, with its crazy attraction borderin ont mystical. I’ve never once questioned why I’ve spent four years fighting fer work papers, a place to live, a circle of friends, the middle seat at karaoke. And I’m happy here. I’ve me own flat fert first time in me life, I’ve got friends whose minds work on the same wavelength as mine, and to all intents and purposes, I’ve no real troubles. Don’t mention the fact that I’m so single it's a joke, and I’m sound as a pound (even if I am thirty soon).

So why do I feel like me face has a heavy weight attached to ‘t chin-end? Why am I walking round like I’ve lost a tenner and found a forged fiver? I’m kicking other people’s cats, just cos I don’t have one of me own. I’m flicking me feet up when people stand on ‘em ont underground. I’m shoving back when people try to shove past me to wait fert pedestrian crossing lights to change. I’ve even stopped smoking cos it doesn’t change me mood, or in fact do owt but cause me to put on air-con to clear the acrid fog. Granted, vodka consumption has gone up, and maybe that’s a factor in me sudden an blinding murderous mood, but it's the one vice I have right now.

What am I doing here, anyway? Life in its entirety is boring the pants off me. And it shouldn’t. I’ve changed all music ont iPod. I’ve got new books in, books I know I’ll enjoy reading ont underground, grinning like a maniac and not caring who’s wondering what it is making me chuckle. I’ve got new comic books in (“Deathnote”, volumes 1 – 12, in HK Chinese translated from the original Japanese. The artwork is superb), and we sat through’t end of Lady Chatterley and not only did we get Sean Porn but a semi-happy ending as well. I’ve got mp3s of Sir Sean of Bean reading various audiobooks, so I should be right made-up wi Life.

I suspect it’s the knowledge that I’ve done this before. Change everything round to give meself the fresh air I need. I’m wondering, with a heavy heart, if this moving to HK thing were just the same, but ont bigger scale. It’s a little worrying. But this place is insidious. I can’t get away. I’ve been seriously thinking about what it would take to transport me life back to Blighty, and have been staggering under weight of problems therein. Fuck it. I’ll stay here until summat happens as makes me really want to go back. After all, apart from missing friends and family, there’s nowt else I’ll more gladly go without.

What job would I do? I’m only qualified to teach English as a second language, and then just wi one piece of paper from Cambridge. I have nothing, bar blood and friends, to go back for.

Looks like I’m staying here then, dunt it? I’m fucked off wi this blog an all. I’m leaving a nice big picture ~ from one o the many understanding, lovely girls at the Bean Daily) that’ll cheer me up, then going to watch summat old, trusted, and relied upon to make me smile. Remington Steele on DVD. Don’t laff. It’s cheering me up wi’ its wit and care-free TV-making. Between that an Moonlighting, they really knew how to make disposable yet entertaining shows back then. Don’t get me started.

Soopytwist. I’m all lubed out.

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Friday 18 August 2006

Peter Who?

August 16th were anniversary o the Peterloo incident. Some things never change, eh.

Had Wee Shite in me class again. Only he’s now been upgraded to Wee Cunt, as he’s been annoying not just me but t’other teacher 'cross hall an all. I don’t see why we don’t just put the little fucker down. A double-tap through ‘t head should do it, I reckon.

Had him sat ont hands, not saying a word, fer thirty minutes while the rest of us sat and had a right good time playing games. An he kept saying: “this is no fair, ah!”
“Ah, well that’s where you’re wrong,” says I, ‘quick at the backchat’, “this is extremely fair, because you’ve been a naughty boy for the past hour. You sit there and think about how this time, right now, would have been different if you’d only behaved.”
He sat there alright, not another bastard peep out of ‘im, while we chuckled and played, oblivious of ‘is envious gaze. I look forward to next week.

In other news, went to see the Japanese film “Death Note” last night. It’s great ~ everyone should watch it! Please see here fert story. I’m not writing it out again.

That’s all really, and to tell you all I’m counting down ‘t days till me best mates get here from Blighty. I’ve stocked up on vodka and biscuits, I’ve just got to clean the place and get some bedding in, and then I’m sorted and ready. Counting the days, I tell you!

Peach and lube!

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Monday 14 August 2006

But somewhere in between

Had a right laff yesterday ~ went to Macau fer shopping n general arsing about on a hot sunny day. Suffice to say, it were fab. Me and me Japanese mate trawled one end of Macau to’t other, buying peanut brittle-type stuff (world famous, dontchaknow), various souvenir tat and suchlike, and taking about sixty million photos.



We also discovered the hard way that pretty much all the buses are circulars. No prizes fer guessing we ended up back at t’ ferry terminal, thinking we’d find Tai Pan by getting off at the end. Hilarity ensued as we battled on in a mixture of Portuguese and Chinese instructions. Funny thing is, I could read about 80% of t’Chinese signs etc, but unless I’d worked it out first, had no clue wi the Portuguese. Me mate were like, “but you’re European, you should recognise some of this writing,” and I’ve went, “’ey! English, not European! Don’t you dare lump me in wi the French”, etc. etc. Pardon my racism.



We got to see cannon, some dodgy road named fer some important bloke called Barbosa (no relation ~ probably!), and lotsa Portuguese-type egg tarts. Bloody marvellous. We arsed about ont ferry there an back like school kids on a field trip, lacking the stern watchful eye of a teacher. It were great ~ I felt like I were fourteen again... Anyway, in summary, Macau is neither Chinese nor Portuguese ~ but somewhere in between.

I’ll post summat else later… like a few days later. I’m absolutely cream-crackered.

Ta to me mate fer being right handy wi the digital camera!

Peach and lube.

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Tuesday 8 August 2006

Hail to the King, baby!


Was just sent a load of links by my good friend fabjacuzzi, and thought I should share the Evil Deadness. Actually, they’re more about the stuff Sam Raimi (and Bruce) did before Evil Dead, but hey, it all culminated in the best horror movies ever made, right? Right? Oh, er...

Well, some of us think so (thanks, Mr *, fer the info!)

Within The Woods
Clockwork (no Bruce)
Cleveland Smith, Bounty Hunter!


And of course, don’t forget you can now buy The Adventures of Brisco County Jr on DVD… (It’s the Coming Thing, you know!) Does life get any better than this?

Well apparently it does, at least for you people. My new Richard Sharpe fan-fic is now up at my alter-ego’s place, for your amusement and general time-passing. Might one day put all me wee icons together an all. Anyway, that’s about it.


Soopytwist!

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Friday 4 August 2006

Like a ripe melon.

I know its Friday, but I've had a fairly happy week, so why is it I nearly hurled a small kid through a plate glass window this afternoon? Let's examine the events preceding the moment I stood, teetering on the edge with all the probability of falling of a brand new expensive glass from a unique set of six.

Friday, 5.30pm. In come the next six students. Five are lovely. Five are no trouble. But the sixth? I'm sure he's spawn of the devil. Or rather, several devils. You know, like Bruce Campbell's demon in the X-Files. Except he's no progeny of a fair-minded, misunderstood Hell-dweller. Oh no. He's the direct decendent of the devil himself – Al Pacino style. You know The Devil's Advocate, where he says he dunt make people do bad things, he just sets the stage and lets human nature get on wi' it? Yeah, that's the fucker.

So we go over some tenses revision, and we're doing alright. The wee kids are giving good verbal examples of when to use the present, simple past, future (not including "going to") and present continuous. And I hear this little shit, who shall be known on this public blog as 'Wee Shite', say summat in Cantonese.

I have few rules in me classroom, as they know. But one absolutely unshakeable, diamond-cut rule is that you only speak English. The older kids understand its cos their parents have spent shitloads on extra-curricular education at a dedicated teaching centre. The younger kiddies are told it's cos I don't speak Chinese or Cantonese. It works, on the whole.

So, back to this demon-child. He mutters some kind of joke, the other kids shout "oooo!" and point at him, calling out "he spoke Chinese! Teacher! Teacher!" like the good Sherlock Holmes' they are. So I tell him in no uncertain terms that that was his first strike. Two more and, quite literally, he's out.

We continue. We're onto the consolidation exercise. In between arsing about tapping pencils on the table, snatching rubbers from classmates, banging his feet against the table legs etc. (earning him no less than five "Stop!"s), he turns to the frazzled classmate next to him and demands to know his answers – speaking to him in Cantonese, of course.

I tell him that's number two, and please - please - could he do it again, as I dearly want to boot him out. He understands – he gets that look in his eye of all learners, the 'I seem to have done something wrong, and she ain't joking' look. We carry on. He carries on annoying the fucking hell out of every other bugger int room, the little noises, vibrations, irritations building on everyone else's nerves. I tell him to stop playing wi the rubber, stop snatching other people's papers in a desperate attempt to catch a glimpse of an answer, and tell him if he dunt know then all he has to do is bloody-well say so and I'll help. It's my job, after all.

Then it comes. Inevitable as rain on a Bank Holiday, he protests me rough tongue in Cantonese.

That's it! At last! Wee fucking Shite is out on his fucking ear, and good riddance to the annoying little cunt!

I order him out. He does the unthinkable. Just sits there and, in his best learnt-from-his-dad-the-devil manoeuvre, just says: "Wot?" with one of those excrutiatingly fucking innocent looks on his face.

Suffice to say, I were less than convinced.

"That's it! Enough! You are disrupting everyone! You've been warned twice! No more! ~ You! Out! Now!" I bawl. The other five students, proper shocked – they've never had reason to hear me shout at anyone – just freeze and stare, eyes bulging. Wee Shite? Sits and refuses to even let himself smile in satisfaction. He'd done what he'd set out to do, and that were to piss me off so badly I'd lose me temper.

After a look like that there were only one choice to be made – get arrested fer slapping seven shades of shite out of his head (which, believe me, would have happened to me if I'd ever acted like that when I were a nipper), or call on a higher power. Hmm, personal tanning session, or summat with far longer, deeper consequences? Now, I'll admit, the tanning choice were somewhat tempting. But even in me red-hued daze I realised I would be over-stepping the mark, like. So I folded and went fer the help of a higher power.

The boss. Five foot-something, thin as a rake and a tongue like a fish-hook, she is not to be crossed. I popped me head out the door, gave her a half-minute update (after she'd asked why I'd shouted like that, as she's never heard me shout either), and she walked quietly into the classroom. She summoned him out, and again he didn't move. She said the sentence every child in the world dreads: Don't make me call your mother. He dutifully got up and walked outside.

It's fair to say I closed the door behind him quite soundly. Now fert damage-limitation; I've got five kids staring at me like I'll carve a hole straight through the next living thing that makes a noise. Not conducive to a nice, free, learning atmosphere. It was helped, in a strange way, by the boss giving Wee Shite outside such a tongue-lashing that at first we were grinning maliciously at each other. At it went on, however, the compassion drew in like warm beer dregs, and we ended up wincing at the words, the meanings, nay, the very sound of her voice roasting him alive in shame and sweat.

Felt fucking good, though.

He came back after ten minutes, red-faced and watery-eyed. He sat and tried to be friendly and nervously playful wi the other classmates an' meself. We couldn't give a fuck; we were having none of it.

Twenty minutes later and he were back to normal. And the whole time he's looking at me like "I undermined your authority and you know it, bitch".

I couldn't send him out again – I wanted him to sit and suffer in eternal damned torment. So me and other kids played Monopoly – chosen cos it's his favourite game – while he had to sit in the corner, facing the wall, and not say a word. And he had the fucking balls to say "I'm telling my mum", the little cunt.

"Yeah? Please do – I'd love a five minute chat with her," I replied nicely. He shut right up. I got little smiles from three of the others, and the one student I've been working on to make him speak fert last three weeks looked at me and said: "I go to same school as he. I talk to her later."
"You're getting an A today," I winked. We played on. He whinged. We didn't care.

On the bright side, I'm Jack Sparrow. Things can't be all bad, I spose. Still waiting to see Pirates 2 though – all cinemas are full till Christmas over here.



Which Pirates of the Caribbean character are you?


Soopytwist.

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